The sun was starting to set in huge swathes of colour as Francesca drove away from the house, with Michael in the passenger seat, and Lucy in the back.
‘It’s not far,’ said Michael, and Lucy heard that his voice held the deep contentment of someone turning homewards after a deeply disturbing journey.
They went past the road signs that many years ago a fearful eight-year-old boy had believed to have been placed by friendly will o’ the wisps and darting marsh creatures, mischievously beckoning the traveller into a whole new world.
‘Mowbray Fen,’ said Fran, picking out a sign.
‘Yes. We’re almost there.’
A village street, with the glow of the setting sun lighting up the trees and bathing an old grey stone church in fiery radiance. The houses and the shops looked as if they had not altered much in the last fifty years.
Lucy’s mind was still in tumult from what had happened in the last twenty-four hours, but as they drove along she was aware of a feeling of immense peace and acceptance. People living out here would have time and inclination to pause and talk to you. When Francesca said, softly, ‘It feels as if time stopped here and never got wound up again,’ Lucy at once said, ‘I was just thinking that.’
The house stood at the end of a little lane, just outside the main village. It was built of grey stone, and there was a white gate. There was a sign on the gate that said, ‘The Priest’s House’.
As Fran stopped the car, Michael said, ‘The house is much older than it looks. It was built in the days when there was a lot of religious persecution, and it’s supposed to have been a hiding-place for Catholic priests waiting to be smuggled across to Holland.’
Fran switched off the engine, and looked at Michael for guidance as to what happened next.
‘Lucy, would you go ahead of us?’ said Michael. ‘Francesca and I will wait here.’ And, as Lucy looked at him questioningly, he said, ‘It’s all right. I promise.’
Walking down the path, Lucy once again had the sensation of falling deeper into the past. Or was it Looking Glass Land again? Here was the door, with a nice polished brass knocker. But before she could reach up to it, the door opened, as if whoever lived here had been looking out of a window, or perhaps had been waiting and listening for the car. Lucy’s heart began to beat very fast, because of all the things in the world, this could not be possible, it simply could not—
Framed in the doorway was a thin but very upright old lady, with the translucent pallor of extreme age but with smouldering dark eyes and long sensitive hands and the most beautiful smile Lucy had ever seen.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said this figure, putting out both hands in welcome. ‘We’ve never met, and please don’t let’s have any vulgar displays of emotion. But I think you must be my granddaughter, Lucy, and I’m very glad indeed to meet you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
After what seemed to be a very long time Lucy said, ‘This isn’t really happening, is it? This is a dream, and you aren’t actually real.’