‘So where did they go then, your parents?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says shortly, turning to a new corridor on the right. ‘Let’s try through here.’
‘Why did they go?’
‘They made a mistake.’
‘And so what, they just ran away, left you here? How could they do that?’
He looks like I slapped him and I curse myself. Mouth before mind – Dad used to tell me that sometimes. ‘Think first,’ he’d say. ‘And if you think you might regret it, perhaps you shouldn’t say it.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Yeah, you did,’ he says. ‘And yeah, they just ran away and left me here.’ His voice shakes, and he wanders off ahead of me, into the shadows. ‘So let’s just get on with this.’
I used to play hide-and-seek in these corridors. My father would chase me, roaring, until I darted off, and then I’d scrabble for the right place, and he’d stalk the carpeted floors, hollering at every doorway. It was our favourite game, though I’m not sure it was really a fair one. The winner was usually whoever managed to get the ancestors on their side, and because I was smaller and less forbidding, it was usually me. They’d all start shouting, sending echoes through the house to confuse him, giving him false starts and misinformation until he headed off in the wrong direction, while I pressed myself in tight behind a curtain, or crouched behind a chest. It would always take him ages to find me. When I was looking though, that was different. They’d spy on him for me and show me the way, whispering me along to wherever he was hiding. He always acted like he was cross about it, crying out at them, calling them traitors and threatening to hold a bonfire with their portraits. But I knew he wasn’t angry really – it was all just part of the game.
Now that I think about it, I wonder how I never knew there was a door with a rift behind it. Surely I’d have noticed. Or at least he’d have stopped me getting anywhere near it. But the house is funny like that; it stretches and contracts, and even familiar passageways seem to take on new twists and turns, depending on the time of day, or the mood you’re in. And I haven’t been up here for a long time. The corridors are dark and ghostly with white sheets. Aoife has shut off entire parts of the house because we don’t need them. We used to need them, when my parents held their parties. There were always people here. And then the mistake happened: they had neglected the barrier, one of the raksasa escaped, and then they fled, leaving me with Aoife and Sal, and overnight everything changed.
‘It’s so creepy,’ breathes Angel now, as we step into another dark, empty room, the windows obscured by wooden shutters, cobwebs trailing from the door frame. Has there ever, in the history of this house, been anyone like this here? She’s so determined. She can’t possibly understand what all this means, and yet she seems so sure. She darts ahead of me like a small, bright moth, examining every dark corner, fingering every wall hanging as though she might find the answers there, while I just flounder along behind her, fighting with all my doubts.
It could be the biggest mistake of all time, letting her in on it all like this. The figures in the portraits are very dubious about the whole thing, up here. They’ve been in the shadows for so long, they’re startled, their eyes blinking, as if someone just opened the curtains and they’re being blinded by the sun.
Or by a girl, whose name just happens to be Angel.
She stops at a ceiling-high, ornately carved wooden door at the end of a wide, carpeted corridor, and glances back at me.
‘What do you think? Will this be the one?’ she asks, for what feels like the hundredth time.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ I say, reaching out and twisting the handle. My hand is shaking. I clutch harder, feeling her sharp eyes on me, and honestly I almost hope it is the flipping rift, right now. Maybe I could just disappear into it and get a little peace and quiet.
It’s the ballroom, which isn’t exactly what I’d planned on. I’m a little bit disorientated now, and starting to wonder if the house is playing tricks on us. This room has so many memories, I was hoping to avoid it altogether, and I know it’s not the right place for the door; it’s too public for a secret doorway. Angel looks around, her eyes sparkling. At least being in here will distract her for a bit, before she pulls me apart again with all her clever thoughts and words. They sting. Like everyone talked to me through cotton wool before, and she’s taken it off and thrown it away, making everything clear.
I haven’t been in here for years. The crystal chandeliers are rimed in cobwebs now, pale sheets covering the grand piano, and a dozen tables and chairs scattered through the room. The floor is black marble, but there’s a grey carpet of dust that softens our footsteps. Ghosts of the past flicker in the corners of my eyes: I see my father leading my mother in a waltz, the room captivated by their superhuman elegance; butlers staggering under trays laden with glasses and bottles; guests in ornate masks, laughing.
‘Bavar!’ The voice of an elderly woman cuts through the memories. ‘Look how you’ve grown!’ The steely eyes of Great-aunt Rebecca look me up and down from the ornate brass frame on the picture rail. Angel looks up. ‘My, and it seemed just yesterday . . . but who is this? You have a friend with you?’
‘It’s Angel.’
‘Of course it is,’ Rebecca says. ‘I heard the mutterings, though we never see anything these days. That Aoife –’ she shakes her head, her eyes narrowed – ‘such a spoilsport. Always was, even when she was a child. No interest in the magic, just wanted her books, and her little tea parties with her dollies . . .’
I blink, trying to imagine it. A small dark-haired girl, serious amidst all the madness of this place. I wonder what my mother was like then. Were they ever close? I know they couldn’t stand each other, when Aoife came back with Sal.
‘Come then, Angel,’ Rebecca says briskly. ‘Let me see you . . . give me a twirl. Now aren’t you sweet! Wonderful, even in these modern clothes of yours. A nice brocade dress, and you’d just about sparkle. Oh, you should have seen the parties, the people! So beautiful, oh yes, they knew how to dress for the occasion in those days . . . !’
‘We should go,’ I say, seeing Angel’s eyes glint dangerously at the idea of a brocade dress. ‘Got things to do . . .’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says, her eyes sharp. ‘Looking for things, eh? Well, I’ll let you get on. Go careful, the both of you . . . Oh, Bavar!’
‘Yes?’ I ask, turning back.
‘How’s my grave? Are you keeping it nice, down there? These things matter, you know.’
‘He’s looking after it all,’ Angel says. ‘Lovely flowers, all sorts . . .’