She had to guard the flame, nurture it, because one day it would ensure that she returned here, to defy every unspoken bet going on inside Becke House about how long her absence would last. To reclaim her sanity.

Her reason to be.

With that, and for the first time in four days, her eyes began to close of their own accord, without Mike’s face rushing at her out of the darkness.

He was the only reason she had considered leaving her position; the only one who could have convinced her to. And convince her he just about had. In the end. When it was too late.

But he was gone.

The job was all she had left.

Acknowledgements

This book is the most personal of the four I have been fortunate enough to see in print so far. Prior to the original idea (excellently provided by my fiancée, Anna), to set the climax of my previous Antonia Hawkins novel at Cold Christmas church, and then to Rowland White, my then-editor’s inspired suggestion to expand it into the basis of its own story, I never expected this part of our respective histories to provide such a perfect backdrop.

I grew up in Ware, the town a few miles from Cold Christmas. My mother and sisters kept a couple of ponies at the stable – which also features in this story – near the ruin, and rode (I believe the correct term is ‘hacked’) all around the area for years. I was once convinced to join them, but after being thrown off a horse, and attacked by the farm’s geese, my passion for all things equine remains unignited.

Special thanks, as ever, are reserved for Anna, who lived for many years in Cold Christmas hamlet with her family (most of whom make cameo appearances in this book), and who subsequently introduced me to the area’s intriguing history, thereby kick-starting my protagonist’s latest adventure.

Thanks also to my agent, Caroline Hardman, at Hardman and Swainson, and my editor, Eve Hall, at Michael Joseph, plus your fantastic teams, for your continued faith in me. I hope this story does justice to everyone’s investment.

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Prologue

He hit the tree hard.

It knocked him off course, scrabbling for grip in the dark as his feet slid on the wet ground. But he stayed up, making it to the next trunk, pulling himself in tight. Fighting for breath; trying not to cough.

The night stretched away in every direction, crooked black shapes bleeding into one another. Shadow on shadow.

He felt sick.

He fought it down. His lungs were burning. He needed time to rest and think. But there was none.