Cover

Dedication

For Stuart

Prologue

As he stared at the body on the ground, a snowflake fell on the back of his neck, making him flinch. A moment ago, anger had been boiling in his veins, but now it had frozen into fear. The knife in his hand looked dull in the half-light. It suddenly felt scalding in his palm, and he dropped it. He took a step back, feeling the snow crunch beneath his heel.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement. Was there someone in the bushes? What if they’d seen him? He waited for a minute, his breath fogging in front of him, but he saw nothing moving amongst the snow-laden trees surrounding the clearing. Maybe he’d imagined it.

He bent down and felt for a pulse, his fingers trembling as they touched skin, slick with blood. A feeble flutter greeted his fingertips, and he stepped back in shock. The eyelids flickered and the mouth moved slightly, as if the person in front of him was trying to speak, but then the movement faded. Holding his breath, he felt for the pulse again. Nothing. They were gone.

As the realisation hit him that he had just watched someone die, he stood up and stumbled backwards, coming up against a tree trunk. His breath came in short gasps and he looked around feverishly. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been seen. Why didn’t they show themselves?

Should he go back to the cabin and pretend he’d never left; that he had been safely asleep with the others? That seemed to be the safest option.

As he turned to leave, he jumped, a hand flying to his mouth. Someone had been in the bushes all along, and now they stepped out onto the path, a look of horror on their face. He had to do something, explain himself, but he couldn’t think through the pressure of the blood pounding in his head. They looked from him to the body, then back again.

What have you done? they signed.

He ran.

Chapter 1

Saturday 24th November

The boy had been missing for at least three hours before I arrived.

Snow had fallen heavily overnight, and it lent an eerie quality to the park surrounding Normanby Hall. I knew it well and I regularly came here in nicer weather; my sister and I would often bring a picnic and sit under the trees in the summer. It looked completely different in the snow. Tree branches sagged under the weight of it, and all sound was muffled as if everything had been covered in a layer of felt. The sun was weak, fighting through the sickly yellow sky. I was sure there would be more snow soon and I worried about getting home later – it had been a precarious drive up here.