She felt Mary’s gaze on her, piercing her skin, drilling into the heart of her. Like Amanda’s had done all those months ago, in that other place, that other life.

“Really,” Sara said, her tongue driven by the need to defend herself. To defend Damien, to lie for him. “We’re happy. We had a rough spell earlier this year, that’s why we moved here, but we’re over all that now. Honestly.”

It was her job, Damien had said, too much pressure. No wonder she’d taken those pills. Best thing was to hand in her notice, move away. He said it so many times that she accepted it as truth, like she did with so many things. There was little room for doubt in her mind and she dared not let it in.

“I can see it on you,” Mary said.

“See what?”

Mary glanced down, and Sara became conscious of the tails of the red nail tracks above her right wrist, barely visible beyond the ends of her sleeve. She tugged at her cuffs, pulled them down.

“The fear of him,” Mary said.

Sara shook her head. “No, I’m not—”

“You’re afeart of him, I know. But you’ve no call to be. Men like that, they’re weak. That’s why they’re always thran, always angry. Because they’ve nothing in them but the hate they have for their own selves.”

“It’s . . . I’m not . . .”

“Why did you come here to me?” Mary asked, her features wide open, nothing hidden.

Sara stumbled over her words before she told the truth. “I don’t know. I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

“You came looking for something.” Mary reached out and took Sara’s hand. “I can’t give it to you if I don’t know what it is.”

Sara’s tongue deserted her. Only Mary’s words could fill the space between them.

“You’ve been close to death, haven’t you? I can see it. It always leaves a mark. I have it too. Can you see it on me?”

Sara looked up from their joined hands and into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, her voice no more than a breath.

“They’ll come for you.”

“Who?”

“The children. They’ll find you.”

“What children?” Sara asked. “There aren’t any children at the house.”

Mary’s eyes sparked and flamed. “Aye, there are. They’re hiding. Waiting for me. Waiting for you.”

“Where?” Sara asked.

“In the walls where you can’t see them. In the corners and in the floors.”

Sara pictured dark red stains on stone, a fleeting movement in a doorway, a girl with ribbons in her hands. She pulled her hand away from Mary’s, wrapped her arms around herself. “But the fire,” she said. “The house was a shell when we—”