Contents (57)
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sharon Gosling
She scanned the paper. It was early evening, the sun beginning to drop once more towards the horizon, the light changing as it went. Rachel was rarely in her room at this time of day; she’d more usually be downstairs in the bookshop. As she watched, a shaft of sunlight entered one of the narrow slashes of window, casting a diffuse yellow glow against the ceiling. It was mainly flat, but the sunlight picked out a single shadow, a straight line. Rachel went over and ran her fingers along it, standing on tiptoe and stretching up, bracing herself against the window where the last of the sun slipped through the narrow glass pane.
The shape her fingers found beneath the paper formed a large rectangle. It did not move when she pressed it. Whatever it was seemed to be fastened flat against the ceiling.
She went downstairs to get a chair. Eustace miaowed at her as she carried it back up, as if he knew what she was about to do and was uncomfortable with her actions, which Rachel understood perfectly, because she was full of misgivings herself. Even once she had put the chair in position she hesitated, knowing that once she started removing the paper, there would be no going back.
The paper wasn’t as easy to take off as Rachel had hoped. It tore in thin, fragile strips. Eustace played amid the snow of gathering scraps that fell around him, a kitten’s instinct only dormant in his old cat’s body.
It did not take Rachel long to realize that the rectangle was a plain piece of plywood that had been screwed into the ceiling. Wearily, Rachel realized she had made a mess of her bedroom – and the ceiling – for what was likely nothing more than a piece of board put up to hide a crack or a hole. Now that she had started, though, she of course had to continue. The plywood was modern, as were the screws that fastened it in place. Rachel was more convinced than ever that Cullen had done this himself when he had known she was moving in.
She went back downstairs, this time to find a screwdriver, and was relieved when the screws at least came away cleanly. Rachel stood on the chair, holding the removed piece of plywood in both hands with the screwdriver between her teeth, staring at what it had hidden.
Set into the ceiling was a small, square hatch.
It had never even occurred to Rachel that there could be an attic above her head. It was evidently in the small dome where the lights would have been if the tower had actually been a lighthouse instead of a rich man’s folly. Rachel put down the plywood and reached up to push at the recessed wooden panel, surprised when it opened easily. She had activated some hidden mechanism that lifted the panel back and then slid it out of sight so smoothly that it made almost no sound. A sough of chill air rolled out to wash over Rachel’s face, but though it was stale there was no stench of decay.