“If you say so.” His tone is still neutral, pacifying. He glances at the Manse, a touch uneasily. I didn’t leave a light on, and in the gloom, it’s an indistinct dark mass, an enormous crouching shadow. “I’m glad you’re not going to be sleeping in it again, though.”

“Have I lost my buyer?” My anger has entirely dissipated, I realize, at least where he’s concerned. We’re talking like we ordinarily do.

He shakes his head. “I still love it. It’s Marmite, this house: you either love it or hate it, I think. I meant that I’m glad you won’t be sleeping in it. All of this weird stuff revolves around you.”

“That’s encouraging, seeing as I’ll be taking my own self with me.”

He does at least crack a smile. “You and the Manse then.”

“Yes.” Me and the Manse. The Manse and me. Ben is hesitating. I sigh. “Come on, spit it out.”

“Fi is worried.” I bristle slightly, and he sees it but carries on regardless. “When I ask her, she says that it’s going to be okay in the end, but . . . she’s worried, I can tell. So—I don’t know. Be careful, I suppose.”

I climb out of the car, wondering exactly what okay in the end means for Fiona. It’s alarmingly nonspecific. Okay for whom, and when is the end?

My father is taking tea. He’s spruced up in a dark blue suit, complete with pocket handkerchief and matching tie, that perfectly sets off the white of his bones, so white that his fingers are virtually indistinct from the fine bone china of the cup in his hand. The cave he’s in is dark and musty; it surely won’t be doing his suit any good. He’s grinning, but I can’t tell if he’s happy. Skeletons always grin.

TWENTY-TWO

I’m packing when I hear Carrie at the front door, but I immediately stop and head down the stairs to greet her. She shakes off her raincoat and pulls me wordlessly into a hug. My face fits into her neck.

“Are you okay?” she asks into my hair.

“It’s been a pretty strange day.” Pulling back, I press the heels of my hands to my temples. “Carrie—I don’t think we should stay here.”

“What? I thought you said the alarm was sorted.”

“But I still don’t think it’s safe. We should get a room in the Quaich for the night or something. You should stay in Edinburgh for the rest of your play.”

She looks me over searchingly. “You’re scared.”

“Yes. I thought . . . I thought it would be okay, I wanted it to be okay here, but it’s not. It’s not safe.”

“You really think we could be in danger?”

I nod silently.