He pulls me away from the sideboard and heads for the stairs. I flinch as I recall Geoffrey lying in a heap at the foot of them, the blood on my hands.

‘You do realize that all of this is a story?’ he says, pulling me to him. ‘That, like the maze and the gravestones, none of it is real?’

I am shaking uncontrollably now, fear coursing through me like an electric current.

‘The glass bird is nothing more than a cheap ornament,’ he says, his voice getting more muffled the angrier he becomes. ‘It can’t speak. It can’t open up time portals. It’s a fucking inanimate object. Do you understand?’

He presses his face into mine so hard I can hardly breathe. Ever since the day I left him, one memory has been growing stronger, clearer and more vivid; playing itself over and over in my head. For weeks, when I close my eyes, all I can see is Connor holding me down on that bed, forcing me, subduing me. Just as he is now.

‘Right,’ he says, keeping his eyes fixed on me as he mounts the staircase. ‘I think we should go and see the bedrooms now.’

And I realize, with sickening dread, that the nightmare has just begun.

35. Now

‘No,’ I scream as he hustles me out of the hallway and up the dark, wooden staircase. ‘Please, Connor. Don’t do this. I beg you.’

He laughs mockingly.

‘I guess you remember this bit from your favourite story,’ he says, gripping me tighter as we reach the landing. ‘The hidden rooms.’

I look ahead of me at the passageway. A shaft of light illuminates the tapestries on the wall, depicting bloodstained deer and men with swords, and I am filled with terror.

‘Connor, please,’ I say as he drags me along the passageway. ‘Just stop this. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.’

‘But, Iris,’ he says, pausing outside the door at the end of the passageway. ‘This is your home.’

‘What did you just call me?’ I say.

‘You always wanted to be part of this story, didn’t you?’ he says, pushing the door open with his gloved hand. ‘And now, thanks to me, you can be.’

He shoves me into the room, which appears to be a boy’s bedroom. The bed has a Star Wars quilt cover, the shelves are lined with books and action figures. The desk, under the window, is covered with bits of cardboard, pots of paint, glue and scissors. Then I see, sitting on the windowsill, its wings now torn, its paint faded: a model aeroplane.

All Angus wanted to do was make planes.

‘Whose bedroom is this?’ I say, turning to Connor. He is standing by the door, his hands on the frame, blocking my exit.