It was then that I noticed something that made my skin shrivel. On the wall opposite the bed, the hanging had been pulled to the ground and the door to the priest hole lay open again. A wash of its stale odour crept into the air. Once more, the space gaped, tunnelling to a darkness so opaque it could contain anything that the eye would not see. Horror crept along my neck. Miss Gillies turned and saw what I saw. She drew herself up. ‘Greer,’ she called, ‘deal with that.’

Miss Gillies gave me the briefest of glances that might have been an apology as Greer swept towards us, her candle flickering. Light fell briefly into the uncovered room. And for one terrible moment, something glinted back at me from the furthest wall – two surfaces with a gleam upon them as light might make on the film of an eye.

11

Morning came and Mary was still asleep. I found Miss Gillies drinking coffee in the dining room. I took a seat opposite. Miss Gillies’ expression betrayed no sign of the night’s drama.

The timbre of Mary’s voice still echoed in my ear, with that strange concoction of syllables. ‘Does she often speak with no sense when she is in sleep?’

She looked up. ‘I suppose,’ she said.

‘Did she do that at any other time?’

‘I am not sure. It is not uncommon for the young to manufacture their own secret language. Pay it no heed.’

‘And the priest hole? Are there many at Iskar?’

‘There are a few. Most now boarded up for safety.’

‘But not the one in Mary’s room?’

‘There is nothing in that one that could cause harm. In fact, I believe the children used it sometimes for their games.’

I shivered and she laughed wryly before continuing. ‘Indeed, it is a little ghoulish, but you know boys – they have a thirst for these dark places and dens, don’t they?’

‘So not Mary?’ I pressed.

She shrugged. ‘In truth, I do not know.’

Mary was quiet after breakfast. No mention was made of the nightmare and we went down to the bay, walking to where shallow caves lay. I felt that I was peeling back the layers of her distress and discovering new wounds. The sea hissed and my thoughts wound around themselves in endless circles. There had been something about her terror in the dream that seemed to touch at something even deeper, and as I mused it came to me suddenly and I turned to regard her.

Fear, I thought. She was not only unhappy; she was afraid. Afraid of what? Of death? Of Miss Gillies, or was it Iskar itself? And I did not like the way that idea numbed on my lips.