The moon shines on the pond, a fat circle of unbroken white, shimmering on the surface of the dark water and I wonder how it would feel to step into the water. Icy cold lapping at my sore ankle, the feel of mud between my toes. Our chairs still sit by the edge, one slightly askew, the other tilted precariously on a small mound of earth – a mole hill perhaps, only I am too far away to see. An owl calls somewhere in the trees, a haunting, lonely sound and I shiver, aware again of the cold draught that swirls in through the badly fitting windows. London was never this noisy, I am sure. The fox returns, streaking across the lawn from between the trees, catching the tilted chair as he runs. It falls, landing silently on the grass and I turn away. How easy it is, one touch and everything tilts.

Chapter Eighteen

Mina is crying, not wanting to go back to preschool although I’m sure she is fine now, her temperature back to normal. I struggle to get her trainers on her wildly kicking feet, resisting the urge to snap at her. I drop her off, still crying, sure that the other mothers are judging her behaviour and my response. Tara calls my name as I walk towards the village, but I pretend I don’t hear her, something I regret when it is time to pick Mina up again. I have spent the entire morning running through everything in my head, trying to figure out what Naomi could have meant by what she said to Rav. She definitely lied about talking about politics, and I wrack my brain, trying to recall exactly what I heard. I’m sure before she said that something wasn’t quite right, she mentioned the children. What did she mean? The fact that Rav didn’t say anything also makes me feel odd, out of sorts. And then there was the message on his phone, saying she needed to talk to him. About what? About me? I think about the things I told her yesterday, thinking that perhaps I could still trust her. About the charm, the bones, the scratching in the chimney, the pearls that I feel sure are connected to Agnes Gowdie. Is she just humouring me? There is something about the tone of her voice as she spoke to Rav that makes me think she doesn’t believe me, that she is humouring me. That she thinks I’m mad. Maybe they both do. I can’t help it; I imagine all sorts of things as I sit feeding the baby. The scratching starts up in the chimney the minute I sit down to feed, a persistent scratch, scratch, scratch that makes my body go rigid, my shoulders aching with tension as I wait for it to stop.