Pamela fiddles with her pen again. “Well, not that bit. It was what the other kids used to say, you see. They used to—to say mean things to her about it. Nasty things.” She swallows. “They said that Ruth strangled him.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“He was born dead, you see, with the cord around his neck. They said she wrapped it round his neck while they were still inside the womb together—twice around his neck, they said—and then she choked him to death. On purpose.”
I stare at her. “But that’s—ridiculous. Horrific. How could they say that?”
“I know,” she says. “And of course it’s not true.”
“Well, of course not.”
“But I think that’s what reminded people of... the other stories. The old stories.”
Her fingers are still now. She waits, and I sense she is giving me a chance to walk away, to say I don’t want to hear.
“What old stories?” I ask.
“That twins never survive at Summerbourne,” Pamela says.
She meets my eyes then, and her expression is apologetic, almost fearful.
I try to keep my voice calm, but my pulse is jumping. “That’s—what do you mean?”
“The original Summerbourne, the man who built the house,” she says. “He got into financial difficulties, apparently, nearly went bankrupt. He had baby twins, and they say he cheated people in the village. Claimed he’d paid them for goods and services when he hadn’t, that sort of thing.”
I watch her. “This was a very long time ago.”
“I know,” she says. “So the story goes that it was a local stonemason that built the folly for him, did all those carvings and everything. And the village blacksmith made the cannon for the sundial. And when it was all finished, Mr. Summerbourne, he said a certain price had been agreed, and the stonemason and blacksmith said it was double that, and they argued—you can imagine. And the villagers threatened to knock the whole thing down. But when they went up there, all angry, Mr. Summerbourne had parked his baby twins inside the circular wall, right up against the tower, in their baby carriage. Fast asleep.”
I’m transfixed despite myself. “Go on.”
Pamela blows out a puff of air. “Well, the villagers turned back. They were decent people; they didn’t want a scene with the babies crying and everyone shouting and all that. So they cut their losses and went home. But that night...” She frowns at me. “That night, one of them babies disappeared from its cot in the nursery at Summerbourne. Vanished, just like that.”
I swallow. “What happened?”
“They never found a trace. No sign of a break-in; everyonehad an alibi. People said the fairies had taken him as a punishment.”
A laugh escapes me. “Right. Okay. Fairies obviously much more likely than a human being with a grudge.”
Pamela’s look is almost disapproving. “I’m just telling you what they say. That from that day on, the Summerbourne family hasn’t been allowed to keep its twins. Your mother’s twin brother—died in the womb. Your older brother Theo—fell over the cliff. And you and Danny...”
I stare at her. “Me and Danny what?”
“Well, some people say your poor mother bargained with her life to try to keep both of you safe...”
I shove my chair backward, scrambling to move away from her. “How can you say that?”
“And some people say...” She stretches a hand toward me. “I’m sorry, Seraphine, but you wanted to know...”
My heart is pounding. I stumble backward until the door handle jabs into the small of my back. “What?”
“Some people say it didn’t work. That someone took your mother’s real babies anyway. That you and Danny aren’t real Summerbourne twins at all.” She tilts her head, her expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Seraphine, and I’m sure it can’t be true, but I feel you ought to know that that’s what people say.”
I fumble for the door handle and finally wrench it open. Hayley straightens in her seat as I lurch into the waiting room, her mouth falling open. Out in the high street the sun is high and fierce, and everything around me shimmers with heat. Houses and cars and lampposts look strangely distorted. I’m not certain whether I’ve actually woken up this morning, or whether I’m trapped in a nightmare.
14
Laura
