Page 1 of Secret Paths

Prologue

Peter

By half past midnight, the wedding reception at The Running Horse has finally wound down.

The last guests are gone. The music has stopped. What remains is the hum of the dishwasher, the smell of roast beef and prosecco, and the small group of us helping Alexandra get the place back into something resembling a pub.

Mandy and I have been given the cutlery.

The final clean batch lies on a tea towel beside the sink. She dries each piece, rubs away the water marks, then sorts it into the drawer beneath the counter. I am meant to be doing the same, but she has already taken one knife from me and polished it again without comment.

I hold another fork up to the light. “This one looks fine.”

Mandy glances over. “You can still see the marks.”

“It is a fork, not jewellery.”

She takes it from my hand and runs the cloth over it twice. “There.”

I inspect it. “You have done nothing.”

“I have improved it.”

“By bullying it?”

“By knowing what I am doing.”

I smile. “You are very bossy when given a tea towel.”

Mandy gives me a look, but there is no heat in it. She has spent the last few hours holding the wedding together with the sort of steady calm that makes people listen without realising they are doing it. The bride cried in the pool room after the florist brought the wrong ribbon. One of the bridesmaids had wine on her dress. The groom’s uncle decided, shortly after midnight, that the speeches had not covered enough childhood trauma.

Mandy handled all of it.

Now her sleeves are rolled up, her pale blouse is creased at the waist, and one of her turquoise earrings hangs at an odd angle. Her golden blond hair is no longer as neat as it was when she arrived. A curl brushes her cheek every time she leans over the cutlery drawer.

I should stop looking, but apparently I have no control over where my eyes go.

Rain hammers against the kitchen window.

Mandy glances over her shoulder. “Oh, brilliant.”

“You did not bring an umbrella?”

“Or my car.”

I look at her. “You do know you live in Yorkshire, right?”

“I had a lift here.”

“That is not the same as having a plan.”

“I had a plan. I was going to leave before it rained.”

I look pointedly at the window.

She follows my gaze. “Fine. It was not a very good plan.”

“That is more like it.”