Page 90 of Secret Paths

“And be quiet.”

“I am famously discreet.”

She gives me a look.

Fair.

Then she hurries out and pulls the bedroom door almost closed behind her.

I hear her feet on the stairs, quick and careful. A cupboard opens downstairs. Something thuds. The front door latch clicks.

Mandy is hiding evidence.

My boots, presumably.

Possibly my jacket.

Possibly the entire concept of me.

The front door opens.

“Sorry,” Mandy says. “I was just upstairs.”

“So you said,” Alexandra replies.

“I hope this is not too early,” Mark says.

Bless him. He sounds genuinely apologetic.

“No, not at all,” Mandy says, in the same voice people use when a medical procedure is about to hurt. “Come in.”

Footsteps cross the kitchen.

I ease the bedroom door open half an inch.

Pointless, really. I can already hear everything. These old cottages may have stone walls, but inside they carry sound like village gossip. Every cupboard door, every footstep, every sentence travels straight through the floorboards with the enthusiasm of a postman on pension day.

“I did say Sunday,” Alexandra says.

“I am sure you did,” Mandy replies.

“You forgot.”

“I may have not remembered.”

“That is the definition of forgot.”

“It sounds harsher when you say it.”

Mark gives a small laugh. “Honestly, I am happy to come back another time.”

“No,” Alexandra says. “We are here now.”

Mandy makes a sound.

It is small.

It is controlled.