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Prologue
22 YEARS AGO
Here I am again.
She stares up at the battle-weary facade of Grimwood Manor. The windows are grimy and in need of a good scrub. There is a small ecosystem growing in the gutter. The face of a savage Roman warrior glares at her through the turret window.
She switches her pink suitcase to the other hand and rings the bell.
The magic tugs at her chest, the silver threads spinning through the air around her as Grimwood’s ghosts make themselves known. She remembers when she first came into her power, how she could see only a few of them, only the most tormented spirits. They used to frighten her. But over the years, as more have appeared to her, she has learned to block them out, the way we disregard cars zooming past on the motorway outside our window when we’re trying to sleep.
But here, at Grimwood, they are harder to ignore…
The door is flung open by a handsome man in his late twenties, his face at once both new and achingly familiar. His light brown hair is dotted with dabs of multi-coloured paint, and he wears paint-splattered overalls. She winces as the brush in his hands drips red paint onto the porch.
“Welcome.” He smiles at her – a friendly smile, tinged with gratefulness and a little bit of panic. She’d panic too, if she were him. His home is old, and huge, and crumbling away at the edges. He needs her. “Come on in. Welcome to the Grimwood Manor B&B. I’ll take your bag for you.”
“Not a problem. I can manage.” She grips the handle tightly, and he doesn’t fight her on it. He steps aside so she can sweep past him into the large entrance hall. Inside, their money problems are less obvious.
The walls are adorned with gilded portraits, and two wingback chairs sit in front of an ornate stone fireplace, which is blazing despite the warm spring day. Tourist pamphlets are neatly arranged on an end table next to a vase of flowers. Everything has been polished for her visit.
But she doesn’t have to see the cracks to know they are there.
“I’m Mike.” He takes a deep bow, which is rather endearing given that the top of his head is splattered with purple and gold paint. “I apologise for my appearance – I’m in the middle of painting a mural and it’s rather run away from me. My wife Sylvie was supposed to answer the door but she’s got cake batter all over her hands. We’re so happy you’re here. You’re our very first guest. Oh, and this little munchkin is my Bree-bug.”
He scoops a toddler off the floor from where she was playing with a set of colored blocks. She has a little splatter of gold paint behind her ear.
The lights flicker.
“Mike, darling!” A woman’s voice calls from deep in the house. It’s forcibly chipper, the edges tinged with panic. “Could you come here a second? The oven has done thatthingagain.”
“Coming, my love.” Mike flashes her a knowing grin. “Sorry about the lights – the old wiring in the house wreaks havoc with the appliances. But don’t worry, we’ve had it checked out and it’s perfectly safe. They can’t find a single fault. The lights just flicker sometimes and the oven tries to eat itself. If you’ll excuse me, I must put on my Superman cape and save the day once more. If you could keep an eye on Bree for a moment, I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail to show you to your room.”
He dashes off. Bree stares after her father with a serious expression on her face, before returning to diligently building her tower.
The pink woman sets down her suitcase and kneels beside the child. Movement on the staircase diverts her attention for a moment, but it’s only the ghost of the Roman centurion. He unsheaths his sword, waving the tip menacingly at her. She nods at him.
“I’m not here to hurt her,” she says to the ghost. “I’m here to see if she is one of us.”
The centurion steps back, nodding sagely.
The woman kneels down beside the child and picks up a block. “You’re very good at this,” she says. “Perhaps your destiny is to become an architect.”
Bree’s head swirls around to look at the centurion. His face softens as she peers at him with her wide honey-brown eyes. He grins at her.
Her face crumples and she knocks over her tower with a chubby fist.
The woman smiles. “Or perhaps, a demolition expert.”
She kneels on the playmat, tucks her legs underneath her, and hands the yellow block to the child, who turns it over in her hands before picking up a blue block and fitting them together.
“That’s a lovely colour combination,” says the woman. “Listen, we don’t have much time before your father gets back. I just need to check something.”
She reaches out and grabs the silver cord spiralling from the child’s stomach. Bree’s face twists, and she drops the blocks and waves her tiny fists in the air. Behind her, the centurion takes a menacing step forward.
The silver cord hums between her fingers, and she tugs gently until it stretches enough for her to glimpse the shimmering light that runs through it.
“Ah yes. It was as I thought. It does often skip a generation or two.”
