Echoes in the Darkness

Ahead of us the coast road led to a wild, jutting peninsula. Craggy, calloused cliffs were joined to the mainland by a strip of land not much wider than the road itself. The wide expanse of the Atlantic stretched beyond the cliff tops, and, where it met the land, it screeched and lashed itself into a white-tipped frenzy. The endless, lonely expanse plunged and sundered and tugged at something primeval inside me that left a sad, sour taste on my tongue.

“Athal,” Eddie stated simply, as the coach followed the road to the tip of the promontory.

Athal House was approached by means of a private driveway, at the start of which an elegant, crenelated gatehouse had been built. This formed an arch that spanned the width of the sweeping drive. Huge, wrought-iron gates embellished with the Jago crest of gold stars on a black background swung wide to admit our carriage. I glimpsed those legendary words again. Lucent in Tenebris was engraved in flowing script across the top of the portal. Eddie, rousing himself from gloomy lethargy a little, explained how the new house had risen like a phoenix from the flames of Castle Athal.

Autumn-blushed trees leaned protectively over the drive, creating a magical tunnel in shades of green and gold. Leaves in tints of copper and ruby pirouetted onto the glistening gravel. Birch leaves shimmied like silver bugle beads on a dancer’s dress. Diamond raindrops clung to the low-lying shrubs. Nature’s clock was chiming the twilight of the year.

Athal House, when it came into view as we rounded a bend in the sweeping drive, took my breath away. It was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced before. Not déjà vu. No, that would be too tired, too clichéd, to describe this reaction. It was an overwhelming sense of a future memory, as if a thousand tomorrows were crammed into that fraction of a second in which I first saw the house. I turned wide eyes on Eddie and he laughed, his mood lifting as he delighted in my astonished gaze. But he was not aware of the reason behind it. How could he possibly know what I was experiencing? Because, in that instant, I knew, beyond any shadow of uncertainty, that I had just arrived in the very place I was always meant to be.

Pale grey granite had been used in the rebuilding project, and the result was snow-bright with pure, clear lines that were softened by the loverlike touch of fading late afternoon sunlight. The large, pleasantly symmetrical building was laid out around three sides of what had once been the courtyard of the original castle. I thought that, as awful as the story of the fire was, the beauty of this phoenixlike house must provide the family with some measure of consolation. Eddie, with reluctant affection, explained that there were forty-nine rooms. The number made me open my eyes very wide, but he laughed and said its size was considerably reduced in comparison to the vast area that had once been occupied by the castle. The artistic hand that dictated the aesthetic delights of the house belonged to Tynan Jago, Eddie’s father. His wife, Lucia—who, I thought, sounded most formidable—had been responsible for ensuring that every modern convenience was included. The plumbing, kitchens and furnishings were a shrine, Eddie informed me with another laugh lighting his eyes, to modern efficiency and comfort.

“You must be sure to tell her so,” he told me, with mock primness. “And if you also admire the gardens, my mother will love you forever.”

“But I don’t want her to love me, do I?” I reminded him, as the carriage trundled to a halt. “And this is not forever. Remember?” For the first time, I felt a pang of guilt at our deception. Eddie’s family did not deserve to have an impostor foisted upon them. I consoled myself with the thought that it would not be for long, and they need never know the full extent of my duplicity. As far as they were concerned, I would be his moment of Parisian madness. The unsuitable girl they would heave a sigh of relief to see the back of and agree never to mention again.

* * *

Lucia Jago was waiting on the steps of the house as we descended from the carriage. She was not what I expected from Eddie’s description. Tiny and ethereally slender, with an abundance of light brown hair and the sort of fair complexion that never ages, she did not look old enough to have adult children. It was from her that Eddie had inherited his intense, blue eyes. She exuded quiet dignity and, despite her delicate appearance, a ramrod determination stiffened her spine. When she smiled—which was not often—she was stunning. I decided that, had I been a man, I would want to spend my life trying to make her happy so that I could always see that expression light her face.