Chapter Eleven

Looking back, the fact that it all went down on bonfire night is somehow beautifully apt. I mean, explosions, torture, whackadoodles. It was all there. It all kicked off just as I was washing up my breakfast things and putting on another pot of coffee. The door opened, and in came Nell, who promptly dropped into a chair.

"Hello!"

"Nghaa," she mumbled.

"Good night at work?"

She rubbed her face over with her hands, pushed her hair back, and groaned. "Yes," she said, "fine. Long, and several more people were off sick so I had to stay a bit longer, plus I had to stay for one patient. And the coffee machine broke."

"Oh, no…"

She smiled.

"You want one now?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I need bed. I'll check the phone, check my emails, and then fall face down into my pillow."

"Sounds productive."

"How are the garden plans coming?" she asked through a yawn.

"Done, I think."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes," I said, "but I have been showing them to your Dad all night, and he alternately hated them, loved them, and turned into a squirrel."

"So we're a little stressed?"

"No more than usual. I can make you tea instead?"

"Mmm. That'd be lovely, if you don't mind."


Five minutes later she emerged back into the kitchen, ready for bed, laptop under one arm and the phone in her pocket.

"You're a star, Cate Moreland. I don't say it enough."

I opened the new box of battenburgs (I had got through enough boxes in the last week to let Mr Kipling retire very comfortably) and put them next to her cup of tea. "You're very welcome. You have, after all, been keeping me in mince pies all this week."

"Been any good?"

"Fabulous. I'll make some more this afternoon."

She nodded, sipped her tea, and scrolled through things on the laptop one handed.

I sat down with my coffee and a book (Michael Crichton, naturally) and read for a while in the cosy quiet.

Then Nell sighed, and closed the laptop.

"Everything all right?"

"Mmm. Fine. Nothing besides promotions and friends on facebook recounting the intimate details of their toddler's potty training." She drained her tea. "Right," she said. "Answer-machine and then bed." She pressed the buttons, and the metallic voice chirped out a message about the minor road-traffic accident that one of us may or may not have had, and one from Harry to say that he had been trapped in the living room of an old lady all yesterday afternoon, forced to watch Escape to the Country, and had been at a loss to know why the family in question were searching for a house with a bowling alley. And then, it happened.

'Eleanor,' the machine barked, 'this is your father. I can't imagine where you are at the moment, but I sincerely hope that you receive this message. I have invited some old-acquaintances for dinner tonight. We will be arriving at six, and expect dinner at seven. I trust that I need not say that I expect at least three courses. I assume that you are intelligent enough to put something together. I will see you at six.'

Nell's hands caged her face. Her shoulders rose and fell a few times.

"Nell…?"

She pulled her hands down, and sighed.

"Are you…uh…"

She rubbed her neck, took a deep breath and said, "OK, then."

"You're not going to do it?"

She shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice."

"Phone him! Remind him that you've been up all night and cannot and will not be cooking all day for him now!"

"Cate…"

"He can go to a restaurant, at the very least."

"He won't."

"Why not?"

"Because he's a…" She bit her lip and swallowed back whatever she had been about to say. She sighed. "I'm just tired. I guess…I think I'll go and have a shower. Would you mind having a look to see what food we have? I'll probably need to go out and get some more."

"We can make something out of what we've got…"

She stood up. "Uh, no. It'll have to be a roast."

I felt indignation rise. "This is ridiculous."

She shrugged again. "Yep. Would you mind checking what we've got? We might need some veg. There's definitely no meat in the fridge, and nothing I can defrost fast enough, so I'll need to go out…"

I sighed. "Go and shower," I said. "I'll make a list."

She smiled, resigned and somehow, embarrassed. "Thank you."


It's possible that when I answered my mobile, I was a little curt. "Yes?"

There was a pause. "You sound stressed. Shall I call back?"

"No, Mum. Can you wait a second?" I turned off the hot taps, stopping the imminent disaster of the sink overflowing, then set my phone on hands-free, put it on the window-sill and then plunged on with the washing-up. "Hi, I'm back."

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing all that bad, anyway."

"Your father said that when he nearly died. I've come to realise that none of you are terribly trustworthy."

"Mum…"

"No, I wasn't happy about you being so far away, and I know that Harry's a lovely boy, but his brother? And his father? You said all along that his father is strange?"

"Well, yeah, but it's not like he's a murderer…"

"How do you know he isn't? You know nothing about him!"

"Why did you let me come here if you thought I might be living with a psychopath?"

"Anyone can be a psychopath, sweetheart. You know that."

"You sound weirdly calm about that fact."

"Well it's true. You heard about old Miss St. Aubert?"

"No…" I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to know.

"All this time we thought she was a crotchety old lady."

"She is…" I said, warily.

"When she was younger, her uncle murdered her aunt."

"Mum!"

"It's true. And no one had idea of what a villain he was. He was a murderer. No one knew!"

I carried on washing up, hoping that this conversation would end soon as it was starting to seriously freak me out. "OK Mum, I'm going to have to go…"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. My mouth is running away with me. How are you? What's wrong? Are you ill?"

"No, no it's not me at all. It's Nell, really. I'm just worried about her and this whole crazy situation, and…"

It was at this point that, having finished washing a particularly large and previously dusty serving platter, I somehow caught the edge of it on my phone whilst trying to put the said platter on the draining board. My phone span around on the spot and the gracefully, elegantly, tipped head-first into the bowl of hot soapy water.

"Oh, crap."


"Why is your phone on the Aga?"

Nell sat down at the table in front of my piles of lists.

"Long story. How do you feel?"

"Like a truck ran me down. You?"

I smiled, involuntarily. "I'm fine, apart from knocking my phone into the washing-up whilst talking to my Mother about murderers."

"Oh…hence the Aga."

"Hence. Not such a long story after all."

She smiled. "OK. What do I need to buy?"

"Depends what we're making."

She yawned before counting off on her fingers. "Some kind of soup. Some kind of roast. Some kind of pudding. Some kinds of cheese."

"Who's he bringing for dinner: Henry the eighth?"

She laughed. "Yep. Don't forget to gild the swan and stuff the dormice."

"I'll stuff the dormice somewhere…"

She smirked. "So basically we need to buy everything."

"All the food in the world."

"You want to come too? I might need inspiration while staring down aubergines."


We got back, hungry for lunch, laden with bags, and, it turns out, not feeling very observant. We got in the house, put the kettle on, and the then the door flew open.

"There you are!"

We both screamed. It was not a proud moment.

Harry frowned. "Uh…"

"Sorry," I said, hoping that my heart rate would slow down soon. "We didn't expect…"

"No," said Nell. "You weren't supposed to be coming."

"Your mother phoned me."

He wasn't particularly looking at either of us, which confused me a little. "My mother?"

"Yes?" he said, slowly.

"How did she get your number?"

"I gave it to her. You remember?"

"Oh."

"Yes."

Nell put the kettle on, sensibly. "Why did she phone you?"

"Yeah," I whirled on him. "Nothing's wrong, is it?"

He smiled, reassuringly. "No. She was just concerned for you. You had sounded weird on the phone, apparently, and then said something about everything going wrong, and then you were suddenly cut off…"

"When I dropped my phone in the washing up."

He paused. "Uh. Yes. That would have done it."

"And you came to check that we were all right?"

He shrugged. "No one was answering the phone."

"Harry!" said Nell.

"Well…" He looked a little sheepish. "I wasn't all that far away, so I came and you weren't anywhere to be seen, so I…where were you? And why were you out? Aren't you on nights at the moment? Shouldn't you be sleeping right now?"

Nell winced. "Uh…"

It looked like a moment that, while fascinating, was probably none of my beeswax. "I'll just go and change my…uh, you know…"

Harry frowned. "What are you…"

I ignored him, left the room, and, while hanging up my coat in the cupboard, heard him explode.


I gave them a good ten minutes. It gave me time to phone home and tell them I was fine, which came with a) a rush of relief as my mother had pictured me murdered, then; b) guilt that she had spent the last few hours planning my funeral, and then finally; c) baffled hilarity as she outlined the increasingly ridiculous service that she had mentally put together. It involved a clown. I'll leave it at that. I got back to the kitchen to find Harry, alone, leaning against the Aga, tea in hand, eyes closed.

"Are you OK?"

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I sent Nell back to bed. She was done in."

"I only managed to keep her going around Waitrose with chocolate buttons."

He smiled again, resigned.

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling like it was somehow the only response.

"It's not your fault."

"I'm still sorry."

He paused, lips pressed together. "OK," he said, finally. "Have you got work to do?"

"No. I'm done. I'm here to cook."

"Catie…"

I smiled at his worried face. "I'm telling you the truth. Now, where are your roasting pans?"

He paused again.

"Harry. Roasting pans?"

"I…uh…"

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah." He took a deep breath, then smiled, slowly. "Yes. OK. Pans. Then I'll make you a cup of tea."


Three hours later we stopped for more tea and toast. The soup was made and sitting on the table, waiting to be heated again before serving. The pork was prepared, snug in its dish, covered in sage leaves and whirls of pancetta. The potatoes were par-boiled. The parsnips were peeled. Sprouts were ready to be thrown in to roast. Carrots were sitting, nude, ready to boil. Harry galumphed his first piece of toast, took a long drink of what must have been scalding tea, and then stood up to make more.

"I can make that," I said, half-heartedly.

He grinned. "You've done more than enough already."

"And yet there's more to do."

He grimaced. "Could you go and see if Nell's awake, instead? I can make her some toast too."

"Nell would like some toast," said the lady herself, scuffing through the doorway. She stopped dead. "Holy… You must have worked hard."

"Not at all," Harry deadpanned.

She smiled. "Well I'm here now. What can I do?"

"You've had three hours sleep!"

"Yeah?"

Harry was obviously trying hard to say the first thing he wanted to. And the second. And possibly the third.

"We've still got pudding to do," I said.

She sat down, heavily. "Right," she said. "Did we decide what we were making?"

"You thought blackberry bakewell."

"Right…" she said again. "I can do that."

"Nell…" said Harry, warningly.

"It's fine. Get some tea in me and I'll be fine."

He stared her down for a moment then grimaced and turned to the kettle.

She smiled slightly smugly. "Right. Remind me what we're doing?"

I pushed my as-yet un-started third piece of toast to her. "Squash and apple soup," I checked on a finger. "Pork, potatoes, parsnips, carrots, sprouts and gravy, which I haven't done yet."

"OK…"

"You're making blackberry bakewell and there's a carton of custard which we need never tell your father about."

She grinned. "OK. And cheese?"

"Cheese?"

"We forgot the cheese?"

A noise came from somewhere in Harry's throat. He didn't turn round, but his back was terribly expressive.

"OK," said Nell. "Well I'll just…"

"You will not," he said, grumpily, and put her tea down in front of her. "I'll go. What do you want?"

"The usual? I think there's some passable Cheddar in the fridge, and Stilton, so anything else that looks right. And crackers."

The noise emitted from his throat again. "I'll be back soon."


"So," I said.

"Hmm?" She was leafing through a cookery book, trying to find her usual recipe.

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"He's angry?"

She looked up, and smiled slightly. "Yes. He's angry."

"It's nothing I've done, is it? It's all…"

"No. It's all Dad."

"I wish I could help."

She raised her eyebrows. "You are! Look at all this food!"

"I mean…I meant Harry."

Nell gave me a long look. "Cate, they've had a twenty-six year bad relationship. You're not going to change it in five minutes."

"But he's so angry."

"Yeah."

"And the rest of you aren't?"

She looked resigned. "The rest of us stopped being surprised by it a long time ago. He is who he is, but Harry is always trying to find the best in people. Always thinks that everyone wants to be better, deep down. That if he just keeps going and keeps trying, then Dad will change. That he'll become…I don't what, but every day Harry hopes for it, and every day that it doesn't happen he's disappointed and frustrated and it all unravels again."

"And you don't think that your Dad's ever going to change? Even for you guys?"

Nell shrugged, her smile, wry. "I don't know. He can be irrational and unreasonable. Hideously old-fashioned about some things. Crazy about others, but I guess…" She took a breath. "I think that deep down he does it all because he loves us. Because he thinks that what he says or decides or pushes us into will be better for us than our own choices. I choose to believe it, anyway. And it's easier that way. Easier than Harry's way, I mean. Dad thinks that he's making the right choices and doing the right things for all the right reasons. Why would it ever occur to him that he could ever be wrong?"

I felt incredibly, wretchedly sad. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's OK. I'm OK." She smile, reassuringly. "Plus," she added, "occasionally I do precisely the opposite of what he says."

"Healthy," I said, and she grinned.

"Not at all."

"You didn't think of doing that today?"

She shrugged again. "I don't do it on big things. Nothing he'd notice. Just the stupid stuff that can't possibly matter, like telling me the only acceptable places to buy petrol. Or what I should be having for breakfast. Not going in certain rooms or…" She stopped. "Not going in the west wing."

"What?"

"That's brilliant. Come on." She stood up.

"Are you sure?"

"I have no life and this will be totally cathartic. Yes. I'm sure."

"OK…" I said, slowly. "I was…I am quite interested."

"And you have every right. You've worked your ass off here, not just today but all these last months. It's absolutely ridiculous to make out like you're somehow not allowed to go in there. Like there's something suspicious up there that you can't see…" She laughed. Then the door opened again.

"Cheese," said Harry, shortly. "And Dad's about a minute behind me."

Nell screwed up her face. Then she shrugged at me. "Later?"

"Sure."

"What?" asked Harry, shrugging off his coat.

"Nothing," said Nell. "Come on. We've got dinner to put on."


The study was filled with sherry-swilling silence. My precious garden plans were strewn across the desk, and General Tilney sat behind it, like the proverbial headmaster. I managed to not overthink his every frown and raised eyebrow too much by concentrating on sending up a steady stream of thankful prayers that I had got it all done a day early, considering that he had unceremoniously found a free twenty minutes in the evening and decided that now was as good a time as ever.

"These are finished?"

I tamped down every instinct to gabble and every need to prevaricate. "Yes." I said it with much more assurance than I felt.

He nodded then leafed through them again. "It's nothing like your designs at Barton Park."

"No, sir. They are very different properties."

He looked up, eyebrows raised.

"Uh…Barton is, as you know, a mansion. The historic home of lords. Designed for opulence and comfort. Every element has to reflect that grandeur."

"Whereas Northanger?"

I wrung my hands. "It's an abbey, sir. A beautiful one. But it's completely different. It's designed to be spiritually enlightening. Utilitarian. Functional but uplifting."

"And this is what you have given me?"

His stare was steady, and I gulped. "Yes, sir."

He paused, looked back at the designs, and then leaned back in his chair. "I believe that you may be right."

I breathed out.

He smiled and looked, for the briefest of seconds, like Harry. "And you will stay to oversee the work?"

"I…yes, sir. It's what I had agreed...to."

"And you are happy here?"

"Yes. I am."

He blinked. Then, "good. Would you care for a drink? My guests will be arriving soon and…" He trailed off. "Sherry?"

"Thank you. No. I promised that I'd help out in the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" His tone became stony.

"Uh, yeah. Yes. Just…serving. Plating up. Swirls of this and daubs of that"

"Serving."

"Yes sir. I promised Harry and Nell…Eleanor…that I would help them. They didn't ask. Not at all. I'd really be happier." I was gabbling. Full on. Thankfully, his expression changed.

"I'm sure that Henry will appreciate the help and the company."

I swallowed.

"And," he continued, on a roll of good-will, "I am sure that you will make it beautiful. Thank you for helping."

"Not at all," I said, backing out of the room. "Not at all. Thank you."

I closed the door and slammed straight into Harry you only stopped us both from cannoning to the floor by holding on to me.

"Hi!" I said, a little shakily, not least because my face was mere centimetres from his.

"Hello." He let me go. Then he grinned. "Did you just curtsy?"

I regained my composure. "Shut up. Come on. I need to go and find the Bisto."


"This," said Harry between mouthfuls, leaning against the Aga, eating roast pork and vegetables out of a cereal bowl, "is amazing. Seriously. Epic."

"You made most of it," said Nell, only just starting to wake up now over a bowl of soup with pork shredded into it.

"Uh, no," said Harry. "I peeled and chopped under strict supervision. Cate did most of it." He caught my eye, and frowned. "You not having any?"

"I'm passed it," I said. "Too tired."

"You haven't eaten since toast about eight hours ago."

"I'm fine."

"But we haven't even celebrated your garden plans," said Nell.

"No!" Harry stopped shovelling food for a second. "At least have a congratulatory piece of bakewell."

"Well…it does look good…" I hesitated for just too long.

He decidedly put down his cereal bowl, walked over and cut a piece the size of my face. Almost. "Custard?"

Nell brandished it. "She will."

"You two are feeders. Enablers." I sat down and accepted the bowl. "Fine."

"Congratulations."

Harry smiled.

"Thank you." Then I made some slightly embarrassing noises of ecstasy while eating my pudding. "OK. This is amazing."


What happened next was not my fault. And when I say 'not' I mean 'entirely'.


I went to bed exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. My plans were accepted. I was staying on. The dinner was a success. Harry and I had shared some moments. The kind to write in italics. I was dead on my feet, so naturally, as soon as I turned my light out, I was wide awake. I honestly did try to sleep for a while. Nothing, however, worked. It was, in fact, more exhausting just lying there. From somewhere in the back of my mind I dredged a memory of Ellis saying that it was far better to get up and do things when you couldn't sleep, so I turned my light on, pulled my old hoodie and slippers on, and then padded next door to my little study. Ten minutes later the debris of several months work was tidied. Books stacked. Rubbish in the bin. I stood in the middle of the room and was disappointed to note just how thorough I had been. There was nothing else to do, so I turned off the light and returned to my room, still wide awake. More wide awake than I had ever been. Ever. I thought about going down to the kitchen to do some more tidying but the hot water pipes had a nasty habit of clanging when used, and they passed right through Nell's room. I sat on the edge of my bed, dog-tired, but horribly awake. And then I remembered the west-wing. It seemed perfect. It wouldn't wake anyone. I could just have a look. Satisfy the tiny voice in my head suggesting that I'd find Mrs Tilney in there. Or a bloodied axe. Or a confession. Or… anyway.

I crept down my stairs, paused on the landing to check that I hadn't woken Nell, then crept up the other stairs. The corridor felt unusually long, but the moon was full and flooded the floor with pale light. I had seen plans of the house when I was looking at garden plans, and knew exactly where it was. There were a few smaller rooms to the right, but Mrs Tilney's room, the west wing, was right at the other end. The door opened with a satisfying clunk and it swung with a faint creaking. The room was shadowed, illuminated by moonlight. Cold and dusty, but it looked exactly as it must have been years ago. An easel, up. Painting half finished. Paints, ruined, dried up and open, lying on their sides. A day bed and an old sofa faced each other beneath a big window. An old electric fire. And leaning up against the wall was a painting of a woman so like Nell that I couldn't mistake her. She was smiling, a small, rounded baby cradled in her arms. I stared at the painting and suddenly felt like I was intruding. It was then that I saw the suitcases, packed and stacked, no doubt containing her clothes. There were storage boxes piled next to the suitcases. A whole life, packed away, never to be seen again. It started to dawn on me that perhaps I had been wrong. Just possibly. And ironically, just as the room became less strange, exhaustion finally swept over me, and I saw it as it was: an empty, cold, creepy room, belonging to a dead woman, far from my own bedroom. And I left as soon as possible.

I managed to retain enough composure to leave the room quietly. However, my shaky self-possession was shredded when, thanks to Guy Fawkes, some kids who had snuck into the abbey ruins let off one enormous rocket. We had heard them on and off all night, but none so close. Or so big. Or when my nerves were so frayed. I think I must have shrieked again (whatever would Gil Grissom say?) because then, the next door flew open and there was Harry, surprised and concerned and with a look that was somehow indefinable.

"Cate!"

I stared, horrified. "I…I'm so sorry…"

I tried to walk away, but he caught my hand. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you OK?"

"I'm sorry, I'm really, really…it was really stupid and if I had thought for more than two seconds together I wouldn't have dreamt of…I just thought that maybe there was something that someone had missed that might change everything, and of course there wasn't, but I wanted to see and be sure, and I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"What are you talking about? Are you all right?" He put a hand up to my forehead, as if I was feverish.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just stupid."

"Catie." He stepped closer, out into the hall, and then he saw that the door to the west-wing had swung open again. He frowned, and then turned back to me. "Were you…you weren't…?"

"I should go."

I could see all the pieces slotting together in his mind and the whole hideously embarrassing puzzle becoming clear. "You went in there to see if…there was something someone had missed? Like a clue? Like you thought there'd be evidence in there of what? Foul play?" He looked incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"I don't know any more. It's just all so weird, Harry. It's like your Mum was eradicated from this house, like she was never here to start with. It's just…it's so suspicious."

He backed away. "You think my father killed my mother?"

"No, not really, but with long illnesses and…"

"It wasn't a long illness."

I paused. "Right, but with any kind of illness…"

"It was one day. She woke up with a headache and she was dead four hours later."

I felt winded. "What?"

It was a haemorrhage. In the brain, or near the brain. I don't remember now."

"Harry…"

"He wasn't here. It was just me and Nell." He ran a hand through his hair. "So I suppose if you want to blame someone…"

"No. I wasn't blaming anyone. I just thought…"

"You just saw murderers and accomplices where in fact there was a grieving widower and his children."

He sounded bleak. Chilled. His face was shut-off and his posture defeated. He sighed and it finished me off. Unbidden, I felt my eyes fill with tears and my throat tighten up. "Harry…"

"Maybe, in the end, there is such a thing as too much crime drama."

The tears spilled over. "That's not fair," I said, wiping them away, "and it's not true."

"No? You see murdering psychopaths where I see a dressing gown on the back of a door. You see all kinds of horror in corners where all I see is shadows. Your imagination is filled with terrible things, and I see more than enough of that in real life. Why would I choose to expect it around each corner?"

"I…"

He stepped closer again. "Catie."

I couldn't bear it. "I should go," I said. "I'm sorry."

"Cate!"

I walked away and somehow managed to get back to my own bedroom, to my own bed, and cried myself to sleep.


I woke the next morning with a headache. Being the girl I am, I immediately wondered if I would therefore be dead in four hours. I hoped not but under the circumstances, wondered if it would be preferable to facing Harry. I was just contemplating how long I could reasonably hide out in my bedroom when there was a gentle knock on the door.

"Cate?" Nell whispered.

"Come in."

She leaned around the door. "Hey! Are you OK? You're normally up earlier than this."

"Just…uh…tired, I guess."

She smiled. "OK. I'm making a cup of tea. Do you want one?"

It sounded like heaven. "Please," I said. "That would be lovely."

She grinned. "Back in a minute."


I felt rotten. The weight of having to see Harry again pressed like a rhino on my chest. My headache was gnawing and my eyes were dry and I was pretty sure that I looked like a ghoul. Nell was just too polite to say so. I lay there, feeling sick and sorry for myself, and when the knock came again at the door, I croaked, "come in," again. And then I nearly threw up.

"You look terrible," said Harry after a pause. "Did you sleep at all?"

I struggled to sit up. "Not a lot."

"I'm probably the last person you want to see," he said, dithering in the middle of the room, "but I couldn't very well tell Nell about…last night."

"It's fine."

He frowned, then suddenly, resolutely, he walked over and put my cup of tea down beside my bed. Then he paused, frowned again, and laid a hand against my forehead.

"Harry, really."

"You really don't look well."

"I'm fine. It's no less than I deserve."

"That's ridiculous." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"It's OK. I'll feel an awful lot better after a good dose of self-flagellation."

He smiled a little. "No you won't."

"Harry, I'm so sorry. I can't begin to say…"

"I know," he said gently. "I am too."

"Sorry? Why should you be sorry?"

"I was mean. I was angry about much more than last night, but I took it out on you. I made you cry…"

"I think that was warranted," I interrupted.

"You have such a good heart," he said, out of the blue. "I humiliated you last night and you're still apologising this morning. I can't believe…anyone else would have punched me by now for the amount of times I've lectured you."

"Quite a lot of people would have punched you for saying I have a good personality."

"I said you had a good heart."

"So I've got a terrible personality?"

"Shut up," he grinned. "I wouldn't change a thing."

I took a breath and tried to smile. "Are we OK?"

He looked at me for a moment, and slowly, he smiled again. "Yes," he said. "More than OK, I think." He grasped my hand, just for a second. "I should go." He stood up.

"OK."

"Don't forget your tea."

"OK."

He grinned again, and then he was gone.


So it has been, what a year? Sorry about that friends. I have been writing, but I got stuck a few times, and wanted to be far enough ahead to edit if I changed my mind about something dramatically. Anyway. Here we are.

As always, Northanger Abbey isn't mine. Nor is Gil Grissom. Or anyone else that you recognised up there.

Huge thanks to the recent lovely anonymous reviewers , and to my sister who as ever, badgered me to carry on with this.