Chapter 1

“Nature over greed!” The motley crew of eco-warriors and environmental activists shouted as they rattled the bars of the high metal gates, chanting slogans in a chorus of anger and defiance.

Rebecca Langford turned her back and tried to ignore them, huddling into her down jacket as an icy wind sliced through the construction site. It was unseasonably cold for April, and the grey skies and vicious weather did nothing to improve the mood of her fellow workers. Her team was already behind schedule with the new housing development on the northern edge of London, and the delays were multiplied by the protestors who made every day a struggle.

The determined activists sought to protect the last trees of an ancient woodland from being cut down. Many wore camouflage gear, their clothing a patchwork of green and brown that reflected the natural world. Some carried climbing harnesses and ropes as they readied themselves to take action.

But it was their headgear that set them apart from the usual mob.

Their hats and helmets were adorned with twisting vines, leaves, and branches. Some even had horns, and their silhouettes took on a bestial, almost demonic aspect in the pale light. It was as if the ancient trees had summoned a legion of half-human, half-animal warriors who had come to claim the last vestiges of this sacred place for their own.

Rebecca shook her head to clear the vision. These were just ordinary people, idealists who believed passionately in their cause. But something about them, something primal and otherworldly, sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. There was a wildness in the air, a sense of barely contained chaos that threatened to spill over at any moment.

She pushed down the sense of foreboding. The protestors were behind strong gates, and the clearance must be done today. They couldn’t waste any more time.

Rebecca looked down at the architectural plans she had designed many months ago as she considered the next steps.

Her original designs had incorporated a line of the most ancient trees at the edge of the forest, allowing them to remain intact, but the upper echelons of management insisted on making the most of every metre of the land they owned. Somehow, they received planning permission to take down the last of the ancient forest. Nature must make way for progress, as it had done in this city for millennia, and the government had mandated new housing, even at the expense of the green belt. This place, once a sacred boundary between civilisation and untamed forest, was now deemed a necessary sacrifice.

But Rebecca’s job was to build for the future of the people who would live here once the housing site was done, the thousands who flocked to London every week, with their ever-growing need for more space. Over the last few weeks, most of the ancient wood had been reduced to a barren wasteland, its majestic trees now nothing more than lifeless stumps and shattered branches littering the muddy earth. Today, the last of the trees would come down.

Rebecca tugged her hard hat down more securely on her head, finding a kind of security in its protection as she signalled to the group of workers ready to tackle the trees.

One man seated in a bulldozer nodded and began to drive forward, inching slowly toward one of the ancient oaks.

The massive tread of the machine churned the earth, grinding and tearing at the ground as it approached. Its metal teeth, jagged and merciless, tore into the wood with a sickening crunch.

The tree shuddered, the wood creaking and groaning at the bulldozer’s relentless assault. Its blade ripped into the heartwood. Branches cracked off, lying on the ground like twisted, lifeless limbs. Other workers collected the debris to throw into the wood chipper, and the acrid scent of sap with the bitter tang of smoke from the machine rose into the air.

The protestors roared their fury.

“Murderers!”

“Bastards!”

They rattled at the metal gates, their cries almost drowned out by the roar of the bulldozer. Rebecca’s heart thumped in her chest at their fury, but she clenched her fists inside the sleeves of her jacket and bit her lip, holding her nerve as she tried to ignore the rising threats.

She had to get this done and prove she could handle the difficult aspects of the job away from the office. It was the only way to get ahead in the fiercely competitive world of corporate architecture, and she needed the change that new opportunities would bring.

A sudden creak came from behind her as the metal bars of the fence twisted and screeched along the concrete.

Rebecca spun around.

A group of protestors surged through a newly made gap. Others climbed over the gates and raced toward the bulldozer and the ancient trees.

The driver saw them coming, dropped out of the cab, and ran for the safety of the site hut. The protestors swarmed over the machine, attacking it with wrenches and crowbars, breaking glass, denting metal.

A young man threw himself against the trunk of the ancient oak, only inches from the heavy metal blade of the bulldozer. He wrapped his arms around the gnarled bark, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as he fumbled with a length of chain. He looped it around the tree and then around his own waist, his movements frantic and desperate.

One of the other construction workers lunged at the protestor. “Get the hell away!”

The two men grappled and slammed against the tree with a sickening thud. The protestor cried out in pain as his head banged against the blade of the bulldozer.

Blood welled and dripped down the bark of the ancient tree, crimson drops seeping into its crevices as if the oak itself were bleeding.

The protestors surged forward.

A group of them swarmed the construction worker, their fists and feet lashing out in a frenzy. The worker fell to the ground, his hard hat tumbling from his head as he tried to shield himself from the onslaught of blows. His cries of pain and fear mingled with the shouts of the protestors.

Rebecca felt a surge of panic rising in her chest, her heart pounding as she stood frozen in the midst of the violence exploding around her. She wanted to help the fallen worker, but what could she do against so many?

The sound of sirens cut through the noise.

The site manager shouted above the chaos from the doorway of the site hut. “The police are on their way! They’ll be here any minute.”

His words rattled the protestors. They left the injured worker lying on the ground and turned back to the trees, the imminent arrival of the police driving them to their original purpose.

A young woman with ivy wound through her matted dreadlocks pulled out a tube of industrial glue, smeared the adhesive on her hands and clothes before pressing herself against the smooth trunk of an enormous beech tree. An older woman, her silver hair cropped elfin short, wrapped a chain around her waist and secured herself to an oak, then sat down, arms crossed, ready to face the authorities.

Two young men climbed the biggest tree, finding purchase on the gnarled branches as they ascended into the canopy and attached themselves with a combination of ropes and mesh that would be difficult to untangle.

And everywhere, the glint of phones held high, cameras live-streaming the destruction. Every brutal detail, every splash of blood, every twisted branch.

More protestors surged through the gap in the fence now, joining their comrades in widening circles around the trunks, some sitting, some lying down. They covered themselves with branches, daubing their clothes and skin with red paint as if they were corpses, dying to protect the ancient forest.

Rebecca noticed a young woman who bent to help another protestor chain herself to a trunk. Her profile was so familiar.

Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, the world around her faded into a muted blur. The determined set of the woman’s shoulders, the dark curls wound with flowers… Could it really be Grace?

Her sister had been a passionate eco-activist and when she vanished five years ago in rural Somerset in the west of England, the police implied that her radical militancy had led her into trouble, or that somehow her alternative lifestyle and bad choices meant she deserved whatever happened.

The sisters had been close once, united by a shared love of nature and a desire to make the world a better place. But as Grace’s activism grew more radical and uncompromising, the rift between them had widened. By the time Rebecca moved to London and started at the architecture firm, they hardly spoke anymore. Grace’s disappearance officially remained a cold case, but Rebecca had never lost hope.

She pushed through the crowd, her eyes locked on the woman by the tree as she shoved past angry protestors and confused construction workers. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she drew closer.

The woman turned towards her. For a heart-stopping moment, Rebecca was certain it was her sister, but as she reached out, her fingertips grazing the woman’s sleeve, the illusion shattered.

Up close, the differences became apparent. It wasn’t Grace, just another protestor caught up in the fury of the moment.

Rebecca’s heart sank, the desperate hope that buoyed her now replaced by a crushing sense of disappointment and loss. She was suddenly exhausted, her energy draining away, leaving her almost boneless.

A protestor shoved a phone in Rebecca’s face, the camera lens close to her nose. “Murderer! You did this!”

Rebecca recoiled at his fury. As she turned to run, he slammed something into her chest.

The blow was sharp, a stabbing pain, knocking the air from her lungs. She clutched at her chest.

Her fingers came away red and dripping.

Chapter 2

The protestor reared back, a triumphant smile on his face as he held his phone out, filming her shocked reaction.

Rebecca gasped for breath even as she realised she wasn’t injured. It was just red paint, now splattered across her chest like a gout of blood.

“You’re killing the earth. Murderer!” the man shouted as he threw another paint balloon.

It exploded against her shoulder and splattered her face.

Rebecca spun away and half ran, half stumbled through the crowd.

Her vision blurred with tears as they jostled her, their elbows and shoulders slamming into her body as she fought to get to safety.

She tripped, nearly losing her footing on the churned earth, but managed to catch herself at the last moment.

With a final, desperate surge of energy, Rebecca broke free from the crowd and raced towards the site manager’s hut. As she made it to the door, her colleagues reached out to pull her inside.

Rebecca sank to the ground, her back against the wall, her legs leaden as adrenalin pulsed through her system. She took deep breaths, trying to calm her heart rate.

One of the workers brought her a mug of hot, sweet tea. “Drink this, love. It will make you feel better.”

The site manager, Alan, was on the phone, his brow furrowed and his voice tense.

“Yes, they’ve broken through. One man is badly hurt. We need an ambulance as well as the police.”

He turned to look at Rebecca, his eyes widening at the splatter of red paint on her chest and her face. “You okay?”

“Not really. I need to clean up.”

“Go home,” Alan said, his voice gruff, his brow furrowed. “We can’t continue, not with this lot inside the site. We need to get them moved on before we can get back to work. The bastards look like they’re well-entrenched now. Bloody hippie tree huggers.”

Sirens blared from outside as the police arrived, the officers well used to dealing with eco-protestors. As they processed the scene, an ambulance pulled up and the injured worker was helped inside.

Rebecca went into the bathroom and used paper towels to daub as much of the paint off as possible, but it was matted into her hair and stained her skin. Her clothes were ruined. The only thing she wanted to do was go home and close her curtains and shut out the day.

She pulled on her coat and tugged it around her to hide the worst of the damage, then slipped out the back of the hut.

As she hurried to the Tube station, leaving the onslaught of the protestors’ shouts behind, the last of the red paint dripped down off her shoes, leaving a trail of crimson drops on the pavement behind her.

Rebecca descended into the depths of the Tube station, and as the train pulled up, she stumbled aboard, her legs giving way as she collapsed into a seat.

It was typical of London that no one said a word about her dishevelled appearance or the spatters of red on her skin. The unspoken rule: Keep your gaze neutral and unfixed on anything or anyone; avoid getting involved.

Rebecca closed her eyes as the events of the morning played out in a relentless loop. The sound of wood cracking, the shouts of protestors, the accusation of murder, the fake blood. It all swirled together until the rocking of the train became unbearable.

She swallowed down the nausea, counting the stops until she reached her destination.

Rebecca finally emerged from the depths of the Tube station. She stood for a moment, grateful for the chill spring air as she leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Her phone, which had been mercifully silent underground, suddenly erupted with a cacophony of messages and missed calls.

She unlocked the screen and scrolled through the barrage of messages and texts, her heart beating faster at the sheer volume — and then the graphic threats of violence from unknown numbers.

In the last hour, it seemed the video of her confrontation with the protestor had gone viral. It had been expertly intercut with earlier images of her giving the signal to cut down the ancient trees. She was portrayed as the villain, solely responsible for the destruction. The video was spreading fast across social media, and had been picked up by news media, further amplifying its message.

But that was only the beginning.

The eco-activists had already doxxed her. Her name and photo, and worst of all, her home address and phone number, were plastered across video platforms and messaging apps, websites and forums, calling for vigilante justice against those who would destroy nature.

Rebecca’s phone rang, the shrill, insistent tone cutting through the din of the city streets. An unknown number flashed across the screen.

She declined the call.

It rang again — and again.

She switched it to silent, then noticed a message from Alan, her manager.

I’ve seen the video. Take some leave and get away from London until this dies down. It’s not safe for you here right now.

His words cut through her overwhelm. She had to get away.

Rebecca pushed away from the wall of the Tube station and hurried back towards her flat, the implications of the text sinking like a lead weight in her stomach.

Her home was no sanctuary now. She had to get out of the city and find somewhere safe to hide until the storm blew over.

But where could she go?

London had once held so much promise, so much potential, but now it felt hard and unyielding. She had put everything into her work, and for a time, it seemed like it was worth it. When things were going well, London was a bright place of endless possibility, but when the shadows lengthened, it was easy to become one of the nameless lost in darkness, too quickly forgotten.

The city burned through the potential of its inhabitants and drained the vitality from those who walked its streets daily. London demanded everything from those who loved it and gave little in return. Those who left it exhausted rarely returned.

In truth, Rebecca had no real friends here. Acquaintances and work colleagues, for sure, but no one she could ask for help. There had been occasional lovers, brief flings and one-night stands, but no one she would even want to call in this situation.

And her parents… well, they were a half a world away.

After Grace’s disappearance, they had thrown themselves into charity work, burying their grief in the refugee camps of the Congo. They had left England, seeking solace in helping those who suffered even greater tragedies than their own. Her parents had sold the family home when they left, as if trying to purge their collective history along with memories of Grace.

The recollection of her sister’s vibrant smile, of the easy way she had with people, made Rebecca’s breath catch in her throat. Grace would have been on the side of the protestors today, but she never would have hurt her sister. She could have run to Grace and been welcomed with open arms, whatever trouble she was in. But that was not an option now.

As Rebecca reached the high-rise flats, the streets seemed to close in around her. Tower blocks of grey concrete and steel loomed overhead, and it was even colder in the shadowed places where the sun never reached.

The housing estate was a dreary, lifeless place, a monument to the triumph of functionality over form. It offended her architectural sensibilities, but it was all Rebecca could afford. The blocks of flats were identical, the facades a patchwork of drab, weathered concrete and peeling paint. The only splashes of colour came from the occasional graffiti tag, a futile act of rebellion against the crushing monotony of urban life.

There were trees planted in neat rows along the edge of the pavement, but they were bricked in and cemented in place. Controlled by the sprawling city. There was no wildness here, no untamed beauty, and Rebecca suddenly had a glimpse of what would replace the ancient trees at her own building site. She had tried her best to design something with movement and natural flow, but those with the money had crushed her best endeavours, saying it was too expensive. Now she was painted as the enemy.

She reached her flat and fumbled with the keys, her hands so cold and trembling that she almost dropped them. Finally, the lock clicked open, and Rebecca stumbled inside. She stood for a moment, her back against the door, on the edge of crying at the relief of being away from the street.

Her flat was tiny and cramped, a far cry from the airy, light-filled homes she dreamed of designing. It was hers — but it wasn’t a sanctuary any longer. She couldn’t stay here.

Rebecca checked her phone. There were now hundreds of messages and calls. She would just delete them all, and she would certainly not check social media. It would be filled with hate and graphic violence, and she couldn’t deal with that right now.

She just had to pack a bag and get out of here.

Rebecca quickly changed out of her paint-stained clothes and shoved as much as she could in a backpack, assuming she’d be gone for a few weeks at least.

She paused by her desk, drawn to the photograph in a silver frame. A glimpse of a happier time. She and Grace stood arm in arm as they laughed together against the verdant backdrop of rural Somerset in the southwest of England, where Grace had worked at the time.

Her sister’s hair reflected the sunlight, and her hazel eyes sparkled with joy. Around her neck, she wore a carved pendant made of reclaimed wood featuring the triple moon, representing the maiden, mother, and crone.

Rebecca reached out and touched her sister’s face with a fingertip. Grace had always been the brave one, standing up for what she believed in, no matter the cost. Rebecca needed that courage now more than ever.

Distant shouts came from outside, then a chant that she recognised from the site earlier. “Nature over greed!”

The protestors were coming.

Rebecca grabbed the photo and shoved it into her backpack. She dashed out the door, double-locked it behind her, and headed for the passageways behind the estate.

She raced through the maze of stairs and only slowed down when she was far enough away that she could no longer hear the noise of the protestors. She pulled up the hood of her jacket as it started to rain, grateful for the anonymity as commuters hurried past, heads down.

The turn in the weather would hopefully keep the protestors away from her flat, and if she was lucky, a new target would soon take the heat from her. She might not need to be away too long, but she still needed a destination.

As she navigated the streets to a Tube station further away from her flat, Rebecca thought of the photograph in her pack.

She had only visited Grace for a short time that summer, meeting up for a solstice festival in Glastonbury, but she remembered how the light had been so different down in Somerset.

The pace was much slower than London and people lived closer to the rhythms of the earth. Of course, that had led to one of their usual arguments when Rebecca became impatient with the lack of city conveniences, but Grace had found peace in the seasonal shifts of rural life. It would not be the verdant green of summer right now, but perhaps she might find some answers about Grace’s time there. Her last known location was the village of Winbridge Hollow, which sounded idyllic, and a quiet life was exactly what she needed right now.

Rebecca emerged from the Tube at Paddington and boarded the first train heading west. As the train pulled out of the station, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass, highlighted against the backdrop of the concrete city.

She was pale and drawn, her skin sallow, her eyes sunken, with dark shadows underneath. Her titian hair, once rich and thick, was now stringy, and she was too thin, a faded negative of the vibrant woman she had been in that photograph with Grace.

As the train whizzed past the stations of outer London, Rebecca noticed a patch of colour in the tangle of hair near her temple.

A drop of paint the colour of blood.

She reached up and tried to brush it away, but no matter how hard she tried, the stain remained.

Chapter 3

It was late afternoon by the time Rebecca stepped off the local bus in the village of Winbridge Hollow after a connection from the train station in the city of Bath.

The village nestled in the crook of two intersecting valleys, surrounded by rolling hills and an expanse of sky that seemed to dwarf the tiny settlement. A few narrow streets of cottages surrounded a village green, and a copse of beech trees sheltered a small church with an overgrown cemetery. The sun was low in the sky, but even in the early dusk, Rebecca was struck by the stark contrast to the grey of London.

Delicate white petals of blackthorn bloomed in the hedgerows by the side of the road, highlighted by a splash of colour from wild violets and yellow celandines nestled beneath. Patches of primroses and the last of the daffodils bloomed next to a war memorial cross, its weathered stone providing shelter from the crisp wind. Moss and lichen clung to its crevices, growing out of the carved names of the long dead, evidence of life on even the darkest days.

A robin darted into the close-knit branches of the blackthorn, trilling its song. Rebecca couldn’t help but smile at its optimism. There was birdsong in London, of course, but it was hard to hear with traffic at all hours of the day, unless you lived close enough to one of the parks and could be there early.

Out here, it was quiet. So quiet. She could hear everything.

The city girl in Rebecca felt a twinge of discomfort, a sudden sense of being out of place here among the untamed hedgerows and the wide, open sky with no towering buildings to break its vast canopy. It was disconcerting in a way, but there were no angry protestors, and for that, she was grateful.

Rebecca took a deep breath, noticing how even the air tasted different here. It was rich with damp earth and wild herbs, and she caught the scent of smoke in the air from a wood burner in one of the cottages.

The lights were still on in the village shop, its window filled with an assortment of local produce. Jars of preserves with handwritten labels stood next to a basket of potatoes still dusted with earth. A few apples sat alongside bunches of herbs and a few bread rolls. There were even some hand-knitted scarves and hats in soft, muted shades hung from wooden pegs, next to what looked like a row of animal skulls. Strange, but probably some local tradition.

Rebecca’s stomach rumbled as she walked toward the shop. She had assumed it would be easy to find somewhere to stay and a place to eat since the apps on her phone could usually get her everything she needed at short notice. She was so used to the ease of getting anything you might need in London, but out here in the country, things were different.

She shifted her backpack on her shoulders, realising how new and out of place it looked. She had bought it a while back at an outdoor shop in the middle of London, a place where customers could pretend they were about to embark on grand adventures while most never left the comforts of the city. It seemed like a silly affectation now, a reminder of how far she was from the world she knew.

Grace had been perfectly at home in the countryside, with her easy way of striking up a conversation and her ability to find simple food and shelter with strangers. But it wasn’t the city way.

Rebecca pulled her phone from her pocket to search for accommodation nearby, but the signal was weak and intermittent. A flicker of panic rose within her.

She was truly cut off from the world she knew. She’d have to sleep in the hedgerow and get the bus back to civilisation in the morning.

Rebecca couldn’t help but chuckle at herself. Seriously, how bad would that be, anyway? At least she could get some food in the shop and then count the hours before she gave up on this whole thing.

She slipped her phone back into her pocket and pushed open the door to the shop. The tinkling of the bell welcomed her to the warmth inside.

The shop was piled high with tins and bottles and fresh vegetables. The smell of meaty stock and herbs filled the air from a pot warming on a little stove next to a pile of crusty bread rolls.

A middle-aged woman with a face as round and welcoming as a cottage loaf emerged from a doorway behind the counter. She wore a marigold yellow apron tied around her abundant curves, and the rosy glow of a life well-lived flushed her cheeks.

“What can I do for you, my lovely?” the woman asked with a smile, her voice rich with the melodic lilt of the West Country.

“Any chance you have some soup left?”

“Of course, it’s still a bit nippy out there. You’ll have to drink it here if you don’t have your own bowl. I mostly make it for the local oldies who bring their own.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

The woman ladled out a generous portion into a rustic pottery mug and stuck a spoon in the top. “Here you go, now.”

She wrapped two rolls in a napkin and handed them to Rebecca. “Eat up. You look like you need some feeding, love.” She pointed at a little stool in one corner by a stack of tinned tomatoes and sweetcorn. “Sit there and eat. I just have to finish something out back. Won’t be long.”

As the woman bustled out of the shop, Rebecca sat down and took a sip of the soup. She savoured the rich, meaty broth, spooning out chunks of potato and carrot and munching the fresh bread. It was good to be in the warm, especially as the sun was going down outside and the late chill would soon deepen.

As she ate, Rebecca looked around the shop. An eclectic mix of everyday necessities and curious oddities lined the shelves, and she noticed a collection of roughly carved wooden figurines nestled between jars of pickled vegetables and bags of dried herbs.

The figures were twisted and gnarled, as if struggling to escape from the wood that held them. They had a kind of unfinished beauty, reminding her of Michelangelo’s sculpture The Awakening Slave, a figure trapped within marble, his latent power held back by a prison of stone.

On one wall, there was a cork-board with a local bus timetable pinned to it, along with a flyer about a Spring Equinox celebration and beside it, an advertisement for the local award-winning vineyard, Standing Stone Cellars.

Rebecca frowned. The name rang a bell. Could Grace have worked there? It was certainly possible as she often took casual labour jobs across the seasons.

The shop owner bustled back into the room, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling.

“There we are, love. All sorted in the back.” She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, assessing Rebecca with a curious gaze.

“Tourist, are you?”

Rebecca swallowed her mouthful of soup and smiled. “How did you guess? Yes, I’ve come down from London. I’m… on a break from my job right now and I wanted to see some of the area.”

“Ah, London. I’ve never been. Sounds like a terrible place.”

Rebecca was taken aback. How could someone who lived just a few hours away never have visited the capital of their country? Was the woman not curious about the wider world? Rebecca felt the gulf between the city and the country grow wider as she considered how different their lives were.

She nodded. “It’s not for everyone.”

The woman chuckled. “I’ve no need to leave the county here. If you’re traveling around these parts, there’s lots of good walking. Then there’s the farms. We’ve some of the finest produce in the country, we do. The soil is rich and fertile, as blessed we are. Fields of wheat and barley, orchards heavy with apples and pears when the harvest is due — if you’re sticking around that long?”

“I’m… not sure, to be honest.” Rebecca sensed the woman’s curiosity. Perhaps that was natural in a place where few outsiders visited, but she was reticent to share her exact situation.

She pointed at the advertisement. “Can I visit the vineyard?”

The woman nodded. “Oh yes, they do tours and tastings sometimes, but usually later in the year, when the grapes are ripening.” She hesitated and then nodded, as if remembering something. “They are hiring at the moment, though. They need workers to tend the vines and you know, since Brexit, it’s been hard to get foreign workers. You interested?”

Rebecca considered her flat back in London, the bustling streets and the stress of the building site. The thought of returning, even in a few weeks, felt suffocating. She needed space, a chance to breathe and process everything that had happened. The idea of manual labour, of working with her hands in the open air, suddenly held a strange appeal. If it didn’t suit her, well, she could always leave. There was a certain freedom in that, a sense of possibility that had been lacking in her life for far too long.

And then there was Grace. If she stayed here, in this quiet corner of Somerset, perhaps she might find people who had known her sister, who could shed light on the days leading up to her disappearance.

“You know what? I think I might be interested in a job at the vineyard,” Rebecca said, surprising herself with the decision.

The woman’s face lit up with a broad smile. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you, my lovely. Now, I’m closing up, so I’ll have that cup back. You staying local, like?”

Rebecca stood and carried the cup and spoon over to the counter, a flush of embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. “I don’t actually have anywhere lined up. I thought I could find somewhere once I arrived.”

The woman tutted, but there was no judgment in her eyes, only a warm concern. “Well, that won’t do at all. Tell you what, I’ve got a little box room upstairs. It’s nothing special, mind you, but it’s clean and dry, and you’re welcome to it tonight. I’m Pam, by the way.”

Relief flooded Rebecca, along with gratitude at the woman’s unexpected generosity. “Thank you so much. That would be amazing. I’m Rebecca.”

Pam smiled. “We look out for each other round here. Now, the vineyard is picking up a new batch of workers tomorrow. I could give them a call, put in a good word for you. See if they’ve got room for one more?”

“That would be great. Thank you so much. For everything.”

“This way, then.” Pam beckoned, and Rebecca followed her out the back and up some old wooden stairs that creaked as they walked up.

The tiny box room nestled in the attic of the cottage. There was a single bed with a worn, patchwork quilt under a window, a hand-painted chest of drawers crammed beside it with an amateur oil painting above. The sloped ceiling made it hard to stand straight.

“It’s not much, but it’s yours for the night.” Pam turned on a lamp sitting on top of the chest of drawers and pointed to a small door hidden in the shadows. “The bathroom’s through there. Shower’s a bit temperamental, mind you. Not much water pressure up here.”

Rebecca set her pack on the floor. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Pam. Really.”

Pam waved away her gratitude with a smile. “Think nothing of it, my lovely. Now, I’ll give Isabelle, the vineyard owner, a call, but I know the bus will be at the cross around eight o’clock. No doubt they’ll appreciate an extra pair of hands.”

Rebecca nodded, already feeling a sense of purpose and excitement at the prospect of working at the vineyard. “I’ll be there. Eight o’clock.”

Pam turned and creaked her way back downstairs, leaving Rebecca in the tiny box room. She could feel a cold draught through the edges of the window and shivered as she laid her pack on the bed.

It was a world away from where she started the day, but as she looked out into the gloom beyond the window, Rebecca was grateful she wasn’t sleeping out there under the blackthorn hedge. The darkness was thick here, deeper than she’d ever experienced in London, where she had to wear an eye mask to keep out the bright street lights from the estate. The only light she could see in the village was a single flickering candle that burned in one of the church windows, casting eerie shadows across the graveyard, with its weathered headstones half sunken into the ground.

A sudden movement caught her eye.

A shadow, darker than the rest, darted between the graves. Something misshapen. Something horned.

Rebecca stepped back from the window and pulled the curtain quickly across, unsettled by whatever it was, and now even more grateful she was not outside in the dark. Grace would have laughed at her city girl imagination, and the thought made Rebecca even more determined to learn about the area.

She got ready for bed and slipped under the covers, pulling the quilt tight around her. The bedclothes smelled musty, but she was warm and dry and safe — and grateful.

As she reached over to turn off the lamp, Rebecca looked more closely at the oil painting behind it.

A circle of weathered standing stones stood amongst a wild vineyard, with tendrils from the vines reaching out to strangle the base of the stones. The style was crude, but the picture was unsettling, and was that a horned shadow in the painting’s corner?

Rebecca shook her head and turned out the light. Her imagination was seriously running wild out here in the sticks. She would see everything in a new light tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Rebecca woke with a start, her heart racing and her skin slick with sweat. The room was pitch black, and for a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. She reached out a hand to anchor herself to the wall, touching the rough stone as she remembered the events of yesterday.

Strange sounds filtered in through the draughty window frame. That must be what had woken her.

At first, she thought it might be the wind, whistling through the cracks and crevices of the old building. But as she listened more closely, she realised it was something else entirely.

A shrill cry, followed by a series of yips and barks. Foxes maybe? There were urban foxes in London, often seen raiding bins in the early mornings, but Rebecca had never heard cries like this.

An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and Rebecca imagined its sharp beak tearing into the flesh of some tiny rodent, devouring its steaming entrails.

She realised the countryside was not quiet at all. The night was full of sounds — the rustle of creatures in the undergrowth at the edges of the graveyard, the creak of branches in the wind, the call of night birds. If these noises existed in the city, they were masked by the ever-present traffic.

Rebecca tossed and turned, trying to block out the unsettling sounds and sink back into the oblivion of sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, the image of the horned shadow from the painting next to the bed danced behind her eyelids.

Eventually, she got up and took it off the wall and put it into a drawer. It was ridiculous, but it helped.

Rebecca eventually drifted off into fitful sleep, where she walked amongst ancient standing stones. The scent of something rotting rose from the pungent vegetation as a thick mist curled around her feet. At the edge of her vision, a horned shadow flitted between the stones, its dark gaze both an invitation and a challenge.