The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,74

of mania and joy and the long winters of darkness that blacked out everything else, even her youngest daughter.

Elizabeth’s fragile mental state passed the point of no return when she was arrested for the murder of her husband. The day the police came to take her mother away, Alba had answered the door. The two tall, dark figures in black uniforms stared down at her.

“Is your mother home?” the taller one asked, his voice so gentle it seemed to suggest that if she gave him the answer he wanted, he might give her a lollipop.

For a long moment Alba just looked up at him, thinking that his hat looked like a big beetle that might, any second, scuttle off his head. Her mother was upstairs, writing another letter, and Alba wasn’t sure she’d want to be disturbed. But the men weren’t going away; they wanted an answer, and she knew the answer they wanted.

For years afterward, Alba replayed the scene over and over in her head, this time with her saying no instead of yes. She blamed herself, believing that if she’d sent the policemen away that day her mother would never have been arrested. She believed Elizabeth’s breakdown was her fault. Because when Elizabeth Ashby finally came home from the police station, the cloud of darkness that before had come and gone never lifted again.

They kept her for forty-eight hours. When they dropped her back on the doorstep of Ashby Hall, Alba knew they’d taken her mother and left a zombie in her place. She’d once spied on Edward watching Invasion of the Body Snatchers and knew what was possible. And when she saw her mother—the hollowed-out cheeks and vacant eyes, the curve of her back and her shuffling steps, the dense clouds of dark blue in the air around her—the little girl understood that the mother she’d known had been snatched away.

It was a while before Alba learned that Elizabeth was suspected of her husband’s murder, when children started saying things at school. Her siblings had always refused to talk about it. Alba screamed at her classmates and cried in bed at night. She was certain her mother was innocent. But, after two terms of taunting, Alba began to wonder. As she stared up at the ceiling of her dorm room, trying to block out the whispers of the other girls, Alba knew she could never really know anything for certain.

—

Edward waits for Alba at the back of the coffee shop. She’s fifteen minutes late and he’s worried she isn’t coming at all. When, ten minutes later the door bangs open and Alba falls in, wearing a woolen coat even though it’s July, Edward’s face lights up with relief and delight. She walks over to his table.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Hello, Al.” Suddenly Edward wants to hug her, but he can’t. They’ve never shared that sort of affection before and he’s embarrassed to try now. “Do you want a drink—tea, coffee? Some sort of cakey thing? They seem to have everything one could possibly want here.”

“No thanks, maybe later.” Alba sits. “I thought you might bring Til.”

“I wanted to, but . . . I’ll bring her next time. That is, if . . .” His words are bright silver, so glowing with hope that it makes Alba’s heart ache a little. Edward leans forward. “Are you okay?”

She shrugs. “Fine, sane, sleeping through the night.” A moment of her mother’s last nocturnal visit floats up inside her and Alba offers a small smile. “Progress is being made.”

“That’s good.” Edward smiles in return. “I’m glad.”

They fall into silence. Customers pass by, inching around their table, ordering their afternoon hits of caffeine and sugar. Alba picks at the frayed edges of her sleeve.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she says.

Now Edward wants a cup of coffee. He isn’t ready for this. He doesn’t have the right answers, the sort that will keep Alba sitting in front of him, the sort that won’t reveal him to be a bit of a bastard. Of course he knew the question was coming, but he’d hoped for a little preparation time, half an hour of small talk to pave the way, to strengthen the bond between them and cushion the blow. But the question is in front of him now and he must answer it.

“Yes, we all did.”

“And did he . . . did”—Alba isn’t quite sure what to call Charles—“your father know too?”

“Yes, he knew.”

“When did he find out?”

“When you were eight.” Edward remembers the day he promised