The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,31

clenched teeth, “as I told you this morning. Twice.” He glances in the mirror, trying to catch his little sister’s eye, to check he’s not upsetting her.

Drifting away from her siblings’ fighting, Alba closes her eyes and sees Dr. Skinner’s face. She tries to block it out, but can’t. Her defenses are down. Thoughts mill around her mind with a force of their own, pushing into her personal space like unwanted guests at a dinner party. So Alba surrenders to the dark brown hair and brown eyes, the smile that fools you into thinking its owner is pure and true, not a conniving, cunning snake who’d steal your thoughts as soon as look at you. Alba opens her eyes again, staring into the bright sunshine until the image floats away.

“Stop worrying,” Charles says from the front seat. “We’ll make it and, if we don’t, Stone will wait for us.”

“Unless he’s due in court,” Charlotte says.

“Oh, do shut up,” Edward sighs.

And so it goes for the next hour, until they reach London. It’s the first time Alba has ever had occasion to visit their solicitors, the most prestigious firm in the city, but she knows the Ashby family have been clients of Stone & Stone for well over a hundred years; they pioneered one of the first divorce cases in Britain when the seventh Lord Ashby claimed, fraudulently as it turned out, that his wife had been unfaithful with his brother.

As they park and hurry along the streets, Alba lags behind a little, unable to suppress a niggling sense that something is wrong, that she shouldn’t be going with them. When they reach the solicitors’ offices she stops on the pavement with an overwhelming feeling of dread.

“It’s a bloody miracle we’re not three days late.” Charlotte sweeps past the rest of them, striding through the sliding glass doors of Stone & Stone.

“At least we made it here in one piece,” Edward retorts, “instead of ending up in a twenty-car pileup on the M4.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Charles snaps. He reaches the front desk and aims a smile at the pretty redheaded receptionist. “We’re here to see Mr. Stone.” His voice is soft and smooth as golden syrup. “We have an appointment at noon.”

—

Tiago is still visiting Carmen’s dreams, refusing to let her forget him. Sometimes she dreams of the good, sometimes the bad, but it always leaves her shivering in a cold sweat. Tonight she dreams of their first duet. Six months after they met, Carmen had woken early to find him sitting at his piano. She had stood in the doorway watching him, completely and utterly captivated. It seemed to her that he wasn’t sitting at the piano but floating a few feet above it, carried on the waves of his music.

She walked across the room and sat down at the piano beside him. Tiago began to play her favorite piece, Mozart’s sixth quartet, and she played along with him. He shifted to the first of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and still she followed, despite the fact she’d been learning for only a few months. Then Tiago stopped. He began to play a piece of his own. As the notes floated through the air Carmen felt as though Tiago were tying ropes of silk around her waist, tethering her so she’d never be able to leave. That was the night he asked her to marry him; and when Carmen said yes, it was the happiest moment of her life.

A few hours later Carmen sits at the kitchen table, red-eyed and yawning, nibbling her way through a packet of chocolate biscuits, gulping down black coffee. The house is silent and still, so quiet in fact that she’s a little unnerved. Pots and pans sit in the sink, waiting to be cleaned. Carmen glances at the copper frying pan balanced on top, about to topple. With a shiver, she thinks of Tiago, of blood and bones and beatings, worrying about how safe she really is.

Just then the door bumps open and Peggy shuffles in, wrapped in her patchwork dressing gown, her wild white hair even messier than usual.

“Morning,” she mumbles, passing by the table, focusing on the floor.

“Ola.” Carmen looks up, surprised. “Why you up so early?”

Peggy shuffles to the fridge. “I need cream. And coffee.”

“I make it.” Carmen stands.

“Oh, you’re a dear.” Peggy slides into the nearest chair. “Four sugars, please.”

“So, why you up so early?” Carmen flicks the kettle on.

“Give me a moment to join the living,” Peggy says, “and