I stare at the yawning entrance, the shadows whispering.
Lily-Anne’s voice pulls me back, eager and more confident. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack says fondly, squeezing her shoulder.
“You’ll come too, won’t you?” she asks me, her tone hopeful.
Reluctance tugs at me. Every instinct says there’s more waiting inside than Jack’s games, but if Lily-Anne asks, I’ll go. Always.
“Yes. Of course.”
The air inside is stale and heavy with mould and old wood. The space resembles an abandoned cellar, the lower walls stained where floodwater once reached. Barrels and crates crowd the far end, along with dusty wine bottles stacked on long wooden shelves.
Lily-Anne drifts towards the nearest shelf, and I follow.
I raise my phone, its torch cutting a pale beam through darkness to illuminate dusty, coloured glass.
“Thanks. Are we pretending that’s a magical wand too?” she teases.
“Medieval torch, actually,” I reply. “Can’t you smell the pitch and burning animal fat?”
“Oh yes. Just lovely.”
We share a smile.
Her fingers skim the bottles, brushing dust from green and brown glass.
“These are beautiful,” she whispers. “Reminds me of the sea glass we’ve been collecting.”
“Oh?”
She glances sideways at me. “I noticed the kintsugi bowl on your patiois empty. Do you know where the sea glass went?”
I still.
“Did you move it?” she presses.
I could say I returned them to the sea, or emptied them in the garden, or that the wretched garden gnome—which I’ve failed to locate—took them, but I won’t lie to her.
I open my mouth, but I’m saved from answering as Jack bounds over, cutting between us.
“Hey,” he says, to Lily-Anne as she glances upward. “Can you hear that?”
We all tilt our heads to listen.
At first, it’s only faint. Then it gathers, threads of melody seeping down through stone and timber. Rich, swelling strings carry something beautiful yet unmistakably modern beneath their restraint.
Lily-Anne’s breath catches, her eyes astonished. “I know that song! It’s a Taylor Swift one.”
Jack groans. “Don’t tell me you’re a Swiftie.”
“I’m afraid she is,” Ellenor says.
Lily-Anne doesn’t rise to the bait. She’s already moving toward the metal staircase that leads to a door above us, drawn by the music. “It sounds like an orchestra.”
“Could be,” Willoughby says. “They do events here. Want to check it out?”
“An event would mean people in the castle,” I caution.
