Not wanting to, but unable to help myself, I take the photograph out again. There’s a pain lodged under my breastbone as I look at the girl’s face smiling in the sunlight, and on impulse I grip the photograph’s edge to tear it in half. But I can’t do it. Instead, I smooth out the crease and put it back into the pocket.
Suddenly I’m exhausted. And more confused than ever. The woman didn’t really tell me anything, especially not why I’m in a barn instead of a hospital. Belatedly, something else registers. After the woman closed the trapdoor there was another noise, the solid
The sound of a bolt being shot into place.
My bandaged foot throbs as I swing my legs off the mattress. Ignoring it, I stand up and almost fall over. I lean against the stone wall, waiting until the loft has stopped spinning, then try taking a step. My foot shrieks under my weight and I pitch forward, grabbing onto the chair and causing something to rattle hollowly inside its base. It’s a commode, I realize, noticing for the first time the pressure in my bladder.
But that will have to wait. It’s obvious I’m not going to get far, but I can’t go back to bed until I know. Supporting myself on the dusty furniture stacked against the walls, I lurch over to the trapdoor. There’s an iron ring set into it. Gripping onto an old bureau, I take hold and pull. There’s a slight give, then it sticks fast.
It’s bolted.
I fight down a fresh surge of panic. I can’t imagine any reason for me to be locked up here, at least nothing good. But there’s no question of trying to force the bolt. Even if I could find something to wrench it open, just getting this far has taken everything out of me. I use the commode, glad of that small relief, then collapse back onto the mattress. I’m coated with a greasy sheen of sweat, and my head and foot are both throbbing.
I take two painkillers and lie back, but I’m too fretful to sleep. My foot is starting to quieten when there’s a soft noise from the trapdoor. There’s a grating whisper as the bolt is eased back, then with a creak the hatch swings open.
It’s someone else this time, a girl. I haven’t seen her before, but as she lowers the trapdoor the play of light on her face strikes a discordant note of memory. She’s carrying a tray, and smiles shyly when she sees I’m sitting up. I hastily drape the sheet over my groin, preserving my modesty like a Renaissance nude. She lowers her eyes, trying not to grin.
‘I’ve brought you something to eat.’
She looks in her late teens, strikingly pretty even in a faded T-shirt and jeans. She’s wearing pink flip-flops, and the sight of them is both incongruous and oddly reassuring.
‘It’s only bread and milk,’ she says, setting the tray beside the bed. ‘Mathilde said you shouldn’t have a lot just yet.’
‘Mathilde?’
‘My sister.’
The other woman, of course. There isn’t much of a resemblance between them. The girl’s hair is lighter, almost blonde, and hangs to her shoulders. Her eyes are a paler shade of her sister’s grey, and the bridge of her nose has a slight bump where it’s been broken; a minor imperfection that somehow adds to the whole.
She keeps darting quick looks at me, smiling all the while. It puts engaging dimples in her cheeks.
‘I’m Gretchen,’ she says. It isn’t a French name, but as soon as she says it I think it fits. ‘I’m glad you’re awake. You’ve been ill for days.’
Now I understand why she looks familiar: the Madonna-like face from my delirium wasn’t a hallucination after all. ‘You’re the one who found me?’
‘Yes.’ She looks embarrassed but pleased. ‘Well, it was Lulu really.’
‘Lulu?’
‘Our dog. She started barking. I thought she’d seen a rabbit. You looked dead at first, you were so still. There were flies all over you. Then you made a noise, so I knew you weren’t.’ She gives me a quick look. ‘We had an awful time getting you out of the trap. We had to prise it open with a crowbar. You were struggling and yelling all sorts of things.’
I try to keep my voice level. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh, just rambling.’ She goes to the other side of the bed and leans against the rocking horse. ‘You were delirious, and most of it was in English, so I didn’t understand. But you stopped when we got your foot out.’
From the way she talks there might be nothing unusual about the situation. ‘Who’s
‘Me and Mathilde.’
‘Just the two of you? You brought me up here by yourselves?’
‘Of course.’ Her mouth forms a playful moue. ‘You’re not so heavy.’
‘No, but… How come I’m not in hospital? Didn’t you phone for an ambulance?’
‘We don’t have a phone.’ She doesn’t appear to see anything odd about it. ‘Anyway, there was no need. Mathilde knows how to look after wounds and things. Papa was out with Georges so she didn’t want to— Well, we managed by ourselves.’
I don’t know what she was about to say or who Georges is, but there are too many other things to think about. ‘Is Mathilde a nurse?’
