Ismael nodded in agreement.
‘Sometimes I come here and spend hours just sitting on the rocks, watching the light change under the water. It’s my sanctuary . . .’
‘Far from the world?’
‘As far as you can imagine.’
‘You don’t like people much, do you?’
‘Depends which people you’re talking about,’ he replied, a smile on his lips.
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Perhaps.’
The boy looked away and inspected the mouth of the cave.
‘We’d better leave now, the tide will be coming in soon.’
‘And?’
‘When the tide rises, the cave begins to fill with water, right up to the roof. It’s a death trap. You could get caught in here and drown like a rat.’
Suddenly the place no longer seemed dreamlike, but threatening. Irene imagined the cave filling with water, no possible escape.
‘There’s no hurry . . .’ Ismael explained.
But Irene had already dived in and begun to swim towards the entrance. She didn’t stop until the sun was beating down on her again. Ismael watched her go and smiled to himself. The girl had guts.
They made the journey back in silence. The words of the diary kept going through Irene’s mind like an echo that refused to fade. A thick bank of clouds had spread across the sky, masking the sun and turning the sea a leaden, metallic colour. The wind was fresher now, so Irene put on her dress again. This time Ismael barely looked at her as she was dressing, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.
The Kyaneos rounded the headland by mid-afternoon and set a course for the cove beneath the Sauvelles’ house. Ismael steered the boat towards the jetty and berthed it with his usual skill, although his mind seemed to be miles away.
When the moment came to say goodbye, Irene took Ismael’s hand in hers.
‘Thanks for taking me to the cave.’
‘You’re always thanking me and I don’t know what for . . . Thank you for coming.’
Irene wanted to ask him when they would meet again, but her instinct advised her not to. Ismael untied the line and the Kyaneos drifted off.
As she watched him leave, Irene paused on the stone stairway that led up the cliffs. A flock of seagulls was escorting him towards the port. She turned and continued up the steps, a secret smile on her lips.
The moment she set foot inside the house Irene noticed something was wrong. Everything was too tidy, too calm, too quiet. The lights in the living room on the ground floor were on and Dorian was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the fireplace. Simone was gazing at the sea from the kitchen window, a cup of cold coffee in her hands. The only sound was the murmur of the wind as it gently turned the weathervane on the roof.
Dorian and his sister looked at one another, then Irene went over to her mother and put a hand on her shoulder. When Simone Sauvelle turned around, there were tears in her eyes.
‘What’s happened, Mum?’
Her mother hugged her. Irene clasped her mother’s hands in her own. They were cold.
‘It’s Hannah,’ whispered Simone.
A long silence. The wind scratched at the shutters.
‘She’s dead.’
7