Before Ismael could reply, she took his hand and pulled him towards the wood.
Simone slowly turned round to face the shadows. She could feel the presence of the intruder; she could even hear the muffled sound of his breathing. But she couldn’t see him. Simone scanned the darkness, searching for the visitor. She felt an unexpected sense of calm, which allowed her to think clearly. Her senses were alert to every tiny detail, her mind registering every vibration of the air, every sound, every reflection with spine-chilling precision. Wrapped in this strange serenity, she stood in silence, waiting for the visitor to make himself known.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said the voice at last, speaking from the shadows. ‘Are you afraid?’
Simone shook her head.
‘Good. You shouldn’t be afraid.’
‘Are you going to stay
there, hiding, Lazarus?’
A long silence ensued. Lazarus’s breathing became more audible.
‘I’d rather stay here,’ he replied at last.
‘Why?’
Something glistened in the dark. A fleeting sparkle, almost imperceptible.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Madame Sauvelle?’
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘As you wish.’ He paused again. ‘You might be wondering what is going on.’
‘Among other things,’ snapped Simone, unable to hide her indignation.
‘Perhaps the easiest thing would be for you to ask the questions and I’ll try to answer them.’
Simone sighed angrily. ‘My first and last question is this: how do I get out of here?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Is that another of your questions?’
‘Where am I?’
‘In Cravenmoore.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘Someone brought you . . .’
‘You?’
‘No.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone you don’t know . . . yet.’
‘Where are my children?’
‘I don’t know.’