Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4) (10 page)

‘What?’

‘I’m not offering you the position, Scarlett – and in any
case, it’s not for me to offer, merely recommend to the other Ceruleans, who
vote on it. But the potential could be explored.’

‘I’d be the very worst person for that job!’ I spluttered.

She smiled. ‘Perhaps. But you are, after all, family – my
only female Cerulean descendent. You’re regarded fondly and with respect by the
Ceruleans,
despite
your choices. You have the backbone to do what you
believe is right, to make sacrifices.’

I was shaking my head so hard the conservatory was a blur.

Ignoring me, she finished: ‘And you remind me a lot of
myself. You know, I wasn’t always an old lady. Once, I was young and full of
zeal, just like you.’

‘But there are other women who are obedient and who believe
in the rules of this place.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said thoughtfully.

I felt the urge to burst out laughing. This was crazy – all
of this was crazy! When I told Luke about it later…

Oh. That thought sobered me at once.

‘Anyway,’ said Evangeline, ‘that is a matter for another
day.’

I said nothing. My head was aching and my stomach was in
knots and I was plagued by the sense that our conversation had moved too fast
and I’d missed something.

All at once, I wanted this to be over. My eyes scanned the
room, seeking an escape route, and settled on a path leading through a verdant
valley. Not a scene through the window, but that on a framed poster on the
wall. One of those religious ones, featuring a Bible quote.

‘“Then you will know the truth,”’ I read aloud, ‘“and the
truth will set you free.”’

Evangeline started and twisted around to follow my gaze,
then turned back to the table. I waited for her to say something profound, but
she only picked up the cup before her, brought it a little shakily to her lips
and took a sip of tea.

‘So,’ she said in light tone that signalled our serious talk
was over, ‘why don’t you tell me some more about your life in Twycombe. Jude
tells me you have a dog…’

And we both settled down for a past-its-best cream tea and a
discussion on how best to train a dog. Meaningless, yes, but safe. In the
circumstances, that was the best a conflict-averse great-grandmother and a
conflicted great-granddaughter could manage.

I was angry. Frightened. Confused. I should have run home to
Luke and let him hold me as I poured out everything Evangeline had said. But
the intimacy – I didn’t know how to tell him that. And in any case, old habits
die hard.

I turned to Jude instead.

He was in the living room, sprawled on a sofa with Adam and
laughing at a DVD playing on the big plasma screen. As I walked in he took one
look at my face and his smile faded.

‘Can we take a walk?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he said, leaping up.

Outside, there was no need for discussion; of their own
accord our feet followed a familiar path winding away from the house to a
far-off peninsular – the furthest point on the island from the house and the
closest point to the mainland, to home.

‘So,’ said Jude, sinking down onto a carpet of moss beneath
a tall pine tree, ‘I take it by the weighty silence and the look in your eyes
and the fact that we’re
here
after your chat with Evangeline that it
didn’t go well.’

I managed a weak smile as I sat down beside him.

‘She denied the family connection?’

‘No, she admitted that my grandfather, Peter, was her son –
her firstborn.’

‘What is it then?’

I plucked a leaf off a nearby bush and began tearing it into
pieces. ‘She told me if Luke and I… that any child we had would be like me.’

There was a pause. I got on with destroying the leaf.

‘Er, Scarlett? What’s the drama? You knew that.’

‘Yes,
apparently
you thought you warned me off sex
with my boyfriend before I came back to Twycombe.’

I threw the word ‘sex’ at him like an insult and he cringed,
but then looked baffled again.

‘But I did, Scarlett. Remember, on the balcony in the
Newquay apartment? I said…’

I held up a hand to stop him. What was the point in berating
him for having failed to deliver the message clearly enough? That day he’d been
a mess – broken in two by Sienna’s betrayal. It wasn’t his fault.

‘It’s fine, Jude,’ I told him. ‘My fault. I didn’t
understand.’

‘Oh,’ said Jude. Then: ‘
Oh!
Does that mean you and
Luke…’

‘Jude! I am
not
going into that with you.’

‘But are you sure you’re not…’

‘Pregnant? Yes.’

‘But Ceruleans are
really
fertile.’

‘I get that, Jude, but I am
not
pregnant!’

‘Right. Sorry.’

The leaf was no more. I picked another and got to work.

‘Is it common knowledge,’ I asked, ‘what happens if humans
and Ceruleans get together?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I mean, we’re all taught from an
early age that we can’t be with humans because of how they drain us. But the
offspring thing – I only know because Evangeline told me, back when you first
came to the island. It was one of the reasons you weren’t meant to go back to
Luke. I don’t know why I didn’t explain it then.’

‘Perhaps because it would mean talking about sex?’ I
suggested wryly.

He smiled. ‘Perhaps.’

We fell quiet. I replayed the conversation with Evangeline
over and over, pushing aside all my initial reactions and trying to lock down
which elements were niggling at me. I’d stripped an entire branch of leaves
before I reached a point of clarity.

‘You’re right, Jude. What
is
the drama? I mean, from
Evangeline’s point of view. Isn’t her mission to create an army of us? You’d
think she’d be delighted at the thought of me having kids who’ll turn into
Ceruleans one day. Especially girls. She needs more females. So why has she
been so careful to warn me off?’

Jude thought about it for a while. Eventually, he threw his
hands up in defeat. ‘I don’t know. I guess it’s simply not the way we make new
Ceruleans.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Tell me again – how exactly
do
you make new ones?’

‘Through Cerulean partnerships on the island, and through
Claiming the rare girl in a generation who has the Potential to become Cerulean,’
said Jude at once in a somewhat robotic voice that made me wonder whether he’d
had to learn and recite this in his school days.

‘Potential,’ I echoed. ‘That’s what I had, you said, and
Sienna, and Estelle, and Evangeline, and all the other women on the island.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where did that Potential come from, Jude?’

He shrugged.

‘If we’re to believe the origins story, the first Ceruleans
were given the gift because they were worthy of it. Which implies Potential is
linked to worthiness. But that can’t be right, because neither Sienna nor I
were worthy of
this
. Dying soldiers eager to do God’s work? Yes. Teenage
girls wrapped up in surfing and boys? No.’

Jude was frowning now.

‘It’s all a bit vague, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘You get told to
go Claim a mysterious girl whose Potential has been identified – by who, we’ve
no idea. The girl, apparently, is just a normal human with no connection to the
Ceruleans.’

‘Scarlett –’

‘But
I’m
not a normal human with no connection to the
Ceruleans, am I? And neither was Sienna. Three generations of my family are
Cerulean. That has to mean something, Jude.’

‘It’s just a coincidence. Evangeline was very clear when I
went to Claim Sienna, and then you –’

‘Clear on what? What exactly did she tell you about us?’

There was some connection to make here – I knew it. If I
just asked the right questions, found the right angle.

‘She said that you were human girls with the Potential to be
Claimed as Cerulean,’ said Jude. ‘That’s it.’

Frustrated, I threw aside the leaf I was shredding.

‘What is Potential, Jude? How are you taught to define it?’

‘We aren’t.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And you never thought to ask?’

He reddened in the face of my anger. ‘Yes, actually,’ he
fired back. ‘I asked Barnabas once. He said something about the person having
Cerulean in them, but that it can only be realised at the point of death.’

I stared at him, all vestiges of irritation draining from
me.

‘Scarlett?’

‘The girls you Claim are half-Cerulean.’

‘Er, well, I suppose if they have Cerulean in them…’

‘Just like any child I had with Luke would be half-Cerulean.’

‘Well, yes.’

I couldn’t sit still – I leapt to my feet. I couldn’t stand
still – I began walking back and forth.

‘Evangeline said it today and I missed it,’ I said. ‘I heard
the words but missed the meaning. She said my mother was human, definitely
human, but that she should have been born half-Cerulean, like me and like
Sienna. Jude, she said we were
half-Cerulean.
’

‘O-kay,’ said Jude slowly. ‘I’m getting that this is
exciting somehow. But so what if having Potential means you’re half-Cerulean? I
mean, isn’t that what we always thought, that a person with Potential has
Cerulean in them?’

I stopped and opened my mouth and I almost spelled it out –
the impossible idea that had struck me. But logic gagged me. What if Jude was
right? What if Potential really was some innocent, random thing? Better to be
sure. Better to know for myself before blowing his Cerulean world apart.

I turned away, towards the house. Only the very top level
was visible above the trees, a sliver of white against the sky.
She
knew.
She
had the answers. I could march back up there, shut her in the
conservatory and try to wrangle them out of her. But somehow I knew already
what my great-grandmother would say:
‘My dear, I’m sorry, but it’s not my
place to tell you this. If you want answers, you’ll need to ask –’

‘Scarlett?’ Jude’s hand on my arm tugged me around to face
him. ‘You’re worrying me,’ he said. ‘Especially with all the pacing right by a
cliff edge, given your history.’

I forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. It’s just... everything
Evangeline said. I have a lot of thinking to do, I guess.’

‘About you and Luke.’ When I said nothing, he added, ‘I’m
sorry. I know you’re trying to make it work, being with him. Perhaps that’s the
answer: just be with him. I mean, would it be
so
bad to have a child
someday who was destined to become a Cerulean?’

‘I suppose that depends,’ I said.

‘On what?’

‘On whether my child grew up to fall in love with a Cerulean
or a human.’

The next day, Sunday, was meant to be a quiet one. Luke was
working with William, and after my usual morning healing session and a surf,
I’d intended to make a start on the bunting I’d (rather stupidly) offered to
make for the cafe’s grand opening. But a night tossing and turning and thinking
and fretting had wiped pottering about in Twycombe off the agenda. Today, my
focus was fixed further afield.

I took care dressing. For some reason – perhaps because of
the destination – it felt important to look my best. After some deliberation I
chose a fitted shirt, smart trousers and soft-soled pumps. I brushed my hair
until it shone, and then pulled it back in a tight French plait that ensured no
wisp could get in my eyes. As a final touch, I added a necklace Mum had
recently sent me.

It was only when I checked my reflection in the mirror on my
wardrobe door that I realised the overall look. Everything was black: clothing,
footwear, jewellery, even my hair tie. I looked, depending on your perspective,
like a Goth, a funeral goer or a cat burglar. The thought made me smile a
little.

My phone, lying on the bed, chirruped. It was a text message
from Luke.

Hey you. You okay? How did it go yesterday? What are you doing
today? xx

I struggled to decide what to text back. The truth –
Not
really; mind-meltingly; heading off into the realm of impossibility
–
wasn’t going to help matters. Luke would be round in a flash. So I went with my
old reliable: the white lie.

Good, thanks. Just chilling. Call you later. xx

I was about to put the phone back down; I didn’t want to be
disturbed for the next few hours. But then I thought better of going off with
no means of putting out an SOS, and after flicking the switch to silent mode, I
slipped it into my pocket.

Several deep, steadying breaths later, I repeated my mantra:
Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
Then I
closed my eyes, and I visualised a gloomy wooden shed with a rickety old door
and a wonky window, and I willed myself there.

The air smelt different. Musty. Woodsy.

A distant beat was audible – music.

I cracked open an eye. A huge, fat, black spider dangling in
front of my face looked back at me.

Letting out an involuntary shriek, I scuttled backwards into
a lawnmower. Then pressed a hand to my mouth. Then felt a grin press against my
hand.

I tiptoed over to the window of the shed and peeked out.
Across immaculately manicured lawns stood a sprawling mansion house. My
childhood home. Hollythwaite.

I’d done it. I’d bloomin’
done
it.

The smile faded.

I’d thought this through carefully last night. I knew what
Travelling here successfully meant. I was standing in Hampshire, way beyond the
Devonshire boundary that Ceruleans were taught they couldn’t physically cross. I’d
exposed a Cerulean lie. Which begged the question – how many other elements of
Cerulean society were built on lies?

That was for another time. It wasn’t Cerulean lies I was
here to uncover today, but those closer to home.

I creaked open the door to the shed – William’s shed –
checked that the coast was clear and slipped out. Ducking down, I walked along the
hedge that bordered the rose garden, attempting to be at once stealthy and
casual, in case I was discovered. I was following the music – Jack Johnson’s ‘Better
Together’ – and an off-key soprano I could now make out singing along. At the
end of the hedge I stopped and peered around the corner.

Mum was sitting cross-legged on a tartan picnic rug laid out
in a sunny spot on the lawn, alongside a portable stereo, a bottle of orange
juice and an enormous pile of fabric swatch folders. She was leafing through a
folder, and as I watched she stopped, released the metal arches in the middle
and pulled out a square of gold brocade.

‘Fancy,’ she said approvingly, ‘but not fusty.’

She looked so genuine. She didn’t look like a woman capable
of deceit. I wanted to step out of my hiding place and go to her, and see her
face light up when she saw me, and know that she loved me – she
loved
me
– and she wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.

But I didn’t go to my mother. I closed my eyes and pictured
a different place, and I left her alone to her swatches and her singing and,
perhaps, her secrets.

*

The old house was, as I’d hoped, deserted, my newly generous
mother having given all the staff Sundays off work. It wasn’t, however, storing
a lifetime’s accumulated belongings and memorabilia as I’d expected – it was
stripped bare of all the clutter and much of the decor and furniture I’d grown
up with. Mum’s renovation was more extensive than I’d realised.

As I walked from room to room, I had to agree with William
that she’d done a wonderful job. The house was airy and bright and colourful
and at once traditional and modern, the perfect blank and beautiful canvas for
any kind of event.

In the front living room, I couldn’t resist sinking into a
massive red sofa scattered with funky cushions. It was sublimely comfortable,
and I thought ruefully of all the days I’d sat on the stiff, hard Chesterfield
that had once stood on this spot, its leather covering ice-cold in winter and
painfully sticky in summer. Scanning the room, I saw nothing I recognised. Even
Hugo’s old and gloomy oil paintings were gone, replaced with artworks in
various styles depicting areas of the Hollythwaite grounds.

I stood and walked over to one, a watercolour. I recognised
the scene as being the field of wildflowers behind the house, the hill down
which Sienna and I had once raced and where, what seemed an age ago, Luke had
come back to me. Reaching out, I touched my finger to the exact spot where I’d
been sitting when he fell into my arms.

A noise somewhere in the depths of the house made me start –
Mum was inside. I closed my eyes, searched my memory bank for an image and left
the house.

*

I arrived, somewhat painfully, in the midst of a prickly
plant that had certainly not been there the last I’d known. Scrambling clear,
getting several deep scratches in the process, I looked quickly around. I was
alone. And I was in a Zen-style garden with lush plants and tropically coloured
flowers and black stepping stones and white raked sand and an ornamental pond
and a dancing fountain. It was beautiful, but somewhat surreal given the fact
that my whole life the garden to the gatekeeper’s lodge had been nothing but a
straggly lawn. My mother had been serious about making this her home then.

I’d never been inside the lodge; it had been locked up when
I lived here. Peeking through the windows hadn’t been an option either, covered
as they were with thick curtains. So I had no idea what lay in store for me
inside – but judging by the attention that had gone into creating the garden, I
suspected my mum had been busy within.

The back door was unlocked, and I eased it open and stepped
into the kitchen. I walked slowly through to the tiny hallway, leading into the
living room and a miniature yoga studio, then climbed the narrow stairs and
ducked my head into the first bedroom and the bathroom. On the upstairs landing
a strangely undulating seat was positioned under the window, and I knelt on it
and took in the view of the garden and the green slopes and, on the hill
beyond, the big house.

Mum’s new home was stunning, as I’d known it would be. But
surprising. Here, in this little stone lodge, whitewashed walls and latticed
windows were the only testament to the past. All else was starkly modern in
design. No pastel armchair. No quaint end table. No damask curtains. No
ornament, even. Just smooth lines and bold colours and unusual shapes wherever
I looked. This lodge was the very antithesis of the cottage on the cliff, and
that puzzled me. Mum had grown up in Twycombe amid chintz and china figurines,
and had lived in a similar style in Hollythwaite for all those years with Hugo.
Perhaps she wanted to reinvent herself after her divorce. Or perhaps I really
didn’t know her well at all.

There was one room left to explore, and I’d left it until
last deliberately. Surely here – if not anywhere in the big house or the rest
of this lodge – there would be something that spoke of a woman with a past.
Other than a picture of Sienna and Mum and me downstairs on the living room
windowsill, I’d seen nothing in the entire house that was familiar.

Guilt stabbed at me as I turned the shiny knob and opened
the door to my mother’s bedroom. I’d been in and out of her room constantly as
a child, but here, in the space she’d claimed as her own, there was no
pretending that this wasn’t an invasion of her privacy.

As I looked around my first impression was of light – warm,
restful light that reminded me of sitting on the beach at Twycombe on a
balmy-hot day and staring at the hazy line where sea meets sky. My second was
of contrast. This room was different to all the others.

The gauze curtains fluttering at the window. The quilt
smoothed neatly across the bed. The rug on the sanded floorboards. The crystals
swaying from the light fitting. The frames arranged artistically on the wall
facing the bed.

Blue. The room was blue.

Which wasn’t odd, particularly. Except that I now realised I
hadn’t seen the colour amid the purples and reds and yellows and oranges and
greens in the rest of the lodge. In fact, thinking about it, blue wasn’t a
colour I associated with my mother at all. Had I ever even seen her wear it?

My eyes were drawn to the wall of frames. I caught a glimpse
of red hair before I tore my eyes away.

I needed something else to focus on, and I found it: on the
bed, a patchwork quilt made up of blue-infused fabrics. I sank down and stroked
a flowery square. It was from a sundress I’d worn as a baby. Next to it, blue
stripes from Sienna’s first apron. Then denim, my grandfather’s old overalls,
and pink-and-baby-blue swirls from Nanna’s sunhat, and the very palest of
cornflower satins, from Mum’s teenage church dress. My grandmother had sewn
this. I remembered her giving it to Mum the same Christmas she gave Sienna and
me our own. She’d talked us through each square carefully, and her cheeks had
pinked up with pleasure as she said, ‘So you may always keep a little bit of us
close to you.’

My eyes filled with tears, and I found myself aching for my
mother now. I didn’t want to be sneaking around in her room alone. I wanted her
here beside me. I wanted her to place a finger under my chin and lift it and
say,
‘It’s all right, Scarlett. Come and look at my pictures. You have
nothing to fear.’

Without taking my eyes off the quilt, I fumbled my phone out
of my back pocket, found her number and pressed ‘call’.

‘Hello, darling!’

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, putting on my best ‘Happy Scarlett’ voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said at once.

‘Nothing.’

I heard music in the background at her end. The unmistakable
rhythm of a ukulele and Israel Kamakawiwo’ole singing his version of ‘Somewhere
Over the Rainbow’.

‘What’s with all the Hawaiian music?’ I asked, thinking of
Jack Johnson earlier, then slapped my forehead – as far as Mum was concerned,
this was the first tune I’d heard from her all day.

But she was oblivious. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said. ‘I
was thinking of taking a holiday there. Palm trees. Sandy beaches. Sea turtles.
Grass skirts. Blue Hawaii cocktails. Ooo, you could come! You and Luke, if you
like. Don’t they surf there?’

‘Er, thanks, Mum.’

‘But…?’ She drew the word right out.

‘It’s just…’ I rubbed a hand across my forehead. Stupid,
impulsive. I shouldn’t have called.

‘What is it, darling? Is it Luke? Are you two having
problems?’

I stared at the patch from Grandad’s overalls. ‘You could
say that,’ I admitted.

‘Oh, Scarlett. I’m sorry. Would it help to talk?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Okay. I understand. Always here, though, if there’s anything
I can do.’

I thought for a moment, then closed my eyes and said
casually, ‘Did you ever… when you were my age… did you ever…’

‘Fall in love just like they do in fairytales and then
discover real life isn’t like a fairytale?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Oh yes, Scarlett,’ she said. ‘Remember I told you, when you
came to stay last year?’

I did remember. I remembered her words clearly:

‘A long time ago, before I knew Hugo, there was another
man... I fell for him so hard and so fast. I barely knew him, but I loved
him... But it wasn’t meant to be. We were too different.’

‘I fell in love, and I was deliriously happy,’ said my
mother. ‘Rafe was everything to me. But then reality crept in, and I realised
loving him wasn’t enough. Sometimes love isn’t enough.’

With that, abruptly, I was done with the conversation. I
couldn’t take it further. Not now. Not like this. So I invented a Chester
emergency requiring immediate attention, and with Mum’s ‘Good grief, down the
toilet
?
Go! Quickly!’ ringing in my ears, I ended the call.

I wasted no more time but stood up tall and fixed my eyes on
the opposite wall. On the whitewashed plaster were twenty or so mismatched
photograph-sized frames. Like a visitor at an art gallery, I scanned each one
in turn. Many I recognised from Hollythwaite – shots of Sienna and me at varying
ages, with Nanna, with Grandad, with Nanna and Grandad, with Mum. But some of
the pictures were unfamiliar.

A picture of my mother wearing pink dungarees that housed a
mountainous baby bump.

A landscape photograph of what looked to be Dartmoor on a
downcast, windswept day.

A Polaroid of a chubby-kneed toddler standing between her
smiling parents – a young Peter and Alice.

A drawing in thick black pen depicting four stickpeople
holding hands on a sunny hill.