'I'd love to come,' I said. 'Wonderful. Is three o'clock all right with you? You can drop by here if you like, on your way, and collect me.'

'Fine. Shall I bring anything?'

'Just yourself. And a healthy appetite,' she advised me. 'Aunt Freda's teas could sustain a hardworking family of four, and we'll be expected to eat what we're served.'

At three o'clock that afternoon, I was glad that I had taken Vivien's advice and skipped lunch, as I doubted whether I'd have had room to put everything otherwise. The table in front of me groaned beneath the weight of heaping plates of cakes and sandwiches and pickled relishes and cold ham pie.

'You don't have to eat it all, child,' Mrs. Hutherson assured me. She topped up the teapot with freshly boiled water and sat down facing me. 'No matter what Vivien's told you, I'm not quite as nasty as all that.'

We were sitting in the kitchen of Crofton Hall. Not the great, echoing kitchen that I'd seen during my tour of the manor house, but a smaller, more functional room in the private north wing, with scrubbed pine floors and lace curtains and plants spilling from every windowsill. Alfreda Hutherson obviously spent a great deal of time in this kitchen, and the room had absorbed much of her personal energy, radiating warmth and friendliness and comfort.

I found her quite fascinating—a tall, spare woman in a plain dark dress, with laughing blue eyes that were so like Vivien's that I wondered how I could have missed the resemblance before. She moved with a regal, wholly natural grace, and though her hair was nearly pure white I found it impossible to guess at her age. Like her niece, she was a wonderful conversationalist, intelligent and well-read, with a deliciously sly, quiet wit that surfaced from time to time.

'I must say,' she said now, passing the sandwiches round for the third time, 'it is nice to have company in the house. I always feel at a loose end when Geoffrey is away.'

'You've been feeding Iain instead, this week—he told me so,' Vivien said accusingly. 'He'll be putting on weight.' 'He works hard,' her aunt rationalized. 'He'll keep it off. And it's nice to see someone who appreciates good food.'

'You still live here, then?' I took a sandwich. 'In the manor house?'

She smiled. 'Oh, no. No, I have a small house of my own in the village. I just work days here, do the cleaning and watch over the younger girls, then before I leave I put Geoffrey's supper in the oven for him and he does the washing up. It's a very informal arrangement.'

'Aunt Freda's house is just the other side of the old vicarage,' Vivien put in. 'It was my gran's house, when she was alive. Little stone house with green shutters. Is that the phone?' She cocked her head suddenly, listening. 'Yes, it is. No, stay where you are, I'll get it,' she told her aunt, pushing her chair back and disappearing down the long dark passageway. She returned a moment later, shaking her head.

'Crisis,' she pronounced. 'That was Ned. The taps have apparently stopped working, and the lads are getting sober. I'd better run over and see what I can do. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

'No hurry, dear,' Alfreda Hutherson told her with a wink. 'Plenty of food to go round. We'll save some biscuits for you.'

Vivien laughed. 'I'll bet you will.'

The door closed behind her, and the woman across from me raised her teacup, her eyes suddenly thoughtful as they watched me over the brim.

'You look very tired,' she said, unexpectedly. 'Has it all been too much for you?'

I hesitated a minute before answering, not sure how to interpret the question, and struggling with a question of my own. I met her eyes uncertainly and she smiled, setting her teacup down in its saucer.

"You want to ask me whether I know, and what I know, and how I know it,' she said calmly, 'but you're afraid I'll think you're mad if you speak first. So I'll save you the trouble. Yes, I do know. I'm well aware of what's been happening to you since you moved here. I've been quite concerned about you, as a matter of fact,' she told me frankly. 'That's why I had Vivien bring you round to see me. I wanted to see for myself how you were getting on.'

After which remarkable speech, she lifted her teacup once more and waited for my response. She didn't have to wait long. I had been sitting bolt upright in my chair, staring, but now I blinked at her and smiled, raising my eyebrows.

'They said you were a witch.'

She laughed, but did not deny it. She poured me a fresh cup of tea and leaned back, folding her arms expectantly. 'You have questions.'

'Dozens of them,' I admitted. 'But I'm not entirely sure I want to know the answers.'

She nodded, just once, but with emphasis. 'Nor should you. It's a kind of journey that you've begun, Julia, and no one can show you the way of it. You must find your own direction.'

'But, surely you could ...'

'I could tell you certain things, yes. But my interference might be more of a hindrance than a help to you.'

'Oh.' I was disappointed, and she smiled-at-my--expression.

'Don't look so crestfallen, child,' she said. 'You've come this far without me, and you've done very well. You know something about Mariana, and you've accepted a reality that many people would be unable or unwilling to accept. And more importantly, you're beginning, I think, to understand that you have more control over the situation than you realize, are you not?'