In the Light of What We See Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  THE SECRETS OF GHOSTS

  ‘Perfect for fans of Sarah Addison Allen or Mary Stewart.’

  —Lisa Redmond, Lisa Reads Books

  ‘I thoroughly enjoyed The Secrets of Ghosts. It was just as magical and just as enjoyable as The Language of Spells and I am soooooo glad Sarah Painter decided to go back to Pendleford . . . I really do love magical fiction and I think Sarah Painter is one of the best at giving you a realistic look at magic and all that comes with it.’

  —Leah, Chick Lit Reviews

  ‘An enjoyable, escapist read, light hearted romance and a bit of paranormal whodunnit.’

  —Jeannie Zelos, Book Reviews

  THE LANGUAGE OF SPELLS

  ‘Sarah Painter is a talented new writer, and her debut is a charming, romantic and intriguing story, with a little touch of magic. It had me enchanted.’

  —Clodagh Murphy, author of The Disengagement Ring

  ‘This really was a fantastic debut novel . . . I honestly could not put it down. 9/10’

  —Laura’s Little Book Blog

  ‘Utterly enchanting.’

  —Lisa D., The Madwoman in the Attic

  ‘This is a little gem of a book, and every time I had to put it down I was sad because I just wanted to continue reading and get it finished because it was that enjoyable! The Language of Spells is a really great novel so do pick it up, it’s well worth your time!’

  —Leah, Chick Lit Reviews

  ALSO BY SARAH PAINTER

  The Language of Spells

  The Secrets of Ghosts

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Sarah Painter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477849965

  ISBN-10: 1477849963

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  In loving memory of Betty Phyllis Violet Le Grys

  1916–2014

  CONTENTS

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  GRACE

  MINA

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MINA

  Sometimes you just know you are in for a rough ride. There are plenty of signs: it’s raining; the bread has gone mouldy and you forgot to buy milk; the car won’t start even after you paid the shifty-eyed mechanic seven hundred big ones. For women, the biggest portent is supposedly written in the follicles. A Bad Hair Day. You wash it, you blow-dry it, you brush it and spray on enough lacquer to immobilise a small army. A long hard look in the mirror reveals the awful truth: you still look like a scarecrow.

  I don’t mind the rain and I don’t even own a hair dryer, but a day that begins with a ghost-bird is never going to be good.

  The small bird was hovering just below the snowy peaks of the Artex ceiling. I drew the duvet up under my chin and watched as it fluttered from one corner to another. Mark was asleep next to me, one arm flung above his head. Oblivious. I could see every detail of the bird, from the bright yellow wing feathers to the flash of blue-grey on its crown. But I knew it wasn’t real. If it had been, it would’ve been dive-bombing the window, hitting itself against the glass in a frenzy of panic. Instead, it fluttered across the room and landed on the chest of drawers I used as a dressing table. The bird sat amongst the perfume bottles, the tubs of moisturiser and eyeshadow, and the piles of discarded jewellery, and looked straight at the bed. Its eyes were bright and so alive. Very slowly it cocked its head as if considering me. Then it was gone.

  Moments later Mark stirred. ‘Christ alive, don’t tell me it’s morning.’ He had a hand over his face and moved his fingers apart to peer out with a single bloodshot eye. He’d been sinking whisky with his pals from the hospital and had rolled into bed sometime after two.

  ‘You’re going to be late,’ I said.

  Mark swore and rolled away from me and out of bed. He went next door to the tiny bathroom. I heard the water running.

  I stared at the place where the bird had disappeared and wondered why, if I was going to start seeing birds again, it had been a siskin. Mum’s favourite.

  Mark came out of the shower, a towel around his waist and his sandy hair black with moisture. I jumped out of bed and dressed quickly, escaping when he tried to grab me for a kiss. ‘No time for that.’

  I put the kettle on, dropped instant coffee into mugs and tried to ignore the siskin, which was now sitting on the window ledge, looking at me through the grimy glass.

  Mark was still sleepy but he caught me by the sink, pushed me back against the counter and kissed me good morning. I wrapped my arms around him; it was like hugging a small land mass. I tried to relax, to let the reassuring bulk of him soothe my jumpy nerves, but could hear a small thunk-thunk noise. The tapping of a tiny beak against glass. Logic told me that I shouldn’t be able to hear it over the sound of the kettle boiling, that the noise must, therefore, be inside my own head. It wasn’t a comforting conclusion.

  ‘You okay, babe?’ The harsh lines on Mark’s forehead deepened.

  I smiled for him and picked up the kettle, my hand shaking. Mark reached around me with a wet cloth, wiping away coffee granules and the puddle of water, and snatched his mug to finish stirring it himself.

  I turned my back to the window and concentrated on ignoring the bird.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ The frown lines in Mark’s face seemed permanently etched there these days. I had no experience of long-term relationships, and no sense of whether this confusion and distance between us was normal; whether the tightness in my chest when he spoke was a symptom of a proper adult partnership, or of something else.

  He ran some cold water into his mug and took a long drink. ‘I booked the table for eight tonight. That still okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’ll be on time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock and not a minute later,’ I said, and crossed back through the living room to get dressed, turning away to hide my sudden annoyance.

  The phone rang and I called to Mark to leave it. ‘No time.’

  Pat’s voice, undiluted by distance or technology, stopped me with my head halfway into my jumper.

  ‘This is a message for whoever is squatting in Mina Morgan’s flat. If you could call the undertakers and have her remains sent home to her family, we would be very grateful.’

  I was frozen, unable to move in case Pat sensed my presence. Mark was walking towards the phone and I shook my head violently.

  ‘If she isn’t dead, perhaps you could ask her why she hasn’t had the common decency to call home in over four weeks.’

  The machine clicked
off, only for the phone to ring again immediately after.

  ‘Babe,’ Mark said. ‘You know she won’t give up.’ He didn’t care if he was late. As far as he was concerned, family obligations came first. That I still hadn’t introduced him to my aunt and uncle was one of the many bones of contention in our relationship.

  ‘No time. We’ve got to go.’ I was snatching things up now; grabbing my bag, coat and phone with the kind of mania reserved for emergencies. ‘Can’t be late.’

  ‘Babe.’

  It was one word. One word filled with oceans of disappointment. Mark had known me for two years and he still didn’t have a clue: it would take more than that to make me change my mind.

  Romulus and Remus have a lot to answer for. In stories about twins, one is usually good and the other evil. My aunt Pat is the bad sort. My mother, on the other hand, spent every spare second of her life making dreamcatchers. Instead of shell, catgut and brown feathers, she used ribbon and lace and fake pink Birds of Paradise that sit on the bottom of the hoops, their jewelled eyes pretty and sightless. They still clutter up Pat’s house and I’ve got several packed into boxes. My mother also pulled off the coup of not living past her twenty-first birthday. It’s much easier to be the good twin if you’re also the dead one. Ask any saint.

  My aunt Pat, on the other hand, has a different skill set. She is an expert in not seeing things. If it’s nasty or ugly or simply in the wrong place, she’ll move it until it sits according to her inner sense of order. If that isn’t possible, she’ll simply refuse to see it. She makes over the world, shaping it to her will, until it looks immaculate and smells like bleach and lavender air freshener.

  By the time I was seventeen I smelled of Jack Daniel’s and desperation, so when I left home I vowed not to go back.

  One of the many problems with Mark sleeping over was that it was ridiculous for us not to leave for work together. I turned up the heater in my battered old Peugeot and stuck a cassette in to play. I liked the fact that nobody else used cassette tapes any more, but I especially liked that it annoyed the hell out of Mark. He had surround sound, an iPod dock and heated seats in his car. I dropped him off at the end of the road. Too close to the hospital for my liking, but far enough away to irritate Mark and to kick off one of our well-worn arguments. ‘This is ridiculous, you know.’ He grabbed his briefcase from the back seat and aimed a kiss at my cheek.

  ‘I know,’ I said and, before he could launch into the hundred and one reasons we should tell the people at work we were sleeping together (as if it was any of their business), I pulled away from the kerb, forcing him to slam the door shut hurriedly. My whole body breathed out and I punched up the volume on the tape deck. After I’d parked and locked the car and walked into the hospital, I’d calmed down somewhat. I hadn’t seen any more ghost-birds either, and was able to half convince myself that I’d just not been properly awake earlier.

  I knew that the birds weren’t real and I also knew that they were not really harbingers of doom. I had a couple of undergraduate psychology modules on my CV and I wasn’t a fool. I knew that they were more likely manifestations of an inner trauma or a sign that I was developing schizophrenia than psychic ability. I knew that I had connected one bad event to the sighting of a ghost-bird in the manner of a child connecting dots. I knew that human beings are predisposed to see patterns, to ascribe cause and effect, and that cognitive bias means that we subconsciously discount data that doesn’t support our hypotheses; in other words, all the times I had seen ghost-birds and something bad hadn’t happened.

  The point being, I knew that precognition didn’t exist and that thinking of ghost-birds as bad omens was ridiculous superstition. At the same time, I believed in them wholeheartedly.

  I was no crazier than the next person and I knew the difference between reality and a figment, but I also knew – deep in the marrow of my bones – that something dreadful was going to happen.

  GRACE

  August 1938

  Grace touched the bluebird brooch on her lapel and tried very hard not to think about what would happen if the woman on the other side of the desk sent her home.

  ‘You look very young,’ Matron Clark said. ‘I won’t have any silliness.’

  Grace smothered the urge to smile. She felt as far from being silly as was possible.

  Matron looked her up and down, slowly, as if assessing a cow for market. ‘You’re wearing decent shoes, at least.’

  Grace looked down at her brown leather brogues. She decided not to say they were the only pair she owned.

  ‘Always look at shoes,’ Matron said. ‘At least you come from a family with common sense. That’s something.’

  ‘I’m very sensible,’ Grace said, and the urge to smile disappeared. A sensible girl. She’d lost the right to that description.

  Matron looked as if she’d like to snort if such a thing were not beneath her. Instead she said, ‘Mmm,’ and looked down at a piece of paper.

  ‘I’m a hard worker,’ Grace said. She’d already given the matron her letters of recommendation. She didn’t know where her mother had procured them, only that it had been part of the hurried organisation of the past two weeks.

  Matron looked up and smiled thinly. ‘I would hope so. The problem is this: every girl who comes to see me says the very same thing.’ She stared at Grace without blinking.

  Grace kept quiet. She was trying not to think about her mother that morning, trying to hold on to the numbness she’d been feeling. Saying goodbye just inside the front door, her mother had reached out a hand and, for a moment, Grace thought she might be about to hug her, but the hand had floated upwards and patted her mother’s hair instead.

  After a moment of contemplative silence, Matron Clark gave a tiny shake of her head. Her dark brown hair, swept in an improbable wing above her high forehead, didn’t so much as tremble.

  Grace felt the punch of disappointment. She would have to go home. And then what?

  ‘You had better not let me down,’ Matron said, sliding a piece of paper across the table. ‘Sign at the bottom and report for duty Monday morning sharp.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s pardon, Nurse, never “what”.’ Matron Clark shook her head as if already regretting her decision. ‘Once you’ve signed you may stay in the nurses’ home. It’s irregular, but your mother has indicated that you are to begin immediately.’

  Grace nodded and managed to sign her name although her fingers were suddenly trembling.

  Outside the office, she stood alone in the green-painted hallway. She felt as if she could take root there so she forced herself to choose a direction and begin walking. Almost immediately she was waylaid by a nurse in a stiffly starched uniform. ‘New recruit?’ she said, looking at Grace’s suitcase. ‘Outside and to the left. Nurses’ home has its own entrance.’

  There were gardens filled with vegetable plots behind the hospital. Grace noted a couple of sagging sheds and a beautiful glasshouse, the kind you expected to see attached to a grand house. There was a white shape moving inside, like an enormous butterfly or a ghost, which Grace assumed was a nurse in full uniform tending to her tomatoes.

  There was another entrance, not grand like the one at the front of the building. The servants’ entrance, her mother would’ve said, and inside that, endless brown-painted corridors with nobody in them. Grace walked briskly up and down, reading the occasional plaque fixed to a closed door and every sign she could find. Eventually another human being appeared, a nurse in cape and cap, walking regally towards Grace.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the nurses’ bedrooms?’

  The nurse sighed, as if Grace had asked her to swing from a trapeze or whittle a likeness of the king from a stick. ‘I’ll show you.’

  They walked down another corridor, this one painted a sickly pale green. There were more nurses here. One slowed and nodded at Grace’s escort. ‘Aren’t you off?’

  ‘Supposed to be,’ she said, indicating Grace. ‘Found a lost
lamb.’

  ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another,’ the second nurse said, frowning. She had very black hair, just visible underneath her starched cap.

  Grace was hot with shame and the fear that her saviour would decide to abandon her.

  ‘That way,’ the nurse said, pointing to a door and rushing off.

  There was a black metal sign above it with white writing that read: ‘Private. Nursing quarters’. Underneath, stuck with drawing pins, there was a sheet of paper: ‘No unauthorised persons at any time. Nurses must abide by curfew’. It was signed by W. S. Bennett.

  Grace pushed on the door, half expecting it to be locked, and it swung open. Inside a windowless corridor was bathed in bluish light. Two nurses, dressed in travelling capes, appeared from a side door. ‘Excuse me,’ Grace managed to say as they swept past. ‘Where are the bedrooms?’

  The nurses stopped walking. One had a pleasant round face and laughing eyes, and the other, shorter one, had a dark look. ‘New girl, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Poor you.’ Round Face turned down the corners of her mouth in sympathy. ‘I suppose you’ve signed your papers?’

  Grace nodded.

  The dark girl blew out her cheeks. ‘Nothing to be done, then. Rooming list is down the hall. Good luck.’

  Grace found her room number from the list. Until she saw her name neatly printed on the paper, she’d almost expected to discover that it was a joke. Or that she’d misunderstood the matron and she hadn’t, in fact, been offered a position at all. It seemed so unlikely that she was soon going to be wearing a uniform. That she could ever be as confident as the nurses she’d just met was unthinkable to her.

  The room was a double. Two iron-framed beds, two nightstands, one wardrobe. Grace’s trunk stood in the middle of the floor. She set about unpacking and was just about to push the empty trunk underneath her bed when the door banged open.

  ‘You’re new. Hullo.’

  Grace straightened up. ‘Yes. I’m—’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ The nurse gestured to the trunk. ‘A porter will take it to the luggage room.’