Page 32 of The Perfect Guests
One mug was the standard Raven Hall china, and the other was Nina’s own—a custom-made, satisfyingly chunky mug with her name painted on. Both had the usual thick chocolate dregs at the bottom. But Nina’s held an extra layer—a thin, oily layer that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before. I picked up the mug tentatively and tilted it to the light, and my skin prickled. There was definitely something unusual in there. What on earth was it?
Suddenly, the mug handle seemed to be burning my fingers. I set it down quickly and glanced behind me to the door. Had something been added to Nina’s drink? Was this why she was sick? The idea was shocking, but the more I tried to come up with an alternative explanation, the faster my heart raced.
Poison.
I backed away from the sink and retreated up the stairs to my bedroom as quietly as I could. Who could I ask about this? Who could I go to for advice?
It would be appallingly disloyal to mention this to anyone outside of the family. And what might the repercussions be if I mentioned it to Leonora, or to Markus, or to Nina? What if I was wrong? They’d be hurt, offended—outraged, even. It didn’t bear thinking about.
My only option was to keep it a secret.
I crawled into my bed and pulled my sheet and blanket over my head, and a single word rolled around and around in my mind.
Poison. Poison. Poison.
I thought back to earlier that morning when Raven Hall had felt like a safe place. Now I wasn’t so sure.
She spreads her meager picnic around her on the grass and sighs. She spent all of last Saturday roaming Avermere without managing to bump into the tall, kind-eyed horticulture student. It took her three hours to hitchhike to Raven Hall again this morning, and so far, her luck hasn’t picked up.
Where is he?
There were several cars parked in front of the stable block again today, but she’s never been good with car makes. She recognizes the young doctor’s Ford Capri—mink blue, he told her it was, once; his pride and joy—but other types are just a blur, and she couldn’t begin to work out whether the student’s car was here this morning. She imagines him at home in London instead—perhaps his long-haired girlfriend has gone to visit him there.
She’s brought her sketchbook with her, and she tries to distract herself by drawing her view of the lake and its little island, but her heart’s not in it. She closes the book with a snap. Then, just as she’s packing away her uneaten food and preparing to leave, along he comes, striding down the trail with a long stick in his hand, like an overgrown schoolboy. She scrambles to her feet, her heart booming.
“Aha!” he says. “Hallo. I was hoping I might bump into you.” He eyes the flattened patch of grass and her crumpled clothes, and he narrows his eyes. “You don’t liveout here, do you? In a little burrow by the lake, or something?”
She laughs, delighted. “I wish I did.”
“I’ve got some tea, in a flask...” He pulls a face as he swings his rucksack from his shoulder. “Sounds boring, I know, but...”
She shakes her head. “It sounds lovely.”
They make themselves comfortable on the grass, and the student pulls out more than just a flask—he has a Tupperware container packed with perfectly ripe strawberries, and two generous slices of treacle tart wrapped in brown paper. She discovers she is hungry after all.
“They’re from the garden,” he tells her as she bites into her first strawberry. “At Raven Hall. They’re good, aren’t they?”
She closes her eyes and pretends to be savoring the taste while she squashes down memories of nurturing those strawberry plants with her mother, years before.
“They’re gorgeous,” she manages to say at last. “What’s it like, then, studying horticulture in London?” Really, she wants to ask him whether hisgirlfriendminds him taking picnics out into the countryside to share with a girl he barely knows. But she’s worried what the answer might be—that he feels sorry for her, or that any old companion would do. If either of those is the case, then she’d rather not know.
He gives an exaggerated sigh, then grins at her. “It’s harder than people think, actually. I’ve just finished a load of exams, and there’s never enough time to do what I want...”
“Isn’t this what you want?”
“Well, yes, what I mean is—I feel guilty about doing nice things like this, when I should be...”
“Working?”
“Yeah...” He tosses a strawberry husk into the undergrowth. “And mymum’s not very well, so I feel like I should spend as much time with her as I can.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry. My mum was ill, too, for a long time.”
He squints at her, and then he sits up straight and gives her a concerned look. “Do you mean...”
“She died, a few years ago. I—” She shakes her head, not sure what she wants to say. “I miss her so much, every day.”
“Oh.” Tentatively, he reaches out and touches the back of her hand. “I’m really sorry. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have...”
