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The heavy wooden door of the church creaked as the congregation spilt out into the crisp afternoon air, a wave of muted chatter and rustling coats filling the quiet. Tara fell into step beside Amelia, her gaze flicking between the faces of the other Solhaven residents. Children moved between the adults like darting fish, their laughter punctuating the murmured conversations.

One child, a boy with wind-tousled hair and scuffed boots, collided straight into Tara’s legs, almost toppling her.

‘It’s you! Why didn’t you sing?’ he demanded, his bright eyes locking onto hers with the kind of fearless curiosity only kids could manage.

Knowing the rules about not interacting directly with the children, Tara froze. And then clapped her hands at the boy’s face. ‘Shoo!’ she said.

The boy frowned in confusion, muttering something under his breath before dashing off to join his friends.

‘What on earth was that?’ Amelia asked.

‘I panicked,’ Tara hissed, her cheeks flushing. ‘What was I supposed to do? Lecture him on personal space?’

Amelia only chuckled as they continued down the path.

Tara couldn’t believe what a bust church had been. No strange chanting, no dramatic declarations, not so much as a prophecy. Just some old guy saying niceties about Jesus and then a few hymns. Entirely unremarkable.

As they walked along the gravel path back toward the main village, Tara finally spoke, aiming for casual curiosity. ‘So, was that the usual thing? Church?’

Amelia’s brow furrowed as she glanced sideways at Tara, a faint smile playing on her lips. ‘What were you expecting?’

‘I thought it might be a little fire and brimstone,’ Tara said.

That was underplaying it. Ideally, there would have been a goat getting its throat slit at the minimum.

‘We’re not big on theatrics. It’s more about coming together, reminding ourselves what matters,’ Amelia told her.

Tara kicked a loose pebble along the path, annoyed. The weird shit was probably more underground, more hidden. Tara was gonna have to work a bit harder to find it, that was all.

‘So, what do you believe?’ she asked, keeping it conversational. ‘Personally.’

Amelia tilted her head, her large dark eyes thoughtful. ‘I suppose I believe in… trying to live a good life. Taking care of the people around you, being kind.’

‘That’s it? No grand philosophies?’ Tara pressed.

Amelia shook her head, her dark eyes examining Tara. ‘What else is there?’

Tara fell silent, chewing over the words.

An old guy jogged over. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he exclaimed at Tara. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be Beyonce.

He turned to Amelia. ‘Did you see that I set your fireplace for your arrival?

Amelia raised her voice to reply. ‘Yes, Finn, thanks ever so much. I’ve been meaning to thank you. Got any clothing needs mending?’

‘Now you come to mention, I’ve got a pair of socks that could do with a darning.’

Tara watched as Amelia and Finn nailed down the details of the sock repair, the easy rhythm of village life unfolding around her. She shook her head, half-smiling to herself. The freaky cult shit was buried deep.

As they neared the main square, Amelia’s mum gave Tara a hell of a jump scare. ‘Don’t forget, dinner is at six tonight, Amelia!’ she yelled into their faces.

Amelia gave her mother a tight grin. ‘I haven’t had the chance to forget, mother.’

But Tara had forgotten. Dinner with the parental units beckoned.

Jesus fucking Christ.

***

Tara could feel herself clenching as she sat down at the table in Amelia’s parents’ place. She’d never been comfortable going to anyone’s parents for dinner. They were always so bloody interested in you, prying into your life with questions that seemed innocent but cut a little too deep. It was like a catered job interview.

The meal that was being set out looked simple—bowls of vegetable stew and loaves of crusty bread—but when Tara took her first bite of stew, she unclenched immediately. The stew was exquisite, rich, and brimming with flavour, a stark contrast to the bland, pre-packaged meals she usually ate. Tara had to resist the urge to groan aloud. She was worried it would sound sexual. It almost was.

Amelia’s mother looked at Tara with a cold scrutiny, her face sharing Amelia’s wholesome beauty but lacking any of her warmth. ‘I daresay it’s not quite what you’re accustomed to,’ she remarked archly.

Tara offered a smile. ‘It’s fantastic,’ she said honestly. ‘The best thing I’ve had in a long time.’

Amelia’s mother seemed surprised. ‘Oh, well…’ she said, looking away almost shyly.

Tara caught Amelia’s eye. She was trying not to laugh. She was clearly enjoying her mother being wrong-footed by a compliment.

Tara’s head went back down, focused on the food. For a minute or two, all you could hear was the scrape of cutlery and the occasional slurp.

But it couldn’t last.

‘So, Tara,’ Amelia’s mother began again, pronouncing Tara’s name like it was beneath her to speak it. ‘What, pray tell, do you suppose you will be reporting back to the mainland?’

The question dropped like a stone, and Tara froze, the weight of it hanging heavily in the air. All eyes turned to her, unblinking.

Tara set her spoon down slowly, the pressure mounting. ‘There’s a lot to consider,’ she said, her words careful. ‘But I shall do everything in my power to ensure Solhaven remains just as it is.’

Tara felt filled with stew and self-loathing. She was saying what they wanted to hear, and they could see the lie of her; she was sure of it. Somehow, they knew what she was here for. Tara waited for someone to say it.

Amelia’s father, a man whose face was etched with years of unspoken authority, looked at her intently, his eyes narrowing. ‘Very well,’ he said, his voice hard and final. ‘We shall see.’

Then everyone quietly returned to their meal, except Amelia, who paused to give her a brief and reassuring smile.

Tara let out a very quiet sigh of relief. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up her spoon, but she forced herself to eat. The guilt of doing this was starting to make her paranoid. But it wasn’t the beating of a hideous heart. Just stew and parental nosiness. Tara wouldn’t allow the cracks forming in her resolve to get any wider.

Get a bloody grip, woman, she told herself firmly. If she didn’t, she was going to make a mistake out of sheer panic.