Page 39 of The Instruments of Darkness

“You’re no good to us if you’re tired and underfed. You have a role to play in this. We require you to be focused.”

She picked up her fork again.

“You’re worse than my mother,” she said. “How much do I have to eat?”

“Just what’s on your plate, but if I find any food hidden in a napkin or the plant pot behind you, we’ll have words.”

I waited for her to resume picking before I refilled her glass. To her credit, she finished the portion of peperonata—and, admittedly, most of the bottle—before she excused herself. She offered to help me clean up, but I told her not to worry about it. She still had wine left in her glass.

“Do you mind if I bring this upstairs with me?” she asked.

“I don’t mind at all.”

She swirled the wine and watched spirals form.

“Do you think I drink too much?”

“For what you’re going through,” I said, “I’m not sure there’s enough wine in the world.”

“Before—” She paused, drew a breath, began again. “Before the blanket was found in my car, I was being criticized in the press for drinking with a child in the house, as if I were a bad mother for wanting to unwind while Henry slept.”

“And you wondered if they might be right?”

“More than that, I thought they were.”

“Whatever happened to your son didn’t occur because you poured yourself a glass of wine.”

“Stephen told me to ignore it all,” she said. “The stuff about my drinking, I mean. He didn’t want me to ascribe any significance to it. At the start, he was so intent on protecting me, on telling me that it wasn’t my fault. I don’t think I remember him ever being kinder to me than he was in those first few days. He even poured the last of the wine down the sink and disposed of the bottle, just so I wouldn’t have it to fixate on.”

“What would you like to happen between the two of you, when this is over?”

“If I don’t go to prison, you mean?”

“We’re operating on the assumption that you won’t.”

She mulled over the question.

“I think I could forgive him for doubting me. I’d even be prepared for us to try again, except I don’t think he’d be willing.”

“And Henry?”

“I feel Henry is dead. I want to believe differently. I want to believe he’s coming back to me, but I feel he’s gone. I felt it early on, like a sundering.”

She stepped into the hallway. She didn’t want to try to explain further for fear that she might not be able to speak the words.

“It was a very good meal,” she said, “the best I’ve had in a while. Thank you—for the food, and for letting me stay here.”

“My pleasure.”

She showed no signs of unsteadiness as she went to her room. I hoped the wine might help her sleep, but when I went up to bed an hour later the light was shining under her door, and I could hear her weeping, weeping as though she might never stop.

CHAPTER XXIII

Sabine Drew woke to darkness. Mercifully, the child had ceased crying for the present, but the silence that replaced it was unnerving. It was the quiet of watchfulness, of the prey hiding from the hunter, or the abused seeking to avoid attracting the attention of the abuser. Wherever he was, he was not alone.

Sabine closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She was trying to locate the boy, to draw closer and offer comfort. A song came to her, one her mother used to sing to lull her to sleep: “The Old Oak Tree.” It was only in adulthood that Sabine had been struck by the oddness of a mother crooning a tale of murder and burial as a lullaby to her daughter, but all Sabine wanted was to hear her mother’s voice.

Dark was the night, cold blew the winds.