Page 66 of The Midnight Carousel

She thinks of the detailed instructions, and the recent conversation with Nancy. He once told me he rode that peculiar horse and found out something interesting. It’s becoming ever clearer that Sir Malcolm did, in fact, plan his disappearance.

‘Sir Malcolm,’ she whispers.

Laurent gives her a sympathetic look. ‘It would have been a painless death, like drifting to sleep,’ he says reassuringly.

Dusk is falling rapidly. A fox shrieks from somewhere in the trees. Weary, Maisie lets her mind absorb the terrible, gory details. It’s difficult to accept the idea that such an enchanting object was used for something so horrific. As an awful truth dawns on her, she looks at Laurent.

‘It was Gilbert who was behind it all,’ she exclaims. ‘Not Victor.’

Laurent stares at his feet. Maisie notices that his shoes are shiny and new, and she wonders if his wife accompanies him on shopping expeditions, like the one that they spent together at Marshall Field’s. Pinching her thumbs, she pushes down the ache.

‘It was, in fact, Gilbert. The mechanisms, the construction, suggest that the carousel was designed this way by its creator… leaving Victor blameless.’ He swallows hard. ‘It is something I shall have to live with for the rest of my life.’

An innocent man was executed. Maisie is hit with the horror of the injustice meted out to him. She watches Laurent clench his teeth, shaking his head as though he would take it all back if he could. What a sorry mess it is.

‘But why would Gilbert do something so terrible?’ she asks. ‘And will you be able to find and arrest him after all this time?’

Laurent’s jaw flexes.

‘Unfortunately, an arrest is not possible. We believe we have found his remains down there, amongst those of the others. Gilbert’s voting card was tucked into the trouser pocket of one of the bodies.

His son’s birth and death certificates were also there: these indicate that the boy was born at midday and died at midnight, a month after his ninth birthday, and account for why the trapdoor was set to activate at those times,’ he explains, shaking his head. ‘Grief is a peculiar creature.’

For several seconds, Laurent looks lost in thought, exhaling deeply before continuing.

‘There is also a tiny inscription on the inner wall of the platform which means You too shall fly in English . Gilbert was thrown into a kind of insanity, as described by his employees. If his wife and son could not live, no one would, including himself. It was a revenge on the world, I believe.’

The phrase sounds beautiful, not vengeful.

Retribution as a motive wouldn’t even occur to Maisie.

If, God forbid, something unthinkable befell Milo, she would never want anyone else to suffer the same heartache.

And how does it all tie in with always feeling as if she were being watched, and the strange urge she had to ride the burning horse?

It was a compulsion, a need, more than just her imagination.

Wasn’t it? Or perhaps every carousel is magnetic in a way, pulling a person in with the promise of enchantment and escape.

Laurent looks up at her again, a gaze that makes her heart leap. Maisie fights the urge to touch his hand, which lies only inches from her own. No good will come of it , she reminds herself. He is a married man.

She forces her eyes to shift to the lake, to the calm surface covered in particles of ash that look like tiny bobbing boats from here. Please, dear Lord of the Water, let me get through this.

‘I did not know if you were still living at Fairweather House,’ Laurent says quietly.

Considering that she hasn’t responded to any of his letters, this isn’t surprising.

‘In actual fact, I won’t be from tomorrow.

Sir Malcolm bequeathed most of his share of Silver Kingdom to me, but I’ve sold it to Hugo and am moving to Joliet,’ she discloses.

Beside her, Laurent visibly tenses. ‘Tonight, I’ll stay with Mrs Papadopoulos before catching the afternoon train,’ she says. ‘My son, Milo, as well.’

Laurent looks at Maisie with an expression that says he is only just comprehending that she’s a mother.

‘The little boy who went off with Mrs Papadopoulos?’ he asks, as observant as ever. ‘I should have known that he was yours from his mischievous laugh.’

Maisie smiles to herself. ‘He looks more like James, though. I’m always told that.’

Laurent studies his hands. They are both quiet for some time, sitting next to one another while gazing at the sun dropping behind the horizon. A group of police personnel trudge up the shore.

Laurent clears his throat.

‘My American colleagues tell me the fire that triggered the explosion was no accident. They have found evidence of lighter fuel around the carousel and are collecting a list of potential suspects. Is there anyone you can think of who might have had cause to destroy Silver Kingdom?’

‘No one springs to mind,’ she replies, avoiding meeting his eye.

Washed out, Maisie collapses beside Milo on the Papadopoulos’ couch, shifting to find a comfortable position.

Their train to Joliet is booked for 3 p.m. tomorrow.

This leaves her having to make another decision, like all those that went before.

To journey to America. To marry. To separate.

Some choices weren’t even conscious, and so weren’t really choices at all– having a baby is the biggest one she can think of.

Several were drastic; others so minuscule that blink and they were gone.

But together they form the tapestry of her life.

She wonders if she would unpick some of the stitches, given the chance, or if she could, use different threads. Or will she weave a new story now?