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An Excerpt from The House at the End of the Sea

“Room 2A, Saffi reminded herself, walking along the first floor corridor with its green carpet. Her pulse raced as she passed a door marked 3A, then one marked 2B. Half of her anticipated this encounter – finally! – while the other half wanted to run. The lion-coat was no longer on the chair. No one else was about. Saffi stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall with the right number in polished brass. From beyond came a low murmur of voices. She reached out her hand.

But before she could knock, the door swung open of its own accord. There was a sudden hush as everyone inside looked round.

For the guest suite was full, far more so than Saffi expected. Nobody there resembled Piccola. 2A was a long room that spanned the width of the house. One side looked towards the sea, while the other faced the trees. It contained a grey velvet divan, several upholstered chairs and a dining table. On this were set out sweetmeats and desserts of every description, from chocolates and cakes to Milo’s favourites, the colourful macarons. There was also an enormous bowl of fruit – plums, peaches, black grapes. A spicy scent hit Saffi, more pleasant than the musky smell in the hall but very strong. Somehow, though there weren’t enough beds in the B&B, she guessed that there must be two dozen people in the room. A few sat but most stood about in groups of two or three.

And what people! The first comparison that sprang to mind was a costume ball. The guests were dressed in an extraordinary fashion. They wore ballgowns with elaborate wigs and headdresses, or almost nothing at all aside from rhinestones and body paint. Or were those greys, greens and golds their actual skin? They had hats, veils, cloaks of feathers; they were sequinned and bejewelled. Some walked on stilts or else the heels on their shoes were impossibly high. They hid their faces behind masks. Their clothes were made of a gauzy material like last year’s leaf skeletons. Those colours, too, were shades of purple, green, grey, brown. Saffi had to make an effort not to stare at the more outlandish costumes.

‘So this is the child,’ said a man’s voice.

On the divan at the centre of the room sat the Lord and Lady. There was no mistaking them. The Lady was the only one who went unmasked, her hair like glorious tumbleweed. With a by-now familiar shiver, Saffi recognised her as the watcher at the window, the figure in the mirror. Up close, her beauty was shocking. Saffi couldn’t tear her gaze away. The Fairy Queen, if that was who she was, reclined against green cushions, facing the sea. Her dress was of the same gauzy material but white. It set off her golden-brown skin and green eyes.

The resemblance to Mum wasn’t as strong as Saffi had first imagined. Like and unlike, she thought with a pang.

Beside her on the divan was a tall man dressed in black. At first, Saffi had the confused sense that he had a deer’s head. Then she saw it was a mask and headdress, complete with antlers. His velvety brown eyes, visible through the holes, were fixed on her. He was the one who had spoken.

‘Well?’ he went on. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

Saffi gathered up her courage. P’s and Q’s, she remembered.

‘It’s an honour to meet you, Sir,’ she said. ‘And my Lady. How may I help?’

The antlers tilted as he considered her. ‘At least you have manners. Please,’ he gestured towards the table laden with food, ‘take whatever you like. We only wish to converse.’

Saffi smiled but didn’t move. Eat nowt. The Lady was looking at her now. It was nerve-racking to be fixed on by those green eyes.

‘There is one thing we require.’ Her voice, low and musical, set the hairs tingling on Saffi’s arms. ‘The heir must speak.’

‘Your father,’ the Lord said, ‘has declined our invitation.’

Saffi felt her heart thud in her chest. ’Ah,’ she began, but had to clear her throat to go on. ‘My dad isn’t home, but when he’s back—’

‘Not him.’ The Lady cut her off. ‘You.’

There was a pause, as the audience watched Saffi with intense interest. Feathers quivered, rhinestones glittered. There were no more niceties. Some of the extravagant creatures crept nearer. Their scent made her dizzy.

‘What do you want me to say?’ she mumbled in panic.

A ripple of laughter passed through the room. ‘What,’ chided the Lady. But she was smiling. ‘Will you not honour our agreement? We have not forgotten it. We still know who we are. What is your choice, True child?’

‘Choice? Me?’

Saffi had assumed her father was the one who had to decide about the True deal. But that clearly wasn’t the case. The Lord gave a faint sigh of impatience. The Lady didn’t take her gaze off Saffi.

 ‘Our offer is simple,’ she said. ‘For every Gift, a price. For every day, a night. Your father knew that once. Will you honour our bond?’

She waited briefly before going on. ‘What do you desire, Tara Persephone? Love? Fame? Happiness?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you wish to belong? You are a child of two worlds. I could give you peace in one. You need no longer choose sides: father or mother, East or West. You could be at home.’

For a teetering moment it hung, clear and sharp in front of Saffi – a vision of what the Lady was offering. She had had that sense, all her life, of being torn in two. English or Iranian, foreign or local, London or Breakwell. Now, that uncomfortable duality might end. She felt like a butterfly, the Lady’s gaze boring through her like a pin. This was what Grandad had warned her about. Take nowt.

‘Please,’ she said in desperation. ‘Will you take your spell off Dad? I need him to see.’

The spectators whispered, a murmur like the sound of wind in dry leaves.

‘Alas, your father’s state is no doing of ours.’ The Lady shook her head. ‘Such a fate can only be chosen for oneself.’ “