He'd said nothing for a few seconds, and then, in that resigned voice of his, he'd murmured the words she'd wanted to hear, 'Kill them for me.' Then he'd gone on his way with the boy.

Now she waited, feeling altogether happier. Though he'd been willing to kill her just a few hours before, she more and more thought it would be better for them both if they'd made peace. She'd exacted her revenge for his attempt on her life, so she was willing to put the incident behind her, if things could be permanently healed between them. And they could, she was certain; with a little work, a little patience. Maybe their relationship could never be quite what it had been before - there'd be no further attempts at children - she was resigned to that - but a healthy marriage wasn't carved in stone. It changed; deepened and matured. That was how it could be between Jacob and herself, by and by. They would learn a fresh respect for one another; find fresh ways to express their devotion.

Which brought her back to the purpose of this vigil on the rock. What more perfect way of demonstrating her love than this: to commit murder for him?

She held her breath, and listened intently. The man with the slurred voice was complaining about the climb; he couldn't go any further, he was saying. He'd have to leave them to go on without him.

'No, no...' she said to herself softly. She was ready to take four lives, and four lives she would take. No excuses.

While the men debated, she made her own decision: no more waiting. If they were going to prevaricate, then she would take control of events and go to them. Drawing a deep breath, she rose from her squatting place, clambered down off the rock, and almost girlish with anticipation, began to retrace her tracks to where her victims stood.

ii

Will looked terrible. Grey face, clothes torn and sodden, his gait a shambling limp. He looked the way Frannie imagined somebody dead would look. Dead, but come back in the middle of the night to say goodbye.She put that stupidity out of her head. Will needed help: that was all that mattered right now. Though she was barefoot, she stepped off the threshold and started towards him, her legs plunged shin-deep in snow. 'Come on into the warm,' she said to him.He shook his head. 'There's no time,' he said. He sounded as sick as he looked. 'I just came to get the book back.''You told him?'

'Yes ... I had to...' Will said. 'It's his book, Frannie, and he wants back.'

She stopped advancing, suddenly realizing her naYvete. Will wasn't here unaccompanied. Jacob Steep was with him. Out of sight, somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamplight, but close at hand. Was that why Will looked so ill, she wondered? Had Steep hurt him somehow? Keeping her head directed at Will, she looked for a sign of motion in the shadows behind him. Somehow she had to get Will off the street and back into the safety of the house, without arousing Steep's suspicion.

'The book's upstairs,' she said, as casually as she could. 'Just come in while I fetch it for you.'

Will shook his head, but there was sufficient hesitation before he did so for her to think he might be tempted to step into the warmth if she pressed a little harder.

'Come on,' she said. 'It won't take me more than a minute or two. There's tea. And buttered toast-' (they were, she knew, just simple domesticities, set against whatever claim Steep had upon him; pitiful, probably, in the scheme of things. But they were all she had).

'I don't ... want to come in,' he said.

She shrugged. 'Okay,' she said lightly. 'I'll go and get the book.' She turned back towards the house, wondering already what she was going to do once she got inside. Did she leave the door open, hoping to coax Will over the threshold, or did she close it, protecting the house and her family from the man watching in the shadows?

She compromised: leaving the door an inch ajar in case Will changed his mind. Then, teeth chattering, she started upstairs. From the kitchen, her father said, 'Did you get the milk?'

'I'll be down in a minute, Dad,' she called, and hurried to her room. She knew exactly where she'd hidden the book, of course: she had it in her hands in seconds, and was halfway back to the hallway when she heard Sherwood say, 'What are you doing?'

She glanced up to the landing, attempting to keep the book out of his bleary sight. But she wasn't quick enough.

'Where are you taking that?' he said, moving to the top of the stairs to pursue her.

'Stay up there!' she ordered him, imitating her mother's severest tone. 'I mean it, Sherwood.'

Her instruction didn't slow him a jot. Worse, it brought her father out of the kitchen, hushing her. 'You'll wake your Mum, Frannie-' His gaze went from the staircase to the door, which the wind had blown wide. 'No wonder there's such a draught!' he said, striding to close it.

Panicking now, she raced down the stairs to intercept him. 'I'll close itl It's okay!' But she was too late. Her father was there ahead of her, staring out into the snow. He had seen Will.

'What the hell's going on?' he said, glancing back at Frannie, who was by now just a yard behind him. 'Did you know he was here?'

'Yes, Dad-'

'God Almighty!' he said, raising his voice. 'Have you kids no sense? William? Come on in here right now. You hear me!'

Frannie could see Will over her father's shoulder, and remotely hoped he might obey. But instead he retreated a few steps.

'Come back here!' George demanded, stepping out of the house to lend weight to his order.'Dad, don't-' Frannie began.

'Shut up!' her father snapped.

'He's not on his own, Dad,' Frannie said.

That was enough to slow her father. 'What are you talking about?'

Frannie had reached the front doorstep. 'Please, leave him alone.'

Her father's strained temper broke. 'Go inside!' he yelled. 'You hear me, Frances?' She was certain the whole neighbourhood heard him. It would only be a matter of time before everyone was out in the street, asking questions. The best thing for everyone was for her to get the book into Will's hands and let him deliver it to Steep. It was Steep's property, when all was said and done. Everyone would be better off if it was back where it belonged.

But before she could defy her father's edict and step outside, Sherwood grabbed hold of her.

'Who's out there?' he said. His morning breath was foul, his grip clammy.

'It's just Will,' she lied.

'You're fibbing, Frannie,' he said. 'It's them, isn't it?' He was looking past her now, out into the darkness. 'Rosa?' he said softly. Then, saying, 'I'll take the book!' he tried to snatch it out of Frannie's grip. She refused to relinquish it. Using all her strength, she shoved her brother hard in the middle of the chest, pushing him back down the hallway. Mrs Cunningham was descending the stairs now, demanding to know what was going on, but Frannie ignored her and stepped back out into the snow, just in time to see her father closing on Will, who seemed to have no strength left to retreat. His ashen face was slack, his body swaying.

'Don't...' Frannie heard him say, as her father reached out for him. Then, as Mr Cunningham's hand was laid upon him, he collapsed, his eyes rolling up beneath his fluttering lids.

Frannie didn't linger to see what state he was in. She strode on past her father, who was having too much difficulty keeping Will's dead weight from carrying them both to the ground to stop her, and out into the middle of the street. She raised the journal as she did so, high above her head, where Steep could see it.

'This is what you want,' she said, almost under her breath. 'Come and get it.'

She turned three hundred and sixty degrees, waiting for him to show himself. There was her mother at the front doorstep, demanding that she come back inside this second. There was their next door neighbour, Mrs Davies, standing at her front gate with her terrier Benny yapping away. There was the milkman, Arthur Rathbone, stepping out of his van, with a puzzled look on his face.