That long, laden table, immaculate in its heavy red damask cloth, its snow-white napkins; the candlesticks twined with strands of ivy, flames glittering miniature in the curves of the glasses, catching in the silver, beckoning in the dimming windows like will-o’-the-wisps. And the four of them, pulling up high-backed chairs, smooth-skinned and shadow-eyed in the confusing golden light: Daniel at the head of the table and Abby at the foot, Rafe beside me and Justin opposite. In the flesh, that ceremonial feel I had caught off the videos and Frank’s notes was powerful as incense. It was like sitting down to a banquet, a war council, a game of Russian roulette high in some lonely tower.

They were so beautiful. Rafe was the only one who could have been called good-looking; but still, when I remember them, that beauty is all I can think of.

Justin loaded up plates with Steak Diane and passed them around-“Specially for you,” he told me, with a faint smile; Rafe scooped roast potatoes onto them as they passed him. Daniel poured red wine into mismatched wineglasses.

This evening was taking every brain cell I had; the last thing I needed was to get drunk. “I’m not supposed to have booze,” I said. “The antibiotics.”

It was the first time any of us had brought up the stabbing, even indirectly. For a fraction of a second-or maybe it was just my imagination-the room seemed to stop motionless, the bottle suspended in midtilt, hands arrested halfway through gestures. Then Daniel went back to pouring, with a deft twist of the wrist that left less than an inch in the glass. “There,” he said, unruffled. “A sip won’t do you any harm. Just for a toast.”

He passed me my glass and filled his own. “To homecomings,” he said.

In the moment when that glass passed from his hand to mine, something sent up a high wild warning cry in the back of my mind. Persephone’s irrevocable pomegranate seeds, Never take food from strangers; old stories where one sip or bite seals the spellbound walls forever, dissolves the road home into mist and blows it away on the wind. And then, sharper: If it was them, after all, and it’s poisoned; Jesus, what a way to go. And I realized, with a thrill like an electric shock, that they would be well able for it. That poised quartet waiting for me at the door, with their straight backs and their cool, watchful eyes: they were more than capable of playing the game all evening, waiting with immaculate control and without a single slip for their chosen moment.

But they were all smiling at me, glasses raised, and I didn’t have a choice. “Homecomings,” I said, and leaned over the table to clink their glasses among the ivy and the candle flames: Justin, Rafe, Abby, Daniel. I took a sip of the wine-it was warm and rich and smooth, honey and summer berries, and I felt it right down to the tips of my fingers-and then I picked up my knife and fork and sliced into my steak.

Maybe it was just that I needed food-the steak was delicious and my appetite had resurfaced like it was trying to make up for lost time, but unfortunately no one had mentioned anything about Lexie eating like a horse, so I wasn’t going to be asking for seconds-but that was when they came into focus for me, that dinner; that’s when the memories start to fall into sequence, like glass beads caught on a string, and the evening changes from a bright blur into something real and manageable. “Abby got a poppet,” Rafe said, dumping potatoes on his plate. “We were going to burn her as a witch, but we decided to wait till you got back, so we could put it to a democratic vote.”

“Burn Abby, or the poppet?” I asked.

“Both.”

“It is not a poppet,” Abby said, flicking Rafe in the arm. “It’s a late-Victorian doll, and Lexie will appreciate it, because she’s not a Philistine.”

“I’d appreciate it from a distance, if I were you,” Justin told me. “I think it’s possessed. Its eyes keep following me.”

“So lie her down. Her eyes close.”

“I’m not touching it. What if it bites me? I’ll have to wander the outer darkness for all eternity, searching for my soul-”

“God, I’ve missed you,” Abby told me. “I’ve been stuck with no one to talk to except this bunch of wusses. It’s just an itsy-bitsy dolly, Justin.”

“Poppet,” Rafe said, through potatoes. “Seriously. It’s made from a sacrificed goat.”

“Mouth full, you,” Abby told him. To me: “It’s kidskin. With a bisque head. I found her in a hatbox in the room opposite me. Her clothes are in bits, and I finished the footstool, so I figured I might as well make her a new wardrobe. There are all these old scraps of material-”

“And then there’s its hair,” Justin said, pushing the vegetables across to me. “Don’t forget the hair. It’s horrible.”

“It’s wearing a dead person’s hair,” Rafe informed me. “If you stick a pin in the doll, you can hear screaming coming from the graveyard. Try it.”

“See what I mean?” Abby said, to me. “Wusses. It’s got real hair. Why he thinks it’s from a dead person-”

“Because your poppet was made in about 1890 and I can do subtraction.”

“And what graveyard? There’s no graveyard.”

“There is somewhere. Somewhere out there, every time you touch that doll, someone twitches in her grave.”

“Until you get rid of the Head,” Abby said with dignity, “you don’t get to slag my doll for being creepy.”

“That’s not the same thing at all. The Head is a valuable scientific tool.”

“I like the Head,” said Daniel, glancing up, surprised. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like something Aleister Crowley would carry around, is what’s wrong with it. Back me up here, Lex.”

Frank and Sam hadn’t told me, maybe they’d never seen, the most important thing about these four: just how close they were. The phone videos hadn’t been able to catch the power of it, any more than they’d caught the house. It was like a shimmer in the air between them, like glittering web-fine threads tossed back and forth and in and out until every movement or word reverberated through the whole group: Rafe passing Abby her smokes almost before she glanced around for them, Daniel turning with his hands out ready to take the steak dish in the same second that Justin brought it through the door, sentences flicked onto each other like playing cards with never a fraction of a pause. Rob and I used to be like that: seamless.

My main feeling was that I was fucked. These four had harmonies close as the most polished a cappella group on the planet, and I had to pick up my line and join in the jam session without missing a single beat. I had a little leeway for weakness and medication and general trauma-right now they were just happy I was home and talking, what I actually said was beside the point-but that would only carry me so far, and nobody had told me anything about a Head. No matter how upbeat Frank had been, I was pretty positive that the incident room had a sweepstakes going-behind Sam’s back; not necessarily behind Frank’s-on how long it would be before I went down in a spectacular fireball, and that most of the spread was clustered under three days. I didn’t blame them. I should have got in on the action: a tenner on twenty-four hours.

“I want to hear the news,” I said. “What’s been happening? Was anyone asking after me? Do I have get-well cards?”

“You got hideous flowers,” Rafe said, “from the English department. Those huge mutant daisy things, dyed lurid colors. They wilted, thank God.”

“Four-Boobs Brenda tried to comfort Rafe,” Abby said, with a one-sided grin. “In his time of need.”

“Oh God,” Rafe said in horror, dropping his knife and fork and putting his hands over his face. Justin started to snicker. “She did. She and her bosom-age cornered me in the photocopy room and asked me how I was feeling.”

That had to be Brenda Grealey. I couldn’t see her being Rafe’s type. I laughed too-they were working hard to keep the mood up, and Brenda was starting to sound like a geebag anyway. “I think he quite enjoyed it, deep down,” Justin said demurely. “He came out reeking of cheap perfume.”