The scene is picture-perfect. No set designer could have improved upon it; no director of photography could have visualised a better composition.

The full moon is suspended above the landscape. Its light casts long shadows along the pathways of the maze and turns the hornbeam shrubs into creatures from an alien world. A pair of figures trudge towards the entrance, hesitate then continue inwards, deeper and deeper along the paths. One appears reluctant but the other is more at ease, as if possessed of a knowledge of the complex structure with its twists and turns, choices and dead-ends; sure of the journey and the ultimate goal.

The boy is halfway through the door, tipping the crumbs from the dustpan into the still dark morning. The day is crisp and frosty, and bright like a pin, the ice in the cobbled pockets of the yard reflect a moon that is still reluctant to leave. He watches the cat make its way towards him, something hanging from its jaws. The boy tries to slam the kitchen door before she gets there when he sees a movement in the darkness. A woman in the shadows, her long skirts and her slight build make her seem as though she is gliding across ice, but her walk has purpose, and she doesn’t stop. She has something in her arms and the boy pulls himself back into the doorway, just in time before she catches sight of him. The cat drops its prize, both wait for what will happen next.

The tide had swept out, leaving debris in its wake and a sheen of salted water so thick, it sat on the surface like glistening fat. The lifeboat launched down the shipway win a jolt and Jen braced herself against the edge, a hard knot forming under her life jacket.

Being dragged from sleep by the blast of the maroon had put her on edge – the usual pagers inexplicably out of action. The rain was building in intensity, and she wiped her hand across her eyes before smiling at Doug, who nodded back.

They all hated early calls. There was seldom a positive outcome. Limited visibility and the length of time the vessel had been out there before a report comes in all went against them.

My nose twitches from the sage smoke that fills the dimly lit parlour room. I pinch my
nostrils to resist the urge because you should never sneeze during a séance. Not because it’ll scare off the spirits, they’re usually sympathetic to my allergies. Mom thinks it’s rude and spoils our clients’ experience.

‘Do any spirits wish to make themselves known at this time?’ Mom’s séance voice is
a mixture of honey and authority. It’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to coax ghosts into talking or when she wants me to do something.

David Watson’s first thought was that he hoped no one could find them here. His second was that the Grand Oceanic Hotel reeked of chlorine—not the sharp, chemical bite of a functioning pool, but something deeper, older. A scent that leached from the walls themselves and mingled with the mildew and salt air. It shouldn’t have been possible.

The pool had been drained eighteen months ago, after the deaths. Three guests found floating face-down in water that, according to the night manager’s testimony, had been crystal clear just hours before. Water that had somehow turned thick and dark, almost viscous, by the time the bodies were discovered.

Once upon a time, in a city not so far away, lives a chef.
Her specialité is sauce and her skill is truly magical….

Before the murders, and everything that followed, this nonsense filled my website. Marketing, that black magic of the most dangerous kind. To make a sow’s ear seem as irresistible as a silk purse, what devilry lies therein… But the truth, like lumpy béchamel, can be hard to swallow and even harder to sell. And I believed in my magic, I really did. I sold myself, my skills, my power, and even my honour. I lost my soul and broke the code.

Perry’s hands tightened on the trawler’s railing as she stared ahead at the island. It loomed before her, dark, hulking, and swathed in fog. She shivered inside her coat as the wind whipped her hair into tangles. Given the bad weather, the fishermen had cautioned her to remain in the wheelhouse, but being boxed into the narrow space with grizzled men who smelled of blood and brine made her queasy. Two of them stood behind her now, thinking themselves out of earshot.

“Looks like her mother.”

“Skinny thing. Grew up wrong on the mainland.”

Mariners were supposed to be superstitious. Did they think having a girl on board would bring bad luck? How much did they know about her mother?

She’s always been pale, but now her fingers are almost translucent, dangling from beneath the blanket thrown on her. My hands ache with the need to touch her, but I keep them curled in my lap. It’s not just wrong. It’s unthinkable – like gravity failing, or time running backwards. It shouldn’t be possible – for her body to be still, for the world to keep turning.

We rattle over pockmarked roads, wrapped in the wail of sirens, the scent of rust hanging so thick I can taste it in the back of my throat.

The paramedic attaches something to Ellie’s finger whilst maintaining his balance in the swaying vehicle with practised ease. She’s in good hands, and that should be a comfort. It’s not.

Plastic pinches against waxen skin. Her fingers slack – curled inward, petals folding in the dark.

The moment the pink envelope with the royal coat of arms slid under the door and came to rest on the scuffed wooden floor, the plantain and egg sauce in my mouth turned to chalk. I froze mid-chew, straightened in my chair, and stared at it, tucked among pizza flyers and council tax threats like an afterthought. I glanced at Papa. The steam from his teacup clouded his face, but not enough to hide the glint in his eyes, dull and searching like he was waiting for instructions on how to feel.

He looked at me but I looked at my plate, now suddenly unappetising.

‘Finally,’ Anwanga said, rising from her corner of the room, grease shining on her fingers.