Feynard by Marc Secchia Page A

conviction–never firm to begin with–had returned in full flood. Before he knew it, he had passed through the light and into the shadows obscuring the far end of the room. The shutters were always closed here, for this was Father’s place and he detested direct sunlight when he was eating. A backward glance showed there was nothing in the moonbeam.
    Kevin scratched the pitiful stubble on his chin. His fear was as real as its abrupt departure. Why would he think of the Unicorn now? Why a Unicorn at all? It made no sense. Perhaps the Unicorn was a construct of his imagination, a powerful, capable alter ego? He recalled reading something about those who had a history of abuse developing alternate manifestations of their personality. Maybe he was a crackpot after all! A Unicorn? Ah, no, he might be more resourceful than he thought!
    Congratulating himself upon the discovery of a hitherto unidentified strength of character, Kevin moved to the wood-panelled back wall and examined it from close range.
    He raised his hand.
    What if he were wrong? What if that flash of inspiration had been … tap, tap … wide of the mark? Tap . What if the mildewed old plans were inaccurate by modern standards? Tap, tap . He had examined so many drawings and schematics of Pitterdown Manor, that the different floors and rooms had begun to blur in his mind. A secret tunnel was improbable … tap, tock! Kevin stared at the mahogany panel as though it had transmogrified into a viper. It was hollow–no mistaking that sound. Vindication!
    The spring, when he finally found it, was ingeniously worked into a stylised leaf alongside the wood-carved panel. At a simple touch , a section five feet tall and one wide slid silently aside to reveal a gloomy recess behind.
    “Great,” he groaned, surveying the cobwebbed interior. “I hate spiders!”
    Kevin was terrified of all insects and creeping creatures, and harboured a strong dislike for dark, enclosed spaces. As with all his weaknesses, he hated himself the more for admitting to them. Shame tinged the frustrated rebukes tripping off his tongue, surrounding him with mocking echoes as stepped up into the gap to clear the way with his hands. He wiped the cobwebs on his gown with a shudder. Ah, he could dimly make out a narrow staircase leading upwards into the wall. There might be rats, or worse, cockroaches! It had crossed his mind that he should bring a candle–Pitterdown Manor had no torches–but the light might be detected through a gap in the secret passageway. Keeping one hand against the wall and the other before him, he proceeded a-quiver up the stairs and turned the corner.
    What infectious madness in Great-Grandmother’s letter had driven him to such extremity? Those dreams … those dismal dreams of the little girl! The wretchedly eloquent pleading of her eyes, the perplexing compulsion of her tears! She and the beautiful Unicorn … the thought stalled as he crowed in delight. Light! There was a pale sliver of light ahead. Providence followed the Unicorn, he decided–capitalising the word unconsciously in his mind–and barked his shin sharply on a protruding beam.
    A dance of silent agony followed until the pain subsided.
    He put his eye to the crack. The Blue Room! He was there!
    His initial thrill faded swiftly into annoyance at the passage of time as the means of ingress proved elusive. But eventually he snagged his sleeve on a protruding handle, which led him to a catch, and a moment later he stepped from behind a hinged bookcase into the musty study. A quick glance about showed him a room as untouched as the day she must have last seen it, a thick and undisturbed layer of dust covering all surfaces like a perfectly-contoured wrapping. Should Father enter here and see his footprints, it would all be over.
    Kevin ’s knees buckled at the notion and he caught himself against the edge of the desk to keep his balance.
    “Almost there,” he grunted aloud, for the comfort of hearing his