her out, and while that drove me nuts, it was also kind of what I liked about her.
18 JULY
167 days to go …
At last, I’d arrived in Redcliffe. It was another quiet, rural town in the foothills of the mountains .
I stopped and sat down on a bench next to a lonely town monument. I switched on the new mobile Boges had given me, and sent him a text message.
made it
Next, I entered my blog address, hoping I had enough coverage. It was taking some time to load.
I swung round, spooked by a distant siren, and started walking again.
Down the road was a sleepy country graveyard , with mossy headstones leaning at crooked angles and a small chapel among some trees.
Eventually, my blog page loaded up, and I clicked on another private message from Winter.
I dialled Boges as I stepped into the graveyard , stopping at a secluded spot behind the chapel, where a stone wall hid me from view. The phone rang out.
If what Winter Frey said was true, and Sligo had some leads on where I was, it could mean only a matter of time before tracing me to Great-aunt Millicent, and to Redcliffe.
Fear gripped me.
He might have found her already .
Anxious to move faster, I spotted a guy working at the end of the stone wall, rippingout blackberry bushes. He stopped what he was doing when he saw me, straightening up and pulling off his thick gloves.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a property called “Manresa”. Do you know where it is?’
The guy looked surprised, pushing hair off his sweaty forehead.
‘Manresa? What business do you have there?’
‘Visiting a relative,’ I said. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer my question; instead, he picked up a long stick and began drawing a rough map in the dirt at his feet.
‘You keep going along this road, until you pass a couple of big homesteads. You can’t miss them. Then you take a left turn here,’ he said, branching out with another line, ‘and keep go-ing another couple of kilometres. Manresa’s right at the end.’
‘Thanks, buddy,’ I said.
He was still looking at me strangely. ‘You sure it was Manresa you were after?’ he said, before his phone rang and he waved me on.
I set off as the evening drew in, keeping the rough map in my mind. Storm clouds weregathering over the mountains and distant lightning split the air. Growls of thunder made me go faster. I was cold enough already. I didn’t want to get drenched as well.
After following the gardener’s instructions, I came to a small, faded signpost, pointing down a dirt track, which spelled out the name ‘ Manresa ’. I wondered what sort of place it was, hidden away on the edges of a small country town like Redcliffe.
I wrapped my hoodie tightly around me against the wind, and cautiously jogged down the track. I kept going over and over Winter’s message. I’d never noticed anything written on the Ormond Jewel, and neither had Boges, so I didn’t know what she could have been talking about.
A couple of lights shone in the distance, urging me to rush on. I hoped my great-aunt was OK, and that Sligo’s stooges hadn’t beaten me to her. I also wondered if she’d heard the news about her brother’s death. I sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
The wind suddenly stopped and the storm that had been threatening broke overhead, sending rain pelting down, hard and cold. Within seconds I was soaked, and the dusty surface of the road had turned into treacherous mud.
I kept running until I reached the iron and stone pillar fencing that circled the large building . The structure was imposing in the evening light, half-hidden behind tall, leafless trees. Some sort of spire reached high into the sky, and a driveway curved up and around the entrance, making the place look like some kind of institution —an institution like Leechwood Lodge. Was my great-aunt insane?
Another sign, now dripping with water, swung on the front gates. I rubbed some dirt from it
18 JULY
167 days to go …
At last, I’d arrived in Redcliffe. It was another quiet, rural town in the foothills of the mountains .
I stopped and sat down on a bench next to a lonely town monument. I switched on the new mobile Boges had given me, and sent him a text message.
made it
Next, I entered my blog address, hoping I had enough coverage. It was taking some time to load.
I swung round, spooked by a distant siren, and started walking again.
Down the road was a sleepy country graveyard , with mossy headstones leaning at crooked angles and a small chapel among some trees.
Eventually, my blog page loaded up, and I clicked on another private message from Winter.
I dialled Boges as I stepped into the graveyard , stopping at a secluded spot behind the chapel, where a stone wall hid me from view. The phone rang out.
If what Winter Frey said was true, and Sligo had some leads on where I was, it could mean only a matter of time before tracing me to Great-aunt Millicent, and to Redcliffe.
Fear gripped me.
He might have found her already .
Anxious to move faster, I spotted a guy working at the end of the stone wall, rippingout blackberry bushes. He stopped what he was doing when he saw me, straightening up and pulling off his thick gloves.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a property called “Manresa”. Do you know where it is?’
The guy looked surprised, pushing hair off his sweaty forehead.
‘Manresa? What business do you have there?’
‘Visiting a relative,’ I said. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer my question; instead, he picked up a long stick and began drawing a rough map in the dirt at his feet.
‘You keep going along this road, until you pass a couple of big homesteads. You can’t miss them. Then you take a left turn here,’ he said, branching out with another line, ‘and keep go-ing another couple of kilometres. Manresa’s right at the end.’
‘Thanks, buddy,’ I said.
He was still looking at me strangely. ‘You sure it was Manresa you were after?’ he said, before his phone rang and he waved me on.
I set off as the evening drew in, keeping the rough map in my mind. Storm clouds weregathering over the mountains and distant lightning split the air. Growls of thunder made me go faster. I was cold enough already. I didn’t want to get drenched as well.
After following the gardener’s instructions, I came to a small, faded signpost, pointing down a dirt track, which spelled out the name ‘ Manresa ’. I wondered what sort of place it was, hidden away on the edges of a small country town like Redcliffe.
I wrapped my hoodie tightly around me against the wind, and cautiously jogged down the track. I kept going over and over Winter’s message. I’d never noticed anything written on the Ormond Jewel, and neither had Boges, so I didn’t know what she could have been talking about.
A couple of lights shone in the distance, urging me to rush on. I hoped my great-aunt was OK, and that Sligo’s stooges hadn’t beaten me to her. I also wondered if she’d heard the news about her brother’s death. I sure didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
The wind suddenly stopped and the storm that had been threatening broke overhead, sending rain pelting down, hard and cold. Within seconds I was soaked, and the dusty surface of the road had turned into treacherous mud.
I kept running until I reached the iron and stone pillar fencing that circled the large building . The structure was imposing in the evening light, half-hidden behind tall, leafless trees. Some sort of spire reached high into the sky, and a driveway curved up and around the entrance, making the place look like some kind of institution —an institution like Leechwood Lodge. Was my great-aunt insane?
Another sign, now dripping with water, swung on the front gates. I rubbed some dirt from it
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