A Finer End

radiant and severe, and in their midst, the child. At some point Fiona sensed Bram’s presence as he stood watching from the doorway, but he did not disturb her, and when she looked round he had gone.
    Then all her awareness of things beyond brush and canvas vanished. The tumult of sound had become more distinct, as if someone had fine-tuned a radio, and she realized the voices were singing, singing to her, and the clear melody soared and leapt inside her until she feared her head would burst.
     
    The last colour faded from the sky and wisps of fog began to form in the dips and hollows beneath the Tor. A dilapidated white van hurtled by Winnie — Garnet’s, with Faith in the passenger seat, heading up the hill towards the farmhouse.
    Rather than allaying her worry, Winnie’s visit to the girl had only increased her concern. She would have to manage a word with Garnet in the next few days about Faith’s health; perhaps Garnet could shed some light on her emotional state.
    And why had Faith seemed suddenly to shut her out, back in the café, refusing even to meet her gaze? Was it something she’d said?
    As Winnie went back over their conversation, something odd struck her. Faith had said she’d done archaeology at Somerfield, which meant she must have been one of Andrew’s students. But in that case, why had he never mentioned her? Surely the disappearance of a bright student, a girl in her final year and destined to go on to greater things, would have concerned him? But then lately he had seemed to scorn all his pupils — what had happened to his love of teaching?
    Reaching the entrance to Lypatt Lane, Winnie pushed the bike into the narrow opening. The lane would take her into Bulwarks Lane, which overlooked the steep fall of Bushy Coombe, and at its end lay Fiona Allen’s house. The sky made a paler channel between the hedges rising high on either side of the lane. A bit of azure lingered in the west, but above her the first brittle stars had appeared. She switched on her bicycle lamp, but it flickered wanly, then went out.
    As she picked up her pace, Winnie continued to puzzle over Andrew’s odd behaviour. It occurred to her for the first time that perhaps she didn’t know her brother at all. The thought alarmed her, and she suddenly longed for Jack’s company, for his calm and common-sense response. Surely he would be home by the time she reached Fiona’s; she’d ring him from there and ask him to come and collect her.
    She reached the little bend where the footpath that ran round the back side of Chalice Hill met Lypatt Lane. Beyond the bend the track became Bulwarks Lane, and she felt an unexpected stirring of relief that she had almost reached her destination.
    Pausing, she checked automatically for oncoming traffic, even though she could not have failed to hear a car on such a still night. The lane was dark as a tunnel now, visible only by the layer of mist that had settled near the ground.
    She stepped out, pushing the bike, and a light came out of nowhere, dazzling her, blinding her. Throwing up her arms as she heard the roar of an engine, she sensed a rush of movement towards her.
    Just before impact, some tiny fragment of her consciousness noted that there had been no squeal of brakes.
     

PART TWO
     

Chapter Eight
     
...ityet raises the little limited self to the consciousness of a possibility, awful and beautiful, of a contact with something greater than itself, and yet akin; and to the dignity of a mystical fellowship in which isolation ends, and Past and Present are seen as parts of a living whole; points in the circumference of a circle whose radius is Life beyond these limitations.
Frederick Bligh Bond, from
The Gate of Remembrance
     
    The music changed, slowly; the joyous melody faded, softening, until it became a lament. Fiona sensed an immense sorrow for a passing, an ending, of something precious beyond human understanding, but more than that she could not tell.
    At last there was only a hollowness in her head, and beyond the glass there was nothing but darkness and the faint lights of the town across the Coombe. She put down her brush, exhausted. She had no idea of the time — she never kept a clock in the studio — but she could tell by the cramp in her hand and the ache in her back that she’d been painting several hours.
    Stepping back, Fiona surveyed the canvas. She, herself, never named the creatures that came to her, but the critics referred to them as sprites,