VIII

too.”
    Softly, Father Christopher says, “So, this Pretender – you think it really is him: your brother?”
    “You sound like her!” my mother snaps. “Forgive me, Father. No, I don’t ‘think it really is him’. I don’t know – that’s the whole point. How can I possibly know? That’s why I asked what the prophecies are saying… I want to find out. Or at least to be given a clue.
    “Is that so very bad, Father? Can you say you wouldn’t do the same? Imagine it: your brother, a little boy, is dragged away by soldiers in front of your own eyes and you are told he has been murdered. You weep and wail, but of course nothing will bring him back.
    “And then, fourteen years later, someone in a distant land declares he is your brother, escaped and grown to manhood. Wouldn’t you want to know if it were true?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I would.”
    There’s a silence. And it’s in that silence that I hear breathing beside me. Someone else is with me in my hiding place.
    I freeze. I daren’t turn my head, but I must. And when I do, every instinct in me wants to cry out; I shove my knuckles against my mouth.
    The holes in each cupboard door, together with a thin strip in the centre where the two leaves haven’t quite shut properly, let in enough light to make out a figure, slumped against the wall at the other side of the space. It’s turned away from me, kneeling or crouching, I can’t see which; but the hunched back, the curl of pale hair at the collar, are horribly familiar.
    That body in the trunk, in my chamber, yesterday – it’s here with me again.
    Out in the room my mother says, “I feel as if I am being ripped in two, Father. I fear this rebellion. I fear an invasion. I grew up in the civil wars; I’ve seen enough horror.”
    It’s a horror that I’m seeing right now: unlike yesterday, the body isn’t deathly still, it’s moving – I think of the maggots, wriggling in and out through the hole in the mouse’s skin.
    “But still,” my mother goes on, “there is a part of me that cannot stop hoping that my brother is alive – that he is not , after all, a little rotted corpse somewhere in this place.”
    No maggots this time. This body – this boy, this thing – is breathing, making little juddering movements, the chest heaving in and out. Whimpering sounds are coming from it too, soft and horrid like a terrified animal. Like a rabbit caught in a trap. It turns my stomach. If it were a rabbit I’d want to snap its neck.
    My mother says, “I can’t stop hoping that he is alive and… and perhaps that he is this Pretender. But if he is, I pray God he will lay down his arms; let us all live in peace.”
    “Amen to that,” says Father Christopher.
    Amen from me, too. Let me live in peace. Let this spirit, this nightmarish vision – whatever it is – stop appearing to me. Please God, take it away.
    I hear a shuffle of papers. My mother says, “Listen to this one: And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars: and upon the earth distress of nations, the soil drenched with more blood than rain. The word of God shall be transformed into a serpent, and good interpreted as evil. But when these things begin to come to pass, look up and lift up your heads: because your redemption is at hand.”
    Trapped in my terror, barely breathing, I listen to the words. They seem eerily beautiful.
    “The one who has been prophesied will come, full of power, full of good devotion and good love. Oh blessed ruler, I find that you are the one so welcome that many acts will smooth your way. You will extend your wings in every place; your glory will live down the ages…” My mother sighs. “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? It makes me shiver.”
    The boy is still whimpering. I reach out my hand towards him. He has to be real – he looks so real, he sounds so real…
    Father Christopher says, “It is wonderful, ma’am, but entirely unspecific. No names or dates, you’ll notice, nothing to tie it to a particular country, even.”
    My hand is shaking. I watch my fingertips edging forwards through the air, as warily as if the boy might at any moment turn and bite them off.
    “Oh lord,” my mother says.
    “What is it?”
    “You want specifics? Then here – listen to this one. York will be king .”
    But just as my fingers reach him, he is no longer there. The darkness somehow seeps into the space he occupies and rubs him out.
    Father Christopher says, “What else does