It was feelings of both fight and flight that hastened Veronica’s trip to Milan. She urgently needed time away to collect her thoughts and prepare for an inevitable fight to come.
Already she had mapped out her problem on a series of mental index cards: Simon; nightmares; feedback from friends; and exit.
In the hotel the task began in earnest.
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Winchester Hall had seen better days. Not especially photogenic or a marvel of design, it nevertheless stood proudly between tall oak trees whilst a meandering river coiled around it.
This site was infamous for the legend of Lady Elaine Winchester, accused witch who was rumoured to haunt the grounds.
“Of course,” the groundskeeper informed me, during our steady trek up to the property, “the witchcraft charge was all hogwash. Her accuser, Simon Mathers who was just eyeing the estate, cooked up the witchcraft crap, and after he had her hung, brought the house from her dissolute and estranged son. Oh, and before she died, she vowed to kill any descendant of Mathers who’d dare step foot in her house, and to do everything in her power to help her descendants reclaim their ancestral home. Do you know what happened next?”
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“A-men.”
As the last notes of the hymn echoed around the rafters, and the sound of the church organ faded, the elderly congregation sat in a rustle of paper, a waft of too much perfume, and a bustle of perfectly coiffured Sunday hairdos. The vicar remained standing as his flock settled, gazing out over the one-third full church, before smiling gently.
“I’m very pleased to say,” he said, “that we’ve a visitor in the congregation today, young Michael there, who’s about to be ordained. He’s exactly the sort of person that a modern, forward-looking Church should be looking to engage with.”
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