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her world had handwriting that neat. Nobody she knew sent handwritten, hand-delivered notes instead of emails. Come to think of it, nobody called her Mademoiselle Graham. Nobody called her Mademoiselle anything. Clearing a space on the cluttered kitchen table, and smoothing the paper flat, Helen strained to make out blurred words scarcely a shade darker than the paper.
Dear Mademoiselle Graham,
I hope you are settling in well to our beautiful village. On the first Thursday of every month we have a ‘social’ at The Bull public house. As I gather from a friend at the letting agency that you will be with us for some time, we thought you might like to join us next Thursday and get to know your neighbours. We are a friendly bunch!
You will be welcome any time from 6.30 p.m. You’ll find The Bull on the right as you enter the village from the direction of Wildfell. You can’t miss it!
Looking forward to meeting you.
Yours,
Margaret Millward, Mrs
    Balling the wet note, Helen hurled it at the sink.
    You can’t miss it!? She could and she would.
    There’s always one, she thought, slamming tins and packets randomly on to shelves. Always. It’s the law. Wherever you are in the world, whatever you’re doing, every town/settlement/encampment has a self-appointed busybody who makes it their business to winkle you out. Although they call it ‘making you welcome’.
    Worse, according to what remained of the address, this one ran the local shop, which meant she’d have to run the gauntlet whenever she needed a pint of milk.
    Helen made a mental note to start drinking her tea black.
    Back in the kitchen, she fished around inside the Sainsbury’s bags until she found what she needed and headed upstairs to the bathroom. No Formica here, just an enormous cast-iron bath supported on lion’s feet and brass taps that would have cost a fortunein Paris unless you had a lucky break in a brocante . Above the loo there was a window that looked over the lichen-clad slate roof of an outhouse, probably the pantry or an as-yet-undiscovered utility room. She didn’t remember opening the window; but then she scarcely remembered anything of the past few days.
    Peering at herself in a fly-specked mirror, Helen examined her face more closely. So ghostly pale as to be almost translucent, freckles fading, just the faintest hint of broken veins lining her nose; shadows, the baggage of endless nights of insomnia, circling already dark eyes. She was in there somewhere. Right now, it was hard to say where. Her long hair was a bedraggled mess; ends split and highlights growing back to their original reddish-brown. She’d never liked blonde, but Art did. And, well … she no longer had to please Art.
    Helen flinched.
    Tearing open the box of hair dye, she mixed the dye and developer in the tray provided, spread it evenly through her hair with a plastic comb, stumbling at each knot, then sat on the loo seat counting off fifteen minutes by her watch.
    When her time was up, she unhooked the rubber shower attachment from the tap and shucked off her jumper, stopping briefly to look at the bruises braceleting her upper arm. They were fading now, yellowing at the edges, blurry orange in the middle. Wind blew in through the window and she shuddered.
    With the dye rinsed off, she slid the nail scissors from their packet and began to cut; cautiously at first, then more confidently. Hardly expert, but it would do. By the time she’d finished nearly six inches were gone. Her wavy hair now stopped just below her shoulders. At a glance she looked almost like someone she recognised.

3
    It was haunted, so they said. The big house. It was definitely haunted. Well, so those who believed in such things said, and even those who didn’t partake of old wives’ tales knew someone who knew someone who’d seen something where the lychgate met the Dales at dusk. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light and an ale or two too many. Everyone in the village had an opinion, and