Necropolis

of arches led onto a terrace with a garden beyond. Scarlett stopped dead. Her worst fears had been realized. She knew now that she definitely wasn't in England.
    The garden was covered in snow. There were trees with no leaves, their branches heavy with the stuff.
    The ground was also buried and, in the distance, barely visible in the darkness, she could see white-topped mountains. There were no other buildings, no lights showing anywhere. The monastery was in some sort of wilderness — but how had she gotten here? Had she been knocked out and put on a plane?
    Scarlett searched back in her memory, but there was nothing there…nothing to indicate a journey, leaving England or arriving anywhere else. Then one of the monks jabbed her in the back, and she was forced to start moving again.
    They came to a hallway lit by a huge chandelier, not electric but jammed with rows of candles, at least a hundred of them, the wax dripping slowly down and congealing into a series of growths that reminded Scarlett of the sort of shapes she had once seen in a cave. Some of the wax had splattered onto a round table beneath. An empty bottle lay on its side along with dirty plates and glasses, moldering pieces of bread. There had been a dinner here — days, maybe weeks before. There were no rats or cockroaches. It was too cold.
    Several doors led out of the hallway. As one monk led her to the nearest of them, the other pushed her inside. This hurt her, and Scarlett spun round and swore at him. The monk just smiled and backed away.
    The other man went with him. The door closed.
    Scarlett turned back and examined her new surroundings. This was the only halfway comfortable room she had seen so far. It was furnished with a rug on the floor, two armchairs, bookshelves, and a desk. It was warmer too. A coal fire was burning in a grate, and although the flames were low, she could feel the heat it was giving out and smell it in the air. More paintings hung on the walls, all with religious subjects. There was a window, but it had become too dark to see outside.
    A man was sitting behind the desk. He also wore a habit, but his was black. So far he had said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Scarlett. With an uneasy feeling, she walked over to him. He was old — at least twenty years older than the others, with the same bald head and sunken eyes. There were tufts of white hair around his ears and he had thick white eyebrows that could have been glued in place. His nose was long and too thin for his face. His fingers, spread out across the surface of the desk, were the same. He was watching Scarlett intensely, and as she drew closer, she saw that there was a growth — a sty — sitting on one of his eyes. The whole socket was red and dripping. It was as if, like the rest of the building, he was rotting away. Scarlett shuddered and felt ill.
    The man still hadn't spoken. Scarlett drew level with him so that the desk was between them. Despite everything, she had decided that she wasn't going to let him intimidate her. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"
    His eyes widened in surprise. At least, one of them did. The diseased eye had long since lost any movement. 'You are English?" he said.
    Scarlett was taken by surprise. She hadn't expected him to speak her language. 'Yes," she said.
    "Please. Sit down." He gestured at one of the chairs. "Would you like a hot drink? Some tea should be arriving soon."
    Scarlett shook her head. "I don't want any tea," she snapped. "I want to go back where I came from. Why are you keeping me here?"
    "I asked you to sit down," the monk said. "I would suggest that you do as you are told."
    He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't even sound threatening. But somehow Scarlett knew it would be a mistake to disobey him. She could see it in his eyes. The pupils were black and dead and slightly unfocused. They were the sort of eyes that might belong to someone who was mad.
    She sat down.
    "That's better," he said. "Now, let's introduce ourselves. What is your name?"
    "I'm Scarlett Adams."
    "Scarlett Adams." He repeated it with a sort of satisfaction, as if that was what he had expected to hear.
    "Where are you from?"
    "I live in Dulwich. In London. Please, will you tell me where I am?"
    He lifted a single finger. The nail was yellow and bent out of shape. "I will tell you everything you wish to know," he said. His English was perfect although it was obvious that it wasn't his first language.