The Comet Seekers: A Novel by Helen Sedgwick Page A

see us, there are conditions, he says. Your granny told you.
    Severine clutches her stomach and her eyes close over.
    She had lost consciousness, but she wakes again and a different ghost is there: Brigitte is standing at the foot of the bed. There are burns on her arms and legs; her skin is a raw mess of blackened wounds.
    What are you doing here? Brigitte says.
    Severine doesn’t reply; she mustn’t wake François, he must never see this, feel this horror.
    Did we not make it clear that you have to stay in Bayeux? Otherwise we can’t . . .
    She remembers her granny’s voice, her words from years ago.
    But, surely, only when there’s a comet in—
    All the time.
    Always? Severine thinks of all the places she wants to see, of the continents she has never visited, of the landscapes she wants to show François. She can’t give that up.
    She sits up higher in the bed, looks to the window and remembers; was there something on the news about a comet?
    I’ll go wherever I want, she starts to say, but when she looks back, the room is empty.
    François is asleep, but Severine is wide awake now and her mind is racing.
    To demand that she stay in Bayeux – it is ridiculous. They can’t send burning strangers to threaten her into giving up her own life. She wanted to see her granny again but she never agreed to angry women appearing in her hotel room at night.
    In the corner shadows Great-Grandpa Paul-François has come to check that she is OK. It is difficult for them to appear this far from Bayeux, it takes a force of will and uses up too much of their energy – they can’t stay for long.
    See that? Severine’s granny says, shimmering in beside the bedside cabinet. She’s missed the comet – she didn’t even look through the binoculars.
    She didn’t miss anything, you daft old woman, he says. She felt it; I know she did.
    We felt it. But not Severine, she’s strayed too far. Her heart is . . .
    She understood.
    She’ll be too late getting home now. We have to go.
    It’ll be different next time.
    What if she stops wanting to see us?
    Don’t fret, he says, she won’t stop. And besides, would that be the worst thing? You don’t need to see something, to know that it’s there.

    LIAM LIGHTS CANDLES , SETS THE table before she arrives. He can hear Rachel’s car approach. The farm is the only thing for miles, her car the only car.
    And yet he waits for her to ring the bell, not wanting to seem too keen or too in need of company.
    The bell doesn’t ring.
    A minute later he hears a knocking on the back door that leads into the kitchen.
    He looks up, expects to see Róisín smiling at him through the dappled glass of the door. But it is not Róisín. Of course it is not Róisín. It hasn’t been Róisín for years.
    She has brought a bottle of expensive wine with her. The sight of it makes him feel more empty than he can say.
    So instead he says, thank you.
    She seems to find his formality endearing.
    Lipsticked lips are pressed to his own; they miss slightly. He spends the evening with a smudge of maroon to the left of his mouth.
    He fumbles with the buttons on Rachel’s shirt, aware that he is being clumsy because he is self-conscious. He knows this is something he could stop; he’s not even sure why he’s still going.
    Let’s go outside, she says. He wonders if she’s remembered his dad lives with him.
    He nods OK; he prefers to be outside anyway. They go out through the back door from the kitchen, walk towards the old barn then turn left, towards the river instead.
    Here’s grand, she says.
    He stops, surprised. It would be a nice view, he supposes, if there were light enough to see by.
    She’s brought a blanket he didn’t even know he had. He guesses it would spoil the allure if he asked where she found it.
    She’s laying it out on the ground.
    Her name is Rachel. So different from Róisín; so close that it makes him ache.
    Rachel’s lips explore his body; he feels like he’s watching it happen even