The Devil's Serenade by Catherine Cavendish Page A

came from above.
    I felt as if I’d slipped into a dream. My feet moved automatically, one step after the other, following the sound, up to the second floor.
    As soon as my foot touched the top step, the laughter stopped. My heart thumped, but I had to go on. I had to see where that sound had come from.
    All the doors were closed. The landing felt quite warm; the new radiator was doing a great job. Gone was the fusty, unaired smell.
    I turned the handle of the first door I came to. It opened. Inside struck cold. This was the largest room, the one that would be perfect for rehearsals. There was no furniture except a free-standing tall cupboard at the far end. I knew from my earlier investigations this was empty, apart from a handful of dead woodlice on the bottom. I’d have to clean those out too.
    The walls were drab, with faded wallpaper coming unstuck in places. The bare windows were tall, wide. I peered out. They afforded a perfect view for anyone looking up from the riverside walk. At night, with the lights on, onlookers would be able to see anyone standing by the window, as I now was. Did they look up and see Aunt Charlotte doing something a little odd? Did someone’s warped imagination turn it into a sinister act, embellish it and sully her reputation for evermore? I would probably never know.
    I drifted so far into my own thoughts, I almost forgot what had brought me up there in the first place.
    A child’s laugh rang out. Whoever it was had joined me in the same room. I spun around. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a young girl in a yellow dress, short white ankle socks, and plaited blonde hair, running out of the door. I dashed out into the corridor. No one there. I looked down the stairs. No one. I hurried along, opening doors. All empty.
    A childish giggle sounded from the first room. I raced back, in time to see the doors of the cupboard swing slowly shut. Without thinking, I dashed over and wrenched them open.
    The cupboard was empty.
    I let out a cry, charged down the stairs and into the living room, aiming straight for the brandy bottle, but I trembled so much I could barely pour and kept spilling it onto the table. I must calm down. I emptied my glass in one gulp and refilled it, coughing as the harsh liquid burned my throat.
    That child. The child that couldn’t be there. But she was, wasn’t she? Impossible as it may seem. I recognized her. I knew the little girl with the blonde plaits and the yellow cotton dress. I knew her because I had created her. Veronica. The youngest of my imaginary siblings. And she was here, in this house.
    From far away, the strains of “Serenade in Blue” invaded my mind. I told myself I was imagining it. If only that were true.

Chapter Six
    I awoke to the doorbell ringing. My stiffened limbs objected to my feeble efforts to stretch them, and my attempt to raise my throbbing head off the cushion was thwarted by a thundering, clamorous roar of pain. I sank back down again. Thor had acquired an extra set of hammers and had decided to test them out on my brain. Through the murky mush of my mind, memories of last night drifted back. I’d drunk far too much brandy and fallen asleep—or unconscious—on the settee.
    The doorbell rang again, sending fresh agonies surging through my head. I tried to sit up. Failed. No way could I get to the door in this state, besides I could taste bile in my mouth. My first destination had to be the downstairs bathroom.
    I just made it.
    The doorbell fell silent. Whoever it was had given up.
    I struggled into the kitchen, the world swimming before my eyes. I clung on to anything within reach—the wall, the fitted units—and inched my way to the sink. I grabbed a glass from the draining board, filled it with cold water from the faucet and gulped it down. I splashed clear, cold water over my face, soaking my hair in the process. My head still banged but at least I felt a little more conscious. I rummaged in a drawer, found a