How to Seal Your Own Fate

1

November 1

Autumn has arrived in Castle Knoll so suddenly that it's as if the elements rearranged the landscape like set pieces in a theater while I slept. I'm so used to London's slow drizzle as the seasons change that this sudden burst of color has me dressing quickly and racing outside, like a child who's opened their eyes to see snow on Christmas morning.

I slow down only to let my coffee brew, but it's sealed in a thermos in no time. I'm kitted out in an oversized Fair Isle jumper and a pair of wellies I've yet to fully break in, determined to get them well and truly muddy today. Nothing says "I'm playing countryside dressing-up" quite like a pair of Wellington boots that are completely free of flecks of mud, and lately I'm having to try as hard as I can to convince the locals (and myself) that I'm not just here playacting as a country heiress.

It doesn't help that all my pockets are heavy with the nonsense of outdoors-I can't help but pick up every dropped acorn and shiny conker that I see-something that people who have spent their lives in Castle Knoll certainly do not do, unless they are under the age of ten. This morning, I breathe in the earthy aroma of decay that hangs in the air as I walk, hoping I might find some inspiration for my writing. Mist pools in the gardens, with the promise of a crisp, clear day ahead.

I'm constantly telling myself that country life suits me. That it feeds the writer in me and I've finally found the place where I belong. Most days I can keep that mantra going throughout my walk from the Gravesdown estate into the village. I tell myself that the atmosphere in the pub where I write is perfect for drumming up ideas for new murder mystery drafts. It's dimly lit, leaky, and full of odd comings and goings.

Each day I take my usual seat at the Dead Witch, right by the open fire, and peruse the menu with the absolute security of someone with a bank account that has recently expanded by about forty million pounds.

And most of the time, when I say to myself that the half scribbles I've made just need time to develop into something great, I believe me. Most days.

Today is not one of those days.

My walk through the mist quickly becomes a stomp, due to how awkward and stiff my new wellies are. It didn't take any time at all for my morning eagerness to become restlessness, but the countryside isn't the easy transition I thought it would be. Not after a lifetime in London, hopping around art galleries with my mum and living off cheese sandwiches. It's silly, but I miss those cheese sandwiches. Not the actual horrible cheap white bread and Day-Glo mustard. I think I just miss who I was when I ate them.

The biggest problem is the house. Gravesdown Hall in summer was an altogether warmer place-and I don't just mean temperature-wise. The light of full summer was constantly streaming through the diamond lattices of the high windows, making a kaleidoscope of the floor. The gardens were a work of art, and while I still employ the professional gardeners Aunt Frances used, her old gardener Archie Foyle has given up his hobby of shaping the huge topiary hedges that line the long drive. The lack of his whistling and endless patter makes the outdoors seem rather empty.

In August, Gravesdown Hall was this enigmatic place that was full of mysteries, full of just enough danger to make me feel alive, and most important of all-full of people. Archie's granddaughter, Beth, who used to cook for my great aunt Frances, was always popping in to bake something while we were all trying to get to the bottom of Great Aunt Frances's murder. A murder, I might add, that was foretold by a fortune-teller named Peony Lane in 1965, which Frances lived her life trying to prevent. Rather unsuccessfully as it turns out. I've tried to convince Beth to keep to her old schedule, but she says that these days the house makes her sad.

It has to just be in my head, but since I inherited the Gravesdown estate, I'm starting to feel like the village of Castle Knoll is giving me the cold shoulder. And this is a small place. If you're out and about, as I have been recently, you run into everyone. So if there are people you aren't seeing . . . there's a good chance they're avoiding you.

I unscrew the cap on my thermos and take a small scalding sip of its contents, wondering if it's just the fact that I'm an outsider here still. But once I solved Great Aunt Frances's murder, word definitely got around town that she had an entire room of files dedicated to town secrets.

Recently I thought of all the times I've wandered around the village trying to strike up a conversation with the postman or the bar staff at the Dead Witch, only to have them give me tight smiles in return. It's clear they've been wondering just how many of their secrets Aunt Frances collected, and how far I've gotten in my reading of them.

My thoughts drift back to the house, and again I wonder if staying here is the right choice. As autumn wraps its chilly arms around the estate, I'm finding the sun leaves fewer kaleidoscopes on the floor, and the garden has shifted from a place of welcoming roses to become a collection of thorns with long shadows. At night, knowing I'm the only person in this sprawling house of seventeen bedrooms, a library, three drawing rooms, a formal dining room, a solarium, and a kitchen the size of an entire London flat makes me feel like the only thing I want in the world is Mum playing her loud music, and a cheap cheese sandwich.

My wandering feet have reached the edge of the formal gardens, and as I go through the ornate metal gate out into the grassy fields that border the estate's woodland, I see a shape through the mist. I squint for a moment to try to make sense of it, wondering if one of the horses from Foyle Farms next door has gotten loose. The lumpy form is moving with a lumbering gait, but as it gets closer, I can see the shape of hunched shoulders and the tartan of a wool shawl.

"Hello?" I call out. Technically this is private land, but that doesn't stop the locals from walking through here. The shape doesn't answer, but as it finally emerges from the swirling clouds of moisture, I see a rather striking elderly woman standing in front of me. She's got long pure-white hair, which she's wearing in one thick plait that crowns her head. She's only hunched because of the chill, and she straightens her shoulders as she meets my eyes. She looks to be in her late seventies or early eighties but seems like someone who's been health conscious her whole life. The way she stands makes me think that she could probably out-yoga me in a heartbeat.

I open my mouth to tell her kindly that technically, she's trespassing, but then I realize that I'm so lonely that if she's a nice enough person, I'll happily invite her to walk with me. She gives me a curt nod that's strangely . . . knowing. There's no other way to describe it, really. Looking into this woman's eyes is like traveling through time. Her eyes are light green, and I notice she's got brown freckles in her irises. I've never seen anyone with irises like that before, and it gives the impression that one is looking at something rare, like an uncut emerald or a vein of gold running through an ordinary rock.

"I knew I'd find you here, Annie Adams," she says. Her voice has a honeyed texture to it, thick and deep, but spiked with something sharper. Like a hint of strong whisky to balance out the sweetness. I notice she wears chunky silver rings on each bony finger, some set with turquoise or amber, others with polished ammonites or tiny leaves preserved in resin. I catch the glint of many silver chains peeking out from where she's pulling the tartan shawl tight around her neck, and I suspect she's got a host of interesting things dangling from the end of each one.

"I . . ." I falter, then try again. "Have we met?" I ask. I invited the whole village to Great Aunt Frances's funeral in October, so it's possible that we have and I've simply forgotten. Possible, but unlikely.

"I have a fortune to tell you, but you aren't going to want it," she says.

I feel the air stream from my lungs as I realize who this is.

This is Peony Lane. The famous fortune-teller, the person who set off a complicated chain of events in Great Aunt Frances's life, and mine. Her prediction of Frances's murder back in 1965, when Frances was seventeen, is ultimately why I now own the Gravesdown estate.

"You're absolutely right," I say. "If I'm going to meet some horrible fate, I don't want to know about it." But I'm not uneasy, exactly. I'm intrigued. This woman probably brings that out in everyone; I imagine it's been key to how she's made her living for all these years.

She smiles at me broadly, and it's not a malicious smile; it's an understanding one. "So you do know who I am," she says. "Don't worry, I won't tell you unless you ask me to."

I don't say anything in reply, because even though she's instantly captured my interest, Peony Lane is such a large character in the lore of Gravesdown Hall that it's rather like meeting someone who's just stepped out of a fairy tale. Besides, what do you say to the woman who told such a grim fortune-and turned out to be right?

"When a fortune comes true in such a huge and horrible way as Frances's did, I can be an intimidating person to talk to. But don't worry, I consider it unethical to tell an unwilling person a fortune. Whether it's theirs or not. But you . . ." She pauses and her eyes flicker behind me, toward the house. "You'll realize you need this fortune, and you'll come asking me for it. I just hope you come in time."

"Well, that's . . . cryptic," I say slowly. "But I suppose cryptic is your brand, right?" I laugh nervously and realize from her blank expression that I'm not being particularly funny this morning.

She gives me a tight smile. "You need to investigate the life and death of Olivia Gravesdown," she says. "Frances will have a file on her."

"Who's Olivia Gravesdown?" I ask. "And why do I need to investigate her?"

"Olivia's husband, Edmund Gravesdown, was the heir to the Gravesdown fortune, before both of them were tragically killed in a car accident," Peony says. "Along with Lord Harry Gravesdown, Edmund's father. And you need to investigate her death because I think someone might have murdered her. I can't be sure, but . . . Frances might have information on it, on that crash. It was an obsession of hers years ago."

"Wait, how could someone have killed Olivia if it's widely known she died in a car accident?" Part of me knows that she could be telling some sort of tale just to get my attention. But after the summer I've just had, I'm keeping an open mind.

Peony Lane doesn't say anything; she just looks at me with an unnervingly blank expression.

"The Gravesdown car accident," I say, thinking. "I remember the story." My mind races through facts that I only brushed by in my investigation into Frances's past. "The senior Gravesdown was in a car being driven by his eldest son. His son's wife was also a passenger, and the car hit a tree at top speed, killing all three of them."

"Perhaps you should find my file as well," Peony says. One hand casually goes to her chin, like she's thinking, but only of something of mild importance, like whose birthday is coming up or where to go on holiday. Not contemplating such a tragedy.

"Aunt Frances has a file on you?" I don't hide my surprise, because I feel like if there was a file on Peony Lane, I would have found it while investigating Frances's murder. That fortune became her whole life, and any insight into the woman who'd told it might have helped me understand Frances's conviction in its truth.

"Of course she does!" Peony actually laughs, like I was silly to think otherwise. "A sleuth like Frances? It took her a while to track me down. But once she showed up at my door, it was bloody impossible to untangle her from my life. She wanted to know everything about me. How my talents work, whether or not I was a fraud-anything to wriggle her way out of that fate."

"That sounds like Aunt Frances," I say. "I mean, the Frances I've learned about through her writings," I add hastily. "Because I never actually got to meet her."

"Well, once she met me, she sensed a whole web of lies. And she wouldn't rest until she worked out the truth of all of them, hoping she might expose me in the process."

"And did she?" I raise an eyebrow. Previously, I'd always been somewhat skeptical of fortune-tellers. But my belief system has been a bit upended as of late, and I've not really taken the time to think through where I stand now. Throughout my investigations last summer, I never once tried to decide if I believed Aunt Frances's fortune. It was enough that she believed it, and I felt like my feelings on the subject either way might bias my investigation.

"She didn't expose me as a fraud, because I'm not one," Peony says curtly. "But interestingly, she didn't expose me for anything else she found out either. I never discovered why. But you"-she points at me meaningfully, and I find myself backing up a step-"you need to do some digging. Start with Olivia Gravesdown. Frances kept her files alphabetical by secret, so try I for infidelity. Or maybe F for fraud. I'm honestly curious about whether Frances knew that whole story."

"And what is the whole story, then?"

Her face crinkles as she gives me a small smile. "Even I don't know all of it, and I'd like your help piecing it together after all these years." She reaches out and clasps my hand, squeezing it briefly before letting it drop. "We have a lot to talk about. And there's something that Archie Foyle has that you'll need. You're halfway to Foyle Farms already-why don't you pay him a visit?"