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Copyright © 2026 Nikkie Silk. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

Venice

Early one February morning, as the mist rolls in from the Laguna and shrouds the first well-wrapped tourists gathered in front of the Basilica, Sandy sits at a window table inside Caffè Florian in Piazza San Marco, sipping a cappuccino and eating a cornetto, watching overexcited children scatter the pigeons, which, despite the efforts of the Venetian authorities, infest the square, only for them to settle again a few metres away, making Sandy smile at the memory of some much cleverer birds in a place far from Venice. 

Wychwood

Day One

He/him

One

The taxi, which had been waiting for him at the railway station, turned off the main road and pulled up before a set of ornamental gates, flanked on either side by dry-stone walls. The driver leaned out of the car window and spoke into an intercom on the gatepost. “Mister Rossi for Sir Robert.”

The gates opened, and the taxi clattered over a cattle grid, through a copse of sycamores, then across a wooden bridge over a small river and along what must once have been a tree-lined avenue. Only small patches of bare earth remained, like a neat row of scars, marking where the trees had stood. The taxi scattered a group of large black birds squabbling over a piece of roadkill, sending them cawing into the air in annoyance. Sandy thought the driver had accelerated when he saw the birds.

“Bloody rooks, they should all be shot!” the driver exclaimed, then caught sight of Sandy’s surprised face in the mirror. “Sorry, sir, but they give me the willies. There’s something evil about them.”

Before Sandy could say anything, the taxi crested a small rise in the road, giving him his first glimpse of Wychwood. "Wow!” he said out loud before he could stop himself. Whoever had laid out the estate had deliberately placed the rise there to create a stunning reveal of the house for visitors.

“Aye, sir,” said the driver. “It’s a grand house for sure.” He hesitated before going on, “But folk around here tell stories about it.”

“Oh? What kind of stories?”

“Old wives’ tales and superstition, I reckon, sir. I shouldn’t have said anything.” But before Sandy could ask what he meant, the taxi pulled up on the gravel in front of the house. As the driver retrieved his suitcase, Sandy looked up at the imposing three-storey red-brick façade, which seemed to glow golden in the sunlight. Sandy counted six large, multi-paned windows on each storey, hinting at the size of the rooms within. A manicured lawn complete with a fountain lay in front of the house, surrounded by low box hedges, with mature oak trees flanking it. A short flight of steps, with ornamental resting lions on either side, led up to the scarlet-painted front door.

“Good luck, sir. Enjoy your stay.” The taxi driver hovered expectantly, and Sandy dug in his pocket, tipping him the couple of pounds he found. The driver looked disappointed, but it was all Sandy had.

Searching the internet, Sandy had learnt that George Overstrand, a reputed deserter from the British army fighting the Boers in South Africa, had built the house in the first decade of the 20th century after making his fortune in the Kimberley diamond fields. Exactly how George had acquired his fortune remained shrouded in mystery, but it was whispered that he had won his share of a mine in a rigged card game. However, he didn’t enjoy Wychwood for long, dying of syphilis the year after moving in.

George had fathered three sons with two different wives, although rumours suggested there were children in Britain and Africa who shared his genes but not his name. Alfred, the eldest, was killed on the first day of the Somme offensive in 1916, and Arthur, the middle son, died in South Africa during the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1919. The third and youngest son, Edward, then inherited the house. He married a dancer from the Folies-Bergère, almost bankrupted the family through his gambling habit, which led to the loss of his share of the diamond mine, and finally took his own life with one of his beloved Purdey shotguns.

Harold, his only son, saved the house and the family’s fortunes by profiteering before and during the Second World War through a munitions company, which some alleged manufactured guns far more dangerous to those firing them than to the enemy. There were also hints of black-market involvement, though these were never confirmed.

Much to Harold’s displeasure, the family was forced to leave Wychwood during the Second World War, when Winston Churchill requisitioned it as a training base for Special Operations Executive agents parachuted into France. Harold married the widow of a naval officer killed on HMS Hood early in the war. She had inherited a considerable fortune from her late husband, and with her money, Harold restored the house after the war, rebuilding parts damaged by the SOE and adding new cottages to house the staff. Tragically, his wife died in childbirth. Harold was heartbroken by her death and, to his credit, never remarried. He died in 1966 when the Bentley he was driving ran off the road and struck a tree after a dinner at which he had drunk two bottles of claret, several glasses of vintage port, and half a bottle of cognac.

The house passed to his son, another George, a banker who helped the ultra-rich hide their wealth in exotic offshore locations, beyond the prying eyes and hands of the UK tax authorities. His wife tolerated his numerous affairs but finally divorced him after catching him in bed with her sister. The notoriously debauched parties he hosted at Wychwood were often reported in scandalised yet lascivious detail by the UK’s red-top tabloids. The authorities eventually caught up with him, and he was charged and convicted of money laundering, only to be spared a prison cell when he died following a massive stroke.

The couple had a son and a daughter before their divorce; the daughter went to live with her mother, whilst the son, Charles, joined the army, rose to the rank of captain, and served in the First Gulf War with distinction, but received a medical discharge after being wounded in a friendly-fire incident. He became a successful property developer and renovated Wychwood, which had fallen into neglect. He died when, as Master of the local hunt, he was thrown from his horse after whipping it for refusing to jump a fence.

The house passed to his son, Sir Robert Overstrand, the great-great-great-grandson of the original George and the man who brought Sandy to Wychwood. 

Two

A cloud obscured the sun for a moment, and a rook cawed nearby, and Sandy couldn’t suppress a shiver. Tired from his journey but excited to be here, he carried his suitcase up the steps to the front door, where two women stood waiting. One was middle-aged, dressed in a plain grey belted dress, her dark hair scraped back into a tight bun, her face free of make-up, and her lips pressed primly together. The other was younger, dressed in a maid’s uniform, complete with a white apron, her long blonde hair braided into a ponytail, and a black velvet bow at the top. In stark contrast to the first woman, she wore bright red lipstick, and Sandy thought she looked beautiful.

The older woman stepped forward and said, “Good morning, Mr Rossi. Please come inside.” She spoke with a soft Scottish burr, yet she gave the impression of not being to be trifled with. He followed her into the entrance hall, the younger woman closing the door behind them. The entrance hall was surprisingly bright and airy, with Oriental rugs laid over flagstones. A large Murano glass vase filled with white arum lilies stood on a long wooden table. Paintings of Chinese flowers brought splashes of colour to the walls, a crystal chandelier hung from the double-height ceiling, and a wooden quarter-turn staircase led upstairs. Sandy thought it was the kind of understated elegance that left no doubt about the wealth behind it. Unused to such surroundings, he felt distinctly out of place.

“Welcome to Wychwood, Mister Rossi,” said the older woman. “My name is Mhairi, the housekeeper, and this is Samantha.” She gestured to the younger woman, who, to Sandy’s astonishment, curtsied to him.

“Thank you,” replied Sandy. “I’m so pleased to be here at last.”

“Sir Robert apologises for his absence, Mister Rossi,” the housekeeper said. “Business has detained him in London, but he says everything is ready for you to begin work in the library.”

“Thank you, Mhairi. Oh, sorry. Is it okay if I call you Mhairi?”

“Of course, Mister Rossi. Samantha will show you to your room. Your lunch will be in the library in half an hour if that suits you.”

He had the impression that it didn't matter if it suited him or not. That was how it was going to be.

“That’s perfect, Mhairi. Thank you.” 

Three

Although disappointed not to meet Overstrand, he was eager to begin his work. He picked up his suitcase and followed Samantha up the stairs, unable to help noticing how the material of her dress tightened across her backside with each step. She wore seamed black stockings, and Sandy was sure he caught a glimpse of a suspender clip through the fabric. His face flushed as he remembered wearing something very similar. She looked back at him and caught him staring.

“Almost there, sir,” she said with the hint of a grin.

Embarrassed at being caught out, he reddened and hurried to follow her. She led him along a corridor lined with Impressionist paintings. Samantha noticed him looking. “It was Lady Eleanor’s passion, sir. She loved collecting.”

“She had excellent taste.” He turned to Samantha. “Lady Eleanor was Sir Robert’s wife, right?”

“Yes, sir. She was a lovely woman taken from us far too early.”

“Wasn’t it a skiing accident?”

There was a catch in her voice as she said, “Yes, sir, almost two years ago now. She was an excellent skier, but one day she ventured off-piste in the Rockies alone and was caught in an avalanche. It took several days to recover her body. Sir Robert had planned to be with her, but he had to visit the President at the White House and was due to join her afterwards. I know he blames himself for what happened. He believes he would have stopped her, but it wasn’t his fault. It’s still difficult to believe she’s gone.” She paused and looked away. Sandy thought she was going to cry, but she looked back at him and said, “Sir Robert has put you in her suite. The other guest rooms are closed. Sir Robert hasn’t entertained since Lady Eleanor’s death.”

Samantha opened the door and stepped back to let him in. Sandy hadn’t given much thought to what his accommodation at Wychwood would be like, so he wasn’t prepared for what was to come. As he walked through the door, he shaded his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through the large double window. As his eyes adjusted, he began to take in his surroundings.

An arrangement of blood-red peonies stood in a Japanese porcelain vase on a table in front of the window. An elegant writing desk and chair stood against one wall, with a vast abstract canvas above them that Sandy couldn’t identify but guessed was an original and likely very expensive. An enormous L-shaped leather sofa and chairs surrounded a low coffee table, facing a massive widescreen television mounted on the wall. What looked like hundreds of books filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and sunlight reflecting off a Murano glass chandelier sent shards of light dancing across the room.

“This is the dayroom, sir,” Samantha said. “The bedroom is through here, if you would follow me, sir.”

Hang on, he thought. Did she say dayroom? It was bigger than his whole flat. And there was a bedroom as well? He shook his head to make sure he wasn’t daydreaming. He hurried to catch up with Samantha, who had slipped through a door. He stopped at the doorway, trying to take in the room beyond. A huge double bed with a wooden headboard carved with a dragon’s head faced the window, and a display of white orchids stood on a circular wooden table. A long dressing table with a triptych mirror sat along one wall, with a large black lacquered jewellery box at one end. In front of the window stood a chair and a reading light, with a small table for books. Japanese wallpaper, featuring magnificent black peacocks perched on maple-branch silhouettes, surrounded by smaller birds and flowers, covered the walls. A magnificent woodblock print of Mount Fuji hung over the bed, facing a stunning painting of a pair of red-crowned cranes on the opposite wall.

“Lady Eleanor loved Japan,” Samantha said.

“It’s wonderful,” replied Sandy breathlessly, gazing around the room in wonder. Samantha opened a door and said, “There’s a bathroom through here and a dressing room through the other door over there. Lady Eleanor’s clothes are still in there. Sir Robert hasn’t decided what to do with them yet.” Samantha’s eyes glistened as she added, “The room is just as Lady Eleanor left it,” before lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, I believe it’s Sir Robert’s way of keeping her memory alive, but there will still be plenty of room for your belongings, sir.”

Sandy thought the suite of rooms must take up the entire second-floor wing on one side of the house. Bewildered by it all, he turned to Samantha and said, “Are you sure all this is for me?” He was afraid there had been some dreadful mistake and that they had mistaken him for someone else.

“Yes, sir. Sir Robert’s instructions were that you are to stay in Lady Eleanor’s suite.”

It all seemed a little creepy to Sandy, but he kept the thought to himself. It would only be for a short while, he reasoned, and he was being well paid for his work.

“Oh. Okay, then. It’s lovely, Samantha. By the way, I’m unsure of the protocol here. I’m not used to being called ‘sir’. My name’s Alessandro, but most people call me Sandy.”

“Miss Mhairi likes us to be formal with guests, sir.”

"Uh, okay," he replied. That told me, he thought. Mhairi sounded like a stickler, but it must be a tough job running a house like this. Especially for a man like Overstrand, he reasoned, who would expect the highest standards to be upheld even when he was away. Sandy was a guest here, so he would have to get used to it.

“If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll leave you to unpack. The library is down the stairs and to your left.” She glanced around the room and added wistfully, “It’s lovely to have someone back in Lady Eleanor’s room, sir. She wouldn’t want it left unused. There’s a call button by the side of the bed if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Samantha. I’ll be fine now.”

He feared she might curtsy to him again, but to his relief, she smiled and said, “Very well, sir. I’ll leave you to it and see you later.”

She left, closing the door, and he let out a breath, still not convinced that all this was meant for him. Everything was immaculate, as though Lady Eleanor had stepped out a moment ago, perhaps to go riding or shopping, and would be back soon. But knowing what had happened to her, Sandy saw it more as a shrine. Still, he loved the idea of staying here, even for the short time he expected to be here. He looked around the apartment in wonder, unable to believe his luck. It had the hallmarks of a cultivated and sophisticated woman, and he had the feeling he would have liked Lady Eleanor if he had met her. Suddenly remembering that Mhairi had said lunch would be ready soon, he decided to head straight to the library and unpack his suitcase later. 

Four

Following Samantha’s directions, he found his way to the library, which proved a pleasant surprise. Instead of a musty, dark room lined with unread leather-bound books, it was a purpose-built extension at the back of the house, flooded with light from glass roof lanterns and floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he saw well-tended gardens.

Books and magazines about Venice lined the shelves alongside stunning pieces of Murano glass, an exquisite bronze Venetian winged lion, and antique carnival masks. One item caught Sandy’s eye as he scanned the shelves. Tucked among the objects was a small snow globe featuring a delicate model of the Rialto Bridge, which would be blanketed in a flurry of snow when shaken. It looked like the sort you could pick up at any souvenir stall for a few euros, and Sandy wondered what significance it must hold for Overstrand to place it among his other treasures.

A temperature-and humidity-controlled cabinet housed a collection of antique books on Venice, which Sandy knew would prove invaluable to his work. A faded and torn Standard of St Mark, Venice's flag with its golden winged lion on a red field and its distinctive six tails, hung on a wall.

Sandy whistled softly as he took in the three paintings hanging in the room. The first, a brooding study of the Rialto Bridge at twilight, was by Walter Sickert. The second, a watercolour of Santa Maria della Salute against an angry sky, its colours like a three-day-old bruise, was by Turner. The last was a Canaletto, depicting the Grand Canal with the Doge’s Palace and the Campanile di San Marco in the background and worth a small fortune by itself. It was a familiar, almost clichéd subject, but Canaletto had subtly manipulated the viewpoint and perspective to give it a distinctive aspect, with ordinary Venetians going about their everyday business. Gondolas and other boats lent movement to the picture, all beneath the azure blue sky that Sandy loved.

A small wooden box sat on a table, with a key and a pair of white cotton gloves on top. With mounting excitement, he pulled on the gloves and unlocked the box, revealing a small, fragile, leather-bound book. He picked it up and carefully opened it, scarcely able to breathe. The first page was handwritten with the words:

Questo è il diario di Veronica Franco

His pulse quickened, and he turned to the next page.

La Serenissima

15 Giugno 1575

He rocked back in the chair and let out a sigh of delight. 

Five

Sandy had first met Sir Robert Overstrand nine months earlier, when he gave a speech at Sandy’s university. He was one of the country's best-known entrepreneurs, having made his first million while still at school by launching an online gaming site. For some reason, his school disapproved and expelled him, but not before he sold the site for a substantial sum.

As he developed other businesses, his slogan, 'Never Stop Breaking Other People’s Rules, ’ led to a book, then a globally syndicated television series, and was emblazoned on mugs and T-shirts around the world. Weirdly, it even appeared on anarchist banners at protests. More success followed, and before long, he became a multimillionaire on his way to becoming a billionaire and one of the youngest to receive a Knighthood for his services to business.

Inevitably, he became an international celebrity, making him a paparazzi target, yet he seemed to revel in the attention. His wife, Lady Eleanor, shunned the limelight, fuelling rumours that his marriage to his childhood sweetheart was rocky. There was talk of a super-injunction to quash at least one story.

Following the death of his wife, Overstrand disappeared from public view, and this was one of his first public appearances since his wife’s death.

The University’s Anglo-Italian society had invited him to speak because Overstrand was an outspoken advocate of the campaign against what he called ‘The Rape of Venice’ by the tourist industry. He often raged against the damage inflicted on the city and the Venice Lagoon by the giant cruise ships that daily deposited thousands of tourists, ‘like termites’, in his words, to overwhelm the city. The campaign had scored a significant victory when the government banned the largest cruise ships from the heart of Venice, but overtourism remained a problem.

Sandy’s family had lived in Venice for generations, but in the chaotic aftermath of the Second World War, his young, newly married great-grandparents, Luca and Isabella, emigrated to England. They settled in London’s Little Italy on the Clerkenwell Road and, like many immigrants before and since, started their own business. They scraped together enough money to open a small coffee bar. Through hard work and long hours, the business prospered, and in time they opened a restaurant and a delicatessen. The businesses eventually passed down to Sandy’s grandparents and then to his parents.

Sandy’s grandmother kept a framed photograph of Isabella on her sideboard, taken just after they opened the coffee bar. It showed her proudly making coffee with their gleaming Gaggia espresso machine, one of the first in London. Every time Sandy visited his nonna, she would point to the picture and, to his embarrassment, tell him he was the spitting image of Isabella, even down to his hair colour. His parents had hoped he would follow them into the family business, but Sandy wanted something different, at least for a while. He could always join them later.

At university, he studied History with Italian, and, in addition to his fluent Italian, he picked up Venetian during a year at the Università Ca' Foscari in Venice. He was now only a few weeks away from completing his PhD on ‘Renaissance Venice and the Silk Road.’

Overstrand’s speech was a fundraiser for a charity he supported, helping workers in Venice whose health had been ruined by industrial pollution. Sandy’s PhD supervisor had a ticket but couldn’t attend, so he passed it on to Sandy. After a glass of warm Frascati and some tasteless finger food in the college library, the vice-chancellor offered a brief welcome and introduced Overstrand.

Sandy listened with rapt attention as Overstrand, speaking without notes, passionately described the critical threats Venice faced from mass tourism, flooding, pollution, corruption, and rising sea levels caused by climate change. Overtourism had turned the city into what he called a Disneyland attraction, placing an intolerable strain on its infrastructure.

The catastrophic 2019 flood showed everyone how vulnerable the city was to rising sea levels. Because the city and the lagoon depend on tidal flow to flush waste from the canals and prevent the lagoon from stagnating, the newly built flood barriers were raised only for the worst surges, leaving minor floods to bring water and waste into the city, and flooding low-lying areas like Piazza San Marco with increasing regularity. Overstrand concluded with a warning that sea levels were rising so quickly that only a more radical solution could avert a catastrophe. He was helping to fund a project to pump seawater into the sand beneath Venice, which would eventually raise the city above flood level.

Overstrand was a charismatic speaker, and Sandy was riveted to his seat by Overstrand’s passionate defence of the city he loved, which sparked in him a desire to help, though he had no idea how. Overstrand stayed to mingle with the audience, and Sandy lingered, hoping to meet him. The crowd parted for a moment, and Sandy seized the chance to approach him. At that moment, Overstrand looked straight at Sandy, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face before he recovered his composure.

Overstrand was more than a head taller than Sandy, and he had to look up as he began to speak. “I hope you don't mind me approaching you, Sir Robert. I wanted to congratulate you and thank you for your speech tonight. It means so much to hear you campaign for Venice. We mustn’t let it die. You’re an inspiration to us all. Please don’t stop. It’s vital, and I’m sure you will make all the difference. I wish I could do something to help.” Sandy stopped to catch his breath, and only then did he notice the broad smile on Overstrand’s face, which made his heart leap. Flustered, he blurted, “Sorry, sorry. I must sound like a star-struck fangirl.” Shit, he thought. Why had he said 'fangirl'? Overstrand must think he’s an idiot.

Overstrand reached out to shake Sandy’s hand. “Not at all. It’s always enjoyable to meet someone who shares my love of Venice.” Overstrand leant forward to look at Sandy’s name tag. “Alessandra Rossi,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Oh, no, no. It should be Alessandro. It sometimes happens.”

Overstrand smiled at Sandy. “An easy mistake to make, I think.”

Sandy blushed as he realised what Overstrand had meant.

“Rossi,“ Overstrand continued. “Very appropriate, I would say.”

“Sorry?” said Sandy, puzzled by the remark, and it took him a few seconds to catch on. “Oh, you mean my hair?” He had put his auburn hair into a half-up bun. If Harry Styles could do it, so could he.

“It suits you,” said Overstrand, and something in his tone made Sandy tingle. Overstrand glanced at his watch and said, “I’m sorry, Alessandro, but I have to dash. Give me your phone number, and we can discuss how you can help.”

Taken by surprise, Sandy somehow remembered his number, and Overstrand tapped it into his phone. “It was delightful to meet you. We can talk more next time.” 

Six

Sandy hadn’t expected to hear from Overstrand, assuming it was a polite way to avoid an overexcited fan. He was therefore surprised to receive a text from Overstrand’s PA a few weeks later. He was even more surprised to be invited to lunch at Overstrand’s London Club, and a week later, he walked down Pall Mall in London on his way to meet Sir Robert.

The PA had mentioned the club had a strict dress code. So, for the first time in ages, Sandy wore a jacket and a tie. He fretted over what to do with his hair. He had always worn it long, and he loved how it framed and softened his face. For a long time, he despaired of how wavy it was and tried to straighten it without success. He finally gave up and accepted it as it was. It gave him a somewhat androgynous appearance, and people had mistaken him for a girl a few times—something he found embarrassing, but, if he was honest, also exciting. He thought the half-up, half-down bun would be too bold and the ponytail too casual. Unable to decide, he let it hang loose.

He stopped at the front desk and asked for Overstrand. The porter directed him to the bar, where Sandy spotted him seated at a table, head down, phone in hand. Sandy walked through the bar, self-consciously aware of the curious glances from some of the men. Overstrand glanced up as Sandy approached, surprise crossing his face before he could hide it.

Overstrand stood and smiled as they shook hands, and Sandy tingled at the touch. “Alessandro, it’s so good to see you again. Please sit down. What would you like to drink? I’m having a gin and tonic.” Overstrand’s Yorkshire accent had softened at the edges, but he hadn’t lost it entirely. Sandy thought it added warmth and honesty to the man.

“I’ll have the same, please.” Overstrand waved to a waiter, giving Sandy a moment to study his host.

He was more than a head taller than Sandy, tanned and clean-shaven, with blond hair fashionably unkempt. His blue eyes twinkled, and laughter lines suggested a sense of humour. Although not exactly chiselled, his jaw was still strong, his lips full, and his teeth even and white. A youthful rugby accident had left his nose a little crooked, giving his face a rugged look. He wore an immaculately cut dark-blue suit, a white shirt, and a red silk tie. All this, and a billionaire, too, Sandy thought.

Overstrand turned back to Sandy and smiled, and as he had the first time they met, Sandy’s heart lifted. What was it, Sandy wondered, that made him feel like this? Sure, Overstrand was a very handsome man, but when he smiled like that, it did something to Sandy. It made him feel giddy, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. It was as if Overstrand were smiling just for him.

“I’m delighted to meet you again, Alessandro. I enjoyed our chat the other week and wanted to continue where we left off.”

“I’m sorry for gushing so much last time, Sir Robert,” he said, still embarrassed by the memory. “But I admire what you’re doing for Venice.”

“Don’t worry. We have to mobilise everyone for the cause.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks and said, “Sir Robert, your table is ready.”

Overstrand stood up and said. “Let’s take our drinks through to the dining room and talk more.”

Overstrand nodded to several people as he led Sandy through the dining room to their table. Sandy recognised a government cabinet minister and a Booker Prize-winning author. A well-known actor who had been ogling Sandy stopped Overstrand. As they exchanged a few words, Overstrand frowned at something the actor said. As they moved to their table, a waiter appeared and handed Sandy a menu. Overstrand waved the menu away, and Sandy assumed he knew what he wanted. Sandy scanned the menu anxiously, unsure what to order.

Overstrand saw his hesitation and leant forward. “I apologise, but it’s pretty much all public-school mush here. I can recommend the cottage pie and the rhubarb crumble. That’s what I always have.”

“That sounds fine. I’ll have that too, please.”

“Is a bottle of red OK?” asked Overstrand. “The house claret is perfectly drinkable.”

If Overstrand had set out to impress the already star-struck Sandy, he could not have done it any better. Sandy was charmed and flattered by the attention Overstrand paid him.

Sandy had been through a few unsuccessful experiences with girls in his teens, which confirmed what he had always suspected—he preferred men. He lost his virginity in a Travelodge to a silver-haired older man who had picked him up in a gay bar behind King’s Cross Station and plied Sandy with vodka martinis until he could hardly walk. He never saw the man again and never wanted another vodka martini as long as he lived. His long auburn hair, heart-shaped face, full lips, upturned green eyes, shy smile, and what one date had called his ‘beautiful bubble butt’ guaranteed him many Grindr dates, but most only wanted a one-night stand and a fuck. He quickly discovered he had a submissive nature, liked to take rather than give, and preferred older, more dominant men. He had daddy issues, according to one of his dates, something Sandy hotly denied. Maybe a bit too hotly, as if it had struck a nerve.

Another of his dates had begged him to wear lingerie during sex, and although initially reluctant, Sandy eventually agreed. Just this one time, he told himself. However, the first time Sandy slid a stocking up his leg and felt the caress of filmy knickers on his skin, he was hooked. After Sandy broke up with the man, he continued to wear lingerie, sometimes even beneath his male clothes.

He dated another man for a while, who took Sandy to a fetish club, where he made Sandy dress as a maid, a nurse, and an airline stewardess. On one occasion, the man had collared and leashed him while he watched Sandy have sex with several men. Sandy had found cross-dressing exciting, enjoying how it made him appealing to men and, occasionally, to women. It gave him a sense of power he lacked elsewhere in his life. He did some escort work for a time to help fund his university studies, mainly for married men afraid to come out. However, the sex was so cold and unfulfilling that he abandoned the scene, threw away his female lingerie, and focused entirely on his studies. All he ever desired was someone who would show him genuine love. Therefore, the attention he received from Overstrand felt like rain in a desert to Sandy.

“Why the interest in Venice, Alessandro?” asked Overstrand, breaking into Sandy’s reverie, while the waiter poured their wine.

“My family came from Venice, Sir Robert—”

Overstrand held up his hand. “Alessandro, please. Between us, it’s Robert. The whole Sir Robert thing is useful sometimes, like getting a table last minute at the Ivy, but not between friends.”

Sandy felt warmth blossom in his chest at the thought that Overstrand considered them friends.

“Okay, er, Robert. Most people call me Sandy. They find my name too difficult.”

“I think it’s a lovely name,” Overstrand said. “But why Sandy rather than Sandro? That would be normal, no?”

“At school, they said Sandro was foreign, so they called me Sandy, and it stuck. I quite like it, to be honest.”

Overstrand nodded. “It's a pity. I like Sandro, but from now on it will be Sandy. But please carry on.”

“As I said, my family came from Venice before they moved here. We went back on holiday every year, and I have always loved the city. I spent a year there to complete my degree and learnt to speak Venetian. I want to go back and live there someday.”

Overstrand smiled. “I have a place in San Marco on the Grand Canal. I’d love to show it to you sometime.” Sandy already knew that Overstrand had an apartment in London’s Eaton Square, another in the 16th Arrondissement in Paris, and a brownstone townhouse in New York’s TriBeCa. There was also a ski chalet in Gstaad, a villa on Santorini, and a small island in the Caribbean. Sandy could only wonder what Overstrand’s ‘place’ in San Marco on the Grand Canal would be like. He knew the area well enough to guess it would be impressive. Overstrand interrupted his speculation. “Your thesis is on Renaissance Venice and the Silk Road. Is that right?”

“Only a few thousand more words to write, and then it’s finished.”

“Have you reached any conclusion?”

Sandy paused before replying, hoping he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. “I don’t need to tell you, of all people, that Venice grew wealthy from its trade in spices and goods such as silk, glass, and porcelain from the East along the Silk Road. Venice’s position on the Adriatic, with easy access to the Mediterranean and the rest of Europe, was ideal. Its navy protected its standing against pirates and rivals, while its merchants built a sophisticated banking and transport system. However, less well known is that it was also a cultural hub between Asia and Europe. Ideas and art moved along the Silk Road. Over time, Venetian art and architecture embraced Eastern design styles. You only need to look at the domes of the Basilica di San Marco, a Christian church, to see the influence of Byzantine and Islamic design. The Venetians also extensively collected and preserved many pieces of Islamic art. I’ve discovered many unrecorded examples. It’s such a fascinating topic. There’s so much more to uncover, if I had…”

Sandy saw a look on Overstrand’s face and stopped talking. “I’m sorry. I get wound up like a clockwork toy, and I won’t stop talking until the mechanism runs down.”

Overstrand smiled, “No, it was great, Sandy. I love it when someone is that passionate. It has given me an idea, but we can talk after lunch.”

The waiter arrived with their cottage pie, and Overstrand said, “Buon appetito, Sandy.”

His accent was terrible, but Sandy smiled and replied, “Grazie, altrettanto, Sir… scusa, Robert.”

It felt odd to call him Robert, but it didn’t seem to bother Overstrand, who had the knack of making you feel like the only person who mattered. Sandy wasn’t sure whether it was Overstrand’s charisma, the wine, or both, but he was gazing at him, oblivious to everything else. Overstrand’s voice cut through his thoughts, making him jump.

“And what will you do after your PhD?”

“What?” Sandy snapped back to reality. “Oh, I mean, I don’t know. Take a holiday, perhaps. I want to return to Venice sometime, but I don’t have the money to do that now.”

“Maybe I can help,” said Overstrand. “What would you think about doing some work for me?”

Sandy looked at him in surprise. “Me? What kind of work could I do for you?”

The waiter interrupted them with the dessert. Once they had finished eating, Overstrand leant forward and said quietly, “Can you keep a secret?”

Overstrand had thrown Sandy off balance again, but, now convinced he would crawl across broken glass for the man, he nodded and said, “Of course, if you ask me to.”

”Good, let’s have coffee in the bar, and I’ll share something I think you’ll find interesting. 

Seven

Overstrand kept him waiting while they settled at a table in a quiet corner, ordering coffee and brandy for both. “Before anything else,” said Overstrand. “I must ask that what I tell you remains confidential.”

“Yes, of course, Robert.” Sandy would agree to anything to hear what Overstrand had to say. However, before he could speak, Overstrand looked up and scowled as the actor he had spoken to in the restaurant approached their table. Sandy heard Overstrand mutter under his breath, “Dear Lord, deliver me from this man.”

The actor leered at Sandy before turning to Overstrand. “Robbie, I was devastated to hear about Eleanor. My condolences. She was a lovely girl.”

Overstrand nodded his thanks, but his face betrayed his displeasure.

“Tell me, who is your pretty friend? Won’t you introduce me?”

“If you must know, Sebastian, this is Signor Alessandro Rossi from Venice, a guest of mine.” Taking his cue from Overstrand, Sandy stood to shake the actor’s hand.

“Delighted to meet you, Alessandro,” said the actor, not letting go of Sandy’s hand.

Sandy smiled and said something rapidly in Venetian, which he hoped the actor wouldn’t follow, even if he did speak Italian.

“Oh, that sounded so sweet, Alessandro. I do so adore Italy,” simpered the actor, finally letting go of Sandy’s hand. “And Italian boys are so delightful. Robbie, let me know if either you or your charming friend would like tickets for my opening night. I would love to see him again.” He leered at Sandy, then turned to Overstrand and said, with total insincerity, “I mean both of you, of course.”

Overstrand scowled and said, “Sadly, we won’t be able to take you up on your offer, but thank you anyway.” The actor left with a lingering look at Sandy.

“Obnoxious little man,” said Overstrand when he was out of earshot. “Eleanor loathed him, and I want nothing to do with him. Only my mother and Eleanor could call me Robbie, and Eleanor would have hated to hear him call her a girl.” His face clouded at the mention of his wife. “Anyway, he only came across because of you.”

“Me?” said Sandy.

Overstrand smiled. “You must have seen the way he looked at you, surely.”

Sandy blushed furiously. “Um, I mean, yes, no, I thought…”

Overstrand saved his embarrassment by asking, “By the way, what did you say to him? Was that in Venetian, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Mm-hmm. Roughly paraphrased, I told him that if he didn't let go of my hand immediately and leave us alone, I would have my Mafia friends slowly chop him into little pieces while he was still alive, run the pieces through a mincer, and feed the scraps to the fish in the Venice lagoon.”

Overstrand stared at Sandy for a moment, then threw back his head and roared with laughter, drawing glares from some of the other members. “My God, Sandy, that’s perfect. And the little shit didn't have a clue. Eleanor would have loved that.” Sandy grinned back, delighted by the comparison.

After looking around to make sure no one could overhear them, Overstrand lowered his voice and asked, “Tell me, have you come across a woman named Veronica Franco in your research?”

Sandy nodded. “Oh, you mean the Venetian courtesan? 16th century, is that right? I’ve read about her.”

Overstrand nodded. “You’re right, but there was so much more to her than a courtesan. She was also a poet and a remarkable woman for her time. There have always been rumours that she kept a diary of her affairs, but it had vanished for centuries.” Overstrand sipped his brandy, heightening the suspense. “Well, I can tell you it exists because I have found it.”

“How on earth?”

“I can’t say more now, but I have a proposal for you. If you like what I say, I will share the details with you, but only with certain conditions.”

Sandy was intrigued. “Conditions?” he asked.

“For one, you must be prepared to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Are you interested?”

Buzzing from the drink and from Overstrand’s attention, Sandy said, “Oh, yes. I would be extremely interested.” Overstrand smiled at him, and his heart skipped. Why was he reacting like this? Was it simply being in the company of such a powerful man? Or was there something more to explain the attraction?

“I need someone I can trust to translate the diary. I don’t understand Venetian, and I don’t have time to learn it. I won’t let the diary leave Wychwood, my house in Yorkshire, for security reasons, so you’d need to stay and work there. There would be a generous fee and free accommodation at Wychwood. The staff there would take excellent care of you. Oh, and, of course, a translation credit. It will be a sensation when it’s published. How about it, Sandy?”

Sandy didn't hesitate. It sounded like an opportunity too good to pass up.

“Yes,” he exclaimed. “If you think I’m the right person, I’d love to do it. It sounds exciting. Thank you, Robert.” Overwhelmed by the offer and by Overstrand’s charisma, he didn’t think to ask why he’d been singled out.

“Excellent, Sandy. I’m delighted,” said Overstrand. He glanced at his watch. “I have to run now, but my assistant will send you the contract and the NDA. It’s standard, so there’s no need to worry. I look forward to seeing you at Wychwood. My car and driver are outside. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Thanks, Robert. But I need the walk to clear my head. And thank you again for this opportunity.”

“It will be my pleasure, Sandy.” As Overstrand laid a hand on his arm, Sandy caught the scent of Overstrand’s cologne, a masculine blend of citrus, leather, and wood. Sandy closed his eyes for a second as an image of Overstrand wrapping his arms around him flashed through his mind. He opened them just as Overstrand said, “I like what you’ve done with your hair. I prefer it this way.”

Sandy’s face flamed at the comment and at what he had just imagined. He couldn’t look at Overstrand but managed to mumble, “Oh, thank you.”

Overstrand smiled before climbing into the back of the Range Rover waiting outside and said, “See you at Wychwood.”

As he watched the car pull away, Sandy felt bemused by what had just happened. He felt bowled over by Overstrand and the job offer, yet sensed a vulnerability in him, a sadness that needed soothing. Of course, he thought it natural to grieve for his wife, and that only drew Sandy more to him.

It only occurred to Sandy later that Overstrand had known the subject of his thesis, and he was sure he hadn’t told him. It meant Overstrand must have been checking up on him. Not surprising, Sandy thought, for a man in his position. However, he worried about how much Overstrand might have discovered.

The following day, he received the contract and the NDA. The agreement set out the fee, the accommodation details, and a substantial completion bonus. He whistled aloud when he saw the size of the package. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, nor did he want to. He skimmed the NDA, which seemed straightforward enough. In short, everything that happened at Wychwood was confidential. He was forbidden from disclosing anything without Sir Robert’s prior written approval. Even so, it all seemed reasonable to Sandy, so he signed both documents and returned them. He agreed on a start date after his PhD and returned to his thesis with renewed enthusiasm. A few months later, he arrived at Wychwood, nervous but excited to begin. 

Eight

Sandy had read only the first few lines of the diary when Mhairi came in with a tray bearing his lunch. He was delighted to see antipasti, a chicken-and-basil pesto salad, fresh fruit, a bottle of water, and a basket of bread rolls. He hadn’t eaten since leaving his flat that morning, and he remembered how hungry he was.

“Thank you, Mhairi. That looks perfect,” said Sandy.

Mhairi laid the tray on the table and said, “When you’re ready, press the bell on the wall, and we will collect the tray. By the way, Sir Robert suggested that, instead of dining alone this evening, you might like to join us for dinner in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Mhairi. I’d be delighted to join you if I’m not imposing.”

“Of course not,” she said. “Chef would like to know if you have allergies or dietary restrictions, Mister Rossi.”

“I'll eat anything, Mhairi.”

She frowned. “Sir Robert’s chef is extremely well respected, Mister Rossi. He brought her here from Italy. I don’t think you will have any complaints.”

He was embarrassed because she had clearly misunderstood him, and he hurriedly said, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean I’ll eat anything, although I will eat anything. Oh, I’ve made it worse, haven't I? I’ll start again. I mean, I don’t have any allergies.”

”We eat at half past seven when Sir Robert is not at Wychwood.” Mhairi said, still sounding a little frosty, “Please come to the kitchen then.”

After she left, Sandy, unsure whether he had made a poor start with Mhairi, pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The accommodation and the people who looked after him exceeded his expectations. Enjoy it while you can, he told himself; it won’t last long. All he had to do, he thought, was fulfil his part of the agreement.

After finishing his lunch, he pressed the bell as Mhairi had asked, and Samantha came to collect the tray. She was beautiful, he thought, as his eyes followed her, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to wear the maid’s uniform. He shook his head, told himself not to be stupid, and got back to his work.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed six. Surprised by how late it was, he stood up, winced at the ache in his back from sitting so long, and stretched. He decided he had made enough progress for the first afternoon and returned the diary to its lockbox. Veronica Franco’s handwriting was tiny and difficult to decipher, and there were many names and places he needed to research. He realised this might be a longer job than he had thought.

He retraced his steps to the bedroom and found that Samantha had unpacked his suitcase and put everything away. Wow, he thought. Is this how the other half lives? More like how the 0.1 per cent live, he corrected himself. He thought he had time to relax after a long day before joining the others for dinner. He lay on the bed, intending to stay awake, but his eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

A knock on the door woke him, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. The knock came again, and he called out, “Hang on.”

Yawning, he opened the door to find Samantha outside. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Allegra says dinner will be in half an hour. I’ve come to turn down the bed.”

He blinked in surprise and said, “You don’t need to do that, Samantha.”

“It’s no bother, sir. I did it for Lady Eleanor every night.” She leaned in and whispered, “By the way, sir, everyone calls me Sam. Only my mother and Miss Mhairi call me Samantha. But please call me Samantha in front of Miss Mhairi.”

“Sam, it is, then.” He yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand. "Sorry, Sam. It’s been a long day,” he said. “Where did you put my stuff?”

Sandy opened the door to the dressing room, and his eyes widened in surprise. It was more like a cavern than a closet. It was about the size of the bedroom, lined with shelves, rails, drawers, a small bench, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. There were racks and racks of shoes and boots: elegant heels, riding boots, trainers, sandals, and slippers. Designer handbags and unopened bags from London’s top stores were laid out on shelves, and coats, suits, dresses, blouses, sweaters, and exercise gear hung on rails. He pulled out one drawer, which contained nothing but unopened packets of tights and stockings. He found another drawer full of lingerie. He couldn’t resist touching the delicate silks and satins inside the drawer, and a tingle ran through him as his fingers slid across the fabrics. He heard Samantha cough behind him, and he quickly closed the drawer. He had to push such temptations aside. He was here to work.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it, sir?” Samantha said from the doorway. “I’ve turned down the bed, but I couldn't find your nightwear, sir.”

“Sorry. My what, Sam?”

“We always laid out Lady Eleanor’s nightwear on her bed every night. I’ll do that for you.”

Sandy frowned and said, “I’m sure I packed my pyjamas. I thought they were in my suitcase.”

“Don’t worry. I think I can help with that, sir,” Samantha said, flicking through a rail until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a pair of fire-engine-red silk pyjamas.

“I’m sure Sir Robert wouldn’t mind if you borrowed these for your stay. They are just like men’s pyjamas, and they are about your size, sir.”

Before he could move, she held them up against him. “Yes, they will be perfect. Especially with your hair, sir.”

He had worn a headband to keep his hair back all day, but had taken it off, letting it fall to his shoulders. Sandy blushed furiously, his face matching the scarlet of the pyjamas. “No, I can’t possibly wear them. I mean, they were Lady Eleanor’s.”

Samantha shook her head and said, “They are brand new, sir. Lady Eleanor never wore them. See,” she went on, “they still have the labels on them. She loved silk. Go on, see how wonderful it feels.”

She took his hand and held it against the silk. “How lovely is that, sir?” Butterflies fluttered in his tummy when his fingers slid across the soft silk.

“But”, Sandy stuttered, “but what would Sir Robert say?”

“Don’t worry,” whispered Samantha. “He doesn’t have to know. I won’t tell him. It will be our secret.” She winked at him. “I’ll lay them out for you so they will be ready for you when you go to bed.”

As she carried the pyjamas into the bedroom, Sandy stood there, wondering what had just happened. He shrugged. At least they weren’t pink. Anyway, he could always decide what to do when he came to bed. 

Nine

He walked down the stairs to find the kitchen. He had forgotten to ask where it was, and he had to try a few doors before he found the right one. One door he opened led to a formal dining room with an enormous table that could seat at least thirty people. Another door led to what he guessed had once been the drawing room, where the ladies would retreat, leaving the men to their cigars and port. Through yet another door lay an entertainment room with a snooker table, two enormous sofas, a bar, and a massive widescreen television mounted on the wall.

He finally found the kitchen at the back of the house. He thought he should knock on the door rather than barge in, and Samantha opened it, now wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

“Welcome, sir,” she said, with a dazzling smile. She was beautiful, he thought.

Mhairi looked over and said, “I think we can be more informal here, Sam. But only here. Anywhere else, it has to be formal. Will that be satisfactory, Mister Rossi?”

Samantha winked at him, and Sandy had to stifle a giggle.

“I think that’s perfect, Mhairi. Everyone calls me Sandy, by the way.”

Allegra emerged from the back of the kitchen, carrying a large dish of lasagne, and placed it on the massive wooden table in the middle of the room, set for the four of them.

“Ciao, Mister Sandy, I am Allegra.”

“Ciao Allegra, sono felice di conoscerti,” he replied with a smile.

She clapped her hands with delight. “Grazie, Mister Sandy.”

Allegra was middle-aged, small and dark. Sandy guessed she came from somewhere in southern Italy. Her dark hair was cut short, like a boy's, but she had warm eyes, was quick to smile, and was very Italian, spending as much time talking with her hands as with her mouth.

Sandy took a mouthful of the food and said, “Allegra, è delizioso. Grazie.”

Allegra beamed with pleasure. “Grazie, Mister Sandy.”

Mhairi poured everyone a glass of wine and said, “Welcome to Wychwood, Sandy. We hope you enjoy being here.”

“Thanks, Mhairi. You’ve all been so welcoming. I feel privileged to be here in your home.”

“Thank you, Sandy. That’s kind of you. We would like you to think Wychwood is your home, too.”

He thought it was a sweet thing to say, and when he took another mouthful of Allegra’s delicious lasagne, he forgot all about it. The conversation flowed between them, and Sandy was soon at ease with the three women. They had all worked for the Overstrands for some time, and their devotion to him was evident. They were the only staff in the house at the moment, but they told him that when Lady Eleanor had been here, there would have been at least two other staff members, with more hired if the Overstrands were entertaining. Gardeners came once a week to maintain the gardens, and Mhairi called in local tradespeople as needed.

Samantha asked Sandy how he had met Sir Robert, and he told them about their chance encounter and how Overstrand had asked him to translate the diary. He admitted he didn’t know why Sir Robert had chosen him for the job, but he had jumped at the chance. He noticed Samantha exchange a sly look with Mhairi, but he thought little of it. However, something was puzzling him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’ve not seen any pictures of Lady Eleanor around the house.”

There was an awkward silence, and he feared he had said something wrong. Mhairi eventually said, “There were pictures of her everywhere in the house before Lady Eleanor passed away. After that, Sir Robert took them all down. He said he couldn’t bear to see them any more. They are in storage, ready to be put back when he wants. We all miss her. She was a lovely woman. We hope Sir Robert meets someone like her to fill the void.”

Sandy nodded. “I think Sir Robert is a wonderful man. I hope he finds someone soon.”

Samantha sniggered before Mhairi shot her a filthy look. “That’s what we all hope, Sandy.”

Sandy thought there would be many women in the world willing to sell their mothers to become the second Lady Overstrand. But he kept the thought to himself. 

Ten

After dinner, Sandy offered to help clear up, but Allegra shooed him away. He yawned and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s been quite a day. I’ll have an early night, so I’m fresh to start in the morning. Thank you all. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, everyone.”

He returned to the suite, eager for some sleep, but as he came through the bedroom door, he caught sight of the red pyjamas lying on the bed. He’d forgotten all about them. No, he thought, he couldn’t possibly wear them. He would have to sleep naked, all because he’d forgotten his pyjamas. Which was odd, he thought, because he clearly remembered putting them in his case.

He yawned again and picked up the pyjamas from the bed, fully intending to put them back where they had come from. The silk felt so soft and sensuous under his fingers, reminding him of times he had worn it. As Sandy walked into the closet to hang them back on the rail, a flash of red in the mirror caught his eye. It was enough to make him stop and look, as if the colour had whispered to him. A naughty idea popped into his mind. What harm would it do to see what they looked like? He held the pyjama jacket in front of him, and his heart leaped as he saw his reflection in the mirror, his hair loose and tumbling over the red silk.

Could he? He shook his head. No, he couldn’t. Should he? Samantha had said nobody else would know, and the silk felt so seductive against his skin. What if he tried the top on? Only to see, of course. Then he would put them back on the rail. No harm, no foul.

He pulled his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor before sliding his arms through the sleeves of the pyjama top. The cool, soft silk brushed his skin, and goosebumps erupted on his arms. His fingers fumbled with the buttons until he realised they were on the opposite side from those on his shirt. When he had them done up at last, he looked in the mirror.

Sandy’s heart fluttered when he caught his reflection. The fiery red dazzled his eyes, and the silk flowed like liquid as he moved. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. How could a piece of clothing make him feel like this? It was only silk against skin, yet it tingled where it touched, and the sensation spread through his body.

Sandy picked up the pyjama bottoms and hesitated, his pulse racing as he held them, wondering if he dared to put them on. Somehow, deep down, he already knew he would. He undid his belt, and his jeans and underwear dropped to the floor. He kicked them away, then stepped into the pyjama bottoms. The soft silk sliding up his legs sent shivers of pleasure through his body. He pulled the bottoms around his waist and sighed with delight.

He looked back into the mirror and gasped at what he saw. For a moment, he didn’t recognise his reflection. It was him, but not him. His hair tumbled over his shoulders, and with his legs exposed by the shorts, he looked like a feminine double of himself. The silk seemed to flow, softening his body and making his legs look longer. He loved the way the silk sent tiny ripples of pleasure across his skin whenever it touched him. He struck a couple of poses in the mirror, giggled at how he looked, then yawned, a reminder that he needed some sleep. This was it, he thought. His moment of truth. Should he keep the pyjamas or sleep naked? It wasn’t even a fair contest. He looked at himself once more in the mirror, grinned, and walked out of the closet towards the welcoming bed. 

Eleven

At some point in the night, Sandy had kicked off the duvet, and he awoke feeling cold. He groaned when he looked at his phone, only to see it was 2 o’clock. The room was chilly, and he wondered whether the window was open. He tried the bedside lamp, but it wouldn’t come on. He picked up his phone, switched on the torch, and swung his legs out of bed, surprised to see he was wearing red silk pyjamas before his sleepy mind recalled what had happened earlier. He opened the curtains, only to find the window closed. A cold draught down the back of his neck made him shiver again. That’s odd, he thought. Where’s it coming from?

Then he heard someone call his name. He was sure of it. He stood still, head tilted to listen, but there was only silence. He shook his head, thinking that after such a long, tiring day, he must be imagining things. He turned away from the window to go back to bed when he heard it again. This time it was much clearer. Someone had called out his name. It was soft and gentle, but he was sure it had been his name. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and he stood still, straining to listen in the dark. The temperature dropped again, and he grabbed the robe Samantha had left out and wrapped it around himself.

He thought it had come from the dayroom, and he nervously eased the door open, his fight-or-flight reflex firmly on the side of flight. There was only a faint glimmer of moonlight through the window, and as he peered into the room, even with the help of the light from the torch on his phone, he couldn't make out anything. He tried the light switch, but this one didn’t work either. He clicked it a few times, with the same result. Probably a power cut, he thought.

Sandy let out a breath he hadn't realised he’d been holding, and as he breathed in again, he caught the scent of jasmine in the air. Weird, he thought. That wasn't there before. Then he almost jumped out of his skin as he heard someone laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through his body, and he whirled around, trying to locate the source of the sound. But it seemed to be all around him, in the air itself, or maybe even inside his head. It wasn’t a belly laugh, a chortle, or a guffaw; it was light, ethereal, secretive, and mysterious. It sounded more like someone sharing a joke with a lover in bed. Without knowing how, he was sure it was a woman.

His first thought was that it must be Samantha, but that would be ridiculous, he thought. He decided to check the corridor outside to see if anyone was there. He opened the door and looked left and right, but saw no one. As he closed the door, he heard someone softly call his name once more. At least he thought it was his name, though it sounded more like Alessandra. He looked again, but there was no one there. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re in a strange, new place and your mind is playing tricks on you. Just go back to bed and forget it.

He went back to the bedroom and stood on his book, the latest Commissario Brunetti novel by Donna Leon, which was lying on the floor, though he was sure he had left it on the bedside table. He must have knocked it onto the floor when getting out of bed. Still spooked, he got back into bed and lay awake for a while, trying to calm his heart rate so he could fall asleep again. He strained to listen for any more noises, but all he heard was a dog fox barking to its mate somewhere in the darkness. Soon enough, he fell asleep again. 

Twelve

Sandy sat on the terrace outside the library, enjoying the last of the evening sun before it dipped below the trees marking the boundary between Wychwood and the farmlands beyond. The sky was bruised with orange and yellow in the setting sun, and he could hear the rooks in the trees calling to each other. At first, it was only caws and screeches, but suddenly, as if he had been tuning a radio and found the right frequency, he could understand what two of the rooks were saying to each other.

“You stole my food.”

“Not my fault. You shouldn’t have dropped it.”

“It’s going to be hot tonight. I can smell it.”

“You’re an idiot. You said it would rain today, and it didn’t.”

“I hope that hawk doesn't come back. He scares me.”

“Don't worry. We’ll chase him away like we did last time.”

“That car nearly killed me today.”

“You're too fat. You should have moved faster.”

Sandy smiled to himself. They sounded like an old married couple.

“There's someone new at the house.”

Oh, Sandy thought, that must be me.

“So what? You’re just nosy.”

“I might go and check him out.”

Sandy must have lost the frequency again, because all he could hear once more was the cawing of the rooks. The light was fading fast as the sun dipped behind the trees, so he stood up, intending to go back into the library when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning his head, he saw a large rook on the ground a few feet away, staring at him. He was surprised by the bird’s lack of concern for his presence. Sandy waved his hands, hoping to scare the bird away, but it hopped back only a few inches, still staring at him, before letting out a few short caws as if it wanted Sandy’s attention. He watched, rooted to the spot, as the rook walked straight past him with the wiggling gait rooks have on the ground. It went a few feet further before turning to look back at Sandy, making clicking noises as if to say, ‘Follow me.’

The bird moved on, and to his surprise, Sandy found himself following it towards the house. It reached the library door, and to Sandy's astonishment, it hopped inside and waited for him to catch up. It threw back its head and cawed again, as if to hurry Sandy along, before continuing deeper into the house. Sandy followed the bird into the drawing room until it stopped in front of the fireplace and turned to look at him.

As he watched, the bird flapped its wings twice and began to grow, and grow, until, before Sandy’s astounded eyes, it morphed into a figure in a hooded black cloak. Sandy wanted to look away, but he couldn’t move and had to watch as the figure slowly raised both hands to pull back the hood. To his horror, he saw his own face emerge from beneath the hood, and then he was falling, falling.

He dragged himself awake, his chest heaving with fright as he struggled to control his breathing. Jesus, he thought, it had been a long time since he’d had a dream as weird as that. Did it mean anything? No, he thought, it was just a dream. That was when his phone began to vibrate on the bedside table.

To be continued