'Fair?' he said, grimacing, loading the word with sarcasm. 'What is fair?  God does not deal in fairness; God commands.  You have no right to deny Them.'

'I do not believe I am,' I said, trying not to cry.

'You do not believe me,' he whispered.

'I believe you have been… misled,' I said, biting my lip.

'Oh, you do, do you?  You're barely more than a child; what do you know of God's Word?'

'Enough to know They would not ask this, not without telling me as well as you.'

'You vain child, Isis.  You have sinned against God and against your own Faith.' He shook his head and padded across the bed to where his robe lay.  While he slipped it on over his head I retrieved my socks, knickers and jacket.

'I think we ought to forget this, Grandfather,' I said, putting on my socks.  He looked about, then picked up the glass he had thrown across the bed.  He poured himself another whisky.

'I can't forget this,' he said. 'God can't, either.  I don't know if this can ever be forgiven or forgotten.'

I put on my jacket. 'Well, I think it would be for the best if we both forgot what's happened here.'

'You are a thief and a misbeliever, child,' he said calmly, not looking at me but studying his whisky glass critically. 'It is not in my power to forgive you.'

'I am not a thief; I am not a misbeliever,' I said, and then, despite myself, started to weep.  The tears stung my eyes and flowed down my hot, flushed cheeks.  I was furious at myself for behaving so girlishly. 'You are the one in the wrong; not me,' I said angrily, speaking through my sobs. 'I have done nothing; nothing wrong.  I am falsely accused and all you can do is try to… to have your way with your own grand-daughter!'

He gave a single scoffing laugh.

'You are the one who needs forgiveness, not me,' I told him, sniffing back my tears and wiping my cheeks with my knickers.

He waved one hand dismissively, still not looking at me. 'You stupid, selfish… foolish child,' he said, shaking his head. 'Get out of my sight.  When I look on you again it will be to accept your confession and apology.'

I sucked in my breath. 'Grandfather!' I cried, despairing. 'What is wrong with you?  What has changed you?  Why are you being like this?'

'Isis, child, if you can accept your guilt and answer it in front of me, before the Festival, you may yet be able to take your proper part in that celebration,' he said, still studying his glass.  He finished his whisky and then walked across the bed to the bathroom door; he opened it - golden lamp-light spilled from the open door - and closed it behind him.  I stood there for a moment, then wept a little more.  I stuffed the knickers in my pocket and left the room.

The sitting room beyond was unoccupied; one lamp shone on a desk by the drinks cabinet.  I took my boots and ran out, sitting to do up my laces on the top step of the stairs, by the light of a wall candle.  Sniffing and blinking, I walked down the stairs and out of the silent mansion house.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The sky over the courtyard was deep, deep blue, scattered with the brighter stars and enthroning a near-full moon.  The monthly Service to mark the full moon would be only a few days away now.

Voices came from the lit windows of the farmhouse and the sound of muffled hammering from the workshop by the forge.  Woodsmoke and cooking smells tugged at my attention, comforting and banal.  I walked across the courtyard cobbles in a daze.  My steps led to the archway facing the path that led to the river and the bridge.  I stood beneath the archway, with the Community around and above and behind me, gazing out across the lawn and the curving path that sloped down towards the trees that marked the line of the river.  Moonlight cast a faint shadow of the orchard wall across the path and reflected off the glass of the greenhouse on the other side.  I looked up at the dark swell of the hills to the south, piled against the indigo of the sky like a huge wave.

I could hear singing and the sound of a guitar coming from behind me, and childish laughter, far away, quickly gone.

A wind rustled the tops of the trees.  I walked down the path, not sure where I was really going or what I was meaning to do.  The path was dark under the rustling trees; over the river it was a little lighter again, and the old bridge looked deceptively solid and whole, bowed over the dark waters.  Beyond, a sliver of yellow electric light came from a curtained window of the Woodbeans' little turreted house.

I made my way to the middle of the bridge and then stepped gingerly across the holed timbers to its downstream edge.  I stood at the centre there, just behind the rusted iron shield that held the indecipherable coat of arms, facing east.  I put up my arms and held onto the rough, gritty-feeling surfaces of two girders, and watched the river.  It seemed solid and unmoving in the darkness, only the occasional muffled gurgle betraying its slow, untroubled current.  After a while I thought I could make out the faintest of watery shadows on the waters, as the moon shone through the bridge in the increasing gloom.  I could see it only when I looked away, and when I tried to see myself in that shadow - waving one arm slowly over my head - could not.

An owl hooted in the trees around the driveway and a car's engine sounded in the distance, the note faintly rising and falling as it passed unseen on the road.  A couple of tiny, quick shapes flitted under the bridge, barely glimpsed, and must have been bats.

'Oh God,' I whispered. 'Help me.'

I closed my eyes and stood there in the darkness, listening with my soul, trying to call up the clear, calm voice of the Creator, abandoning myself to the silence so that I might hear Them.  I heard: the river, like darkness liquefied, beneath me as it flowed; the owl, soft and distant and mysterious, a cry of hunting that sounded like longing; the susurrus of air shivering the branches, twigs and leaves; the far-away grumble of engine noise, dying on the wind.  I heard my own heart beat, twin-pulsed:  Is-is, Is-is, Is-is…

Images came, snatches of conversation, crowding, jostling their way to the front of my mind; Grandfather's body, Grandfather's voice.  I shook my head slowly, heavily.  My thoughts were still too noisy, drowning out anything else; I felt that God was there, that They were listening to me, but I could not hear Them.  For all that there was quietness and peace around me - the slow river, the hushing breeze - there was a furious torrent and a shrieking gale in my mind, and I would hear no word of God until they abated.

I stepped carefully back to the wooden pathway that zig-zagged over the bridge's corrupted timbers and walked on to the drive in front of the Woodbeans' house.  I looked up at the thin, toy-like house with its single small, cone-roofed turret.  The light I had seen earlier came from the sitting room downstairs.  I walked up to the door and knocked.  I still didn't know whether I was going to try to contact Grandmother Yolanda or not.

Sophi opened the door, surrounded by light, holding a book, her long fawn hair spilling over her shoulders.

'Is!' she said, smiling. 'Hi.  I heard you were… Are you all right?'

I could not speak; I tried to but I could not.  Instead I started to cry again; soundlessly, hopelessly, helplessly.  She pulled me to her, across that threshold, dropping the book from her hand and taking me in her arms.

'Isis, Isis, Isis!' she whispered.

Bonny, braw and big-boned, Sophi is my comfort and has been so for almost four years.  One day, I know, she will find the good, kind man she yearns for and go off with him to be wifely and have babies.  We shall be no more after that, and I hope that I am wise enough to accept this and make the most of the friendship we do have, for as long as we have it.  I have asked myself if I love Sophi and I think the answer is yes, though it is genuinely the love of a sister, not a lover.  I have asked her if she loves me and she has said she does, with all her heart, but it is a big heart, I think, and there will always be a place for others within it.  Perhaps I'll never entirely vanish from that place, but I know that my position there will one day be overwhelmed by that good, kind man.  I hope not to be jealous.  I hope she finds him, but I hope she finds him later rather than sooner.