Monica had been in the bathroom for close to an hour. Her hands were red raw from the cheap nightclub soap. The girl in the red dress had already been to the toilet twice, but Monica had soaped, washed, rinsed and dried her hands a hundred times between her visits.
It was raining when Myrdia reached the cottage. Big, thick clumps of water, like the heavens had decided to spit on her. The Goddess was spitting on her, Myrdia decided. She had decided to spit on her since the pilgrimage began. From falling in the gully to getting lost in the forest, it had been a disaster from beginning to end. She rapped the door three times, hard and fast. Anyone who lived within a hundred miles of the Temple would recognise that knock.
Leila found the rabbit hole by the great oak tree. As she approached it, it widened, and the girlish curiosity she thought she had abandoned overcame her. Ignoring her treasured tea dress, she climbed in.
When Lucy found Haven, she was absolutely rat-arsed. She’d been out all night, and then she and Michael had been fighting. Drunk, and dribbling kebab sauce down her front, she stumbled down a side street. She’d never seen that nightclub before, poking its dimly lit head out into the alleyway.