Attack could come from anywhere. Rush from gorse, blackened by night, crouching at the valley’s rim. Sweep across open grass, coarse and parched. Swarm in changing shapes from a dense smudge of trees daubed across the east. Or fall from clouds gathered up like an armful of sheets waiting for the half-moon’s wash. At the edge, a steep drop. The dusty rubbled track tightens its arms around the waist of the hill. The moonlit stretch is empty. Beyond, the valley. A deep dark pit of nothing. The tower watches. The tower holds her.

There’s another door. She doesn’t remember it. Arched, so low she has to bend her head. Inside, a glow from a small lantern. She picks it up from the rough ledge, holds it in front of her. More steps. Narrow, they lead deep down, turn a corner. A black place she can’t quite see. She feels the way, lantern for light. Icy cold, damp walls, low ceiling. She doesn’t count the steps. Her back and legs ache for rest. Further down it’s colder still. The only sound, her teeth. The steps end. The space above her head opens up. She holds the lantern higher. It’s a small round chamber. The end of the line. Tiny cream candles flicker in crevices along the walls. The floor’s covered in soft earth and pine needles. It’s warm, delicious, a sleeping room, smelling of Xmas.

On her left, a small oak table and a chair with a brown leather seat. She walks over, soft fine earth dusting her bare toes. She sits in the chair and sets the lantern on the table. Her body eases, soothed by a sensation of sliding into a deep warm bath. The table top is rough and splintery. As she strokes her fingers over it, a writing book appears. Blood red, pure vellum. She bends her head over the cover, closes her eyes and smells it. The lantern burns brighter. She lays her palm on the book. Her fingers curl round a heavy fountain pen. Mottled dark blue, a shiny gold nib. She opens the book and touches the pen on the page. Words begin. She writes and writes, turns page after page until her fingers are stiff with pain. She’s no idea what she’s said. Only that she had to do it. She lays down the warm pen, rests her head on her arms and closes her heavy eyelids. There is no sound, no breath. No earth, no fear. She is heavy, safe, sinking.

A hand gently strokes her hair. Tingles the top of her head to the nape of her neck. She keeps very still. A voice whispers it’s time to leave. Slowly, she gets up from the chair, picks up the lantern and reaches down for her book. It’s gone. Pen too. The air turns colder, the ground harder. Her feet take her out of the chamber.She lifts the lantern above her head and scrapes her hand on the ceiling. Turning back, there are no candles, no table, no chair. A blackness. The steps lead her up. I don’t want to go, she says, I can’t go. She knows she has no choice. She heaves her legs up step after step, tears on her lips. She doesn’t look forward, doesn’t look back, only her sandals on stone. At the top the small door stands open. She squeezes through and stands for a minute, looks around her. Her cold fingers curl and uncurl, aching for the pen. The flame in the lantern blows out. She puts it on the ground. In front of her, the main tower door. Behind her, a bare stone wall. The lantern, gone.

She steps out of the tower. Sweat trickles down her back. She screws up her eyes against the sun. People have picnics on tartan rugs. Kites swoop and dip, show off across a clear blue sky. Children run around on the grass, called back as they get too close to the edge. She looks back at the tower, its heavy door, its turrets. The tower, watchful. The downhill path ahead of her. She passes a crow perched on a wire mesh bin. It jabs its beak at something. A piece of pure vellum. The words say The End.