The Break-Up Retreat(10)

I remain standing in place, waiting as I hear her steps winding around the house, and then, sneaking a peak out the window, I see her back growing smaller as she walks the path back to the main building.

It’s only when she’s almost out of sight that I sit down on the floor, quietly, and unzip my bag.

I push past the rolled-up ball of underwear, the poorly folded T-shirts, and the plastic grocery bag full of toiletries, and finally I find what I’m looking for, hidden inside a knitted sweater.

Two hard rectangles.

My backup phone. And my portable recorder.

I exhale with relief. They didn’t search my luggage, after all. It was a rookie mistake, packing them in my bag; I should have snuck them into my socks, or the back of my jeans.

I can’t afford to make mistakes like that. Not now.

Up until today, it all seemed, still, like a game. Doctor Martina Hastings, the evil, beautiful queen; the Himlafall Clinic, a secret enchanted kingdom, full of dark and dangerous secrets.

But now that I’m actually here, it is all quickly becoming achingly real.

This is not a game. What I do in the next seven days might come to determine the rest of my life. If I pull this off, it could open up the world for me and ensure that no one else is ruined by this place.

But if I don’t . . . it won’t just be my name and reputation on the line.

After all, I wouldn’t be the first person not to return from Himlafall.

Taking one final look out the window, I pull out the recorder, turn it on, and begin speaking quietly into it.

“Arrived at the Himlafall Clinic. First impressions are of a beautiful place, full of beautiful people. Everything is perfectly tailored to set you at ease.”

I pause.

“The staff seems small. I’ve met two so-called caretakers. The information I had going in seems tobe accurate in that neither of them have worked here for very long. I can’t tell whether they have bought into the premise of the place. If they are true believers, or just here for a paycheck. Do they know about the bankruptcies, the broken marriages? About Susannah Wallin? I can’t tell yet.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, and I grimace. It’s a bad habit, and the skin inside feels raw and tender. I’ve been doing it too much, lately. Gnawing on my cuticles, grinding my teeth, my body manually breaking itself down from the weight of stress and anticipation.

“The doctor . . .” I begin, and then I realize I can’t quite find the words.

I can’t describe Martina Hastings, even to myself.

“I met Doctor Martina, too.” My voice sounds halting, unsure. “She is . . . interesting. A character.”

Alone, in this room that isn’t mine, this hostile place pretending to be home, the words that have been my comfort and my companions all my life are letting me down.

“I hope to find out more about her. I think she is going to be at dinner. My first session with her will be tomorrow.”

I turn the recording off, the click of the button too loud in the small space.

A sour taste fills my mouth, and I swallow.

“Welcome to Himlafall,” I say softly, to no one at all.

Maybe just to hear a familiar voice. To not have to sit in the silence.

To not have to wonder whether that sour taste is the taste of fear.





Chapter 6


I pull my sweater tighter around myself as I start walking. I’m the only one on the path; the other cabins are all dark, the windows all reflecting the pond and the woods. It’s like walking past a set of mirrors, each containing a slightly hunched, nigh unrecognizable version of me.

The smell does, indeed, reach me before the sound. The tart, crispy notes of fresh tomatoes; the smoky umami of frying meat; the thick, yeasty scent of bread baking.

The larger, barnlike structure at the end is the only one that is lit up. There is a long, low building in between the main house and the dining hall—staff housing, probably.

For a moment, I consider going in there, trying the door, trying to sneak a peek while everyone is at dinner, but I decide against it. It’s too early to get caught somewhere I don’t belong. If I get kicked out now, all this will have been for nothing.

And I will get access, later, anyway. If nothing else, I know that much.

As I approach the dining hall, I see that the doors are open, warm light spilling through them into the early evening; and I hear voices. A low murmur, short and halting. Music, playing softly; some kind of piano composition.

I stop and draw a deep breath, taste the pine in the air from the nearby trees. I can hear my heart thumping in my chest, feel my pulse in my lips.

I am Isobel Anderssen. I am heartbroken. I am miserable. I am here because I want to heal.

Exhaling, I switch on the recorder hidden deep in my pocket.

Showtime.

When I’m a few steps away from the doors, a figure appears, silhouetted against the light, and I stop, squinting.

“Come on in,” Belinda says, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Now that we’re all here, we can get going.”

She leads me in through the doors, her arm strong and firm around my shoulder. Reminding me that it’s too late to back out, now.

I blink as we walk in through the doors, my eyes adjusting to the light.

The ceiling is very high, upwards of twenty feet, and the interior very bare. There is a long table in the middle of the room, medieval-hall style, and Martina is standing at the end of it.