Edward looks at his watch, then back into the dim hallway, light and movement visible at the end of the corridor. ‘We’re late,’ he mumbles. ‘They probably just can’t hear us.’
It’s my fault we’re late. I had no idea what to wear, and I don’t mean in the usual sense. I mean I genuinely had no idea what to wear to a Krampusnacht.
After another minute, the front door flies open in front of us revealing a beaming Fiona.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ she cheers merrily, and through another doorway along the hall Oliver appears, a bottle of red in hand and a smile on his face.
‘Hello, strangers,’ Oliver bellows, clearly making an extra effort. It seems to settle Edward. In all of my own, very particular terror about tonight, I had forgotten that Edward is the prodigal son. Oliver pulls him into a hug before bending to plant a quick peck on my cheek. ‘Shoes off, both of you,’ he orders us merrily. ‘You definitely know the rules by now, Ed. No excuses.’
I look between the brothers, an easy filiality beginning to settle in alongside both parties’ hypervigilance. Fiona places a reassuring hand on my arm.
‘You told Harry about the shoes, right, Ed?’ Fiona asks, half teasing, half concerned.
‘He did,’ I say, answering for him as I slip mine off, as instructed, and into the immaculate row. ‘Yeah, we have to leave them out for Krampus,’ I say with a smile, as if Krampus were the milkman and not a seven-foot-tall deformed goat-demon. ‘Right?’
‘She’s got it,’ Oliver replies, winking in such a mock-theatrical way I can’t help but laugh.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Fiona tells me, and there’s a hint of apology in her voice as she takes me conspiratorially by the arm and pulls me towards the kitchen.
‘I know you’re not drinking,’ Fiona whispers, with a level of knowing that slightly concerns me, ‘but I have something you might be interested in seeing in the kitchen.’ She raises an impish eyebrow that suggests to me there is food involved and I follow gladly, looking back just in time to see a relaxed Edward follow Oliver into the party.
My appetite has sky-rocketed over the past week, but whether this is eating for two or I’m just making up for the nausea and loss of appetite of the preceding weeks, I do not know.
‘How much has Edward told you about tonight?’ Fiona asks.
‘Not much – just hide and seek, costumes, masks, that kind of thing,’ I say lightly, my mind on the room Edward just walked into and the prospect of whether or not Robert Holbeck is in it.
‘Okay. Well, listen,’ Fiona tells me, slowing us down to a halt. ‘I don’t want you going in blind tonight. My first time, Oliver thought it would be hilarious not to tell me anything at all, so I almost had an aneurysm when it all kicked off. Not that it’s that bad. It’s fine,’ she adds quickly, catching my expression. ‘I’m probably just a scaredy cat. And I wasn’t expecting it. Anyway,’ she says brightly, pulling me along again.
The kitchen is a massive stone-floored affair with a large provincial farmhouse table and Le Creuset-lined shelves. Hired caterers and chefs bustle about the space, transplanting beautifully crafted savoury creations onto small dishes and shucking fresh oysters over at the sink.
The air is filled with the fresh scent of salt and sea, and the aroma of something sweet baking. My hunger dips into a groaning ache just as I catch a face I recognize bent over by the range cooker.
Lila looks up from the tray of blood-red cookies with a broad smile, her cheeks rosy with the kitchen heat, her hands stained red by the dough. ‘Hey, Harry!’ she calls, sliding her cookies into the oven. ‘You made it.’ She gives me a gooey-handed wave. ‘I’m making Krampus cookies,’ she grins. ‘Pretty weird, right?’
‘Krampusnacht? Sure is,’ I agree. As is the thought of having to see Robert Holbeck and pretend I’m normal and he’s normal, I secretly think. ‘Is this your first Krampus too?’ I ask Lila as Fiona busies herself with the kitchen staff.