“Too late for what?” I asked, the alarm and dread I was feeling
making themselves at home in my stomach. I should have been getting
used to that by then, I know, but each new turn of events felt like a
new pit opening.
We all looked to Fiona, waiting for her to reply.
“I...” she started to speak, then stopped, mouth open, a heady
cocktail of confusion and frustration danced in her eyes. “I don't
know,” she said finally, “There's something going on with them,
something I can't quite get a grip on.” She paused, rubbing her
face, as if there were a film of dirt covering it, a film that
somehow blocked her senses. “Yes, I know,” she continued,
presumably in reply to her unseen accomplice.
“I don't know what they're up to,” she told us honestly, almost
pleading. “They weren't supposed to be here. Whatever it is
they're up to, it can't be good. We have to find them and stop them,
before they spoil everything.”
“Well if that's the case,” Edward said, dusting at his trousers
with the palms of his hands, “I'll go and look in the cellar.”
