The Edge of the Fall by Kate Williams

an idea.’ He grinned, his eyes bright.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜I want to find out about my father.’
    Her heart sank, but then off he went, talking nonstop. ‘Celia, I’m determined. I know there’s something there.’
    She breathed. ‘I know your mother said that my father is also your father. But he can’t be. I’d know . He wouldn’t have done that.’
    Tom split his scone with his hands, picked up the knife for the butter. She watched his movements, deliberate and slow, his long fingers, neatly pared nails. Then he looked up. ‘How do you know? He wouldn’t tell you. Why else would he have paid for my education? I think Rudolf really is my father.’ He gripped her hand. ‘Celia, you can help me.’
    She stared at him, felt his hand tight on hers. ‘Tom—’
    But he wouldn’t stop, he was talking again, his hands picking wildly at the scone. ‘There’s something there,’ he repeated. ‘I know it. I have to find out. You can help me. You can ask them at Stoneythorpe. You could find the records from then, the household records. There would be a clue in there! And a diary. Did your father ever write a diary?’
    That was it. She pushed back her chair. ‘Is that all you wanted? I told you, no! He’s not your father, he never could be. You wish for it, but it’s not true!’
    â€˜You don’t want to help me?’
    She shook her head violently. ‘No! Of course not!’
    â€˜Celia,’ he said, putting his hand out. ‘Sit down. Let me explain.’
    â€˜I don’t want to hear any more!’ There were tears coming, she could feel them at the sides of her eyes. She fought to push them down. ‘Is this the only reason you came for me? Why can’t you stop with this?’
    He was reaching for her hand. ‘Celia. Don’t talk so loudly.’ People were turning around. She could see a waiter coming for them.
    â€˜I’m going to leave.’
    His chair scraped as he stood up too. ‘Celia. Don’t.’ The people around them were openly staring now, as if Tom and Celia were putting on a play for them.
    â€˜Your mother lied. Why can’t you face it?’ She turned, hurried to the exit. A waiter, wordlessly, disapprovingly, passed over her coat and hat. She flung them on, ran into the street, turned and hurried away, barely knowing where she was going, but going fast, so that he couldn’t catch her.
    As she walked out towards the theatres of Shaftesbury Avenue, she saw a cab approaching and ran to catch it. ‘Waterloo, please,’ she told the driver. It would eat up practically the rest of her allowance for that week, but she didn’t care. She sat back in the coolness of the taxi, stared out of the window, felt hot, red thoughts dash across her mind.
    On the next day, she travelled up to London as normal. But atWaterloo she took another train, didn’t head west to Hammersmith, but up again to Covent Garden. She got out at the same station, and walked the same route that she and Tom had taken the night before. At the door to the hotel, she leant against the peeling gold paint and put her hands over her face, let the tears fall.
    â€˜Miss Witt.’ Celia looked up into Miss Trammell’s face. ‘What exactly is this?’
    Celia looked down. The flowers were broken. She’d been shredding them with her hands, not realising. Her mind had been full of Tom and Rudolf and Louisa – it was only a few weeks since she’d seen her cousin. She had forgotten she was even at Miss Trammell’s class. She gazed up at the woman’s thick glasses, the powder gathering in the creases of her face, the bun at the back of her head that never let a hair go free. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Trammell,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
    â€˜But this is a whole bunch of flowers that you’ve spoiled, Miss Witt. Do you