The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall Page A

away before we’re marauded by the others. Catch Rachel while you can.
    Sylvia shimmies back over and smiles.
    I hope you won’t mind, she says. I wonder what you might think of an idea I’ve had.
    She gives a theatrical little pause, her eyes wide, almost dollish; she understands charm, enough to hold Rachel’s gaze a fraction too long, an act of harmless flirtation. There’s not a blemish on her face or neck to suggest hormonal disruption or regular partying. Up close she is copper-haired and lightly glossed; some subtle, translucent powder sparkles along her cheekbones. Her face seems enormous, a cosmic presence. Fletches of brown in the left eye. At whatever establishment she attends the men willno doubt be hounding her, while she tactically refuses. Rachel can see she is a powerful asset – deployed among the socialites, the local country; her appeal is immense.
    Can you already guess? she asks.
    She’s going to ask me if she can name them, Rachel thinks. She braces.
    Go on.
    OK. I’m taking a year out before law school, to recalibrate, which I really think will be useful, and I was wondering – well, I was hoping – that I could be on the project with you. I can’t imagine a more exciting thing than volunteering.
    There’s a pause, during which Rachel feels her impassivity slipping. This is the last thing she wants or needs.
    I’m desperate to be involved, Sylvia says. And I’m a really hard worker, aren’t I, Daddy?
    Thomas concurs.
    Oh, yes, she is. Terribly hard.
    They wait for Rachel’s reply. She has always been forgiven dead air in conversations, people assuming her to be ruminative rather than rude. Often her silence is followed by something curt or dismissive. But these are the Penningtons. Clearly the Earl has already sanctioned the idea or it would not have been mooted. Rachel tries to imagine the girl in shit-covered boots and overalls, hefting deer carcasses, gloving scat into a sample bag. It seems impossible. She is project manager, yes, but how far does her authority extend? Can this really be denied?
    Well, she says, that’s an interesting idea. I’m only just putting the team together, as you know. So let’s come back to it once things are underway.
    Rachel glances from Sylvia to Thomas Pennington. The stallis diplomatic enough, probably. The girl is clearly doted upon, indulged. But both seem happy with her response and are smiling. The doorbell sounds. Thomas Pennington excuses himself and takes a turn as greeter. Sylvia touches Rachel’s arm, her hand light as a nest, and takes up the conversational slack.
    I do think it’s marvellous what you’re doing with Daddy. He’s so excited. It’ll be good for him to have another project. He hates it when there’s nothing new. And it’s going to be amazing for the region. It’s about revitalising the modern British wilderness, isn’t it?
    Rachel nods politely. Depends on definition, she thinks. The girl is repeating her father’s sentiments, his rhapsody, almost verbatim. She is accent-less, clearly out-schooled. Perhaps the work placement is his idea. Good publicity, having his progeny working on the scheme, not slumming exactly but certainly getting down with the causes. Or is it some kind of punishment? Is she being kept close to home, for screwing, taking coke, substandard grades? Does the veneer mask high decadence? Surely the girl wants to be in London or New York, with her aristocratic peers? Not stranded here in the boondocks.
    Rachel watches her as she talks. But she talks without cunning, about biodiversity, the North Carolina Red Wolf programme, which she has read up about. The cynicism seems misplaced. Sylvia’s appeal is natural, unforced; there’s no venal whiff. She is, very probably, a country girl, for all the wealth and coiffure. She will have spent hours taking care of her horses or the estate dogs, taught to love this