Thorn by Sarah Rayne Page A

the landing back to her room, wearing only her dressing gown, when a stealthy movement on the attic stair caught her attention. She stopped, and looked up the shadowy stairway apprehensively. There was a moment of silence, and then a quick indrawn breath and a hesitant step. The slight figure of a girl of around Imogen’s own age, or perhaps a little younger – say fifteen or sixteen – came down the stairs. She had short, ragged hair and a triangular face like a cat’s, and wide, afraid eyes. She stood on the bottom step, staring fearfully at Imogen.
    Imogen smiled at her and said, ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry if I did but I didn’t know anyone was up there. I was just going to bed. That’s my room over there.’
    There was a moment of silence, and then the girl said, ‘Yes, I know. Only I thought . . .’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I thought you might be Matron.’ She stopped and made an urchin gesture of rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and sniffing back tears, or fear. ‘She don’t – doesn’t like me to sit on the stairs. She says it’s snooping. But it isn’t snooping; I like to watch people.’
    â€˜Well, I’m not Matron. I’m just staying here for a while. And I quite like watching people as well. Do you,’ Imogen paused, and then went on, ‘do you live here?’ There was no way of knowing if the urchin girl was a patient or one of the assistants. She looks a bit fey, thought Imogen. As if she might sometimes see things that other people don’t. She said carefully, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
    â€˜Quincy.’ It was as odd as everything else about her. Imogen wondered if it was some kind of nickname.
    She said, ‘I’m Imogen Ingram.’
    â€˜I know who you are, I saw you arrive yesterday.’ Quincy spoke with a London accent; not quite Cockney and certainly not what was these days called Estuary English. It might be one of the older strains of Cockney, one of the vanishing strains.
    â€˜I made a drawing of you,’ said Quincy, suddenly. ‘Last night.’
    â€˜Did you really? That’s rather flattering. Will you show it to me sometime?’ It was not quite like talking to a child, but it was not quite like talking to an adult either. Imogen was curious to know what kind of drawings this odd little creature could produce.
    â€˜Now? You could come now while everyone’s in bed.’ It was as if having confided about the drawing, Quincy had decided to trust Imogen a bit further.
    Imogen said, ‘Yes, all right.’
    The attic room was stuffy and very spartan so that Imogen wondered if Quincy was a helper here after all. But the drawings were astonishing; Imogen had never seen anything quite like them. She really does see things other people don’t, she thought, studying them with fascination. She’s romanticised me a good deal – all that hair. And my face isn’t that exaggerated heart shape either. It’s a pretty creepy drawing when you study it a bit closer: the way the curtains are drawn back so that the folds shape into a leery face, and the way the curtain tassels look like a clutching hand with talons . . . But she’s amazingly talented. Imogen looked up to meet the frightened-cat eyes. ‘Quincy, these are terrific. Have you been to an art school or anything?’
    â€˜Oh no.’
    â€˜Well, you should,’ said Imogen. ‘You ought to have proper training so that you could make a real career. Hasn’t anyone ever suggested it? Your parents or your school or anyone?’
    â€˜I haven’t got any parents. I didn’t go to school much. Dr Sterne said I should go to an art school, though. When he came to – the place I lived before.’
    â€˜Where was that? Where did you live?’ Imogen had asked the question without any intention other than that of ordinary friendliness, but to