They pile into the cable-car station, finding the carriage near the top of the volcano, having just started its journey back down. Forks of lightning are striking the carriage, the gale batting it this way and that.
It’s moving agonisingly slowly.
‘Nothing is what it looks like,’ says Emory, struggling to connect her suspicions to facts. ‘From the beginning, the idea that somebody was trying to cover up the crime never made sense. It was all too clumsy, too easy to pick apart. We know Adil started the fire in the warehouse, but why did he light it so far away from the body he was trying to destroy, and why would he trust it to spread knowing there was heavy rain coming? What if the fire was never supposed to reach Niema’s body? What if Hephaestus’s machine was supposed to be found in the bay? Adil planted evidence among the circuitry, then dragged it down the pier, dumping it exactly where we’d find it, knowing we’d immediately assume it was the murder weapon. Everything was designed to point towards a murder that had been clumsily covered up.’
‘Why go to all that trouble?’ asks Clara.
‘Because no villager ever would,’ Emory says, almost laughing at the cruelty of it. ‘Under the most extreme circumstances, a villager might have committed the crime, but we’d never try to cover it up. We wouldn’t know how.’
‘Is that a long-winded way of saying you think Adil killed Niema?’ asks Seth. ‘Because I think we’ll struggle to get a confession out of him.’
An agonising scream echoes from outside the village, only to be brutally cut off.
‘Was that Thea?’ asks Clara pityingly.
‘I think so,’ says Seth.
Emory looks through the gap at the back of the station, gauging the progress of the cable car. It’s less than thirty seconds away.
She runs to the door, watching as the fog squirms through the windows and doors of the barracks with terrifying speed.
There’s something alive about it, she thinks. It’s like it’s sniffing for us.
The cable car thunks into the station and they spring in one after another, Seth pushing the lever to get them moving again.
The carriage wobbles, then lurches upwards as the fog comes rolling into the station.
‘It’s getting closer,’ screams Clara.
‘Don’t worry, we’re picking up speed,’ says Seth, having to hold on tight as the wind knocks the carriage from side to side.
Higher and higher they climb, away from the fog. Emory pokes her head out of the window, seeing it rising like a sea beneath them.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘We’ll –’
The cable car stops dead.
SEVENTY-FOUR
From the cable-car platform at the top of the volcano, Magdalene watches the carriage sway powerlessly far below, the fog climbing towards it.
She returns her stare to the junction box.
‘I don’t know what a loose connection looks like,’ she says, pleading with me.
‘It’s just a wire that’s not connected to anything,’ I say. ‘Prod everything, until the wheels start to move again.’
Frazzled, she does as I say.
SEVENTY-FIVE
The fog is curling in through the front windows of the carriage, and crawling across the floor. The spores are burning bright, eager for their prize.
‘On the roof,’ demands Clara, intertwining her hands to form a step.
Her mother glances up nervously. ‘I don’t like heights very much,’ she says.
‘Of everything to be afraid of today, that’s probably at the bottom of the list,’ replies Seth.
Steeling herself, Emory scrambles up onto the roof, only for the cable car to lurch in the wind, causing her to almost slide off the edge, before she grabs hold of the hook.
‘Mum!’ cries out Clara.
‘I’m okay,’ she calls down from the roof, extending a hand to help Clara up.
Clara swings herself up nimbly, and the two of them pull Seth onto the roof only seconds ahead of the encroaching fog. The rain’s swirling in great sheets around them, while thunder tries to tear the sky in half. Forks of lightning are striking everywhere at once, carrying the storm clouds across the island like a millipede.
‘We were so close,’ says Seth, staring wretchedly at the distant shape of the cauldron station above them.
Emory’s eyes are squeezed shut, reliving a forgotten memory, imagining things she never knew. She’s thinking about boats and blood and a night nobody can remember, its pieces scattered everywhere, waiting to be found. She’s raking over the details of the last few days, trying to see things overlooked, things she thought unimportant.
Clara wraps her arms around her. ‘I love you, Mum.’
Emory doesn’t hug her back. She’s sunk in herself. What does she know? And what does she only suspect?
‘There were no signs of restraint,’ she mutters, under her breath. ‘No bruises, no injuries beyond the wounds.’
‘Mum, please,’ pleads Clara, watching the fog rise past the windows of the carriage. She’s desperate for a comforting word, anything to ease her fear.
Seth places the memory extractor on his head, immediately drawing Clara’s attention.
‘What are you doing, Grandfather?’
‘We know there’s a route from Blackheath to the lighthouse,’ he says. ‘I could have gone there and killed Niema after we put Hui in that bed. That would explain why the plant was able to take a chunk out of my ankle. Niema wasn’t alive to warn me about the defences when I left the lighthouse.’
‘Then how did you end up back at sea?’ demands Clara desperately.
‘I don’t know,’ he declares. ‘I don’t even know if I was capable of murdering Niema, but I had a reason. I was there, and that’s the best we’ve got.’
Before she can argue any further, he reaches for the switch.
SEVENTY-SIX
Up in cauldron station, Magdalene touches a red wire to the connector, hearing the shriek of wheels stirring into life.
Her smile lasts only as long as it takes for the entire board to short, sparks of electricity leaping out at her.
‘What happened?’
‘Fuse blew,’ I say. ‘There’s a spare in the crates. Hurry!’
SEVENTY-SEVEN
The carriage jerks into life, only to stop again abruptly, sweeping Seth’s legs from underneath him, sending him sliding towards the edge.
Clara catches his hand.
His feet are dangling inches above the burning glow of insects.
She drags him back up to the centre of the roof, as tendrils of fog feel their way over the sides. His hand reaches for the memory extractor once again.
‘Grandfather,’ pleads Clara.
‘If I’m guilty, my death will end this,’ he says. His fingers have just touched the memory extractor, when Emory knocks his hand away.
‘Don’t,’ she cries.
‘There isn’t time for sentiment, Emory. We know I was there that night. I’ve got the bite on my ankle to prove it.’
‘This isn’t sentiment,’ she says sternly. ‘Don’t do it.’
‘Emory –’
‘For once, in your life, believe that I’m good at something,’ she says imploringly. ‘After you helped us take Hui to Blackheath, you probably rowed back to check on Niema. The defences were up and you got bitten by one of the flowers. You staggered back to your boat and fell asleep.’