The Guesthouse. Abbie Frost

      

       FREE SAMPLER

      THE GUESTHOUSE

      Abbie Frost

       Copyright

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

      Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

      Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

      Cover photograph © Lee Avison/Trevillion Images (front and spine)

      Abbie Frost asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Ebook Edition (sampler) © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008329891

      Version: 2019-08-30

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

      Keep Reading …

      About the Author

      About the Publisher

       Prologue

      Hannah’s trainers skidded on the marble floor of the hall. She grabbed the wooden rail that ran along the wall to steady herself. Had to keep on her feet, had to get out.

      Running on again, she strained to see through drifts of smoke. Sweat trickled down her neck in the heat. Smashed paintings and blackened chandelier fragments littered the floor. And the huge front door loomed at the end of the hall, smoke coiling around it in the gloom. She fumbled back the bolts, wrenched it open and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. Paused to listen for any sounds in the hallway behind her; any signs of life inside the house. Flames crackled and the building groaned as it began to crumble and fall apart in the heat.

      Stepping outside, she pulled the door shut behind her, leaned against it and took in more clear air. The storm had calmed, but rain was still beating down onto the empty hillside that sloped away before her into the night.

      She went to the heavy garden bench beside the door, gripped the cold metal of an armrest and dragged it forward. Her muscles burned, the iron legs of the bench screeched against paving stones. Hands shaking, she turned to the electronic security pad beside the door and tried to key in the code to lock it. Hurry up. Hurry up.

      Then she heard something else, a noise that cut through the howling wind. Footsteps inside the house. Hard shoes beating against marble floor, coming towards the door.

      She turned and started to run.

      Down the long path, through the wide iron gates, groaning in the wind, and out into the green emptiness beyond. The grassy slope rose above, miles and miles of wilderness in all directions. She could still make it to safety if she moved quickly. Every step took her further from the house, its door still shut, and with every step she felt her mind becoming clearer than it had been in months. Thoughts of her mother, Ruby, came back to her then. Those shadows around her worried eyes. That look of disappointment that she couldn’t hide whenever Hannah failed, broke down or threw away a chance to make something of her life. Not even Ruby could save her now.

      A gnarled root jutting from the ground caught her foot. She stumbled, regained her balance, just stopped herself from falling. She began to cry and the wind whipped her sobs away into the empty bog. ‘Help! Someone help.’

      But there was no one left to help her.

      She scrambled onwards, her drenched trousers clinging to her legs, her shoes still soaked through with water. Flashes of memory from the last few hours began to flicker through her mind: dripping cold walls in the pitch-black guesthouse; her helpless body sinking through murky water, struggling for air, drowning. Water filling her nose and mouth. Limbs moving in the dark. Water churning. Screams.

      She glanced back over her shoulder, then ran faster, moving along a rutted track that cut through the bog and led down the hill towards safety. In front of her, a stretch of water blocked the path and she picked up speed. Leapt over the dark puddle but landed awkwardly. One foot slipped out from under her and she flew backwards. Slammed into the ground, her momentum carrying her onwards, slithering down through thick weeds and mud into a ditch full of icy water. She gasped, scrabbled at the earth around her. Let out another cry for help that nobody heard. Even she could barely hear it above the howling wind.

      Her leg was trapped. With each jerk she could feel her trainer being sucked from her foot, the foul-smelling mud clutching at her skin.

      Chin pressed into the ground, she dug in her hands and tried to yank herself free, but the icy water wouldn’t let go.

      She wiped mud from her face and stared back towards the guesthouse.

      It was a sharp silhouette against the grey sky. Flames bloomed from its roof and illuminated patches of marsh across the hillside. For a moment she remembered how the building had first appeared to her. Pale, stately and beautiful, surrounded by green, and framed by trees and the distant blue hills. As her breathing began to slow, she recalled her excitement when she first clicked on the web page and saw pictures of the guesthouse online. Its sweeping rooms full of dark-wood bookcases and roaring fires. Artistic shots taken on summer days of ivy-covered stone walls, windows glowing a welcome to visitors.

      The windows were lit up now too, but with sparks of red and orange. With fire.

      Was it her imagination or could she really feel the heat of the flames on her face? Hear them