The Midnight Feast

by Lucy Foley

But here among the trees, hidden from moonlight and starlight, it is as if the modern world is the fairy tale: other and strange.

The old man doesn’t pay it any attention. He doesn’t pay it any attention because he is dead.

The vibe is relaxed, albeit spiced with a faint note of social competition.

“The Manor Mule”: grapefruit, ginger, vodka, and a dash of CBD oil—that stuff seems to be in everything here.

when you have no real difficulty in your life you end up creating your own.

Black opal signifies purification for the body and soul, did you know that? “Not that you need it,” my new husband, Owen, told me. Oh, and it provides you with a shield against negative energy.

Another thundering of bass, just as I hang up. And whoosh—a flame of pure rage leaps up inside me so fast it leaves me breathless. No Francesca. Inhale. That’s not who you are. You are so much bigger than this. Reach for the light. Find the still place. Exhale.

The questions I’ve been asking myself since I first read about the opening of The Manor come to me again. Who sent me that article? Why? And more importantly, most important of all: what do they know?

“You must keep the birds happy,” he kept saying. “Don’t upset the birds.” Over and over like that. Such a shame: he once had such a great mind.

“But it’s the one . . . it’s from when we found him, isn’t it? The one that was on the desk.”