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bushes.’
    ‘It is now, but this was the churchyard of St James’s. It’s not the one we’re going to look at. That one’s still standing. All that’s left of St James’s is this one gravestone. All the rest have fallen into the sea. So this is the luckiest man in the churchyard. Look, you can just see his name.’
    Ferelith traces her pointed fingertip across the letters, hard to read through the lichen, but still legible.
    ‘Robert Eyatt, Departed this earth, July 30th 1752.’
    ‘That’s in four days’ time,’ Rebecca says.
    Ferelith nods.
    ‘This year, maybe next. No more than three, and he’ll be in the sea too.’
    ‘That’s creepy,’ Rebecca says, but even as she says it, she finds it fascinating too.
    ‘I think it’s fun,’ Ferelith says, sensing Rebecca’s interest. ‘After a big storm, I run along the beach in the morning and see what I can find.’
    ‘Find?’
    ‘From the graves. I’ve found some amazing things over the years. I can show you sometime, if you like.’
    ‘Thanks,’ says Rebecca, but her voice is empty. Is this what she finds unsettling about Ferelith? Some foreshadowing in her, some foreshadowing of death?
    ‘Come on,’ Ferelith says, getting back to her feet. ‘This is the only grave of St James’s left, but there are still loads at St Mary’s. It’s getting dark, we should hurry.’
     
    They retrace their haphazard route through the undergrowth to the relative ease of the path. In another few minutes they come to the end of the wood. The path turns inland and joins the main footpath that the dog walkers use, and runs parallel to the cliff for a short while. Then it stops, and turns up a slight rise.
    Here, Ferelith ducks underneath some yellow tape strung across the path, preventing access to the churchyard. It’s the sort of tape police put around a crime scene; she’s seen her father with it, but this is not a crime scene. The tape has some writing on it, but in the dark she can’t make it out.
    Dusk has fallen, and the sun is out of sight beneath the horizon now. Still, there’s enough light for Rebecca to see the shape of a large church rearing from the ground.
    ‘This is St Mary’s,’ Ferelith says, ‘and it’s the best church in the world.’
    Rebecca doubts that. When she was little her parents took her to lots of places: Moscow, Venice, Chartres. So she’s seen some amazing churches and cathedrals and been equally amazed and bored by them all.
    ‘Really?’ she says, not that interested. They’re standing in the churchyard, and there are indeed plenty more graves around them. Ferelith glides away in the gathering darkness towards the front west door of the church.
    ‘Oh, you wait!’ she cries, and as Rebecca follows, Ferelith grabs the huge iron handle, and wrestles with it.
    ‘It’ll be locked,’ Rebecca calls.
    ‘No point,’ Ferelith says.
    ‘Why not?’
    Ferelith has the door moving now, and puts her insubstantial weight behind it, leaning with her shoulder to get it open. The door swings wide as Rebecca catches up with her.
    ‘That’s why,’ says Ferelith.
    ‘Oh,’ says Rebecca, unable to find anything smarter to say.
    She’s looking through the door, but she’s not looking into the church, instead, she’s looking through it.
    She’s looking through it, because the church has no back. She can see the nave, the aisles, there are even pews between the columns, and there’s a roof to the columns, but the whole eastern end of the church is missing.
    What she’s looking at is the last glow of light from the sunset, the dusky sky, some wisps of cloud, and an evening star.
    Where the pulpit should be, the moon hangs low in the sky, as if rising out of the sea like a bathing goddess.
    ‘Oh,’ Rebecca says again.
    ‘I told you,’ Ferelith says, and laughs. ‘The end fell away about five years ago. It’s been pretty stable since then, but they’ve stopped having services in here. Which I think is a shame. Because . .