"Mum! Oh, God, she must be going crazy!" All my happiness dissolved, just like that. I felt immensely guilty for forgetting about my mother in all of the relief of being alive and well and with Angus.
"It's OK, Sis, I spoke to her earlier. Marcus and Fergus phoned her before that, and gave her a bit of a cover story. I'll explain on the way down," he added pointedly, and indicated the antique wardrobe that stood against one wall of the bedroom. "Put some clothes on, please."
"I've got clothes on!" I said again.
"Yeah," he muttered, unconvinced. "Put more on." He turned and went to stand outside the door while I reluctantly stood up and went to look through the wardrobe. Angus stayed in bed.
"Can I wear some of these, do you think?" I asked him, surveying the collection of jeans and shirts and wondering how I was ever going to fit into them.
"Yes."
"Don't look, then."
"I may have to." He was smiling at me again.
"Right, then, I'm changing in the bathroom," I said, selecting a few items from the crowded rack, and dragged a leather belt from a shelf.
"It's probably safer," he agreed. I grinned at him and skipped out of the room, past Mark and into the bathroom. I dressed as best I could in those clothes, cinching the jeans around my waist with the belt, and rolling the cuffs up. I washed my face and brushed my teeth using a disposable toothbrush I found in the mirrored cabinet above the basin. Mark was waiting for me as I stepped out of the bathroom, and he explained what Mum had been told so far, as we walked together down the stairs and into the kitchen. It all sounded very plausible.
Marcus and Fergus were already sitting patiently at the large oak table that took up most of one half of the sizeable kitchen. They were drinking coffee, and discussing samples; of what, I wasn't sure. They looked up as we entered the kitchen, and smiled.
I was struck by their obvious resemblance to Angus, and then by the even more noticeable differences. They were very good-looking, beautiful, even, but in a different way to Angus. They looked tamer somehow, more refined. More civilised.
I smiled back, slightly nervous and said, "I need to phone my mother."
"Yes," said one, and they turned instead to Mark who rolled his eyes, and said, "You were right, she was in his bedroom." I felt my face blushing furiously as I looked in vain for a phone.
Mark grinned at me. "Through there," he said smugly, indicating a doorway that led out into a small hallway. I escaped from the room and spent five minutes talking to Mum, and reassuring her that I was unhurt. Just shaken up. And, no, I definitely did not want the police involved any more. Satisfied at last, she told me that she was off to work for a few hours now, and she would see me later that evening when I got home. I hung up, immensely pleased that she was taking this so well. My mother was a strange combination of bewildered nervousness over a titanium core. We'd all underestimated her.