The girl held Florence’s gaze for five seconds. Her expression changed from surprise to interest and she tilted her head, quirking a finely-shaped eyebrow.

Several thoughts flashed through Florence’s head: how stupid she must have looked when she stumbled backwards; how embarrassing it was to be caught peeking into someone’s car; and how pretty the girl’s eyes were.

A gust of wind drove the rain into her face as she stood there frozen. Cold droplets splattered onto her cheeks and down her neck. The stinging chill brought her back to her senses.

This girl was an Outsider.

She turned, grabbing Elliot by the arm, “C’mon, let’s go.”

“What’s wrong?” His voice came out muffled because the mackintosh collar came up to his nose.

“There’s somebody in the car. No, don’t look – can you not be so embarrassing?” She said, not knowing if it was to him or to herself that she was speaking as she dragged him down the road. The wind changed directions again, howling against their backs and driving them away from the school.

“Who was in the car?” Elliot asked, his voice raised over the rustling of his waterproofs and the thrumming of the rain.

“How am I meant to know?”

“Was it a man or a woman? Young or old, Flower?” He said in the kind of voice reserved for adults talking to very small children.

“It was a girl.” Florence gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to thump him (he still wasn’t as tall as her, but his growth spurt over the summer put them on a level playing field and she wasn’t entirely sure she would succeed.)

“Oh.”

The main road was deserted. A solitary cyclist beetled past the empty sheffield stands where normally dozens of bikes would be locked, their poncho whipping wildly in the torrent of rain. The cloud cover was so thick that the street lamps were already on, and most of the shops had closed for the day – little paper signs posted on the doors apologising for the inconvenience.

At the housing estate, the concrete paths had turned into rivers and the gutters on the houses were overflowing, water cascading down the pebbledash walls. Florence said goodbye to Elliot and circled round the terrace, pushing open the back garden gate. She stripped off her dripping jacket and kicked off her wellingtons in the utility room, and shivering from the cold, ran helter-skelter upstairs to change into dry clothes.

By next morning, the rain had burnt itself out. When Florence opened her curtains after breakfast, the sky was an opaline white. In a good mood, she glided downstairs, jumping down the last three with a twirl, her school bag swinging on her shoulder. “Is the weather meant to last?”

“Weather forecast said so.” Her mum said, carrying a stack of plates to the kitchen.

“Did you get the candles? If the weather’s still good after school, I’ll go deliver them.”

“Ah, could you? That would save me the hassle. They’re over there in the cupboard.” She gestured with elbow as she was washing up.

Florence dug around in the cupboard before finding the box of candles and forcing them into her bag.

“Right, I’m off!” She slung her bag onto her back, the extra weight pulling her backwards and a faint scent of wax surrounding her. Giving her mother a hug, she bounced out the door, earlier than she usually would, but she didn’t know what Mr. Ackley would do to them if they were late again.

It seemed Elliot also didn’t want to test Mr. Ackley’s ability to torture them with sleeping pattern advice as he was ready and waiting for her to arrive.

“What miracle is this?” Florence said in amazement (half pretend, half real).

Elliot shrugged, “The internet was down last night – too much rain.”

The air was damp with water. Puddles on the main street flooded great patches of road, sometimes deep enough that it lapped up against the pavement. Students snaked up the street mixing with early morning shoppers out in full force, bike stands full of propped-up bikes.

Amid them all, the car from yesterday stuck out like a sore thumb. Parked outside the Mayker’s Arms– a low, squat building despite having two floors – the car drew a suspicious look from the old man leaning against the walls. The pub, windows the distinctive bullseye glass and nothing but bare soil in the flower boxes, was the gathering point for all the crochety old farmers in the village – and also the only accommodation.

Florence elbowed Elliot and the two of them crossed the road to the car. They nodded at the old man in a flat cap who threw down a warning glance before turning away – obviously he couldn’t be bothered with ‘meddling kids.’

Looking meaningfully at Elliot, Florence sidled up the car.

There was no one inside. She squashed the little disappointment she felt. It was best to have as little contact with Outsiders as possible.

Meanwhile, Elliot circled the car, pretending to have dropped something in an hilarious display of acting skills.

“Find anything?”

“Yeah, the owner likes cars – the outside’s so shiny it could be a mirror. I bet he cleans it at least once a week. It’s a pity they came here.”

Florence rolled her eyes.

“There’s also a map on the front passenger seat. I don’t think they’re from around here, but they know about the area.” He said thoughtfully. The built-in sat-nav had caught Florence’s eye; things like that didn’t work in the valley.

“Whatever.” It would be best if the maps disappeared, too; then random Outsiders wouldn’t be able to find their way here.

“Hey, why’re you looking at our car?”

They whipped around. Florence slipped slightly on a treacherous cobble, her rucksack throwing her balance off and she wind-milled for a minute before finding her balance.

The girl stood in the pub doorway. Florence’s face burned. Again. Each meeting had been an embarrassment.

She hadn’t seen the girl very clearly through the car window yesterday; she had a round face, big eyes and warm tawny skin. Her hair – so black it gleamed blue – spilled around her shoulders, and she ran a hand through it as she looked at them.

The old man puffed on his cigar, sizing her up, then spat on the ground and shuffled away. Florence thought the girl would be shaken, or at the very least taken aback, but her expression hadn’t changed. At the same time she was sizing the girl up, the girl was sizing her up.

“I saw you. Yesterday.” She said. “You were looking into my dad’s car.” She peered behind them at the Audi A7, continuing as if she didn’t think it was at all irregular for two strangers to look into her car, “Are you particularly interested in them? I haven’t seen many around here.”

Of course there weren’t many cars around – everybody lived within a ten minute bicycle ride of the main street. Florence threw her a contemptuous look; Elliot remained impassive. The girl didn’t speak again and the silence between them stretched into awkward territory.

A call came from inside the pub. Florence couldn’t make it out exactly, but it sounded like a name. The girl turned, her head inclined, then she replied with an okay before facing them again. “Well, I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

She disappeared back into the pub. Her smile was dazzling.

“Are we going?” Elliot asked, jerking Florence out of her daze.

“Yeah, come on.”

After a mad dash (that made Elliot cough like a thirty-year smoker), they arrived at their form room one minute before the bell rang. Mr. Ackley pursed his lips, but said nothing – to their relief.

The good weather persisted through the day and by the time they left school it was only slightly darker than midday. Florence grinned. “Want to go to the Hill?”

“Sure.” Elliot shrugged, less than enthusiastic.

He didn’t like the Hill very much.

They cut across the school playing field, avoiding the boys playing football, and turned down a narrow dirt lane that led them diagonally away from the main road. Their footsteps startled the birds in the overgrown hedges – kept in check by the occasional tractor that passed through – and sent them rocketing into the sky with cries of alarm.

After ten minutes the rusted kissing gate at the end of the lane appeared. It squealed when they passed through – Florence first, Elliot behind.

Before them stood the Hill. It was the only feature of geographical significance in the village itself, but only because everywhere else was flat. Ten metres high, the gently rising grassy slopes made it more of a mound, but Florence had named it when she was seven. There were no trees or shrubbery of any kind on the Hill to allow an uninterrupted view of the Shrine at the top.

Florence hopped up the path, the straps of her bag cutting into her shoulders, heading for the building. Elliot panted along, three paces behind and growing.

Everyone called it the Shrine, but that wasn’t what it was. Not really. The Truth didn’t need to be enshrined – it was lived in their daily lives.

Nevertheless, there existed the Shrine.

A square pavilion made of slate, it had no windows and only the side open to the elements let in light. The flagstones were worn from the generations that had stepped across the same floor to peer at the stacked stone tablets inside. The very oldest leaned crooked against the walls, their engravings so faint you had to trace them with a finger to make out the names; the newer stood upright in full view, taller than Florence. She approached the fourth tablet from the left, her eyes landing on the lower middle section before zeroing in on Florence Slater.

Florence never tired of finding her own name on the stones, nestled below the names of her parents: Lynn Slater; Cassandra Slater.

Elliot stumbled in, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. He stared at the ceiling, not sparing the tablets a glance. But his name was there.

Everyone’s was. Engraved somewhere.

There was a small table by the entrance, squeezed in between a tablet from the 16th century and the wall. A metal box – usually filled with white candles, but empty today – a box of matches and a row of spiked candle holders, greasy with soot and wax residue, were the only things on it.

Florence dumped her bag on the ground, dug out the box of candles that had been buried under a day’s worth of school and carried it over to the table. After refilling the box on the table, she took one and stabbed it onto a spike. The matches proved trickier – rain from yesterday had dampened them – but she got one lit in the end and held it to the wick of the candle, melting the wax until it took. Blowing out the match, she threw it in the empty brazier under the table.

She watched it burn.

To the Truth.

The small flame washed Elliot’s face with a warm glow. He pursed his lips, looking away with slightly wet eyes.

They left the pavilion, sitting on the bench outside in silence. Florence could see the candle flickering in the frigid breeze. Elliot still didn’t say a word. He’d been a bit funny about coming to the Hill since two years ago. She had no idea why. Thinking back on it, it started about the same he insisted on going to the Abandoned Houses.

“Hey.”

Florence almost fell off the bench. She twisted around to see the girl standing behind her, grinning. Irritation puckered her forehead: this was the third time and she didn’t appreciate the way her heart rate kept spiking to 120.

“We meet again.” The girl walked around the bench to stand in front of them.

Florence rotated her neck like an owl to keep her in view.

When the girl seemed certain that they wouldn’t answer, she continued, “It’s a nice spot, isn’t it?” She gestured sweeping grass that fell off gently to the surrounding fields and houses. She held out a hand, “I’m Ada by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Neither Florence nor Elliot moved.

“Aha ha, I heard that there were some interesting local customs here,” Ada said, withdrawing her hand unabashed.

Did she think they didn’t shake hands in the village? Florence raised an eyebrow at Elliot.

With a deadpan face, he asked, “What did you hear about our ‘local customs’?”

“I heard that you guys never leave your village. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe.”

Florence and Elliot spoke at the same time.

Florence narrowed her eyes, “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”

The wind whipped around the corner of the pavilion, slapping their faces. The grass rippled. Elliot's words resounded in the space like a reverse echo – getting louder the more time past.

Ada glanced between Florence and Elliot, her eyes alive with curiosity.

Elliot stuck his hands in his pockets, his cheeks scoured red. “Most people don't leave the village.”

“Nobody leaves the village.”

“If nobody leaves, how do you guys get food and clothes and stuff?” Ada asked.

“It's not like we can't get deliveries.” Florence cast her a withering glance, “After all, you could get in. Anyway, Elliot, who do you know who's left the village?”

“Mr. Fanshawe leaves every day to go to work.” Elliot leant against the courtyard wall, a QED expression on his face.

“He doesn't count: he's an Outsider.” Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at this classical Elliotism, Florence turned to Ada, “Like I said, nobody from the village leaves.”

“You don't know that.” Elliot said in a very small voice.

“Who? Who left the village?” She pressed. It was one thing for him to make a pilgrimage to the Abandoned House every weekend, but this was another.

The village lived with the Truth. To go Outside was to disrespect the Truth; Outsider Lied for their own gain or comfort or to cover their own flaws, living in moral decay. If someone truly left the village, they were giving in to that.

The wind died down and the stillness of absence settled on the Hill. Ada’s eyes rolled from Florence to Elliot like a tennis spectator.

“My... People leave the village, even if you’ve never seen them. Where is the Abandoned House from otherwise?”

“The Abandoned House? You...” Florence frowned, concern tingeing her tone, “They’ve always been empty. No one’s ever lived in them...”

“I- whatever.” Elliot kicked a tuft of grass by the bench, his head lowered. When he raised it again, he had a harmless smile in place, “You’re right. I got confused. It's common knowledge that nobody leaves the village.”

“...Exactly.” Florence said, but there was something about his expression that wasn’t quite right, and the way he’d phrased it... “Anyway, do you understand?” She asked Ada.

“I... understand.” She nodded, an uncomfortable expression on her face.

“Great. We’ll leave you to it.” She said brusquely, standing up and yanking Elliot away.