The Devil's Daughters

by Diana Bretherick

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Mystery

Synopsis

1888. When young Scottish scientist James Murray receives a letter from Sofia Esposito, a woman he once loved and lost, he cannot refuse her cry for help. Sofia's fifteen-year-old cousin has vanished but, because of her lower-class status, the police are unwilling to investigate.

Accompanied by his younger sister Lucy, Murray returns to the city of Turin where he was once apprenticed to the world-famous criminologist, Cesare Lombroso. As he embarks on his search for the missing girl, Murray uncovers a series of mysterious disappearances of young women and rumours of a haunted abbey on the outskirts of the city.

When the body of one of the girls turns up bearing evidence of a satanic ritual, Murray begins to slot together the pieces of the puzzle. But as two more bodies are discovered, fear grips the city and a desperate hunt begins to find a truly terrifying killer before he claims his next victim.

The Devil's Daughters is the gripping new novel from Diana Bretherick, author of City of Devils.

Read by Daniel Philpott

(p) 2015 Orion Publishing Group

Release date: August 27, 2015

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Introduction



Turin, 1 March 1888

The dark changes everything.

She moves quickly through the early winter morning and wishes fervently for the sun to rise. In the daylight this would be an unremarkable journey. But now, in the darkness, the mundane slips seamlessly into the sinister, and threat surrounds her. Every corner is a hiding place for a monster, and every sound, no matter how slight, is from someone or something that wishes to do her harm.

As she makes her way to work through the familiar streets, now shrouded in shadows, she pulls her thin shawl around her in an attempt to fend off the icy cold and damp. It reaches through her clothing right to her skin, caressing her like the clammy hands of an unwanted suitor.

The freezing wind whistles round her ankles as she goes on her way, blowing dust, dead leaves and bits of old newspaper into her path. She blinks, and her eyes water in the cold air. The gas lamps are still lit, but she can take no comfort from them. The flickering yellow flames merely add to the phantoms that surround her. She tries her best to look straight ahead, but every now and again she thinks she hears something, a sharp sound – an unidentified footstep or a door creaking open to reveal … who knows what.

She has reached the Via Garibaldi in the oldest part of the city when her imagined sound becomes real. It is distinct – a cracking sound; an opening perhaps. She is reminded that the gates to Hell are never far away in this city. There is the sound again, sharp and resonating, almost like someone breaking a cane in two. A little way down the street she sees a light, a lantern perhaps, swaying as if someone is looking for something. It seems to be coming towards her. She backs away from it but still it approaches. Instinctively she begins to run. She does not know why. It is only a light after all. Eventually she stops and tells herself to be calm. But then she sees that the light has followed her, so she runs again and tries to lose it, ducking into another street only to find it blocked by a carriage halfway up. The door opens. She hesitates, holding her breath. A gloved hand beckons to her. The gloves are lace. The hand is long and slim.

‘Come, child, come!’ says the figure in the carriage.

She sees the light again. It seems to be getting closer. She walks to the carriage door and peers inside. There is one occupant – a woman in a large-brimmed hat swathed in a veil.

‘Get in, child,’ says the woman.

She hesitates. The voice is strange, with a sing-song quality to it. It captivates her. A hand comes over her mouth from behind. It holds a handkerchief and smells odd – like the cleaning fluid the housekeeper gives her to use on the polished wooden floors. She struggles, but it is useless. She is becoming weaker as she is bundled into the carriage.

As they drive away, she slips gently into oblivion. The fears that haunted her have finally come true.



The bearer of the light stops and leans against the wall, trying to relieve himself whilst still holding his lantern. He’s getting too old for this. He slumps to the ground and sits with his eyes closed. Everything is spinning. He shouldn’t have had that last grappa. But it was a celebration, although of what exactly he cannot quite remember. And it seemed rude to refuse a drink or two, particularly as it was free. ‘Come on, Pietro,’ they said. ‘It isn’t a real party without you!’ Well who was he to disagree?

Now, though, sitting in a puddle of his own piss in the darkness, he is full of regret. And as if that wasn’t enough, he is seeing things – some girl being dragged into a carriage again and spirited away. He takes off his tatty old straw hat and shakes his head at his own folly, but it hurts, so he stops. He drags himself to his feet and starts his journey home to his bed, to sleep it off and forget. The city is quiet again, as if, having been awoken for a few brief moments, it is settling back to sleep. Everything appears to have returned to its former equilibrium. But this is merely an illusion.

1



The morally insane repay hatred with hatred. Even when the cause is slight, they react with anger, envy and vengeance. Incapable of family life, they flee the paternal home, sleeping under bridges and devoting themselves to refined cruelties.

Lombroso, 1884, p. 215

Edinburgh, 18 March 1888

‘I know what you are.’

The voice cut through the silence, the edge jagged with hatred.

The mourners stared, first at the man who had made this statement and then at his subject.

The funeral had been difficult enough even before this intervention. James Murray had stood and watched the coffin being lowered into the grave and wondered if his empty heart would ever be full again. He wanted more than anything to regret his father’s passing, but instead he felt only relief.

There was Arthur’s Seat, rising imposingly behind the church – a green mass giving a hint of colour in an otherwise grey landscape. He and his father had often walked there together, deep in conversation about their shared fascination with the workings of the human brain. He had been the student, his father the teacher. But those were happier times. Now everything was different.

Another memory had lurched into his mind, this time unwanted – his father strapped to a bed in the asylum where he had ended his days, screaming and raving. James had tried to shake the vision away, but he knew that it would haunt him until his own death. He should have done something earlier to prevent this tragedy. Instead, like a coward, he had run away to a foreign city, leaving everything and everyone behind.

Sobbing came from beside him. His sister Lucy was weeping steadily. Wispy tendrils of strawberry-blonde hair surrounded her pretty heart-shaped face. He longed to tuck them gently behind her ears as he had seen his father do. Instinctively he reached out to her, but she shrugged away from him, giving him a reproachful glare. Unlike him, Lucy was truly in mourning, but then she did not know the truth about what kind of man was being buried – a lunatic and a criminal, guilty of the theft of a man’s soul.

As the final words were intoned by the suitably gloomy minister, the church clock chimed as if it too was sounding an end to his father’s life. James had been about to escort Lucy away when he heard a commotion. A man pushed his way through the mourners and stood for a moment peering down at the coffin. He was smartly dressed in the black frock coat customary for these occasions. His cravat, however, was of a vivid scarlet, and so great was the contrast with everything else that it seemed to glow. James stared at him. Who was he? The man was familiar but he could not place him. Gaunt and pale, he resembled Death himself, but it was his eyes that were his most striking feature. They were steel grey, and when the man lifted his head to focus them on James, it felt as if they were boring holes into his skull.

‘I know what you are.’

The words ripped into James, through his skin and through his bones until he felt their icy touch around his heart.

The man walked away. At first there was silence, then what felt like a collective intake of breath among the few that were present. They began to stare at James and mutter to each other. He tried to look straight ahead, knowing that if he acknowledged the man’s words it might give them credence, but he sensed the disapproval. He had begun the occasion as the chief mourner, but now he was a source of gossip. That was nothing. He deserved it after all. But Lucy didn’t.

Eventually the mourners began to make their way to their carriages. There was to be no wake. At least they had that to be thankful for. It had seemed wrong somehow, given the circumstances.

Lucy turned away, her eyes full of hurt and confusion. James watched her for a few seconds and realised how alone he felt. His parents were both gone, and now even his sister seemed lost to him. But then she stopped, as if she was waiting for him. James walked towards her. Could there be some hope for them after all? The question was still there, an invisible barrier between them as they began their journey home. They sat in silence, together but still far apart, as the carriage with its black-plumed horses, upon which Lucy had insisted, made its way slowly through the narrow, winding streets of the old town to the broad, straight ones of the new.

For a moment James was transported back to Turin, from where he had not so long ago returned. He had gone there to study the nature of the criminal and to find out if his father’s evil might have infected him, just as the man at the funeral had suggested. He had learnt not just about crime but also about what it was to love and lose someone. He had put his duty first. He did not regret it, but neither could he quite forget what he had left behind. Still, that was another world and another time. He had returned home to face his fears, but he had been too late.

He glanced out of the window and for a split second he thought he saw her, standing on a corner dressed in a long hooded cloak, a basket in her arms. Everything around him came to a halt, as if he was in a photograph. Even his ability to breathe seemed to desert him. Logic told him that it could not be her, but still the anticipation made every one of his senses sharpen. Then she turned towards him and he saw that she was a stranger. The woman he longed for was in Italy, and he and his duty still belonged in Edinburgh.

‘Who was that man, James?’ Lucy asked. It was clear from the strain in her voice that she was struggling to keep her emotions under control.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What did he mean about knowing what you are?’

James shrugged. He had been badly shaken by the accusatory tone of the man at the graveside but did not want to admit it.

‘I just don’t know, Lucy.’ What else could he say? If he started to tell her of his suspicions, he would not be able to stop. He could not put her through that. It just wouldn’t be fair.

The carriage lurched and James and Lucy were thrown together. She leant quickly away from him, as if he was some kind of threat. He put out his hand to hers, but she pulled it away. James understood why she was behaving like this. She had lost her father, and she blamed him. He had abandoned her, and by the time he had returned home, their father was dead. Lucy knew nothing of his sacrifice, and he would not tell her. He deserved her anger, but he would fight for her forgiveness. After all, they had only each other now, and that was all that mattered.



They were not quite alone. They arrived home to find their Aunt Agnes seated primly reading the Bible in the drawing room, grim-faced, like a parasite sucking away at their grief. An ostentatiously devout woman, she had been shocked by their father’s decline and the scandal it had threatened to bring upon the family, virtually disowning him since his incarceration. She had even refused to attend his funeral, claiming that it was not decent behaviour for a woman. Lucy, of course, had insisted on being there, notwithstanding – or perhaps because of – her aunt’s objections, saying that this was an old-fashioned view and that it was perfectly acceptable these days. James was not certain that she was right, but he did not have the heart to forbid it. Aunt Agnes had merely pursed her lips and stood her ground, her expression making it clear that she blamed James for his father’s fate.

Now she sat there in her crêpe mourning gown, having insisted on all the usual customs that accompanied death despite her views on the deceased himself. Agnes Kennedy was small and joyless, embittered by her husband’s infidelity. Her mouth was permanently downturned and her thin dark hair was tinged with grey and worn in what seemed to be a mercilessly tight bun secured firmly at the back of her head – an outmoded coiffure that reflected her outlook exactly. He decided not to tell her about the man at the funeral, knowing that it would merely confirm her opinion.

‘I’m going up to my room to lie down,’ Lucy declared.

Aunt Agnes nodded. ‘Very well, child.’ She turned to James once his sister had left. ‘There is a letter for you,’ she said in a faintly disapproving tone, holding out a small cream envelope.

He examined it curiously. It did not have the black borders of a letter of condolence. Who could it be from? Then, as he saw the Turin postmark and recognised the handwriting, his heartbeat quickened with anticipation.

‘Who is writing from Italy, James?’ asked his aunt, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

‘A friend,’ he replied tersely. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Aunt, I will also rest for a while. It has been a difficult afternoon.’

She gave a curt nod. No doubt, James thought, she was annoyed to be denied further information about the letter. He didn’t care. This was for his eyes alone, and was more precious to him than anything in the world.

Up in his room, he stared at the page before him. He lifted it to his face and breathed in its aroma – a faint suggestion of lemons and spice. As he sat there with his eyes shut, he imagined her arms around him, and for a moment he was returned to her. But when he opened them again, he realised that he did not know quite how to feel. Ever since he had left Italy, he had dreamt of hearing from Sofia, and yet he had dreaded it too. He had loved her and left her. They could not be together because their pasts and their futures were so different. All the same, he had hoped that somehow he would see her again. He had continued to write to her, but no reply had come. He had almost reconciled himself to staying in Scotland and making a life for himself there. But now she had finally written to him and thrust him into a state of confusion.

Per favore, aiutami, the letter said in characteristically cryptic terms. Please, help me.

Turin, 19 March 1888

The girl sits alone in what seems to be little more than a deep pit and wonders what she has done to deserve her incarceration. She cannot tell how long she has been there because she cannot see when the night ends and the day begins, but it feels like weeks at least. Too long anyway to be in what she has come to think of as her cell. There is not much in the way of comfort, just a thin mattress, a bucket for relieving herself, and a few cotton strips, presumably for her monthly visitor, which is due quite soon.

Sometimes she hears movement and voices. Maybe she is not alone in her experience, but it is impossible to know for sure.

Occasionally food and water is lowered down to her, but she cannot see by whom. Other than that she is left quite alone with only her own increasingly desperate thoughts for company. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a rosary and begins to pray. Perhaps if she does this for long enough, the Virgin Mary will come to her assistance. But the hours pass, as the days have already, and no one arrives to release her. She begins to think they never will.

Yet she is not alone. Through a peephole roughly carved into the wooden cover that is her ceiling, she is being closely watched. Though she does not know it, her release is imminent – but when it finally comes, she will wish that it had not.

2



One need only to look at pictures of women of genius of our day to realise that they seem to be men in disguise.

Lombroso, 1893, p. 83

Edinburgh, 20 March 1888

James stood outside the door of the lecture hall and listened carefully. A man’s voice, soft but authoritative, was holding forth about the importance of observation. ‘How does your patient move? Does he drag a foot, suggesting evidence of some former injury? Does he leap around, thereby showing himself to be fit and healthy, if something of a show-off? Does he have any marks upon him – a tattoo, perhaps – gained in some foreign clime, indicating that he has travelled and wishes us all to know it? It is these small things that make up the larger and more significant whole.’

James smiled to himself, remembering when Professor Joseph Bell had given him the same lecture during his own medical training, what seemed like a century ago. He opened the door gently and attempted to sidle in unseen, the better to hear what remained of the lecture. This turned out to be a mistake.

‘Ah! I do believe we have a subject, gentlemen!’

James stood and grinned as a ripple of laughter went through the students.

‘Come into the centre, sir, and make yourself visible. Now, who can make some observations about our subject? Remember, it is small things we are looking for.’

A couple of hands went up. Professor Bell peered out at them before pointing at a nervous young man sitting at the front. ‘Mr Davies, what can you tell us?’

‘He looks a bit shifty … up to no good.’

‘I see. In what way?’

‘It’s his eyes. They move about.’

James frowned.

‘I see … Anything else?’

‘His shoes are scruffy. Looks like he’s done a fair bit of walking recently,’ someone called out.

‘And what might that indicate about his occupation?’

‘Is he a policeman?’

‘Interesting … Are you a man of the law, sir?’ Bell asked James, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘I like to think so, but not in the way you mean,’ James replied.

‘He’s a Scot!’ a student shouted.

‘Aye, he can’t be all bad!’ said another.

‘Let us confine ourselves to the physical for now, gentlemen,’ Bell said. ‘We’ve time for one more observation.’

‘The subject has a slight stoop,’ someone called from the back.

Instinctively James straightened up. ‘Not any longer, it seems!’ Bell said. ‘What does that tell you?’

‘He is unsure of himself … or about something.’

‘Perhaps he is not confident. He prefers not to stand out in a crowd?’ someone said tentatively.

‘Well the good doctor has failed in that enterprise today, to be sure!’ Bell said to general laughter. ‘Yes, Dr Murray is a medical man, and not so long ago sat where you are now, listening to me, poor fellow. Thank you, gentlemen. We shall continue this tomorrow.’

As the students filed obediently out, Professor Bell seized James’s hand. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me using you as a subject.’

‘Not at all, Professor. It was, as always, very instructive.’

‘Good. That is, after all, what we aim for. Now, how about a drink of something?’

Minutes later they were sitting in the professor’s cavernous office sipping at a decidedly acceptable malt whisky. The shelves were crammed with books, untidy piles of papers and one or two jars holding pickled body parts. James felt another twinge of regret for what he had left behind in Turin. His employer in Italy had been similar in many ways to Professor Bell – and yet in others they were almost diametrically opposed to each other. Professor Bell was precise and careful in both his investigations and the expression of his findings. Criminal anthropologist Cesare Lombroso, on the other hand, preferred, as he often said, to let the facts speak for themselves. In practice this often meant that the facts were altered in order to fit the theory, and occasionally vice versa, which made working with him sometimes difficult but never, ever dull.

Professor Bell peered at James curiously over the rim of his glass. ‘So tell me, Murray, were any of the students correct in their observations?’

James paused. ‘To an extent, perhaps … There is a matter that I am unsure of, as one of them mentioned.’

‘Is it connected to what happened at your father’s funeral?’

‘You have heard about that?’

Bell nodded. ‘I am afraid it is the subject of speculation in some quarters.’

‘I still do not know the man’s identity, though I am sure I have seen him before.’

‘Perhaps it is best left. It will be yesterday’s news soon enough. It is your future that should be occupying your mind now, Murray.’

‘You are right. In fact that is why I am here. I wish to ask your advice about something.’

‘I see.’ Professor Bell paused for a moment. ‘I deduce that something is a woman.’

James smiled. ‘I suppose I must ask how you reached that conclusion. Was it my demeanour that gave me away, the way I was standing … or something I said perhaps?’

The professor laughed and shook his head. ‘No, no, my dear boy, none of that …’

‘So how did you know?’

‘When I see a young man wearing a troubled expression, believe me, the cause is almost always a woman.’

‘I’m not sure that is quite fair, although you are right on this occasion, Professor.’

‘Your tone suggests that she is not the only matter that concerns you.’

‘Again you are right. There is more to it.’ James hesitated, struggling to find the right words.

‘Go on.’

‘I want to return to Turin … indeed, I feel that I must.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘The woman I speak of … she has asked for my help.’

‘And you feel duty bound to answer her call?’

‘It is not so much a matter of duty.’

‘Ah, I see – a matter of the heart, then. And what else?’ Bell paused. ‘You travelled to Italy to study with Professor Lombroso, but you found more, did you not?’

‘There was something that had been troubling me and, to an extent, the professor reassured me. I felt that I was just beginning to make sense of his theories when I had to leave. I did not want to go.’ As James spoke, the feeling of regret he had experienced became sharper, almost painful.

Professor Bell nodded thoughtfully. ‘I have read one or two articles by him. He has some original ideas. I am not sure that I agree with all his methods, but still they are fascinating. I am not surprised that he has inspired you.’

‘He is unusual in his approach, but some of his ideas have definite possibilities for the solution of crimes. I would relish the opportunity to work with him again.’

‘So what is stopping you?’ Bell asked.

‘As you know, Professor, I have a sister, Lucy. If I abandon her again, I don’t think she would forgive me.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Bell said. ‘So you have come to me because you think I will tell you that your work must take precedence. In other words, you want me to give you permission to leave your sister here in Edinburgh.’

James stared down at his glass and swirled its amber contents round, watching the viscous liquid cling to the sides. ‘I suppose you’re right, Professor.’

‘You must know that I cannot do that,’ Bell said gently. ‘It is a personal matter that only you can decide upon.’

James nodded miserably. He felt like a fool. How could he ever have thought that asking Professor Bell for advice was the right thing to do?

‘Your work is important to you. I understand that. But is a choice really necessary?’ Bell asked.

‘What do you mean, Professor?’

‘Sometimes you’re a little slow on the uptake, Murray. There are only two possible solutions. All you have to do is choose one.’

James shook his head in confusion.

Professor Bell smiled at him. ‘Give it some thought, young man, and I’m sure the answer will come to you before too long. Remember what I used to say to you at the beginning of each case.’

‘Never ignore the obvious. It is often an investigator’s only friend.’

‘Indeed! I am most gratified that you have not forgotten. Now all you have to do is go away and apply it.’



‘Return to Turin! I have never heard such a preposterous idea!’ Aunt Agnes declared. ‘You cannot possibly be thinking of shirking your responsibilities again! What of your sister?’

‘Yes, James, what about me?’ Lucy repeated, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Am I to be abandoned yet again?’ A look of despair crossed her face.

‘No, Lucy, you are not,’ he heard himself saying. ‘You will travel with me. It would do us both good.’

Lucy looked at him in surprise. ‘You want me to come with you to Turin?’

‘Yes, I do. ’

‘You most certainly will do no such thing!’ Aunt Agnes got to her feet and strode towards him. For a brief moment he thought she was going to attack him. Instead she stood inches away and wagged her finger in his face. ‘Lucy was too young to travel with you before. You admitted it yourself. Nothing has changed.’

‘I am older now! I am almost eighteen,’ Lucy protested.

‘That is still far too young to go gallivanting across Europe, young lady!’

‘Things are different now, Aunt,’ James said.

She glared at him. ‘How, exactly?’

‘For one thing I have been there and I know Lucy will be safe.’

‘Safe! There were two killers on the loose! That does not sound safe to me.’

‘They have been … dealt with.’

‘One has been dealt with. The other is still at large.’

‘My employer, Professor Lombroso, is a good man, a family man, with two daughters of an age similar to Lucy.’

‘So you have said before, but he is not …’ she paused and took a deep, almost theatrical breath, ‘suitable as a guardian for your sister.’

James wondered how else he could persuade his aunt of Lombroso’s good character. ‘The professor is an eminent scientist, extremely well respected in his field.’

‘I do not doubt it, but Lucy is a young lady at an impressionable age. She requires moral guidance, particularly in the light of her parental background.’

There was a pause as James struggled to ignore this slight. ‘And she shall have moral guidance, Aunt Agnes. I will make sure of that.’

‘I am almost eighteen,’ Lucy repeated. ‘I require no guidance, moral or otherwise.’

‘Your words demonstrate the exact opposite, young lady,’ Aunt Agnes said, an expression of deep satisfaction on her face. ‘However, I have a solution …’



Lucy sat in her room with her pencil poised, but inspiration would not come to her tonight. How could it? She was far too excited. Her life was about to change beyond recognition. She was to have a new home, a new city, a new country … and all without the presence of Aunt Agnes. Thank heavens James had put his foot down when she had offered to accompany them! That would have been a disaster. As it was, Lucy would have to put up with some stuffy companion hand-picked by her aunt. Still, that in itself provided a challenge, which was something she always enjoyed. She pictured herself climbing through a window to escape as her companion dozed in an armchair. Yes, she would enjoy pitting her wits against Aunt Agnes’s spy, whoever she turned out to be.

Lucy was in the middle of writing one of her stories. Her heroine, the intrepid lady detective Lydia Loveday, was trapped in an underground cavern in the search for some stolen diamonds. The trouble was, having got Lydia into this predicament, she couldn’t think of a way of getting her out. She studied the illustration she had sketched last night. Lydia stood with her hands on her hips looking reproachfully out at her. Reluctantly Lucy closed her notebook, carefully tying the ribbons as her father had taught her. ‘If you do it like that,’ he’d said, ‘you’ll always know if someone has been poking their nose where they shouldn’t.’

The memory of her father made her catch her breath. It still caused her so much pain just to think of him. She cast her mind back to the funeral, and that strange man who had said such a peculiar thing. Who was he, and what on earth had he meant about James? She thought of the expressions on the faces of the few mourners present – an uneasy combination of pity and prurience. Now that they were leaving them all behind, they could think what they liked. It would be a fresh start.

Having no parents made her feel adrift. Perhaps both she and James needed to put down some new roots. But wasn’t that a kind of betrayal – leaving the city where they had lived as a family? Yet the thought of staying here with Aunt Agnes depressed her. It would be like being buried alive, albeit in a silk-lined coffin.

No. She had to go. It seemed strange and somehow wrong that she knew so little of the country where her mother had been born. Lucy’s father Robert had been on a walking tour of the Piedmont countryside when they had met. Elena was helping her aunt, her only surviving relative, to run a small hotel in the town of Alba. He was a guest. Her mother would always smile as she told them how he had complained about something and she had argued with him. Apparently he hadn’t expected it, and his face was such a picture of shock that she’d laughed. ‘Yes,’ Robert would say. ‘And she has never stopped arguing with me from that day to this!’

Despite the protestations of Elena’s aunt, they were married a few months later and returned to Edinburgh. Lucy could only imagine how hard it must have been for her mother to adjust to such a different way of life. Perhaps that was why she had insisted that both Lucy and James spoke Italian. It kept her country alive in her heart. They had often conversed in the language at home and their mother was full of stories about the place, but they had never visited. Perhaps Robert feared that once she was back in Italy, she would not want to return to Scotland. Lucy herself had always dreamt of travelling there with her mother when she was old enough, but it had not been possible, and then it was too late. Her mother had died and her father was never really the same man again.

This then could be a sort of pilgrimage. No – more of a tribute to her mother. She would at last make proper contact with the half of her that was Italian. The prospect seemed inviting. Lucy didn’t know whether she was prepared to