Ask the angel.

The words echo through my mind over and over. There’s no doubt who I need to speak to. I only know one angel, after all, even if in real life he’s more pervy and devilish than angelic.

Still, I can’t even imagine what I’m meant to say to Alastaire. He’s going to think I’m crazy if I start asking him about witches and sea serpents and ghostly messages from my dead friends.

Before we reach the cabin, Kitty and I stop at the edge of the forest clearing where I found my bicycle overgrown with roses and moss a few weeks ago.

I wanted to show her that it’s the same as Mia’s grave. She still doesn’t believe that the crumbling old headstone could possibly be Mia’s, but at least if she sees my bike she’ll have to admit that something suspicious is going on.

But when we reach the spot, there’s nothing there apart from a sprawling tangle of wild roses. All that’s left of the bike are a few flakes of rust and red paint chips beneath the thorns. The handlebars, the wheels, even the metal spokes – everything has been devoured by the hungry forest.

Kitty doesn’t make a big deal of it. She says I probably have the wrong spot, and it’s almost nightfall anyway, and the dark makes everything look different. She says we should come back and find it tomorrow, but I know she doesn’t believe me.

By the time we reach the cabin, I feel like I’m about to pass out from exhaustion. Between the two of us, we carried all the groceries, plus Kitty’s ten thousand dollar clothes shopping spree. I suggested we leave her bags in the car – it’s not like she’s going to be wearing a silk ball gown and Jimmy Choos around the cabin – but she insisted on bringing the whole lot along.

After dumping the bags unceremoniously on the porch, we walk into the cabin to find Alastaire sprawled out on one of the plush green velvet living room sofas, reading Fable fan fiction out loud to Ben and Lyall who are sitting on a sofa opposite him.

“With a growl Alastaire dashingly tore off his shirt, revealing his rippling six pack and glorious pecs,” Alastaire reads in a smoldering voice, swiping his finger across his phone. “Sweeping his hands through his ravishing locks of shining golden blonde hair, his spellbinding sapphire sky blue eyes filled with lust and hot passion dripping with sweet desire as he bent down towards Lyall. Lyall licked his lips hungrily. As their lips meet…”

“Ahem,” Kitty says. “Hate to interrupt… whatever this is. The groceries are out on the porch. You know the drill. You boys can take it from here.”

“Your timing is atrocious as always,” Alastaire says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “First you steal my Cupcake away for a whole day, then you barge in on story hour just as it’s getting really good.”

“I didn’t know you read Fable fan fiction,” I blurt out, hoping he’s never read any of mine. Although even if he has, I use a pen name, so I’m safe. Probably.

“’Course he does,” Lyall says, smiling sheepishly as he rises from the sofa. “The vain git loves anything that has to do with him. Anyways, thanks for doin’ de shoppin’, I’m starvin’, no lie.” He practically sprints out the door.

Ben pouts and crosses his arms in front of him, leaning further back into the sofa. “Why’s it always Lyall and Alastaire getting all the action?” He asks with a frown. “Seriously, everyone’s writing all this Laire stuff… what about Balastaire? Belliot? Byall?”

“It’s all in how you market yourself,” Alastaire says airily. “You messed things up for yourself royally when you went public with that aussie girl last spring. That’s why I keep things casual with my angels. Public romantic entanglements are the kiss of death in our line of business.”

An aussie girl? That’s right… there was some commotion online last year, after Ben spotted a girl in the crowd at their Melbourne show. He hinted on his Twitter account that they were dating, and the girl apparently got hundreds of death threats within a few hours. Someone even set up a Kickstarter to hire a hitman to get her killed. It actually made the news. Ben broke it off and the trolls left the girl alone. Is that what Alastaire’s talking about?

“I know it didn’t take you the whole day just to buy some food,” Alastaire says. “Where have you been Cupcake? Where did Kitty take you?”

“We went for lunch at the Night Owl,” I say. “I mean, the café my parents own. And then…”

Ask the angel.

I stop mid-sentence, before mentioning the graveyard. Now isn’t the right time to bring it up with Alastaire. I need to get him alone. Preferably after he’s had a few glasses of champagne.

“And then what?” Ben asks, leaning forward on the sofa, suddenly interested. “Where were you all day?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Kitty says. “Anyhow, I’m slipping upstairs for some beauty sleep. Ash, I’m leaving a surprise for you next to the bath, make sure you use it. I’ll be very upset if you don’t.” With a wave she disappears up the black wrought iron spiral staircase in the corner of the living room.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Oi, Al, Benji!” Lyall yells as he hauls in the shopping. “Come help with these bags ye feckin’ gobshites.”

Ben rolls his eyes and lumbers to the front door.

Lyall drops some bags on the counter and starts unpacking bottles into the fridge.

“How long had it been since Fee left?” Lyall asks Alastaire. “Feels like he stormed off in a huff ages ago.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it”, Alastaire says. “He’s just upset that his sister stole away our lovely songstress away for a whole precious day. He’ll get over it.”

“I guess we won’t be getting’ round to any recordin’ tonight,” Lyall says, peering out the window past me. “It’s almost dark, and ye must be tired Ash. I’ve been on one o’ Kitty’s shoppin’ trips before. It’s like de Olympics.”

I giggle and nod in agreement, stacking plums and pears into a large wooden fruit bowl.

“Lyall, give me a shout if you come across my pud in those bags,” Alastaire says. “You too Cupcake. Don’t let that leprechaun eat it.”

“Seriously Al, I’ll never understand yer obsession with Christmas puddin’,” Lyall says. “It’s gotta be de most disgustin’ thing you British eejits have ever tried to pass off as food. Ye couldn’t pay me to eat de stuff.”

“That’s because it’s an acquired taste,” Alastaire says. “I have a very refined palate. Anyway, you don’t like caviar or escargot either.”

“That’s because eatin’ fish eggs and snails is disgustin’,” Lyall replies.

“Peasant,” Alastaire snipes.

“Snob,” Lyall replies.

“What do you think Cupcake?” Alastaire asks, rising up from the sofa and walking over to me. He starts searching through the grocery bags on the counter. “Do you like Christmas pudding?”

“You mean like… the one with dried fruits that people set on fire?” I ask. “Like fruitcake?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Alastaire says, smiling as he finds the colossal cloth-wrapped pudding Kitty picked up for him at the German delicatessen on Newman street. “Careful how you answer. This is a deal breaker.”

To be honest, I don’t remember ever trying it. It’s one of those things I’ve always avoided, on account of it looking like a ball of putrefying cat food.

“I don’t actually know,” I admit. “I’ve never tried it.”

Alastaire grins, and he pulls me down to sit on a bar stool next to him.

“Wonderful!” He says. “Did you hear that Lyall? A virgin! My favorite!”

“What are you guys talking about?” Ben asks, setting some bags down in front of fridge.

“Ashling’s virginity,” Alastaire says.

“No we’re not!” I say, feeling my face grow hot. “I wasn’t talking about that, obviously!”

“You mean you’re not a virgin?” Alastaire asks.

Lyall has stopped stacking groceries in the fridge and is watching us, his eyes fixed firmly on me.

“Well… yes… I’m a virgin,” I stumble over my words. “A fruitcake one… and… um… the other one.”

Alastaire’s eyes twinkle as Lyall’s face turns ever redder than mine. Ben laughs, seeming to honestly enjoy the extreme awkwardness.

“And for the record, there’s nothing wrong with that,” I say, feeling my defenses go up. “Some of us want to wait for that special someone. And even if I wasn’t a… a virgin… there’s nothing wrong with that either. A girl’s body is her own to… do… what she wants…” The last part comes out practically as a squeak, and I decide to stop speaking before my face actually catches on fire.

Here are am lecturing famous rock stars on sex, something I know absolutely nothing about. I need to learn to just keep quiet.

“Well, allow me to take your virginity in that case,” Alastaire says sweetly. “Your fruitcake virginity, of course.”

“Gawd Al, yer so feckin lame, seriously,” Lyall says.

“Yeah, super cheesy bro,” Ben says.

“Whatevs. Make yourself useful servant boy,” Alastaire says, flicking his hand at Lyall. “Bring me a sharp knife, two pudding bowls and two spoons.”

Lyall mutters something under his breath but brings us the bowls and spoons, and a gleaming carving knife.

“Why only two?” Ben asks. “How about me? Can I have some?”

“No, this is for me and Cupcake only,” Alastaire says, elegantly unwrapping the creamy white cloth. “Now, it’s tradition to heat up the pudding for a few hours before eating it. And I always like dousing it in brandy and setting it alight. But for the purposes of this demonstration we’ll have it cold.”

The cloth falls away.

“Beautiful,” Alastaire says, admiring the huge mound of Christmas pudding in front of us. He picks up the knife and cleanly cuts two slices.

He places one into my bowl, along with a spoon.

It looks disgusting.

I poke at it with the spoon, wondering how Alastaire would react if I outright refused to even taste it.

That’s so boring though. I should just try it at least. It’s not like it’s poisoned or anything.

So I scoop up a spoonful of the pudding and take a tiny bite.

The taste is utterly surprising, different to anything I’ve ever tasted. Sweet, dark fruitiness with a hint of spice, treacle, figs, liquorice, light and sticky, steeped in brandy or sherry as it melts in my mouth. I think it’s delicious, but I can see how some people might hate it. It’s a weird taste.

“Your verdict?” Alastaire asks.

I hate to let Lyall down, but I smile as I scoop up another spoonful. “I love it,” I say.

“Right?” Alastaire says with a grin. “I’ve been addicted to Christmas cake for years.”

“I don’t think it’s de cake yer addicted to,” Lyall says. “Those things are like eighty percent brandy. Fact.”

As Lyall and Ben pack away the shopping into the pantry and I savor another bite of the rich pudding, I become aware of how uncomfortably piercing Alastaire’s stare is as he watches me eat. He cocks his head to the side, and suddenly reaches out, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip.

“Crumbs,” he says.

Lyall and Ben have stopped packing away groceries and are watching us. There’s an awkward silence, and I can feel my face turning bright red for the millionth time.

“I need some air,” I say.

I stand up, feeling three sets of eyes following me as I make my way to the back door.

“Leave her Al,” I hear Lyall say behind me.

As I close the back door behind me, I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding in. The cool night air wraps around me, drawing me out to the steps that lead down into the clearing. I sit down on the steps under the overhanging red roses, looking up at the distant stars.

Is it true what people say, that when looking at the night sky, you’re actually looking into the past? How many of these stars died eons ago, and now all that’s left is their pale ghostlight fleeting out across time and darkness? If stars can do that, then could souls do that too?

“Ashling,” a voice says behind me.

Elliot sits down on the steps next to me, running his hand over his close-cropped light brown hair. “I’m glad I caught you alone. We need to talk.”