The Midnight Feast: A Novel

Bella

JUNE 2025, OPENING NIGHT

IT’S OPENING NIGHT OF THE Manor, the “new jewel of the Dorset coastline.” The drama is all out front: soaring ocean views, emerald lawns stretching to the cliff edge, the Owen Dacre–designed infinity pool. But on this side, the landward side, there’s another world. A bristle of dense ancient forest behind the main building, which guests can access via a series of gravel paths that wind between the “Woodland Hutches.” One of these is mine.

I close the door. Follow the sound of music and laughter through the purple twilight to the welcome drinks, which are taking place on the very edge of the trees. I step into a chic take on a woodland grotto. Hundreds of lanterns hang from branches. An actual harpist plays. Antique rugs and huge scatter cushions have been strewn about the forest floor with bohemian abandon. I sit down on one, gulp back a “Woodland Spirit” cocktail—“a dash of locally harvested birch bitters and rosemary infused gin.”

My fellow guests loll around, chatty and giddy with the anticipation of a weekend in the sun beside the sea with nothing to do but eat, drink, swim, and make merry. Many of them seem to know one another: wandering about shrieking as they bump into old friends, some reclining on the rugs and calling to acquaintances to join them. The vibe is relaxed, albeit spiced with a faint note of social competition.

No one needs the ultra-soft woolen blankets provided because—though the sun is setting—it’s still warm enough to wear only a single layer of linen (there’s a lot of linen). The first flare of the impending heatwave.

In the middle of the scene, like a fairy queen—like Titania on her woodland throne—sits the owner of The Manor. Francesca Meadows. Radiant in a pale rose, off-shoulder fantasia of washed silk, hair rippling down her back, face aglow with candlelight. The culmination of a dream: that’s what she said in the article. I’m so excited to share this place with everyone. Well, everyone who can afford it, anyway. But who’s quibbling?

I look around me. I suppose it’s all pretty idyllic if you’re part of a couple or larger group, if you’ve come here for a weekend of escaping the city. Maybe it’s just me for whom it doesn’t feel quite so mellow and chummy.

I wait for the alcohol to hit, my gaze flitting toward the deepening shadows between the trees, to the ragged ceiling of branches uplit by the lanterns, down to my own outfit: linen, yes, but with the tell-tale creases that show it’s just been pulled from a packet. But the one place my eyes linger time and again—I can’t help it—is on the face of Francesca Meadows. She looks so zen. So very fucking content.

Suddenly there’s a commotion, deep in the wood. Her gaze snaps in that direction. The guests fall silent and peer into the gloom. The harpist stops playing.

Suddenly a group of newcomers bursts into the grotto. Not dressed in linen. A raggle-taggle bunch in hiking boots. Mainly women, a few piercings and tats, untouched gray roots. Francesca Meadows doesn’t move, her smile doesn’t snag. But a member of the staff—a small blonde woman in a white shirt and heels, perhaps a manager—walks toward them, as if dispatched by silent command. She speaks in a discreet murmur. But the leader of the raggedy pack is having none of it.

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” she says. “There’s been a right of way through here for centuries—before that house even existed. You’re the ones trespassing. Local people have always walked among these trees . . . using their wood, their flora and fauna. There’s a unique convergence of ley lines here. Keeping people away from the land—from their land—like this, it’s evil. It’s a kind of murder.”

She looks over the woman’s head and straight at Francesca Meadows as she shouts: “I’m talking to you, by the way! I don’t care that you clearly paid off the council, whatever it was you did. As far as we’re concerned these woods belong to us more than they ever will to you. So you can just let us carry on through here, or we can really make a scene. What’s it gonna be?” The manager takes a step back, uncertain. There’s a split-second glance toward the owner. Perhaps the tiniest inclination of Francesca Meadows’s golden head. Then the manager mutters something to the little crew. Whatever it is it seems to work because after a moment’s deliberation they carry on their way. Straight through the clearing—looking around in distaste. Beneath the force of their glares the lounging guests sit up a little straighter, rearrange their rumpled clothing. One of the trespassers tips a cocktail over with her foot and the group departs to the sound of breaking glass.

The harpist resumes her playing, the barman picks up his cocktail shaker.

But I can feel it. Something in the air has changed.