I sped out of the Halt Institute car park, and straight into a line of cars waiting to turn onto the high street. The radio blared out a news report about another hiker who'd been attacked by a rabid fox while walking in Crookshollow forest. That was the third such incident this month. Must be a global warming thing, I thought, flicking the radio over to the local indie station. Greenies blamed global warming for everything, from unseasonably warm summers to lines at the supermarket.

I tapped my foot impatiently on the pedal, in my mind seeing Matthew's red face and curly moustache as he chewed me out. It was nearly 4 pm., and traffic was starting to pick up for the afternoon, especially now that the tourist season was closing in. I needed to get across town to Raynard Hall as quickly as possible, so I could catch this Simon Host before he left the estate for the evening.

Like Salisbury and the Fens, Crookshollow Village and the surrounding forest was one of those English landscapes known for its ritual significance throughout history. There were several Neolithic henges and other ancient religious sites scattered across hilltops and hidden in the dense forest groves. Witches used to gather in the trees to dance naked and take part in ritual orgies – that was, until the witch finders swept in and put a stop to that. More than 200 convicted witches had been burnt in the market square at the opposite end of the high street, or at least that's the story they tell at the local medieval torture museum. It's said that the witches left their imprint in the landscape – that they transferred their spirits to their animal familiars, and their magic still dwells within the wild cats and foxes and deer and birds of Crookshollow Forest.

Growing up in the village, I was thrilled by these stories. They filled my imagination with enchanted worlds of witches and werewolves and fairies, right there in the forest on my own back doorstep. I was the weird loner kid, the strange girl who drew pictures all the time and sucked at playing cricket. After enduring days at school where kids either ignored me or threw things at me, I would take my paints and my camera and hike for miles into the gloom, stopping to draw fantastical scenes of witches dancing by the stream and half-human, half-crow creatures flying between the towering oaks. The forest fuelled my art and held together my soul.

But small towns were hell for kids like me, so I moved to London as soon as the final bell rang, eager to get away from the bad memories and embrace my art. I studied at the Wimbledon College of Arts, where I spent four blissful years painting and sculpting and attending political rallies and poetry readings and pretending to be a lamppost with eccentric performance artists. I lived in squalour and survived on white rice and kebabs. They were the best years of my life.

My carefree student days had to come to an end, and not just because my parents were killed in a car accident during my final year. I emerged a fresh-faced artist trying to establish myself right in the heart of the Global Financial Crisis. No one was buying art, especially not from an unknown like me. After six months of slogging my paintings around every independent gallery in London, my landlady threatened me with eviction if I couldn’t come up with the two months’ rent I owed her.

I had to grow up and face facts: being an artist wasn’t a viable career. I hadn’t even been able to pick up a brush since my parents died. What kind of an artist was I, if I couldn’t even paint through my pain? I had to find a real job.

Luckily, I was still in contact with my old professors, and through one of them I landed a paid internship at the Tate Modern, than was offered a full-time position as a professional ass-kisser and errand-girl. I traded my paint-stained trackies for pencil skirts and pumps. My landlady stopped bugging me.

In the four years I worked at the Tate, I barely created any artwork, and I never hiked off into the wilderness. Even though I had a great job many people would’ve killed for, I felt like a failure. I wasn’t turning into the person I always imagined myself to be. My kind, supportive parents who I usually turned to for advice were now just cold stones in a cemetery.

Still the forest had called me back. When Halt offered me the job, I accepted without a second thought, packed up my apartment and moved into the tiny two-bed semi I shared with my friend Kylie, a pudgy calico cat named Miss Havisham and several recalcitrant mice. Our tiny back garden backed onto the forest edge.

I even started drawing and painting again, although I was woefully out of practice. Even though I lived near my parents’ old house and all their memories, I felt calmer than I had in a long time. Except for today. Today I was so far from calm I couldn’t see it if it were driving toward me in a Panzer tank.

I leaned on my horn as a woman wearing a kaftan covered with moon symbols stepped out from a candle shop and wandered across the street in front of the car, staring at her smartphone screen and completely unaware of the fact I’d had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting her. It was all just another summer's day in Crookshollow.

Because of its significance as an ancient religious landscape, as well as being the site of numerous modern tales of hauntings, Crookshollow was a popular destination with free spirits and new-age pagans, all of whom were apparently on the road at this very moment, taking things as slowly as their pot-addled brains allowed. The centre of Crookshollow was a hodgepodge of occult stores, artisan candle makers, and alternative record shops, attracting a crowd with a particular disregard for traffic rules. The Halt building – a gleaming, modern installation of steel and glass, housing the art galleries, the witchcraft museum and some bank offices – loomed over the quaint high street, a constant reminder that corporate power still reigned supreme.

Eventually, I escaped the tangle of the high street and was speeding out toward Raynard Hall. Despite being back in Crookshollow for nearly two years, I hadn't traveled out near the crumbling manor since my childhood. I'd grown up in a small bungalow nearby, on Roundoak Drive, and the grounds of Raynard Hall were as familiar to me as my own childhood home.

Back then, the manor had been in the hands of Alistair Raynard, Ryan's father, who lived somewhere up in the Scottish mountains but kept on a few servants at the manor to maintain the estate. They never did a very good job. Overgrown and decaying, the manor had been a popular place for local kids to play, daring each other to approach the windows and peer in at the drab, empty rooms. It's dark stone façade, high gothic windows and sinister gargoyles lining the edge of the roof made it a popular source for local legends of ghosts and strange sightings. One of the most oft-told stories was of a younger Alistair Raynard – when he still lived in the Hall – hunting deer in the night and coming across a coven of witches in the forest. He was said to have chased them off his land with his rifle before they could complete their ritual and so they'd cursed him with some kind of affliction, and that was why he'd fled to Scotland.

I pulled into Holly Avenue. Raynard Hall dominated the view – its towering grey turrets and black-shuttered windows casting a dim shadow across the bright townhouses that lined the street. A couple of tourists had parked their bikes at the gates and were snapping pictures of the famous artist's home, but they quickly moved on when they saw my car approach. I parked the car outside the heavy iron gates and stared up at the gothic manor, my breath catching in my throat. I'd walked past Raynard Hall hundreds of times as a kid, even sneaking into the grounds at night and peeking in at the grimy windows to see what ghosts might lurk inside, but it had never looked so menacing before.

I sucked in a breath. You've got to do this, Alex. You need to call on all your hidden powers of persuasion and allure, and get inside that house. Or you can kiss your career at Halt goodbye.

I leaned out the window and pushed the button on the intercom. It buzzed impatiently. My mind went completely blank. What am I going to say? Ryan Raynard hasn't opened these doors to anyone else in ten long years. What will possibly make him open them for me?

The intercom crackled, as if urging me to speak. I took a deep breath, then said, "Hello, Mr Host? Mr Raynard? I need to talk to someone about the exhibition—"

"Go away," a voice crackled on the other end. "This is private property."

I bristled. Who did this guy think he was? The haughty tone of Simon Host – coupled with my agitation at having being forced to stand outside the manor at all – made me snap back. "I'm parked on the road, sir, which is not private property at all, so I'd thank you to lose that tone and let me speak uninterrupted. I'm James Alexandra Kline, from the Halt Institute. I need to know when Ryan Raynard's paintings are being delivered. They should have arrived on Monday and we have a photographer waiting—"

"No one by that name lives here. Go away."

Now I was getting angry. "Do you think I'm an idiot? We’ve talked on the phone several times already. Besides, who are you trying to fool? Ryan Raynard may be an artistic genius, but he's a idiot if he thinks he's flying below the radar living in a manor that would make the Addams Family jealous. How many gargoyles have you got on that façade? One… two… three…" I counted them aloud. "Fifteen gargoyles. I mean, that's obviously the aesthetic choice of someone who wants to stay hidden away. I'm being sarcastic, in case you can't tell.”

“I did ascertain that, thank you.” The voice on the other end sounded faintly amused.

“Listen, Mr. Host, I know Raynard is inside that house, and I need to talk to him about the exhibit, and he's left me no other way to contact him. So either you let me in, or I cancel the exhibition. It's that simple."

My heart pounded against my chest. I hadn't planned to say all that. I'd got angry and it had all just slipped out, and now I wished I could take it back. I was taking a huge risk. Raynard could simply decide to cancel the exhibition, and my career would be over before it had even begun.

The intercom crackled. "What did you say your name was?"

"James Alexandra Kline. But people just call me Alex—"

"Very well. Drive up to the doors."

The gate creaked open, and I slammed down on the accelerator, careering up the cracked concrete drive before the voice on the end of the intercom could change his mind.

"Woah." I gazed up at the imposing façade. Up close, the manor appeared even more sinister. It didn't look as if Ryan had done any upkeep on the place since he'd moved in. Weeds snaked across the drive from the wild, overgrown flower beds. Vines twisted around the columns flanking the main entrance. The glass on several windows was cracked or missing, and most were covered with thick, soiled drapes.

The dark oak front doors swung open, revealing a willowy man with beady eyes and a few wisps of grey hair, wearing an old-fashioned black tailored suit. He signalled to me to park off to the left, and follow him inside.

"I'm Alexandra Kline," I said, extending my hand to him. He merely stared at my outstretched digits, nodded, then walked silently through the lofty foyer. My cheap M&S pumps clack-clacked against the polished marble floor, and I couldn't help but glance around at the expensive, but dusty, furnishings and bland portraits in gilded frames that dominated the space.

The man led me down a wide hall, its vaulted ceiling painted with hunting scenes and framed by geometric designs. On the walls hung traditional portraits and hunting trophies – not the decor I'd expect from one of the foremost modern artists in Britain, whose paintings burst with light and movement and colour. I peered into the open rooms as we passed them, seeing some furnished with dark wood and thick velvet, others packed with boxes and furniture covered in white dust sheets, like silent ghosts of the manor's past.

This was the home of the great Ryan Raynard? It just didn’t fit.

At the end of the hall we stepped into a cold drawing room, furnished with the same dark wood and heavy velvet drapery as the rest of the manor. It looked as if no one had used it for a long time, judging by the layer of dust covering every surface, and the spiderwebs clinging to the stag antlers hanging over the fireplace. The casement window was broken, and a chilly breeze blew from the overgrown garden behind the house and swirled around the room. I covered my bare arms with my hands, trying to keep them warm.

I turned to Raynard's lurch, not certain what I was meant to do. "Where's Ryan?" I asked.

"I'll get you some tea," he croaked in reply, then shuffled away. I recognised his voice instantly. That was Simon Host.

Well, isn't this a walking bloody cliché? Raynard’s secretary was also his butler. I perched gingerly on one of the grimy chairs, half expecting a bat to fly down from one of the darkened corners and materialise into Ryan Raynard before me. I pulled at a loose thread on my skirt, wishing I'd thought to go home and change into something smarter. My stomach twisted into a knot. I was about to meet the man whose art career I'd followed religiously since college, a man whose work made me see the world in new and exciting ways, who made me feel that wanting to make art was a perfectly legitimate and wonderful thing to do…

I heard footsteps down the hall, and a deep voice calling out to the butler, who croaked out "James Kline awaits your audience," from somewhere deeper in the house. The footsteps slowed as they approached the door, and the voice said, "Sorry about the wait, Mr Kline. I've been busy in the studio. You know artists, always forgetting the time—"

Ryan Raynard stalked into the room, and I got my first glimpse of my artistic hero. He appeared younger than I expected, his unkempt red hair and stubbled chin at odds with the stiffness of the home around him. Deep, intelligent brown eyes flicked from object to object, unfocused, still lost in the world of whatever he’d been creating. He wore black jeans, a black vest pulled tight across his toned, sculpted chest, and heavy black motorcycle boots that clomped against the marble floor. All three of these items were splattered with paint.

Holy smokes. He was, in short, quite simply the most attractive man I'd ever laid eyes on. A strange shiver ran through my body, spreading from my head right down to my toes.

When Ryan finally looked up, his eyes met mine, and his whole body froze. The stiffness ran from his feet, right the way to the top of his head, as if someone had suddenly shoved a giant popsicle stick up his ass, forcing him upright. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.

I stood, my heart pounding, "Alex Kline," I said, outstretching my hand toward him, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm from the Halt Institute. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Raynard. I'm a huge fan of your work—"

Ryan Raynard stared at my hand hanging there in the space between us, with a look of such utter horror I had to turn it over to ensure it wasn't covered in grease or something.

"You… you're a woman?" he whispered, his eyes boring into mine. The muscles in his face twitched, and I could see the veins in his neck standing out. Something was really wrong here.

"Last time I checked." My hand still hung awkwardly in the air. Ryan tore his gaze from mine, physically wrenching his body away from me. He backed away toward the door, his handsome face shot now with panic.

"Simon!" he yelled into the hall. "Come here, now!"

The butler rushed into the room, a tea tray clattering in his shaking arms. "Sir?"

Raynard was inching toward the door, his hard eyes glaring at me like I was a bug he wished to be squashed immediately. "Why did you let this… this…woman into my home? You know I don’t want to be disturbed."

"You told me I could let her in, not five minutes ago, Mr Raynard. She needs your paintings for the exhibition.”

“You told me her name was James!”

“That’s what she told me, sir—"

Ryan Raynard whirled around and faced me, his eyes burning. "You said your name was James."

I bristled, a sure-fire sign I was about to say something inappropriate. But he was acting like a jerk, so I allowed my voice to drip with scorn. "Forgive me; I didn't know my birth name had to be approved by the great Ryan Raynard. I was named after an ancestor on my mother's side, James Fauntelroy. Apparently, he used to help women accused of witchcraft in the village escape before they were trialled—"

"While I'm really enjoying this fascinating history lesson," Ryan faced into the hall so he didn't have to look at me. "You need to leave."

I shook my head, a stupid gesture, since he couldn’t see me. "I can't leave until we've cleared up a few details for your exhibition. Where are the paintings? I know you've never done an exhibition before, so maybe all this organising is new to you, but if you want this one to go well, you need to co-operate with me. If I don't get those paintings to Halt tomorrow, the exhibition can't go ahead."

His shoulders sagged. I observed the movement with interest. It seemed the exhibition meant more to him than his attitude had led me to believe. "Simon, show Mrs Kline—"

"Ms Kline," I corrected him, cursing myself inwardly as I felt a blush appear on my cheeks. Luckily, Ryan was still avoiding my eyes, so he didn't see.

"—to the painting hall. Answer all her questions. If you want me, I'll be in the studio, but don’t bring her in there. Please deal with Ms Kline on all aspects concerning the exhibition, and make sure she understands that even though my paintings will be available to the public for the first time, I will not. Don't let anyone else in."

Without even another glance in my direction, Ryan Raynard slipped back into the hall and disappeared. The clomp of his boots faded away into silence.

Simon inclined his head toward me, indicating I should follow him. Picking myself up, I followed the butler out of the cold drawing room and back down that drab hall, through another dark, gloomy sitting room, and along a narrow corridor.

My whole body buzzed with a strange energy. It must’ve been the surge of righteous anger. How dare he treat me like… like I wasn’t even a person, like I didn’t even deserve his eye contact? No wonder he hides from the world, if he doesn’t even have the decency to act pleasantly to those helping him. I can’t believe that’s the same guy who created all that beautiful art.

“Is he always so… abrasive?” I asked Simon, by way of making conversation. “How do you stand it?”

“Mr Raynard has his proclivities,” the butler replied, his drawn face indicating he thought he might have said too much.

“And what’s his problem with women? This isn’t the bloody stone age. Does he think the art world is only for straight, white, rich men like himself?”

The butler didn’t reply.

We walked on in silence through the dark, drab hallway, Ryan’s ancestors staring disapprovingly down on me. All the while I replayed the meeting with Ryan Raynard over in my mind – his handsome face hardening to stone when he realised I was female, his body going rigid like a statue, his aversion even to meet my eyes. The way he swaggered in, those gorgeous curls flopping in his eyes, his shoulders bulging from that black vest…

I shook my head. Hot artistic visionary or not, the man was a complete tosser. It wouldn't do for me to dwell on his looks.

We stopped in front of a heavy steel door – at odds with the drab wood panelling that surrounded it. Simon hunched over the lock, keying in a complex combination. The door clicked open, and I was greeted with a sight that took my breath away.

A long, white room stretched in front of me, the other end a distant blur on the horizon. Rectangular skylights flooded the space in natural light, and after the gloom of the house, the light, airy space made me feel giddy, almost drunk. Simon flicked a switch, and rows of low-hanging spotlights flickered on, illuminating the artwork hanging on the walls. Every spare space on the walls was taken up with paintings – a hodgepodge of different styles and eras, all chosen with the keen eye of someone who understood colour and light and beauty. I noticed what looked like a Banksy print to the left of the door, butted up next to a Chagall. I turned, dizzy with the splendour of it all, and came face to face with some of Monet's water lilies, the beauty of the lines leaping from the canvas, pulling me into the gardens of Giverny, filling my nostrils with the scent of spring. I turned again, and this time my eye fell upon a Cézanne still life, the repetitive, exploratory brushstrokes creating a dramatic tension between the objects.

Nestled amongst these great words were pieces I recognised as belonging to the hand of Raynard himself. Impressionistic views of forests – great oaks with branches twisting, birds flying in lazy circles over a foggy grove, deer drinking from the brook. A beautiful red fox frolicking between the trees. I stepped closer, admiring the dappled light streaming from the gaps in the leaves, touching the fox's fur.

I glanced at the title. Vixen.

"Why isn't this painting in the exhibition?" I breathed. The title wasn’t on the list Simon had given me. Ryan's exhibition was called The Hunt, and his images, we'd been informed, took inspiration from the animals in Crookshollow Forest as they went about their nocturnal wanderings. This remarkable piece should have been the focal point of the room.

Simon shook his head. "He will not part with that one for anything," he said. "And don't you even ask. Come, I have packaged up the ten pieces for the exhibition. Three of them are quite large, and I shall help you carry them to your car."