“Look! There in the margin,” I said. Someone had added notes in pencil at the edge of the page. “Sebastian…That’s his writing, I’m sure.”
Helen held the candle closer to decipher the faint words. “‘I have attempted this many times,’” she read slowly. “‘Each time I have failed and been rejected by the Powers. Yet I will master this, if it takes every drop of my blood.’”
“He never did,” I said. “Only Agnes could reach the sacred fire, and she didn’t need the Book to do it.”
“Are you ready to try, Evie?”
“I’m ready.”
Helen set the candles out in a circle around us. “Let all our deeds be pleasing to the Light of Lights; let them be as clear and pure as the mountain air.”
Then Sarah laid bunches of fresh evergreen leaves between the wavering candles. “Let our thoughts be as strong as the trees that grow in the earth; let them bear fruit that is good and wholesome.”
I scooped water into my hands from one of the stone jars and let the shining droplets fall on the greenery. “Let our lives be cleansed; let our minds be without stain.”
We held hands and chanted together: “Let this be our circle of protection and knowledge. Let the Mystic Rites begin.”
I cannot betray the secrets of all that we did. But when all was prepared, we burned the oils and the herbs prescribed in the Book and watched the smoke curl up to the roof. Then I closed my eyes as Sarah pressed the silver dagger against my bare arm and let a single drop of my blood fall into the smoking mixture.
The blood of our veins…the fire of our desires…show us the fire…the fire of life….
I was falling. The air rushed past me like the beating of angels’ wings. I was spinning into darkness, and the voices of Sarah and Helen were lost to me. I was entirely alone in the whole universe. Then there was a light ahead, and everything slowed down. I had arrived at the heart of a deep cavern, and the light in front of my eyes was so dazzling that I could hardly bear to look at it. But I had no choice. Somehow, I approached and saw that the light was coming from a column of leaping fire, great flames twisting silver and red and blue, orange and purple and white, like living diamonds. The heat was terrible and I was afraid that I would burn away like a dry leaf, but at the same time I knew that I must reach out to the flame. As I tried to do so, I was blasted back by the force of the fire, and a voice seemed to say, “You cannot approach the sacred fire; it is not for you…. The living water calls to you, sister. Go back; you do not belong here.”
“No,” I called out in desperation, “you must let me approach. I was sent here; Agnes sent me….”
Then the voice, or the thoughts in my head—I couldn’t be sure—seemed to speak again. “There is light in your soul and courage in your heart. But these are deep mysteries and only a few may be welcomed. You cannot pass through the flames without a token of belonging. A token of fire. Bring that next time and the powers may be more gracious.”
Then it seemed that the light and the heat would destroy me utterly, burning away every particle of my being, and I screamed as the flames surrounded me.
“Evie! Evie, it’s all right! Come back!” Someone splashed water on my face and I woke up in the attic, sprawled on the faded carpet. The leaves and herbs had been scattered and the circle was broken. Sarah and Helen were bending over me, looking anxious. I shook my head wearily.
“I couldn’t do it. I don’t belong in the realm of fire.”
I felt so flat and dull, aching with emptiness. I had been so sure that it would work. Why hadn’t Agnes appeared to me? Where had she gone? I missed her, and I seemed to be losing her as well as Sebastian. I had failed; I couldn’t do it….
“So what happened? Can you try again?” asked Helen.
“I’m not sure. They said—or someone seemed to say—that I could, but I would have to take something with me, something from Agnes, I think.”
“What?”
“I don’t know—a token of fire, whatever that is.”
“Do they mean the Talisman?”
“No—not that. I don’t know how they told me, but I have to find something else. The token.” I slammed my hand on the floor in frustration. “I was so close! All I had to do was reach out…and now I’ve no idea what to do.”
“We’ll find the way, Evie, I promise,” said Sarah soothingly.
“But when? How? If Miss Raglan is confirmed as the High Mistress at the next new moon, I think she’ll be strong enough to act openly against us. And Sebastian can’t hold on forever.”
“Let’s give it one more try, at least,” Helen said, her green-yellow eyes shining in the candlelight. “A token of fire. We’ve got to find that before we do anything else.”
“I’ll find it,” I said grimly. “I’ll find it, whatever it takes.”
I will master this, if it takes every drop of my blood….
I would give my blood, my tears, my hope. Oh, I would go on and on until the bitter end, until I had nothing else left to give.
Thirty-four
I had never seen Miss Raglan so angry.
“This cannot be tolerated!” Her face was mottled and red, and she scanned the faces of the uneasy Wyldcliffe students with something close to loathing. “Someone has taken an antique letter opener and a very valuable book. They are both the property of the school, and I will have them returned!”
Part of me wanted to laugh at her impotent rage as she spluttered like a dictator who had suddenly lost control of an army. It wasn’t really funny, though. Now that Miss Raglan and the coven had discovered the loss of the Book and the dagger, I knew that I would be top on the list of their suspects.
“Never, in our long history, have we had thieves at Wyldcliffe,” she blustered. “I will not put up with this while I am responsible for the school. This is the second time this term that there has been an incident like this. The book in question was an extremely rare volume of great interest. If the culprit does not come forward, I will be forced to call in the police.”
Yeah, right, I thought. It wasn’t very likely that Miss Raglan would run to the police with everything that she had to hide. She was bluffing, and I knew we were still safe. The Book was hidden in Agnes’s secret attic, and so was the silver dagger. Let her storm, I thought. As long as she was angry, I knew that she was empty-handed.
Miss Raglan stumped out of the dining hall and the girls split up into little groups, slightly shocked over the scene we had just witnessed. I felt kind of sorry for them. Those blond, pretty Lucys and Camillas and Carolines would never dream of taking something that didn’t belong to them, and yet they had been harangued like common street kids. First the High Mistress had disappeared; now there was a thief at Wyldcliffe. Their little world was beginning to show cracks. Celeste and India were holding court, giving out their opinions in silky voices that were full of spite.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past Helen Black,” Celeste was saying. “She’s completely nuts, and everyone knows she hasn’t got any money at all. If this dumb book really is worth a fortune, she’d be only too happy to get her hands on it. Personally I wouldn’t have these scholarship girls at Wyldcliffe.” She glared in my direction. “It really lowers the tone, don’t you think, Sophie?”
Sophie blushed scarlet and mumbled, “I can’t believe anyone from Wyldcliffe would steal stuff from the school…. I really can’t.”
“I think you’re right, Sophie,” said India smoothly. “Helen Black and her crowd are too stupid to pull off a stunt like that. I blame outsiders. I’m sure the missing book is down at that horrible Gypsy camp at this very moment. Everyone knows they are thieves, and worse—look at what they’ve been doing with those dead animals on people’s doorsteps; it’s completely sick.”
Sarah had been listening in disgust, and she couldn’t contain herself any longer. “How dare you say that? There’s no proof that any of this is connected to the travelers. Just because people are different from you—and thank God some people are—y
ou automatically despise them.”
India laughed. “Oh, listen to Saint Sarah, always defending the weak. But I happen to think that the weak have only themselves to blame.”
“Come on, Sarah,” said Helen. “It isn’t worth arguing with her.” She dragged us both away and we headed for our next class. It was history with Miss Scratton. I took my seat in the familiar classroom in the old wing, with the narrow lattice windows and the whitewashed walls. The poster of the witches from Macbeth was still displayed behind Miss Scratton’s desk. Ironic, I thought bitterly. She was worse than any witch. I couldn’t even take an interest in her lessons anymore, though they had previously been my favorites. I wanted to get out there and out of her sight as quickly as possible.
“When Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries and the great religious houses in the sixteenth century, there was a period of great upheaval and uncertainty, even rebellion….” Her monotonous voice droned on as we took notes. “For the ordinary people, places like our own Abbey had for many years been sources of education, charity, and medicine—the sisters would have cared for anyone who needed healing.”
A wave of exhaustion swept over me. I could hardly concentrate.
“Of course, even in pagan times the people would have valued their healers. Long before the Abbey was built, the ancient settlers who worshiped on their hilltop temple would have had their wise women….”
The light in the room dimmed. I sat up and gripped the edge of my desk, willing it not to happen. But everything was changing again, just as it had once before, when I had first glimpsed Agnes in her long-ago schoolroom. The colors and sounds swirled into a confused blur…. It was happening again….
The low lattice windows and the whitewashed walls dissolved and faded. I was in simple wooden building, hardly more than a shelter. A young child wrapped in a rough woolen cloak lay on the straw-covered floor, and his face was gray with pain. His mother held his hand and tried not to weep. Another woman, who wore a silver amulet around her neck and a veil over her hair, was tending the child. She wiped the boy’s face and gave him sips of a bitter-looking mixture, while repeating some secret prayers. The boy’s pain seemed eased, and he fell into a deep sleep. The woman with the amulet turned to me, and though her face was half-hidden by the veil, I saw her eyes burning with fierce intelligence and pity…a healer…a wise woman…a holy sister….
Miss Scratton’s harsh voice jolted me back to the present. “Like the Wyldcliffe nuns, the wise women would be highly respected as teachers and holy sisters—”
“No!” I couldn’t help crying out. How dared she talk about sisterhood when she had betrayed every ideal of learning and love and loyalty?
“What’s wrong, Evie?” Miss Scratton said, looking up at me. “Do you disagree with my views?”
“I…I’m sorry,” I stammered, trying to cover my confusion and find something to say. “It’s just that, um…at my old school, um…the teacher said that in the old days women weren’t important…. They just had babies and did the cooking and stuff….”
“And isn’t having babies and caring for a family important? But in any case, I think you’ll find that if you look deeper, women have always done much, much more. Oh, yes, women have always wielded great power,” she added softly, “even if it largely went unseen.”
Unseen power…the great sisterhood…the Mystic Way… I felt dizzy as her eyes stared unrelentingly into mine.
“But that would be an interesting topic of discussion for another time.” She seemed to lose interest in me and turned away abruptly. “Right now I want you to read the source material on page thirty-two of the textbook and then plan your written report.”
My head was bursting. What had I just seen? Was there some clue in the vision? Perhaps I needed to connect with the women of the deep, unknown past—perhaps they had some ancient knowledge that would help Sebastian. Perhaps he needed to drink the herbal mixture, like the boy. But how would that be connected with the fire token? If only I knew what it all meant!
I bent over my books and pretended to do my work, but I was really scribbling down anything that could trigger the answer I needed: Fire—heat—flame. Red—red rose? Ruby? A ruby ring. Red—sign of blood. Healing potions—look in Book. To cleanse blood? Poppies. Crimson. Scarlet. Fire. A token. A love token. FIRE.
Think, Evie, think, I told myself, but my mind was blank, as empty as the mournful hills and the gray, gray sky.
Thirty-five
FROM THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF SEBASTIAN JAMES FAIRFAX
A memory stirs in the darkness—
We were riding under the gray sky, not far from here. Galloping like thunder, laughing as we flew across the valley, riding to escape, riding to forget.
My brothers were with me.
The Fairfaxes are dead and gone, and I was the only child of my parents. But they asked me to call them brother—
My memories fade except this. Pain—the pain is consuming me. I am drowning in pain and fire—
Must hold to the memory. Must not let go. Must fight. Fight for Evie—
I am so alone.
Long ago, I had my brothers.
We journeyed together—Niko and Stefan and Tamas and all the rest. Their sturdy horses. Their beautiful women.
Why do they come back to me now? They ride in my mind like bright flames.
I must tell you—I feel the wind on my face as we ride from place to place. I hear laughter and singing. I see the glitter of their black eyes and the flash of their sharp daggers. I smell wood smoke. I taste hot, savory broth; the sun goes down. We eat and sing and tell stories.
I must tell you—the end of the story—
When was this? Twenty, thirty, sixty summers ago? Why does this come to my mind?
My mind…The Talisman hovers in my mind—calling me, tempting me—
No.
No.
If I could choose—if I could find you again, Evie, I would ride with you across the moors as I once rode with my brothers, wild and free and sure.
I see you riding like fire—a red rose—a crimson slash of silk—the fire—
I am falling—falling—pain and darkness.
All is hidden and lost. I write these words—My voice fails—I must reach you. I write my name in the dust—I am consumed by fire—
My brothers will help you.
Help me, Evie.
My story is nearly over.
Help me.
Thirty-six
In my dream it is snowing and I am outside in the sparkling air, as comfortable as a fox or a deer in the deep woods. I am wearing a long, heavy skirt, with a bright shawl wrapped around my shoulders. A cooking fire glows in a ring of stones dug into the cold earth. The flames heat a pot of broth that hangs from a metal trivet over the fire. Behind me is a huddle of tents and wooden carts, and a couple of ragged boys playing in the snow. I am watching and waiting, and the smell of the fire mingles with the smell of the tall pine trees. I am waiting for someone, waiting for him to return to me.
And then Sebastian is there, running over the snow, his face full of young, strong joy. He takes me into his arms and we kiss, and our mouths are warm and sweet as honey. The white world fades and the red sun burns low on the horizon. But there’s something I need, something I’m looking for; I try to remember. Sebastian, I say urgently, you’ve got to help me find the fire token. What is it? Where is it? He looks at me so tenderly and strokes my hair; then a rough voice calls out, “Prala! Av akai!” Brother…my brother… Three dark-haired riders, wary-looking men with strong, proud faces, are waiting for him under the trees, holding the reins of Sebastian’s black horse. One of them comes nearer, leading the horse and speaking urgently to Sebastian. Then Sebastian lets go of me and leaps into the saddle. I can’t stay, he says. My brothers will help, I have to move on, move on, move on…. He gallops away with the men, and I am left alone as the sun sets and the world blazes into fire.
When I woke up, the dream was still bright and alive,
like a picture in my mind. I looked at the little alarm clock by my bedside and groaned. Three o’clock in the morning. I just wanted to go back to sleep, to my dream world where Sebastian’s kisses were real.
The dream. I suddenly sat up, bolt upright, my heart racing. My brothers will help. But Sebastian didn’t have any brothers; he had been an only child. His brothers, the riders in the snow…those men on the wild-looking horses, what did they remind me of? My thoughts were jumbling over one another, struggling to make sense, as scraps of forgotten conversation rose from the layers of my mind. I hope she haunts you, Celeste had said. But I don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Sarah? Yes…I think I do…the old beliefs…The dead can come back; the dead can come back to haunt the living; that’s what the Romany people say….
That was it; that was the connection—those men in the dream, they reminded me of the traveler boy, the Gypsy we had seen on his shaggy pony out on the moors. And Sebastian’s brothers—what had Sebastian told me of his long and restless existence since Agnes’s death? I lived for a while with some Romany wanderers. They were good to me, like brothers.
Was there a connection? My brothers will help, the dream Sebastian had said. But perhaps I was just grasping at any wild idea. Yesterday my mind had been full of images of the woman with the amulet, and now I was buzzing with dreams of Sebastian. Was it all just crazy nonsense, brought on by worry and lack of sleep? Or had my dream really contained a message of some kind?
There was only one way to find out.
The following Sunday Harriet ran after us down the drive just as we got near to the school gates. I guessed she had been hanging around, waiting for us to appear.
“Hey, Evie,” she said, panting. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” I said shortly.
“Can I come with you?”
“You younger ones aren’t allowed out without a mistress,” Helen replied.