Mr Alexander holds a finger to his lips and winks as if we are partners in crime. “Mrs Baxter is on the warpath,” he whispers. “I will let you get on with your work.” And he walks off purposefully.
The encounter leaves me unsettled and that night I toss and turn, my inability to sleep compounded by Martha’s soft snoring in the adjoining cot. I stare at the ceiling until I can lie here no longer. Aided by the light from a tallow stump, I find my way to the kitchen in search of that bitter brown tincture Mrs Baxter keeps hidden in a scullery cupboard. I am unconcerned about my bare feet and nightgown as I do not expect to encounter anyone at this late hour.
As I creep down the back stairs, I become aware of a strip of light coming from under the drawing room door. From within I hear heightened voices and realise an argument is in progress. I know the master is not currently at home so it must be Mr Alexander and the mistress. I have not heard them speak to each other like this before.
The mistress’s voice is petulant, rising in volume, while Mr Alexander’s remains calm and measured. I have no inkling of what they might be talking about, but the topic is clearly not to Mrs Reade’s liking. Mr Alexander sounds resolute, which makes me admire him, until I hear the unmistakable sound of weeping followed by hushed and soothing tones. It seems the mistress has won this argument. I shake my head. If she is able to bend him to her will so easily, he is done for. There can be no saving him.
In the library, I have been secretly reading about the travels of Ulysses. When his ship came upon the sirens he ordered his men to stop up their ears with wax so they would not be seduced by the sirens’ song. He himself remained tied to the mast, his cries to be released unheard. That is how I think of Mrs Reade, as an alluring and cruel siren who has robbed poor Mr Alexander of his senses.
In the scullery it does not take me long to find the blue bottle. I remove its cork stopper and count half a dozen drops into a glass of water. I have seen Mrs Baxter do this countless times before when one of the servants has a toothache or aching joints.
I barely have time to raise the glass to my lips when I am startled by the sound of hooves on the gravel outside. With a pounding heart, I peer through the window and see the master. His arrival must be unexpected because he leads his horse to the stables himself. I notice that he is unsteady on his feet, and have seen my father in a similar state enough times to recognise inebriation.
Terror makes my mind go blank. It is possible that the occupants of the drawing room have not noted his return. What should I do? Return to my bed and act as if I never came down? Where does my allegiance lie? Not with the master surely, that stern and exacting man. I am beholden to Mr Alexander, and he is not strong enough to extricate himself from the spell that has been cast over him. If truth be told, he didn’t stand a chance from the minute he arrived here from his sojourn in Paris and Mrs Reade set her sights on him. The intrigue has been going on for months and I wonder how she can live so comfortably in her web of deceit.
I listen intently as the master enters the house. I imagine him stopping to throw off his cloak. Unless he is too intoxicated to notice, it will not be long before he hears voices and stumbles upon his wife and brother in the drawing room. The truth has a way of coming out, and perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps this is the only way the lunacy will come to an end.
I am too small and insignificant to get involved in such a drama. Instead I quickly down the contents of my glass before retreating to my room. As I climb into bed, I consider how I have changed from that wide-eyed girl who first arrived at Grange Hall. I shall never look in the mirror and see her again. That gloss of innocence has been erased, never to return.
This house is cursed, I think, and so are all who dwell within it. I lie in my bed under the flimsy cover and wait for the axe to fall.
I was glad to be released from Becky’s memories before Carter found Alex and Isobel in the drawing room. I knew what horrors would follow and didn’t need to witness them firsthand. That would be too heart-wrenching.
As I woke from the vision, I became aware of two voices arguing.
“Why weren’t you watching her?”
“I was watching her. She’s fine, aren’t you, Chloe?”
“She is unconscious!”
“Word to the wise: when people are unconscious they’re generally not standing up.”
I opened my eyes to see Alex peering into my face and snapping his fingers under my nose.
“Chloe, can you hear me?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I was just someplace else for a few minutes.”
“So it is still happening,” Alex said. “Are you going to elaborate?”
There was no point telling him what he already knew when there was something much bigger at hand. Hart’s death took precedence over Becky’s scattered memories.
“I’m just so glad to see you!” I said, walking straight into his arms.
“You have been crying. Why?”
The words choked in my throat the first time I tried to get them out. I had to take a deep breath before whispering, “She’s back. Isobel is here.”
Alex released me instantly and a shadow fell across his face. “Are you certain?”
“I saw her with my own eyes. And she’s done something awful.”
Alex waited for me to say more, but I was too overcome to speak. I just shook my head and left the explanations to Zac.
“Hart Anderson, a student, was killed in a freak drowning accident. He was captain of the swim team.” Zac’s voice gave out and he turned away to compose himself.
Alex stared at me, realisation dawning. “I am very sorry,” he said to both of us.
I could see from the look on his face that he felt responsible for the tragedy. He was probably thinking that if he hadn’t come back from the afterlife, this wouldn’t have happened. But there was more to it this time, I was sure. And somehow we had to work together to figure it out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
No one spoke for a while. We each needed some time to process what had just happened. I knew that Zac especially was torn apart by losing his friend. I was surprised to see him holding up as well as he was.
“I do not understand,” Alex finally murmured. “How can this be happening again? What does Isobel want? To hurt me? Or you? She cannot still harbour so much vengeance.”
“Vengeance is her middle name, remember?” I said. “And you know what the worst part is? I think she’s just warming up.”
“This isn’t like she’s vandalised your car,” Zac said angrily. “Somebody died! Somebody I cared about. So what are we going to do about it?”
Alex shifted his gaze to Zac, who was standing in the aisle with his arms folded, his face dark with emotion. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, before Zac could reply. “Alex, this is Zac Green. Zac, meet Alex Reade.”
“I’m a friend of Chloe’s,” Zac added.
“Indeed?”
I thought it best to set the record straight before any more testosterone went flying.
“Zac’s been helping me try and piece everything together. Do you remember the girl we saw in my car on your first day here?”
That got Alex’s attention. “How could I forget her?”
“Well, it turns out she used to live here once when Sycamore was an orphanage run by a woman called Agatha Marsh. She died here in 1941, in a fire along with twelve little kids and their nurse. I keep seeing flashes of the victims; and now I’ve seen Isobel. What does that mean? How are they connected?”
“It means whoever this necromancer is, he’s running circles around us,” Alex said, as calmly as if he were announcing the day’s weather forecast.
Zac did a double-take. “Back up! Necromancer?” he asked sharply. “You’ve got to be yanking my chain.”
“I wish he was,” I said.
I knew Zac must be getting used to me dropping these paranormal bombshells, because instead of debating f
urther he just looked directly at Alex. “Well, at least that explains how you got here.”
“I thought so too,” Alex said, sounding mildly offended. “Then I realised that a necromancer does not raise the dead out of generosity, to let them walk free. Rather, he uses black magic to bind spirits to his control, like dogs on a leash. Rest assured, I am not on a leash.”
“How else do you explain your being here?” Zac asked.
Alex offered a small smile. “I cannot pretend to explain it. Perhaps the afterlife returned me so Chloe and I could be together again.”
Was he deliberately taunting Zac by mentioning our shared history?
When I saw Zac’s glare, I jumped in as conciliator again. “There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this and that’s if the three of us work together,” I said firmly. “We’re the only ones who know what’s really going on.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Zac asked.
“We have to find the necromancer.”
“That could be anyone.”
“Not exactly,” Alex said. “We are talking about a dark and ancient art; it takes many decades to perfect it. This person is old, although they may not appear so. And if they have raised Isobel, there must be a reason.”
“Any ideas?” Zac asked.
“I cannot say for sure.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Zac muttered.
Alex looked at him with raised eyebrows. “If you have a theory to offer, please be my guest.”
“This is your territory, dude. You have more in common with them than us.”
I didn’t like what Zac was implying. Turning Alex into the enemy wasn’t just ridiculous, it was a digression we couldn’t afford.
“What are you suggesting?” Alex replied. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and looked like he was about to challenge Zac to a duel.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying you’re one of them so why should we trust you?”
“Stop it! Both of you,” I said. “This isn’t helping.”
They both looked sheepish for a moment before returning to staring each other down. I decided I needed to come clean, get everything out in the open.
“There’s one more thing you should know.”
That got their attention. They both turned to me, waiting for me to go on.
I looked at Alex. “It’s about Becky Burns.”
A surprised look crossed his face. “How do you know that name?”
“She’s been visiting my dreams,” I answered. “Or I’ve been visiting hers — it’s hard to tell. All I know is, I’m reliving her memories in visions or when I’m asleep.”
“Are you sure it is not your imagination?”
“You tell me,” I said, and repeated the advice he’d given Becky that day in the library: “When all else fails, knowledge is the only thing we can rely on. Seek it out at all costs and never be ashamed to do so.”
Alex stared at me, dumbfounded.
“Straight after she asked you what ornithology was,” I said. “Isn’t that how it happened?”
“Word for word,” he said softly. “How very strange you should have seen that. How often do you have these episodes?”
“Whenever this is close by.” I withdrew the moonstone brooch from my pocket and handed it to Alex.
His frown deepened as he held it up to the light. I could tell from his eyes that it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Grandma Fee sent it to me. It used to belong to Becky.”
“No,” he said adamantly. “This belonged to Isobel.”
“Hold up, I’m getting confused here,” Zac said. “Becky … Isobel … who are these women?”
“Ghosts of the past,” Alex murmured. He handed the brooch back to me, as if it held memories too painful to recall.
“Who, for whatever reason, refuse to stay in the past,” I added.
“Becky was a sweet, devoted girl. I wonder how this item came into her possession.”
“Oh, she’s already shown me that,” I said. “Isobel gave it to her.”
“A bribe?” Alex murmured.
“No doubt.” I really didn’t want to go there.
“The brooch allows you to access her memories,” he continued. “I have heard of objects imbued with such powers.”
“But why is she sharing them with me?” I asked. “They’re like random pieces of a puzzle.”
“The staff at Grange Hall saw much and said little. Perhaps there is something Becky wants you to know. Or perhaps she wants to put her own mind at rest. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary yet?”
“Did anything happen at Grange Hall that wasn’t out of the ordinary?”
Alex gave an enigmatic smile. “Tell me what you have learned so far.”
“Well, I know her father was a drunk and that her mom had a tough time, but I don’t think that’s relevant to our situation.” I mentally shuffled through the dreams. “Like everyone else, she steered clear of Carter, but she liked you a lot and appreciated the interest you took in her.”
“That’s not much to go on.”
“Maybe there’s more to come. Maybe she’ll show me something important soon.”
“I hope so,” said Alex. “In the meantime we keep looking.”
I groaned and sat down on the edge of the stage. “We can’t just wait around for me to have more dreams. Isobel is here now. People are in danger now. If only there was some way I could talk to Becky directly.”
Alex rubbed his chin and grew thoughtful for a moment, and then I saw his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth crinkle into a smile.
“Perhaps there is.”
“Absolutely not,” Zac said after Alex had outlined his proposal. “It’s completely out of the question.”
“It may be the only option we have,” I countered.
“Have you gone insane? I am not helping you guys summon a dead girl!”
“She’s really quite friendly,” Alex said.
Zac rolled his eyes. “That’s good to know.”
I could see that he was struggling to keep it together. Not only had he just witnessed the death of his friend, he was now being asked to help us access the afterlife for answers.
“Don’t you think we’ve got enough ghosts running amok here?” he said. “We should be trying to expel the ones we have, not adding to them!”
“A seance will not bring Becky’s spirit into this world,” Alex explained calmly. “It will simply allow us to communicate with her. She has already made contact, so perhaps there are other things she wants Chloe to know.”
“It’s okay,” I told Zac. “If you want to go, I completely understand. This isn’t your fight.”
He shifted uncomfortably. I knew he wasn’t weak or faint-hearted; he just wasn’t sure how much more of this he could handle.
“But first, consider that you are already talking to the dead,” Alex added.
Zac looked surprised for a second, as if he’d forgotten Alex was a ghost. I didn’t blame him; Alex seemed so real these days.
“So where are we doing this?” Zac tried to sound stoic, but the little quaver in his voice gave him away. “Here might be a tad exposed.”
“We can’t go to my place,” I said. “My dad and brother will be home by now.”
Zac squeezed his eyes shut like he couldn’t believe what he was about to suggest. “I suppose we could go to mine. But I don’t have one of those ouija boards or anything.”
“That will not be necessary,” Alex said. “A black scrying mirror will suffice.”
“I didn’t see one of those lying around either last time I checked.” Zac was using humour to stay calm, but the colour had drained from his face.
“That is easily rectified. They are simple enough to fashion.”
“Great,” I said. “But what exactly is a scrying mirror? How does it work?”
“Scrying is an ancient art by which one
gazes into a reflective surface in the hope of communing with the dead. A scrying mirror is sometimes called a black mirror or magic mirror — all rely on the same concept. It is believed that when one clears one’s mind, the surface of the mirror will become fluid, opening a door between the living and the dead.”
“So how do we make one?” I asked.
“We must paint a small sheet of glass black.”
“You mean like the glass in a picture frame?”
“Precisely.”
“Okay,” Zac said, resolved now to see this through. “What are we waiting for?”
We took a short detour to the art department’s supply room and made off with a can of quick-drying black spraypaint. Zac assured us he had plenty of picture frames back at his place that we could use.
As we walked to his car, I noticed that he and Alex positioned themselves on either side of me. I knew it was partly because they were being protective, but also because they wanted to put some distance between each other. It was going to be one awkward drive to Malibu if they kept this up. Where was I supposed to sit? In the back with Alex or in front with Zac?
Don’t be an idiot, I upbraided myself. Seating arrangements are the least of your concerns.
When we arrived at the Greens’ residence, Alex seemed intrigued by the modern glass and metal structure.
“This is your home?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Zac tossed me the key to the pool house while he headed for the main building.
“Designs have changed over the years,” I told Alex.
“Change is not always a good thing,” he muttered under his breath.
“Anything else we need other than the frame?” Zac called back.
“Could you please bring a clean cloth, some vinegar, water and a newspaper?” Alex replied.
“Done.”
Zac disappeared, and Alex and I went to wait in the pool house. I could tell he was uncomfortable in Zac’s space. He regarded every high-tech appliance, from the coffee-maker to the air purifier to the flatscreen on the wall, with suspicion.
Maybe he and Zac would never be friends, but I just needed them to get along for the next few hours.