“So, what explanation can you give?”
“I had no choice, Agnes,” he replied with a strange light in his eyes. “You know as well as I that the Book says that to become a Master of our craft I must have a coven of Sisters around me. You have made it quite clear that you will not serve me, so I had to look elsewhere. I have found what I need here in Wyldcliffe.”
“What? A few simple village girls flattered by your attentions? How will they help you achieve anything great or good?”
“I am teaching them. They are stronger than you think. And they are eager to learn, to please me.” His eyes lingered on me, and I blushed, hardly knowing why. Then he laughed cruelly. “Why, Agnes, I believe you are jealous of my new Sisters. But you cannot refuse to stand by my side and then complain if others choose to fill the place that you have left empty.”
“I would never have left that place had you not driven me away!”
“How? How have I driven you away?”
“By delving too deep and too dark,” I said. “I cannot follow you down the road you are set upon.”
He came and sat next to me, gentle for a moment, like a tamed hawk.
“Yes, you can, Agnes. It is not too late.” He took my hands in his. “If we join forces again, we can find the key to what I am seeking. I am so close, but I need you to help me. Think, Agnes, think! Eternal life—life without death, without failure, without sickness, without end. And it could be ours, if only you would agree. We would always be together, never to be parted. You have no need to fear my new servants. They are necessary to me, but they mean nothing; they are mere tools for me to use as I choose.”
I struggled to resist him. “You should not speak like that. They are each one of them a precious life—a precious soul. And you are not teaching them the true Mysteries. You are turning an ancient art into sickening witchcraft. We should use our powers to live well in the time given to us, not try to steal time that is not ours to take. Tell these girls to go home to their mothers and their spinning wheels. You do them no good.”
“They are grateful that I am leading them on the path to immortality.”
“You are leading them into danger and despair! There are worse things than death. To live forever is to be less than human. Let them go! Release them from your service.”
“I have a better plan,” he said. “My Sisters need a leader to guide them. They need you, Agnes. You would be the High Mistress of my coven, and I would be its Master. You and me—isn’t that what you want?”
“No, not like this; it is wrong.” I looked up at him, suddenly clear and calm. “Besides, there is another girl, far away. I have seen her with you. It is she whom you love, not me. You will put her in danger if you continue, you will put us all in danger—”
“What nonsense, Agnes.” He laughed. “We will never know danger, only power and glory. And it’s you that I care for. You know that.” His eyes pierced me like a splinter of glass and I shuddered, helpless under his gaze. “Oh, Agnes,” he breathed, “our life could be so beautiful. Don’t you love me at all?”
He kissed my hair, my face, and my eyes. I felt the force of his will beating against me. I swayed dizzily, and he caught me in his embrace.
“Yes,” I confessed. “I love you. I love you.”
He kissed me, and I kissed him back again and again, until I was trembling with fever. Then he said: “We could have this moment forever. This and more, going on and on, and never growing weary of it. I have already traveled part of the way down that road. I have all that I need, except for one thing: One touch from your mind and will, Agnes, that is all I ask, one spark of the Fire. Heal me once and for all, I beg you. But if you refuse, you become my enemy forever.”
I drew back. This was the moment to which everything else had been leading. And at that very moment I knew that I could not give him what he desired.
“I’m sorry. I cannot do as you ask.”
“You can, Agnes; you must,” he urged. “Share your power with me. Marry me so that we can have no more secrets, and we’ll live in bliss for all eternity.”
He began to kiss me again and I tried to push him away.
“I can’t,” I sobbed. “I will not! Leave me! Let me go, I beg you….”
But he wouldn’t. He gripped me cruelly, almost crushing me in his arms. “I need your powers. I will have them!”
In desperation I closed my eyes and saw the Sacred Circle in my mind, blazing with white fire in the darkest night. I repeated the incantations. Bursts of red and blue and orange exploded behind my eyes, and I spoke a word of Power.
The blast threw him across to the other side of the heather. A trickle of blood was on his face. I ran to him and laid his head on my lap, trying to soothe his pain. Over and over again I murmured, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”
At last he opened his eyes and staggered to his feet, wiping the blood on his sleeve.
“So, that is your answer. You will not join me. You are sorry.”
“That is my answer.”
The silence hung heavy between us. A lark swooped and soared overhead.
“Look, Agnes,” he said. “It is so beautiful.” He turned to me and paused. “So beautiful—and so out of reach.”
Then he set off, walking down into the valley until he was out of sight.
I have not seen him for many days. I do not know whether I will ever see him again.
Twenty-seven
I
didn’t know whether I would ever see Sebastian again, but I dreaded seeing any more visions. As I lay in the infirmary for two—or was it three?—days, a fire burned in my head, bringing confused thoughts and rambling dreams. The nurse called in Dr. Harrison, who raised his eyebrows at seeing me again. He said something about my having a virus and needing plenty of rest and hot drinks. I did what they told me to do, but I wasn’t really there. I was reliving everything that had happened, going over every scrap of memory, trying to make sense of it all.
The girl. The warnings. Sebastian. But she’s dead, I kept saying to myself, she’s dead. I don’t believe in ghosts…. I don’t believe…I don’t…
Yet it had happened. I had seen her, heard her voice. However much I tried to fight it, there was something in me that knew she was real. She was somehow part of me.
That was it, I rationalized. The girl with the red hair was part of my subconscious, a version of me, a hidden part of my mind that was trying to tell me to be cautious about the relationship with Sebastian. His refusal to let me meet his family had spooked me, and this girl and her message were simply some kind of psychological reaction.
I had seen her on the very first day, though, I reminded myself, long before I had begun to have a relationship with Sebastian. A relationship. Such a clumsy, ugly word for something that was impossible to pin down, an intricate dance between two people, like the pull and tug of the waves.
I’m not very good with relationships.
Sebastian had said that. Was it his fault this time, or mine? It didn’t really matter. Our relationship, whatever it had been, would be over now. I had walked out on him, and his pride wouldn’t tolerate that. Why had I lost my temper so stupidly? I was already regretting it. Yet he had said that he would be waiting for me.
It was late Sunday evening. I was feeling better, at least physically. A cool drink stood on the bedside table. I sipped at it eagerly. There was no one else there. Helen had gone back to class, healed of whatever had brought her here. When I had been awake she had slept, or faked sleep, so I hadn’t had the chance to talk to her. It didn’t matter, though. I had nothing to say to Helen Black.
Slowly I got out of bed and walked to the little bathroom. I ran the tap and splashed my face with cold water. As I glanced at myself in the mirror, my skin looked paler than ever, as pale as a Victorian girl in an old painting.
The painting. That wasn’t just some psychological manifestation. It was a portrait of Lady Agnes Templeton. Plain, solid fact. The painting looked l
ike the girl I had seen. And it looked like me. Was all that just a coincidence?
“Evie!”
I jumped. The nurse was calling from the other side of the door. I dried my face and let myself out of the bathroom. She was holding a thermometer in her hand. “I’ve just come to check your temperature. Are you feeling any better?”
I wasn’t ill, only heavy-limbed and tired. I climbed back into bed.
“Yes, I think so. What time is it?”
“Nearly nine o’clock. The girls have had supper.” She took my temperature efficiently. “Quite normal. You’ll be able to get up and join your classmates tomorrow. Speaking of which, your friend is dying to see you. She’s waiting outside now. Shall I let her come in?”
I nodded. The nurse went out and talked to someone in her little office. I waited fearfully, half expecting the redheaded girl to come in, trailing her long white skirt behind her. But it was Sarah, cheerful and real.
“Sarah! I gasped in relief.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “I brought you this.”
It was a delicate bit of greenery in a little pot, with flowers of palest blue.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not from me. Helen found it growing wild near the ruins. She asked me to give it to you and say she’s sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Telling Miss Scratton that you were out of bed that night. Helen wants you to know that she did it to stop you from getting into worse trouble. She said she hopes you’ll understand.”
“I don’t understand anything. I certainly don’t understand Helen.”
“Helen is…different,” said Sarah. “She’s had a difficult life so far, from what I can make out. I’ve heard that before she came to Wyldcliffe she was in some kind of children’s home.”
“You mean, like an orphanage?” I couldn’t imagine having no family at all.
“I guess so. She won’t talk about it.”
“Do you ever, you know, sense stuff about her?” I asked curiously.
“It doesn’t take any special gift to tell that she’s unhappy. But no, to be truthful, I can’t make out anything more than that. It’s as though she’s wrapped herself in a swirling wind, protecting herself from any outsiders. She’s always been a bit of a loner. Some of the other girls give her a hard time.”
I knew she meant Celeste. “Did Helen…Was she friends with Laura?”
“Not really. Laura was totally influenced by Celeste in everything she did. She wouldn’t have bothered to try to get to know Helen. Not many people do.”
I felt uncomfortable. I had been quick enough to give up on Helen myself. Sarah went to make sure that the door was closed, then turned to me and asked, “Evie, have you thought any more about what you saw?”
“I’ve not thought about anything else. And I’ve been wondering whether the whole thing with Lady Agnes isn’t some kind of message from my own feelings, telling me to slow down with Sebastian.” I stumbled over the name. He had been my secret, and it seemed wrong to speak so casually of him.
“But you said that the girl you saw was just like Lady Agnes in the painting, and you’d never seen the painting before I showed you the book. So the first time you saw her—in the classroom—you couldn’t just have been projecting her image from your subconscious or whatever.”
“I’m not so sure. Reverend Flowerdew’s book says the painting is kept at the Abbey. There are loads of old pictures on the walls. I might have walked past it without realizing it.”
“Or you could actually have received a message from Lady Agnes.”
“So why didn’t you see her?” I asked. “I mean, you’re the one with Romany blood and second sight and all that.”
“I don’t claim to have the Sight with all its powers. I’m just willing to be open to possibilities. Anyway, I guess Agnes would only appear to you, because it’s you she needs to communicate with.”
I didn’t want to be convinced. “I just think we should try to stick to the facts,” I said, “not get carried away with all this mumbo-jumbo stuff.”
“All right, then, let’s stick to the facts. The portrait of Lady Agnes looks weirdly like you. Well, there’s usually a perfectly logical, scientific explanation for people looking alike.”
“What do you mean?” I wondered aloud.
“Simple genetics, Evie,” she said. “You and Lady Agnes could be related.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because she was rich and aristocratic,” I tried to explain. “And I’m just…ordinary.”
“I think you’re anything but ordinary,” Sarah said. “Even so, families change, lose their money, move to different areas. We know that Agnes didn’t have any children, because she died in that accident. It says in the reverend’s book that her parents died a few years later of some fever they picked up on their wanderings. They had no direct descendant to take over the Abbey, so it became a school.”
“I don’t get—”
“It’s simple, Evie. Agnes might have had other relations, like cousins, and they might have had children. And you told me that your grandmother once had family in this area, didn’t you? We could try to trace your family tree back to see if you’re connected with the Templetons in any way. That wouldn’t be messing with any old voodoo. That would be sticking to the facts, wouldn’t it?”
I was fascinated by the idea, which seemed reassuringly practical. Perhaps there really was nothing more to all this than an old family blood tie and the workings of my unconscious mind. “But I wouldn’t know where to start. And I can’t ask Frankie. She’s too ill to be able to help.”
“You could write and ask your dad, though. He might remember something.”
“Yeah, he might,” I agreed. “Okay, I will.”
Sarah smiled encouragingly, then hesitated. “Evie, who is this guy you’ve been seeing?” she asked.
It was a question I had been asking myself over and over again.
“He’s called Sebastian James. He lives near here.” I groped for the raw facts. “He rides a black horse. And he’s going to college next year. To Oxford.”
“I’m impressed. He must be clever. But why are you meeting at night?”
“Mrs. Hartle’s hardly going to invite him for lunch, is she?”
“Okay, okay,” said Sarah. “So, he’s waiting to go to college, he knows he wouldn’t get past the Wyldcliffe staff, he obviously likes the romance of midnight meetings—what else?”
What else indeed. How could I describe the slant of his cheek and the light in his eyes and the warmth of his smile? How could I explain the sheer exhilaration of being with him, or the pain of our quarrel? I couldn’t even try. I said nothing.
“I don’t know whether you’re planning to see this Sebastian again, but I don’t think you should,” Sarah went on. “Not until we’ve found out some more. And you definitely shouldn’t meet him at night, Evie. It’s too risky. He might be dangerous.”
Sebastian’s moods. Sebastian’s secretiveness. The glitter in his eyes, the flash of his temper. Did that make him dangerous? Wasn’t every human being potentially dangerous? A nagging voice in my head reminded me of something Sebastian had once said: I don’t want this to go any farther. It could be dangerous for you.
“Are you saying he’s an ax murderer?” I said defensively.
“No, I’m just asking you to be careful. If he’s genuine he’ll get in touch with you properly—you know, write a letter or something. And if you get caught going out at night again you might even be expelled.”
“Yeah, well, I could have done without Helen landing me with another demerit,” I grumbled.
“She was only trying—”
“I know, I know. Only trying to help.”
“Please, Evie.”
I didn’t want to tell Sarah that it was probably all over with Sebastian anyway. Telling her would make it too real. I pretended to be persuaded by her arguments.
“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll wait. I won’t see him until we know some more. Okay?”
“Okay.” She looked relieved.
Just then the nurse put her head around the door. “Sarah, it’s time you left. You look a lot brighter, Evie. Your friend has done you good.” Then she hurried away.
Sarah squeezed my hand and smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow. And thanks so much, Sarah.” I watched her go, feeling better. My friend had done me good. I glanced down at the little flower that Helen had given me. Perhaps Helen, in her own strange way, wanted to be friends too.
My friends. It seemed an eternity since I had been able to say that, and I rolled the words around in my head luxuriously: my friends, my friends. And from far away, an answering voice echoed: my sisters, my sisters.
I was tired. Closing my eyes, I wondered if Dad would know the answers to my questions when my letter reached him. All I could remember Frankie saying was that her own grandmother had been a northerner, a country woman, who had lived on a farm near Wyldcliffe. Oh, what was the name of the farm? I was sure Frankie had mentioned it to me. Then the farm had failed for some reason, and Frankie’s grandmother had died, leaving a baby daughter behind. Her husband—Frankie’s grandfather—had married again and moved away with his new wife and the little girl, finding his way down to the west and the sea. And the girl grew up to be Frankie’s mother. It all seemed very complicated.
The clock in the white room struck ten. I yawned.
So Frankie had only ever known her stepgrandmother. I remembered seeing an old photograph of her—Sally? Molly?—sitting on an upturned boat and mending a fishing net. But that wasn’t the right woman; I wasn’t related to her. I began to drift, sinking into sleep. I had to go farther back. I had to go back to the farm, the name of the farm…the farm…
When I opened my eyes the next morning, the answer was ringing in my head like a bell.