Destiny

  “Then why didn’t she take me out of that dump if she wanted so much to help me?” Helen answered with a touch of bitterness. “That might have made more sense than fussing over a brooch.”

  “But you just said yourself it could hold unknown powers,” I said. “This brooch of yours, the Seal or whatever it is, might be terribly important. Can we take another look at it?”

  Again, Helen seemed reluctant, but she reached under her sweater and unfastened the brooch from her shirt and placed it on the polished library table. Its circular edge gleamed golden, and the two arching shapes that lay across it—I could never decide whether were they wings or daggers—seemed to hold some secret significance.

  “I’ve seen this before,” I said in a low voice. “I saw this sign on Miss Scratton’s arm, the night she was attacked by Rowena Dalrymple.”

  Helen jerked her head up. “Miss Scratton? I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true. She was connected with this somehow.”

  Evie looked at me in surprise too. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I don’t know—not the right time. But it seems important now. What do you think, Helen?”

  Helen stared at it and whispered slowly, “The person who accepts this Seal will never marry, or have children, or grow old, or truly die.” She looked up at us with huge frightened eyes. “Does that mean that they will never truly live either?”

  “Helen—”

  “Miss Scratton isn’t dead,” she went on, her voice so low that I had to strain to hear. “The mortal body she wore like a garment was destroyed, that’s all. That’s what I believe, at least. Agnes died and is at rest. At times, because of the connection of our sisterhood, an echo of her memory is permitted to pass through the window between the worlds and speak to us, but Agnes herself can never live again. Her time here is finished. It’s different for Miss Scratton. She said something to me, the night she passed…and I think that a Guardian can be given a new body, like a host for her spirit. She is reborn into the world and her work goes on, for all eternity until the Eye of Time turns inward and is no more.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Evie asked.

  Helen shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about everything for so long…wondering…You’re not the only ones to want to know about the Seal.” She looked up as though seeing into the future. “I am marked with it. And I don’t know if I want to be.” Then she suddenly took my hand and clasped it in hers. “Sarah, you don’t know what your goodness means to me. But when you talk about me being amazing or incredible, do you never stop to think that what I might really want is to be ordinary? As ordinary—and miraculous—as daylight.”

  “I’m sorry, Helen, but ordinary is one thing you’ll never be,” I answered. “Miraculous maybe, but not ordinary.”

  She let go of my hand. “I hope you’re wrong.” Her voice sounded achingly sad.

  “But let’s be logical about this,” said Evie, after a pause. “If Miss Scratton had the same mark as Helen, and the brooch came from Helen’s mother, then there’s a connection between the three of you, isn’t there?”

  “No! That’s impossible! Just leave it!” Helen took back her brooch, got up, and walked away, leaving her books behind, and leaving us to ponder her words in silence.

  It was clear that Helen was nervy and on edge, as we waited impatiently for the old moon to wane and the new moon to rise. But despite her anxiety about the Seal, despite her restlessness to fulfill what we had promised for Laura, and her growing dread of Dr. Franzen, Helen was in fact experiencing something new and profound. Something she had never even dared to hope for, except in her dreams.

  We didn’t know it then, but those few weeks of waiting were to prove to be the happiest times of Helen Black’s short life.

  Twenty-one

  FROM THE DIARY OF HELEN BLACK

  OCTOBER 15

  I thought I could ignore everything Lynton said and live only for my sisters, for my mother, for duty. For so long I thought I was fated to live without happiness. But now—oh, everything feels so different! Now I want to be happy, and for the first time I am beginning to doubt whether my happiness lies with the Mystic Way.

  My mother was offered the Seal, and she rejected what it meant. I have inherited it now. Have I also inherited her choice?

  Was Miss Scratton—whatever her true name is—offered this choice too? Or was she born as a Guardian? That’s what I have always believed. But I know so little for certain! I didn’t even know that she also carried this mark. Perhaps the sign on my arm is simply a shadow of hers, a protection against my mother. Maybe the Seal was part of their story, not mine.

  Miss Scratton is not dead; that is the only thing I am sure about. I tried to explain it to the others. Our Guardian said something to me last term when she passed from us, whispering so that only I could hear. She said, “It all begins again.”

  It all begins again. Everything is reborn. Life goes on in a never-ending cycle. I never saw what future I could have in this world. But now—now perhaps I have a reason to stay. When I wrote or talked about wanting to be free, I think I was really looking for an excuse to run away and avoid life. At times I even wanted to die. Now I want to begin again, and do better. I don’t want to lose myself in mysteries, or self-destruction. I want to live, and it’s all because of him. Before this I wanted the new moon to come quickly. Now I wish that the turning earth would stay still, and that this waiting time, my secret days with Lynton, could last forever….

  At first it seemed that all we had to do was to wait impatiently for the new moon to arrive, and then Kundar and his people would show us the path we needed to walk. As for what we would have to do to help Laura when Kundar took us to the Eye of Time, I simply trusted that the powers would guide us. Sarah and Evie, on the other hand, combed the pages of the Book looking for inspiration and had endless discussion with Josh and Cal about it. Sarah questioned Cal about any Romany lore he knew about the rituals for the dead that might be of help in bringing Laura’s soul to rest. She and Evie even sneaked off to the grotto to practice spells and incantations like we had in the early days of our sisterhood. I didn’t want to join in, though. At every moment I was haunted by secret music, and I saw a pair of laughing blue eyes. I wasn’t thinking about Laura. More than anything, I was longing to see Lynton again.

  I took to hanging about the music rooms like any infatuated teenager, then told myself I was being ridiculous. I tried to forget all about him as I plodded through the suffocating routine of school. Classes, games, prayers, choir—the whole dreary Wyldcliffe treadmill that had gone round and round and round for a hundred years.

  One morning I couldn’t bear it any longer. I excused myself from French, saying that I had a headache, and I managed to sneak up to Agnes’s hideaway in the attic. It seemed easier to think up there, close to where she once worked. But if I had imagined that I would indulge in a little daydreaming, I was wrong. Surrounded by the relics of the Mystic Way, I felt all our problems come rushing in on me. The same old dilemmas whirled through my mind: the Seal, my mother, Laura, the Eye of Time…I tried to recall everything that Miss Scratton told us the term before. She had said something about there being hidden forces in Wyldcliffe, a time shift in the earth, some kind of door between this world and the shadows and the unseen lands….

  What could be the key to that door? What had Miss Scratton really meant when she spoke about the “secret of the keys”? And then I remembered something else. The term before, Sarah told me that Miss Dalrymple had been ransacking Miss Scratton’s study. At the time we had guessed that Rowena Dalrymple was searching for anything that she could use against our Guardian. But the thought came to me that the book-lined room had also been my mother’s study for many years. What if Miss Dalrymple had in fact been looking for something that had belonged to my mother? What if it was still there, and would help me? What if the “keys” themselves were hidden there? This thought started to beat through my brain, until I felt convinced
that there was something in that room that I had to find. I just had to be sure of Dr. Franzen being away from it long enough for me to get inside and take a look.

  I left Agnes’s room and slipped back down the stairs into the school. I had to be ready to seize any chance I got, and it came quickly.

  Later that day, when classes were finished, Evie and I had to do the flowers for the entrance hall. It was one of our scholarship duties—tidying up, arranging flowers, helping with the youngest students. I told Evie I would do the flowers by myself so that she could go and see Josh. She smiled gratefully and took up my offer, leaving me with a heap of bronze chrysanthemums and crimson roses to arrange. As I stood working quietly, I heard Dr. Franzen’s heavy tread and the sound of his stick tap-tapping down the marble staircase. My stomach clenched tight as he strode nearer. Miss Hetherington was with him, deep in conversation about the Memorial Concert.

  I tried to press myself back into the shadows so that I wouldn’t be noticed, but when they reached the bottom of the stairs, the Master looked up and saw me. A smile played around his tight lips, but he spoke coldly. “What’s this? Doesn’t the housekeeper usually arrange the flowers? What are you doing?”

  I couldn’t speak, my mouth was so dry. Miss Hetherington stepped forward and said, “This is Helen Black. She’s a scholarship girl, and this is one of her chores. Try to finish this quickly, Helen; it should all be done by now.”

  “So this is Helen Black,” Dr. Franzen said in that slow, calculating voice of his, staring at me with something like amusement. I looked down and tried to avoid his gaze. He picked up a delicate hothouse rose, deep red like a splash of blood. “So beautiful,” he murmured. Then he turned his back on me abruptly. “Now, Miss Hetherington, you were saying you need me to look at something in the art room. I’ve got half an hour I can give you now….” He began to march away, moving surprisingly quickly despite his walking stick, so that Miss Hetherington had to hurry behind him.

  That was my chance! I had to do it now, while he was out of the way in the art room. Half an hour would be enough to sneak into his study to see what I could find. A few students came down the stairs, chattering as they headed to the library, but there was hardly anyone else around. It was that quiet time after lessons when the students were studying, or resting, or going to art club or music practice before the long, dark evening set in. I crammed the rest of the flowers into the vase and ran down the corridor to the Master’s study. No one was there. The door was locked. I reached into my mind and willed myself to be on the other side of the door. Spirits of the air, let me pass. There was a swirl of light and color, and the next moment I was inside the room.

  It had changed since I was there last. Dr. Franzen had got rid of the chintz curtains and cushions and the little framed watercolors and the photographs of past students. Instead there were dark drapes at the window and a large, ugly painting of a wild stag hanging on the wall. A pile of leather-bound books sat on his desk next to a curiously shaped paper knife and a photograph of a young man in military uniform.

  It felt wrong to be in that man’s private space, as though I could breathe in his contaminating presence just by being there. But I began to pull open drawers and search through papers, shaking out books in case anything was hidden in their pages. A heavy volume on the bottom shelf of the bookcase caught my eye. The lettering on its spine read, A History of the Abbey at Wylde Cliffe. I opened it quickly and turned to the first page.

  There are many legends woven into the history of the Abbey. It was said in mediaeval times that it was built over a “crack in time,” a mystical door between this world and the next, between life and death. This somewhat pagan-sounding notion was frowned on, however, by the local bishop. The first Lady Abbess was Mathilda of Whitby, a devout and learned woman, and the early nuns were regarded as having special powers in healing….

  Then I noticed that someone had written in the margin, and I recognized Miss Scratton’s precise handwriting. The words said, “It unlocks every door.” That was all.

  It unlocks every door. What key was she thinking of? Was it connected with her final message to us? Was it something to do with this crack in time? I was just about to search the book further when I heard something. The tap-tapping of a cane. The key turning in the lock. The door opening. I spun around and dropped the book. He had tricked me. He had come back, he was there, and I was trapped.

  Dr. Franzen stood blocking the door, then shut it softly behind him. I thought I was going to be sick. “So, Miss Black,” he said quietly. “How nice to see you again, and so soon. But what exactly are you looking for?” He stepped close to me. I could see the flecks of gray in his tawny hair and feel his breath on my cheek. “We’re old friends, aren’t we, Helen?” he said. “You can tell me all your secrets.”

  I pulled away from him as he touched me. “Let me go,” I begged.

  He looked amused. “Oh, I don’t think so. Trespassing in the Master’s study. What could you possibly be up to in here? Looking for exam papers? Stealing valuable books? Or was it breaking windows this time?” The smile vanished from his face. He gripped my arm tightly. He knew who I was; he remembered me from the home, I was sure. “We’ll have to find a suitable punishment for these misdemeanors.” His voice went on like a whispering snake. “And it won’t be arranging flowers, I can promise you, Helen. I think a little spell in detention under my personal supervision might do nicely for a start. Come with me.” He began to pull me along, out of the study and into the corridor.

  “No!” I fought back furiously like a cat. “I won’t go with you! I won’t let you lock me up again! Let go!” But he twisted my arm until I thought it would break and forced me to walk down the corridor with him.

  Please help me, I pleaded silently. Agnes—Miss Scratton, if you can hear me, help me.

  As Dr. Franzen half dragged me toward the marble stairs, the miracle happened.

  “Helen! Dr. Franzen, how fortunate! I was looking for Miss Black, sir.”

  It was Lynton, and his smile was as innocent and confident as a child’s. And it was strange—so strange! He didn’t look quite as I had remembered him; his face looked thinner—older—and yet more attractive. I felt as though we’d had a thousand conversations since I had seen him last, in some kind of dreamworld where nothing could ever hurt, and where we knew each other so well.

  Dr. Franzen let go of me as soon as Lynton spoke. “Looking for Helen Black?” He frowned. “And why would that be?”

  “Oh…Mr. Brooke wants me to accompany her when she sings in the Memorial Concert that you’re planning. He says that Helen’s got the most marvelous voice, like an angel, and that you’ll be amazed.”

  “I’m sure I shall be,” Dr. Franzen said slowly. He stared at Lynton as though weighing him up. “I take it that you’re our visiting student from St. Martin’s?”

  “Yes, and we’d better go and get on with our practice, sir. Thank you so much.”

  Lynton whisked me away down the passage to the practice rooms. He bundled me inside the first one we came to and shut the door.

  “So that’s decided!” He laughed. “We’re partners now.”

  I felt weak with relief and astonishment. I slumped in a chair and tried to make sense of it all. “But—but—I can’t sing! Why did Mr. Brooke say that I can?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Lynton replied. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He was looking at me with great concentration, as though he was seeing something from far away. “I think you can do anything you want to,” he said quietly. “You can be anything you want. You can even be happy, if you want to be. You just have to believe it.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” I said. “You can’t just make yourself happy.” But my heart was oddly light as I said it.

  “No, but you can leave behind everything that’s been making you unhappy for so long. Though you have to be sure that’s what you really want. Prisoners can’t be free if they love their prison more than liberty.”

/>   Memories stirred in me, and I stared at him in astonishment. “Why do you say these things—did Mr. Brooke really ask you to find me? What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything,” he said softly, “except for you to know that I think you’re amazing. The amazing, wonderful, beautiful Helen Black. And you’re here with me.”

  As he spoke, I actually felt amazing, as if his words were filling me with light. For the very first time in my life, I felt beautiful. It seemed that I was truly alive, waking from a long, long sleep. I looked at him in wonder.

  “You saved me,” I said.

  “You saved yourself,” he replied solemnly. “You called for me, and I came. I always will.” Then he broke into a radiant smile, holding out his hand. “What do you say, Helen? Shall we make music together?”

  Before today I would have said no. I would have run away, back to my prison of loneliness. But something had changed. We were connected now. I took Lynton’s hand in mine, and my skin thrilled at his touch as we shook on our bargain.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll sing with you. Partners.”

  And so we sang and played and laughed, and for those short hours I forgot that there was such a thing as unhappiness. I even forgot that there was such a thing as the Mystic Way.

  It didn’t end there. We met the next day, and the next, supposedly to practice for the concert, but we stole time from our rehearsals to talk and wonder and discover each other, and it was all because of this lucky chance of Mr. Brooke’s decision to make us work together.

  Though I am not sure that I thought it was just luck. Had Mr. Brooke somehow known that we needed each other? I had always believed that the chances of life were connected in an intricate design. It seemed to me that people wandered in and out of one another’s lives, as part of some great whole, like birds flying in formations across the sky.

  I still hadn’t told Sarah and Evie that I had even met Lynton. I made up more excuses about my art project for Miss Hetherington, which I hoped would explain my absences when I ran down the corridors to the little practice room and Lynton’s company. Afterward I wasn’t even sure what he and I had talked about, only that he never made me feel afraid, or stupid, or crazy. Lynton didn’t tell me much about his life at St. Martin’s, just that he was studying music, of course. “I think music has healing power, don’t you, Helen?” he asked, looking at me with his steady gaze.