“Yes, Miss Raglan, sorry, Miss Raglan.”
The letter would have to wait.
As soon as the bell rang for break I grabbed Sarah and headed for the stables. Helen was in trouble over a piece of unsatisfactory work and had to stay behind with Miss Raglan.
“What’s going on, Evie?” asked Sarah as we hurried across the cobbled yard to Bonny’s stall. “Who is the letter from?”
“Frankie’s lawyers. It can only be something to do with her will. I don’t want any of her money, or anything like that. Why they have written to me and not Dad?” As soon as were we safely hidden in the stable, I tore open the envelope, but I couldn’t get past the first few lines of the letter:
Dear Evelyn, We are writing in relation to your late grandmother….
I didn’t want to have anything to do with all this. I didn’t want to be reminded that Frankie wasn’t there anymore. I passed the letter to Sarah with a lump in my throat. “You read it,” I said. “Please.”
“‘Dear Evelyn,’” she began. “Umm…then there’s a whole lot of introductory stuff. Who they are and everything…you know all that…. Oh, wait…it says, ‘You may be aware that your grandmother left certain personal items in a safe-deposit box at her bank. One of them was addressed to you. Your father, as official executor of the will, has given us permission to send this item to you directly. It is a document, which we now have pleasure in enclosing.’ Then it says would you please acknowledge safe receipt, best regards and condolences, blah, blah….”
“So what’s this document?” I felt sick with nerves. The term before I had received a letter showing my family’s connection with Agnes’s daughter, Effie: a letter that had changed my life. What would this new document bring?
Sarah pulled a sealed, folded paper from the envelope. “This looks really old,” she said, handing it to me. My fingers trembled as I touched the yellowish paper and recognized the small sloping script, written in faded black ink. It said:
I ask my daughter to hand this on unread to her daughter, and so on, until the girl with red hair and gray eyes—the girl from the sea—may receive it. I pray that that this will be done as I request. A. T. H.
“Look at the initials,” Sarah exclaimed. “A for Agnes!”
The first two letters had to be for Agnes Templeton. I searched my memory for the details of the story Agnes had told in her journal. What was her husband’s name? Francis…Francis Howard, that was it. A. T. H. Everything fit.
At the bottom of the paper someone had added a few lines in pencil.
To be given to Evie on her eighteenth birthday, or on my death, whichever is earlier. Dearest Evie, I have kept this curious family relic for you. Take care of it, my lamb, and yourself. With endless love, Frankie.
I kissed the place where she had written her name, then turned to Sarah.
“Shall I open it?”
She nodded. “Yes. Open it now.”
I carefully removed the red discs of sealing wax, and unfolded the paper. Inside was another scrap of Agnes’s handwriting. A memory of the gift I once received and which now lies hidden at Fairfax Hall. This message was pinned to an even older sheet of parchment. It was thin and worn, with a ragged edge as though it had been torn from a book. The words on it were printed in cramped black letters, and around the edge of the paper there were drawings in colored inks—stars and flowers and exotic symbols.
“What does it say? What is it?”
“‘For the healing of Blindnesse and to give good Sight for those who are in need of it…’” I stopped, bewildered for a moment, then began to laugh. “Blind! Of course, I have been so blind! But now I know what to do!”
“What is it?” said Sarah. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see, Sarah?” I replied excitedly. “This is a page torn from the book that Sebastian found and gave to Agnes. The Book of the Mystic Way! She described it in her journal and said she learned most of what she knew from it. She’s telling me that if I want to learn to control the fire, I must find the Book and study what she studied. Oh, why didn’t I think of that before?”
“Of course! The Book was a gift to her, and then it was taken back by Sebastian. Presumably he took it to his home at the Hall. It all makes sense. But if Agnes really wanted to help you, why couldn’t she have somehow left you the whole Book, not just this scrap of paper?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t have it with her anymore when she realized I was going to be involved one day. Anyway, I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I mean, why doesn’t Agnes appear to me in a vision and give me all the answers?”
“Well, it would help,” Sarah replied with a wry smile.
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s meant to be that easy. We have to do this ourselves. The Mystic Way is only another tool we can use to help us through life; it’s not a magic wand to take all our problems away. That’s what Sebastian didn’t understand.”
As I mentioned his name my excitement died down. There were still so many obstacles to overcome. Even if we could get to Fairfax Hall, how could we be sure that the Book would still be there so many years after Agnes had left me this clue? What if it had been taken—or destroyed?
Twenty-six
Miss Scratton, you remember that we couldn’t go inside Fairfax Hall last term because of the break-in over there?” said Sarah. We were standing next to Miss Scratton’s desk after her history class, trying to appear innocently enthusiastic. “Well, we were wondering whether we could go again and see the house properly this time.”
“Why?” Miss Scratton’s brow creased in a faint frown.
“We’re…um…really interested in history,” said Helen.
“Local history,” I added.
“Indeed. I hadn’t noticed that you were particularly interested in any of your school subjects, Helen.”
Helen looked embarrassed. She was constantly getting into trouble for daydreaming in class and forgetting to hand in assignments. Miss Scratton gave us a piercing stare, then seemed to relent.
“I admire your curiosity. However, I’m afraid we won’t be able to go on any visits at the moment. The weather is too bad for that.” Miss Scratton glanced out of the window, where the snow had started to fall again. “It’s almost as though we are shut off from the outside world,” she added quietly, “cloistered here within the walls of the Abbey, like in the old days.”
She turned her gaze back to us, and as she did so, my heart jumped with a strange sense of recognition. I’ve seen her before somewhere, I thought. Where? Where could it have been? My mind flashed back to that night down in the crypt. Was it there that I had seen her, among the baying women of the coven? I couldn’t believe that. I didn’t want to believe that. Yet there was something familiar about her, so strict, so disciplined, so self-contained….
“Now I really must get ready for my next class,” she said. “Good afternoon, girls.”
Miss Scratton swept out, her black academic gown billowing around her.
“Well, it was worth trying,” said Sarah. “She wasn’t going along with the idea, though.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We don’t want to traipse around with a whole lot of sightseers anyway. We need to sneak in when the hall is shut and nobody’s there.”
“I could go,” Helen suggested. “I thought myself over there once before. I’ll go and see if I can find the Book.”
“You can’t go on your own,” said Sarah. “What if you got into some kind of trouble and couldn’t get back? We’ve got to stick together.”
“Tonight then,” I whispered. “We’ll go tonight.”
The Abbey might be shut off by the snow, but that wouldn’t stop us. We had other ways of getting there.
It was freezing cold. The sky over our heads was brilliant black, studded with stars. Sarah and Helen stood in the hushed stable yard, wearing their thickest sweaters and looking at me apprehensively.
“Ready?” asked Helen.
“Yes, let??
?s go for it,” I said, trying not to show that I was nervous.
“Well, if you’re sure,” she replied. “I’ve never done this before, but I think it will work. Okay, let’s try.”
She stood between us, winding an arm around each of our waists, then closed her eyes and muttered to herself. I braced myself for what was to come. For a split second I seemed to see Helen standing on the top of a bleak hill, raising her arms up to the sky, her gossamer hair blowing in the wind. Then the wind seemed to be inside me, a shrieking, turbulent force that would tear me to pieces. I heard Helen’s thought echoing in my mind: Hold on, hold on….
I seemed to be blown off my feet, and the stable yard slipped away from underneath me. The gables and turrets of the Abbey began to spin, and the stars flashed crimson and purple and gold. I was in a tunnel of light and sound, traveling faster than thought itself as we hurtled down the wind. The breath was being squeezed out of my lungs. I heard Helen calling, Don’t let go…. I clung to her until I felt I could hold on no longer; then the three of us suddenly landed with a crash on a polished wooden floor.
“That was…amazing,” Sarah said, gasping for breath.
“That was insane,” I groaned.
“But we made it,” said Helen. “We’re in Fairfax Hall.”
She stood up and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket, then helped us to our feet. I was still breathless and stunned as I looked around in wonder. We were in an elegant pillared room furnished with silk-covered sofas and little tables with spindly gold legs. Fairfax Hall. I could hardly take it in. One minute I had been in the stable yard, and now I was actually inside the hall, inside Sebastian’s home.
Helen beckoned us to follow her, and we left the elegant sitting room and found ourselves in a shadowy corridor.
“If anyone finds us we’ll be in spectacular trouble,” Sarah said. “I’ve never actually broken into a museum before.”
“There’s no point in turning back now,” Helen replied. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going, Helen?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
“Miss Scratton told me that the house is arranged exactly as it was in the old days, when Sebastian’s family lived here. And there’s a library full of old books. It seems kind of obvious, but we might as well start there. Do you know what this Book looks like, Evie?”
“All I know is that it was given to Agnes by Sebastian after he had found it in a bazaar in Morocco. In her journal she described it as old and shabby, with a green leather cover.”
“Come on then,” Helen said. “Let’s find the library.”
We followed Helen farther into the shrouded house. The flashlight picked out glimpses of ghostly white statues and gilt-framed paintings. I felt as though the darkness were alive, as though the walls could see us passing by. Sebastian lived here, I kept saying to myself; he knew these pictures; he walked in these corridors; he ran in and out of these rooms when he was a child. This expensive, antique furniture was as familiar to him as my simple cottage home was to me. As I crept along like a thief, I actually felt happy. I was in Sebastian’s home. For that one moment it was enough. Then I seemed to hear a voice echoing in the silent house. You grow weary, Evie…the road is too hard…there is someone else….
I turned around, startled, but Sarah hurried me forward as Helen pushed open some carved double doors.
“Wow,” breathed Sarah. “Look at this.”
We peered into a vast, cavernous room, heavy with darkness. I glimpsed tall bookcases and leather sofas and two huge writing desks. It was incredibly still, as though the whole room drowsed in an enchanted slumber, waiting for someone to open the books and breathe life back into their dusty pages. We stepped into the room and Helen swept her flashlight over the bookshelves. There were novels and books of poetry and French plays; there were books about law and history; books about fishing and gardening; books about everything that had ever interested the Fairfax family. My heart sank. How would we have enough time to search through all of them? It was an impossible task.
“We’ll never find it here,” I said, then stood transfixed as Helen shone the light onto a pair of portraits hanging above the fireplace. Sir Edward Fairfax, Lady Rosalind Fairfax, the printed labels said. They stared out at us, caught in time, comfortable and serene, not yet knowing that they would lose their darling son in scandalous circumstances—a rumored suicide, the body never found. Sir Edward was florid and dull-looking, the typical country squire with his dogs and horses, but Lady Rosalind was beautiful. Her eyes, blue as cornflowers, brimming with restless life, were Sebastian’s eyes looking down and calling to me—calling me to help him before it was too late.
He walks in the living air…a young man with brown eyes…he is there by your side….
“Stop!”
I would understand…I will never blame you….
“What is it, Evie?” said Helen.
“Voices—in my head…no, Sebastian, no, it’s not like that! There’s no one else. You’ve got to believe me!”
I snatched the flashlight from Helen’s hand and stumbled out of the library and ran toward the softly carpeted staircase. The others ran after me. Forcing my legs to work I climbed higher and higher, not knowing where I was going, driven on by the voice in my head. I ache for you…long for your touch…you choose another….
“No, I only want you, Sebastian,” I sobbed under my breath. “I only ever wanted you.”
Sebastian was near; I was sure of it. This had been his home, and now perhaps it was his hiding place. I kicked myself for not coming here earlier to look for him and ran crazily from room to room, throwing open doors that revealed glimpses of empty, elegant bedrooms. “Where are you? Where are you?” I cried in anguish. But the house refused to reveal its secrets. It was all old-fashioned and lifeless and dead, a museum, not a home. There was no sign of any inhabitants, past or present.
“It’s no good,” I said, dropping wearily onto a low chair. “He’s not here.”
Then we heard it: a faint stirring sound, coming from over our heads.
“What’s that?” asked Helen, looking up in alarm.
We froze. Silence. Then another low, muffled noise.
“It’s coming from up there,” Sarah murmured.
“I’m going to look.”
“No, Evie, wait—”
But I didn’t listen. I wasn’t afraid anymore. At the end of the broad landing there was another set of stairs that turned and twisted higher. I ran up them, and a strange pulse of inexplicable joy seemed to tug under my ribs. When I got to the top of the steps, I saw that I had reached the servants’ floor. A plain corridor ran the length of the house, with low doors stretching out in a uniform row.
The first door I opened led into a bare room with sloping ceilings, furnished with an iron bedstead and a plain white jug on a stand. The beam of the flashlight lit up a printed museum notice on the wall: An Example of a Maid’s Bedroom, circa 1875. Another dead end.
I marched to the next door and flung it open. There was a display of old photographs of the hall and its many servants. Annie May, Laundry Maid, 1895–1914, John Hall, Butler, 1906–1925… The next few doors were locked. I ran impatiently to the last door in the row. As I turned the handle a tingling sensation shot up my arm, like a hit of electricity. I could hear the sound of my own heart beating, and then it came again, that other sound, the echo of a muffled groan. I pushed the door open and shone the flashlight into the room.
It was completely empty, except for one thing.
Twenty-seven
I stooped to pick up the round, silvery object from where it lay gleaming on the dusty floor. It was smooth and cool in my hand, and I recognized it at once: an old-fashioned pocket watch on a tarnished chain. I pressed the side of the case and it sprang open. The initials S.J.F. were engraved on the inside of the case, and a date, 1883. It had been a gift for Sebastian’s eighteenth birthday. I was actually touching something he had touched. I wanted to shout and sing.
&
nbsp; Then the voice in my head started up again. Remember Sebastian James Fairfax…remember him….
“What is it? What have you found?” Sarah and Helen crowded into the little room behind me, and I showed them the old watch and its markings.
“We’re so close,” I said. “He’s here somewhere.”
Sarah began to examine the empty room, tracing signs in the dust on the floor. Then she laid her hands on the walls and felt her way around the edge of the room. Her fingers found a twisted knot in the wood of the wainscoting. She pushed it sharply, and a door swung open to reveal crooked steps leading up to the very eaves of the building.
Without thinking, I ran up the steps to where a velvet drape hung in tatters across an archway. I flung the drape to one side and saw a low chamber littered with a muddle of jars and parchments and curious brass instruments and piles of musty books. It was like Agnes’s secret study, but there was no air of promise here, only the sharp breath of decay and disappointment. Everything was moldering away, like an abandoned castle in a half-forgotten dream.
A dream. A faint moan. The echo of a sigh. Someone was hunched over a desk in the darkest corner, poring over some papers.
“Sebastian! Oh, Sebastian!”
I threw myself across the room and the next second I was at his side and in his arms.
“Evie…I called you….”
The rest of the world wheeled about us unheeded as we held on to each other. Nothing else mattered. But when I finally let him go, I saw that Sebastian was as haggard and beautiful as a dying star. He was pale and gaunt, his ink-stained fingers shook, and his eyes were wide with pain. I kissed his forehead and eyes, my heart choking with pity. “What are they doing to you; how can I bear it?”
“I know I am changed,” he groaned, slowly pushing back his long hair from his face. “I am ashamed to be like this.”