“But what can we do against the girl without the High Mistress?” Another voice. This time plaintive and fearful.
My stomach twisted again. I was sure this was the voice of the tired-looking woman in the school kitchen. I had talked to her and worked with her and never suspected for a moment that she was mixed up in this. “She attacked us last term in the crypt when we expected to overcome her easily,” she was saying. “Why risk that again?”
“Because without risk there is no gain!” Miss Raglan replied. “I see now that the time has come for a new approach. If we sit and wait for our precious High Mistress to return we will be waiting until old age and infirmity overtake us all. I say that Celia Hartle is dead, and a new High Mistress must take her place. We must act now!” She suddenly banged her fist on the table and glared at the others. Her gaze swept over the door of the cupboard and I shrank back, terrified that they would find me.
“Who knows that she is dead?” said a quiet, dry voice. I had to stop myself from crying out. It was Miss Scratton, here in this room, in this deadly gathering. I didn’t want to believe it; I would not believe it; this couldn’t be happening—yet I would have recognized her voice anywhere. I froze and listened, straining every nerve.
“You are very keen to name a new High Mistress,” Miss Scratton said. “I suppose you wish to fill that role yourself?”
“And who would you suggest?” Miss Raglan sneered. “We all know your ambitions. You barely concealed your rivalry with Celia Hartle when she was with us, so don’t pretend to be devoted to her now that she has gone.”
“One of the first rules of any sisterhood is loyalty,” Miss Scratton flashed back. “I have never betrayed my sisters or my appointed superior. I would not want to be in your place when the High Mistress returns and finds you installed in her robes.” She paused and lowered her voice. “And believe me, she will return.”
“Then why does she send no sign?” asked Miss Dalrymple impatiently. “Does she no longer need us?”
“If she does return, perhaps she will find that we no longer need her,” replied Miss Raglan. “The Book has been in our possession for some time. We have studied its mysteries. We are not without powers—why use them simply to serve the High Mistress when she has abandoned us? Why not seize the moment and force Sebastian to do our bidding? The Book will aid us to seek him out, and the precious Talisman, if we let it.”
“The Book was not meant for those who seek to serve themselves, however deserving the cause. You twist its words at your own peril,” said Miss Scratton.
“So what do you suggest?” asked Miss Dalrymple, her voice as silky and smooth as a poisoned drink. “You are so wise, Sister, so patient, so full of cunning. What do you suggest, now that Sebastian is on the brink of the demon world and everything we have worked for is about to be snatched away?”
There was a long pause; then Miss Scratton began, “I am not a leader. I would wait for the true High Mistress to show herself—”
“Wait? Wait?” Miss Raglan snarled furiously. “I cannot wait. I am getting old. We cannot simply wait and wait, then die as our mothers and grandmothers did. I have no daughter to take my place. I want the reward for our labors that Sebastian Fairfax promised, here and now, without further delay. Nothing will stop me—not you, not Celia Hartle, and certainly not that stupid redheaded girl. She holds the key to all this.”
“We cannot approach her openly,” said Miss Scratton, “She has no idea of our identity. We should keep it that way.”
“And she has remarkable powers,” protested the woman from the kitchen.
“That was nothing more than beginner’s luck. She will not withstand us again.” Miss Raglan smiled coldly. “We must shake off our timidity, separate her from her little friends, and seize her. Then she can be used to revive Sebastian enough to enable our plans to come to fruition. We will steal her soul and then discard her, presenting the Talisman to Sebastian as a final gift. He will not be able to refuse us then. We will achieve what the High Mistress could not.”
My leg was cramped awkwardly, but I was too scared to move, too frightened to breathe. I was sure they would hear my heart beating, betraying me to them.
“But if she dies…how would we hide her death?” said the fearful woman.
“An accident. A novice rider thrown from her horse. Any story will do. She is nothing.”
“And was Laura nothing?” asked Miss Scratton. “People are beginning to talk.”
“Then you must silence them! I claim stewardship of this coven,” Miss Raglan declared. “I am the High Mistress now. We will use our energies to seek out Sebastian from his hiding place. And at the next new moon we will gather our whole Sisterhood together and call upon them to confirm my claim. Then I will be strong enough to move openly against the girl.”
“So be it,” said Miss Dalrymple eagerly. One by one, the others agreed.
“So be it.”
“So be it.”
Miss Scratton hesitated. “So be it,” she said.
“In the meantime, the girl must be watched,” Miss Raglan continued. “We need to know if she is trying to communicate with Sebastian, and where she is hiding the Talisman.” She turned to Miss Scratton. “You will do this. It will keep you from meddling in other matters.”
“I shall be glad to undertake this task, Sister,” replied Miss Scratton. “I believe she trusts me a little. I will watch her. Evelyn Johnson will not sleep or breathe or move without my being aware of it.”
“Then this gathering is ended, until we meet at the new moon, two weeks from now,” Miss Raglan said with a self-satisfied sigh. “May the shadows of night be our wisdom, and may the darkness protect us.” She blew out the candles, and there was the sound of the Book being hidden away. I heard the shuffle of feet leaving the room, and finally the click of the door.
Silence.
I waited, terrified, but no one came back.
Thirty-two
Silence.
They had gone.
Slowly, I pushed the door open and climbed out of my hiding place. My legs were shaking and my mouth was dry. Now I knew the truth at last. I had long suspected that Miss Raglan and Miss Dalrymple were my enemies, but Miss Scratton—upright, grave, and just—how could she be part of their twisted world? I felt sick with disgust, but I had to face it. Miss Scratton was a Dark Sister who had vowed to spy on me. The last shred of any faith I had in the school that was supposed to be my home had been utterly annihilated.
There was a fire burning in me, and it was fueled by hatred. Yes, I hated those women who were supposed to teach us and care for us but who regarded us as no more than pawns in their insane game. I wanted to lash out and destroy everything that was around me, to smash their bookcases and their pictures and their school. I would go to the police, I thought; I would tell them everything I had seen and heard, how Mrs. Hartle had killed Laura by draining her life force from her to prolong Sebastian’s existence, and how they were planning to do the same to me.
Even as the thoughts formed themselves in my mind I knew it was hopeless. Nobody would listen. Nobody would believe it.
That wasn’t the way, I told myself. I had to stay calm. I had to make my plans before the new moon hung in the sky like a branch of white fire. Everything was leading to that moment. Think, Evie, think….
I crept over to the fancy fireplace and felt carefully amid its marble leaves and carved fruit, found the secret place, and pressed hard. The narrow chamber swung open. I reached inside for the Book. But first my hand touched something else: something cold and steely. The silver dagger. Mrs. Hartle had dropped it as we battled in the crypt and her sisters must have brought it back here for safekeeping. After a moment’s hesitation I stuffed it in my pocket. Then I picked up the Book, and as I touched it a voice seemed to sound in my mind, chanting an old rhyme:
Reader, if you bee not pure,
Stay your hande and reade no more;
The Mysteries Ancient here proclaimed
Must not bee by Evil stained.
I knew I should get out of there and go back to the dorm as soon as I could, but I was desperate to open the Book and devour its secrets. I placed it carefully on the table. The green leather cover was exactly as Agnes had described, with the words The Mysticke Way gleaming faint and silver in the moonlight. How many people had held this ancient object in their hands? How many of them had been led into despair by its words? The Mysticke Way is a path of Healing, I repeated to myself. I seek Healing for Sebastian…for Wyldcliffe…for all of us….
I began to flick through the pages at random. They were dry and musty and the lettering was difficult to read. Some of the pages were decorated with red and green inks, just like the page that Agnes had left me, and some were written in Latin and Greek and other languages that I didn’t recognize. I was in too much of a hurry to take in what I was looking at, and the Book seemed to have a mind of its own. Some of the pages were stuck together and wouldn’t open, and sometimes they flipped open as though blown by an invisible wind. I caught glimpses of many obscure spells and charms: For Finding a True Friend; To Foretell the Weather; To Charm Poison from a Toad; For Making Rain; To Cure Rheumatics; The Gift of Sight; The Gift of Death…
The Gift of Death. The bold black letters seemed to stare up at me and pierce my mind. The rest of the page was decorated with some kind of woodcut, showing a grim figure of Death and a bright angel, side by side. The Gift of Death. For some reason I wanted to know more. I tried to turn the page to read the details of the spell, but the pages wouldn’t open. This part of the Book had been sealed against me.
The church bell sounded in the distance, its thin peal clear and sharp in the winter night. Midnight. In a few seconds it would be a new day. A wind stirred through the room, and the pages of the Book flapped in the breeze, then fell still, opening at a new place. I looked down. The letters on the page were shaped like tongues of red flame.
To Summon the Secret Fire.
The church bell struck one last time. The secret fire, the sacred flame, the source of light and power—Agnes had served it faithfully. And when she wanted to seal her powers inside the Talisman she had summoned the flame and thrust the silver trinket into its fiery heart. I remembered the words from her journal. My life force seemed to be dragged out of me and into the silver jewel…. My powers are sealed in its silvery heart….
It was all so clear, so simple now. I knew what I had to do. If I could summon that fire myself, I would be able to put the Talisman back into the mystical flames and unseal it once again. And then Agnes’s powers would be mine and I would be armed with her strength as I fought to free Sebastian from his doom.
Hugging the Book to my heart, I whispered, “Thank you. Thank you, Agnes.”
I had found what I was looking for.
Thirty-three
The next morning Helen had to shake me from sleep.
“Evie, the bell rang. Why aren’t you getting up?”
“What..? Uhh…so tired…” I sat up and yawned; then everything from the night before came flooding back to me. I grabbed hold of Helen’s wrist in excitement. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”
“Me too,” she replied. “I just heard two of the cleaning women talking in the corridor. Apparently it’s happened again.”
“What?”
“An attack in the village. Another creature nailed to a door. This time it was a chicken, with its head cut off and feathers everywhere. It’s awful. The locals are getting pretty angry about it, talking about chucking the Gypsies off the land. Sarah’s going to be upset.”
I looked around. Sophie was slowly getting dressed, and Celeste was still lying in bed.
“That’s not all Sarah’s going to be upset about,” I said in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard. “We need to talk.” I threw my clothes on and we hurried downstairs to find Sarah in the stables before the bell rang for breakfast. It was a bright, clear morning, and the frost sparkled on the ground with a hundred tiny points of light. Sarah was mucking out Starlight, her cheeks pink with exertion, but the color drained from her face when I told her and Helen what I had found and seen.
“I can’t believe it,” Sarah said. “Any of the others, but not Miss Scratton.”
“I saw her. I heard what she said. She’s as bad as the rest of them.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” replied Sarah stubbornly. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Anyone is capable of doing wrong, Sarah.” Helen sighed. “And immortality is a powerful temptation. People have stolen and killed for much less.”
“Miss Scratton would never do anything like that.”
“I wish it weren’t true, but it is,” I said. “It doesn’t make any difference, though. We always knew we were on our own in this. She couldn’t have helped us anyway, and it’s better to know who our enemies are.”
“Enemies?” said a thin, nasal voice. “Who’s got enemies?” We spun around and saw Harriet standing in the doorway of the stable.
“We were talking about…the…the next lacrosse match,” I gabbled. “Planning tactics.”
“Oh. I thought you hated lacrosse.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t duck out of it, so I might as well try…. Um…are you okay, Harriet? Any more headaches?”
“No…no.” She suddenly looked around nervously, then scurried off.
“What was all that about?” Helen asked when she had gone. “How much do you think she heard?”
“I don’t know,” said Sarah. “We’ll have to be more careful. Although I don’t suppose there’s anything in it except Harriet being weird as usual.”
I wasn’t so sure. As Harriet had walked away, I had noticed something. There were some streaks of reddish brown dirt on the side of her skirt, like mud or rust. Or even, perhaps, like blood.
Dinner was over. It was our official letter-writing time. A duty once a week. Some of the girls grumbled about not being allowed to call home. “I mean, haven’t they heard of cell phones?” they moaned. But Wyldcliffe had its own way of doing things. Wyldcliffe students were expected to be able to write expressive, elegant, polite letters just as the students of fifty years ago had done. So there we were, heads bent, scribbling away, clinging to another fading custom, pretending that the modern world could be blotted out as easily as the snow blotted out the grass.
Miss Scratton walked slowly up and down the room, handing out pieces of writing paper, ticking off untidy handwriting, watching everything with her sharp black eyes. I felt her gaze sweep over me, and my stomach heaved with revulsion. Did she really think I would be so stupid as to mention Sebastian in my letters to Dad? Did she really think she would catch me so easily? I bent my head and tried to write my letter. I hated Miss Scratton now; I would never stop hating her, and the hatred burned in my head like an obsession. But I had to pretend that I was perfectly happy, that I was a carefree student, writing home, chatting about nothing.
Dear Dad,
I am fine, and working hard. I think I am even beginning to understand what the chemistry teacher is trying to tell me. I have been thinking—perhaps I will study medicine at college. It seems a good thing to be a healer.
In history we have been learning about the old monasteries and the great religious houses before they were all destroyed by Henry VIII. I don’t like the idea of the Wyldcliffe nuns being thrown out of their home all those hundreds of years ago, poor things. Sometimes I think I can imagine them singing in the ruins of the chapel, and sometimes I feel we are still like them in a weird way, shut away up here, cut off from the rest of the world.
The weather is still cold—we didn’t get snow like this at home by the sea!
My riding is making progress, though I’m afraid I will never be really good. My teacher is nice, very encouraging. Thanks so much for paying for all that. I really appreciate it.
Dearest Dad, I miss you so much. I’m doing my best, I promise.
Loads of love,
Evie xxx r />
I stuffed the letter into an envelope. I couldn’t say what I really wanted to say:
Dear Dad,
Tonight we are going to cast our Circle and attempt to summon the fire element. I don’t know what will happen. It might be dangerous. It might be a complete failure. But one soul depends on me, so I have to try it. One lost, despairing soul. Funny, people don’t talk about souls much anymore, do they? And yet, this was once a place where the nuns thought and prayed about nothing else. A teacher I trusted has turned out to be my enemy, and I feel sick to my guts, but I’m not going to let them win this. I can’t.
There’s another thing bothering me, Dad. The guy who teaches me to ride is so nice, but I’m frightened of hurting him. He has a look in his eyes when he sees me, a kind of tenderness. Perhaps if I had known him before all this began, it might have meant something to me, but now it’s too late; I belong to Sebastian, and nothing can ever change that. Oh, Dad, I’m so scared. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never meant to fall in love….
There were some things that were impossible to say.
I didn’t sleep that night. One by one, Helen, Sarah, and I slipped out of our dorms and made our way to the secret attic. I was the last to arrive, hiding a small bundle under my robe. Helen and Sarah gathered around me eagerly as I brought out the book and turned the pages to the right place.
To Summon the Sacred Fire
There are those rare Souls who are called to minister to the Sacred Flame, which is a spark of the great furnace of Creation. These women, for such they are, have no need of Instructions or Ritual. They will contact their Element as a bird makes contact with the air, or a child with its mother, that is, through Nature alone. Yet it is still possible to reach the Fire through study and perseverance, if the Heart be pure.