Dream a Little Dream (The Silver Trilogy) (F) (27 page)

“Don’t laugh. It was
really
creepy.” I sat down beside Henry and wrapped my arms around my knees. “Do you think it’s waiting for us outside the door? And if it is, how are we going to get home?”

“Who says we have to go out through the door again? We can simply stay here until we’re awake.”

The soap bubble was still there.

“
There is just one moon and one golden sun
,” sang Amy up on her carousel. “
And a smile means friendship to everyone.
”

“She’s really sweet,” I said.

“You’re really sweet too,” said Henry, with his eyes turned to my face. “Sometimes I can hardly believe just
how
sweet.”

My heat began beating faster. And not very steadily.

“Even when I first saw you, at the airport with your cheese, I thought you were sweet.”

Oh great, now I was finding it difficult to breathe steadily too. And when he leaned forward to me, I stopped breathing entirely. The idea that had just come into my head dissolved into its separate parts. Something about airports … Zurich … wasn’t Anabel’s school very close to Zurich? And … my God, Henry had lovely eyes. If he was going to kiss me now … maybe first I should … My hand went out quickly, and I touched the soap bubble on his hair with my forefinger.

His eyes widened in surprise.

“Sorry, but it looked funny, like a fruit dish upended on your head,” I murmured, and sighed with disappointment as he sat up straight again. As if he’d never been going to kiss me.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Also, what was it I’d just been thinking? It had been important in some way.

I heard hoofbeats behind us, and the next moment two ponies galloped past, one of them brown and white, the other pure white. At the sight of their flowing manes, Amy broke into peals of laughter as wholeheartedly as only small children can.

My breathing calmed down a little, but scraps of ideas were still whirling wildly around in my head. Suddenly it was all too much for me. All these secrets—there seemed to be more and more of them every day. Dreams that eluded any kind of logic. Henry, who turned my brain into pink candy floss as soon as he came close to me. Anabel and her strange confession. Arthur, who looked like an angel but also, for some reason, frightened me. And that …
something
outside in the corridor.

I rubbed my eyes. All at once I felt terribly tired, even though I was already asleep.

“Is everything all right?” asked Henry.

I took a deep breath. Then I instinctively reached for one of those scraps of ideas whirling through my head and dragged it into the light of day.

“Tom Holland,” I said. “Is it true that Arthur hated him?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I call an elegant way of changing the subject,” he said. “Hated? I don’t know that I’d go as far as that. But he couldn’t stand him, that’s true enough. To be honest, Tom wasn’t exactly a sympathetic soul himself, more of an arrogant bastard. Arthur was jealous of him because he’d been in a relationship with Anabel before him. Tom used that fact to provoke Arthur whenever he could. Once they had such a violent fight that, when we intervened to separate them, Grayson got a black eye. When it comes to Anabel, Arthur’s not entirely responsible for his own actions. He genuinely idolizes her.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Still? Anabel has told me how she … er … broke the rules of the game. Do you think he’s forgiven her? For being unfaithful to him, I mean.”

Frowning, Henry looked at me. “Liv—Arthur is one of my best friends. I’m not going to discuss him with you, certainly not when something so intimate’s involved. And by the way, where did you meet Anabel?”

No, no, no—no counterquestions! I’d asked my question first. And I was very glad that, for a change, I could think clearly again. “But … don’t you think it’s strange that Tom Holland is dead?” I persisted.

Henry looked away. “Apparently the truck driver was drunk. That’s terrible, but these things do happen.”

“I know. But couldn’t it be a fact that Arthur’s dearest wish was granted when that car accident happened?”

His hesitation told me that this idea was not by any means new to him. Then he slowly shook his head, “Arthur couldn’t stand Tom, that’s true enough, but actually wishing him dead—no. That wouldn’t be like Arthur.”

At that moment there was a loud noise, and a shrill female voice drowned out the music-box tune of the carousel. “Which of you damn kids left those damn Lego bricks lying around here?”

I looked around for whoever had said that, or rather shouted it. But there was no one in sight.

“Do you want me to break my neck? That would suit your father nicely!” bawled the voice. It seemed to come from all sides at once. “Then he’d be rid of me forever—he could live happily ever after with that floozy of his!”

The carousel had stopped going round, and Amy was no longer looking serene, but rather worried.

“What’s…?” I began, but when I turned to Henry I saw that he had disappeared. I jumped up. Where the hell was he? Not a trace of him anywhere.

“Henry?
Henry?
” I cried, with panic rising in me. “Please come back! This isn’t funny!”

But there was no sign of him.

“Go away! Just bloody leave me alone to lie here and die!” shouted the woman’s voice, and Amy gave a start where she was sitting on the carousel. “No one’s going to miss me anyway. No one!”

And then, as if someone had turned off the electricity, all around me went dark. The ground gave way under my feet, and I fell into the depths.

T
ITTLE
-T
ATTLE
B
LOG

The Frognal Academy Tittle-Tattle Blog, with all the latest gossip, the best rumors, and the hottest scandals from our school.

ABOUT ME:

My name is Secrecy—I’m right here among you, and I know
all
your secrets.

18 September, 10:30 p.m.

Florence Spencer is going to the Autumn Ball with Callum Caspers. And if you just asked, “Callum WHO?” I know just how you feel. I had to look Callum up to see if he goes to this school at all. And in fact, he does. He’s been here for six years. Oops.

I’ve found you a photo from the yearbook, showing last year’s members of the Math Club—Callum is second from the left.

So all you nice, nondescript boys with uncool hobbies and funny hairstyles, don’t worry: There’s hope for you yet. One of these days the prettiest, most popular girl in the school could ask you whether you’d like to go to the ball with her. And then you must just brush the silly fringe off your forehead and say yes. Because that’s what Callum Caspers did (let’s call him C.C.—wouldn’t that be better?), and the fringe hasn’t slipped back over his face to this day. In fact, with Florence beside him, Callum doesn’t look so nondescript and uncool after all.

But I still don’t understand it. I mean, Florence really could have had ANYONE. Well, except for one … and maybe that’s the nub of the matter. Has Florence lost her heart to Arthur Hamilton? Has she worked out the chances of replacing Anabel as Ball Queen at Arthur’s side? And did she, on a short-circuit impulse, simply ask the first comer if he’d like to go to the ball with her when she found out that Anabel will be coming back from Switzerland specially for the occasion?

In that case, our friend C.C. just struck lucky.

Apart from that, I stick to my theory about long-distance relationships in general and this one in particular: Arthur and Anabel may get together once more for the ball, but sooner or later that will be the end of it all the same. Remember what I say: long before Christmas they’ll both change their relationship status on Facebook to single—and then the race is wide open again. Until then, enjoy your luck, C.C. And chin up, Florence.

See you soon!

Love from Secrecy

PS—After a tough battle with the firefighting services, the ball committee now has the green light for onstage fireworks and ground-level mist-making machines—I have a good feeling about that, everyone! As soon as the official part of the evening is over and Mrs. Cook and Mrs. Beckett and their waltzes have finished, we start rocking! This is going to be the greatest ball night that Frognal Academy has ever known.

PPS—And below you will find a list of all the upper school boys who haven’t chosen partners for the ball yet. Among the cream slices and other choice morsels is Jasper Grant. My advice, girls, is tallyho and get after him with a hue and cry. (It’s a fact that he’s a disaster as a dancer, but who’s going to bother about that?)

Tittletattleblog.com

26

I SAT UP WITH MY HEART THUDDING
wildly. Thank God I was awake. I caught the echo of a scream in the air. Moonlight fell into my new room, and I was really glad to feel a soft mattress under me—so much nicer than falling into a bottomless abyss, surrounded by a black void.

But I had only a split second to enjoy my relief, because then I heard loud footsteps in the corridor, my door was flung open, and Mom rushed over to my bed. “What happened, mousie? Have you hurt yourself?”

“What?” I blinked at the light, confused.

Only a few seconds later, Mia, Buttercup, Grayson, and Florence arrived, and finally Ernest came running in.

“A burglar?” cried Mia.

“Did you see a ghost?” asked Florence at the same time. “Did Spot jump on your bed?”

“A bat, I expect?” Ernest was tying the belt of his bathrobe around his waist. (Good, so he didn’t wander around the house half naked at night.) “Nothing to panic about. They do sometimes lose their way and come into the house at this time of year—oh, but your window is closed.”

The only one apart from Buttercup who didn’t ask questions was Grayson. He just looked at me as if he knew exactly what had happened.

It took me some time to pull myself together and get my breathing reasonably well under control. Having everyone stare at me wide-eyed and bombard me with questions didn’t really help. What were they all doing here?

“You screamed,” Mia explained.

It must have been a frightful scream to be heard two rooms away. Only Lottie, on the floor above, evidently hadn’t been woken.

“I had a silly dream, that’s all,” I muttered, avoiding Grayson’s eyes. Butter licked my hand comfortingly.

“What of? Being skinned alive?” Florence looked at me as if she’d never seen anything more pathetic in her life—and she was right. With my hair untidy and drenched with sweat, and my worn-out old nightshirt, I was certainly no sight for sore eyes. “Uh-oh, don’t they say that what you dream on your first night in a new house comes true?”

They said that, did they? What a delightful prospect.

“How unfortunate.” Mia gave Florence an annihilating glance. “Especially if Liv dreamed of an ax murderer coming to slaughter you in your bed.”

“My poor mousie. Please dream something nice from now on, will you?” Mom yawned and stroked my hair.

“And if you don’t, then at least be quiet about it,” added Florence huffily. “I nearly had a heart attack.”

“It’s only three thirty. I suggest we all go back to bed and try to get some more sleep,” said Ernest. “But maybe you’d better leave your bedside light on, Liv.”

You bet I would. I pulled the quilt up to my chin, because I suddenly felt icy cold.

“I’m sorry,” I said wearily. “I really didn’t mean to wake you all. Good night.”

One by one they started leaving my room. Only Grayson turned back in the doorway again and looked at me.

“What’s the matter?” I hissed, when he still hadn’t said anything after about ten seconds. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms, and although (or perhaps because) I was feeling right off the wall, I couldn’t help noticing how fit his upper body looked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.” And before I could answer, he closed the door.

Wearily, I dropped back against the pillows. He wasn’t to blame; it was all my own fault. I’d thought I was in control of events. I wasn’t.

And it wasn’t fun anymore either.

In rapid succession I remembered the fear in Anabel’s voice, the dog dying on the lawn, the triumphant gleam in Arthur’s eyes, and the invisible Something that had followed Henry and me along the corridor. Was it going to be like that every night now?

The story of Tom Holland had given me a lot to think about, and it badly shook my conviction that demons didn’t exist. Suppose Henry was wrong and Arthur had wished Tom dead last year at Halloween after all—then how great was the probability that, young and healthy as he’d been, he really would die within the next nine months? Less than one percent, I’d guess. Far less than one percent. It would explain why Arthur took the whole thing so seriously—so deadly seriously, you might say: He felt sure that Tom’s accident was the work of the demon. And I could even understand that.