Immortal (8 page)

As I clutched the doctor’s little bottle of pills, I knew it would take more than a few vitamins to heal my troubled heart.

Eleven

THE JOURNAL OF LADY AGNES, SEPTEMBER

30, 1882

Let the reader beware that the Mysticke Way is a path of healing, not darkeness. Although there be those who, through ignorance and vulgar prejudice, have miscalled it common witchcraft, it is no such thing. But all true followers of the Way must not seeke power for its own sake, nor harm any living creature….

This is what the Book says. Now I know what I am destined to do. I shall devote myself to the Mystic Way and become a great healer. As S. said on that first day, what great good could we achieve? There is so much dirt
and disease and ignorance in this world to be cured and conquered. Even I, in my sheltered valley, know of the terrible hardship of some of the poor wretches in London and Manchester and our other so-called “great” cities. I am determined to use our discoveries to alleviate such suffering, and I have made a very small beginning.

There is a pear tree in the corner of the kitchen garden that is blighted, and the gardener had told me that he planned to cut it down next week. So when both Miss B. and Mama were resting after luncheon a few days ago, I locked the door of my room and closed the curtains and consulted the Book.

First, I made an altar on my dressing table, draping it in white silk, lighting pure wax candles, and invoking the secret words of blessing. On the floor in front of the altar I drew a Circle all around me for protection and strength. Then I spoke the incantations, burning the oil and herbs as described in the Book. As I did so, I emptied my mind and concentrated until I seemed to see stars of fire and light all around me.

When the mixture had cooled, I crept into the kitchen garden, making sure that no one saw me, and anointed the tree with it. Then I bound a single strand of my hair around one of the branches. When I placed my hand on
the tree, I felt the life force within it answering my call. Today the canker on the stem is shriveling and the blight is fading from the leaves. And I know I can do more, much more. As some have been given the gift to sing or dance or paint in a way that I could never hope to imitate, so I too have been given a miraculous gift: to know and serve the Secret Fire and its great Creator. Oh, my words seem wild, yet I know what I have seen and done.

I can snuff candles with a blink of my eye, and light the fire in my grate with the flick of my wrist and the strength of my thought. I can see through the shadows into the light, where a girl with bright hair and strange clothes walks by the lake, alone and lonely. I want to experience all this and more, and to understand every deep mystery that the Book contains. But S. troubles me. Already I feel that we are walking in different directions, and that makes me afraid for this great adventure. Yes, he troubles me, though it is hard to explain exactly why.

It began the day after our first attempt to cast the Circle in the cave on the moor. He called at the Abbey after breakfast, as usual, but was sullen with me, even angry.

“Why did the spirits answer you and not me?” he asked again and again, as though I had done this on purpose to spite him.

“I do not know; perhaps you should try again….”

“Yes, let us go back to the cave now, immediately.” He hurried me out of the house, and we rode recklessly over the hills. Once in the cave again, he repeated the ritual with a ferocious intensity, following the instructions with great care, omitting nothing of the strange rites. With all his strength and passion, he summoned the powers and called on the immortal fire. But again, the flames sprang to life in my hands, not his. He wouldn’t give up, however, and he called out every word of incantation that he could muster, until his eyes burned with despair. I could not bear to see him so abandoned and distressed, and I secretly wished that he would be granted what he desired.

As the white flames flickered on my hands like laughing children, I seemed to be given a choice. It seemed as though I could allow S. to be included in the Mysteries or not. And I hesitated. All my life I have been in his shadow: younger, ignorant, a mere girl. For one fleeting moment I was tempted to keep this new power to myself.

I could not do it. “Let it happen,” I breathed, “let it be as he would desire….”

There was a fearful rumbling in the cave, like an earthquake, and I thought the walls must fall in on us. Dark coils of smoke, crackling with tongues of green fire, rose at his feet and wound themselves around his body until he was clothed in darkness. I reached out for him, but I was thrown down on the rocky floor. A silver light exploded in my mind. Then a long line of women’s faces passed in front of my eyes, all calling his name, screeching and gibbering and weeping, until the last one was the strange girl whose face has begun to haunt my dreams. She looked so sad. An almighty crash of thunder sounded as I shut my eyes and covered my ears in terror.

Later—I don’t know how much later—I opened my eyes again and saw S. standing over me. He bent down and helped me to my feet. A deep crack had appeared on the floor of the cave where our Circle had been.

“It has happened,” he said simply. “I have been reborn.”

And so he is satisfied, and I must be too. It is what I wished for, after all. But I cannot help wondering whether I made the right choice.

This thought has haunted me for days, like the cry of the gulls by the sea.

Twelve

I

was pining for the sea. It actually hurt, a raw physical pain in my chest. I couldn’t forget what the doctor had said about going swimming. My body ached for the stinging waters and the dip and roll of the great waves. I began to feel that if I couldn’t swim, I would crack up.

“Evie Johnson, are you working, or daydreaming?” asked Miss Scratton.

The words on the page I was supposed to be studying danced in front of my eyes like a foreign language. I felt as though another tiny bit of me was dying. And then, suddenly, I knew what to do.

I would swim in the lake.
That’s it
, I thought.
I’ll creep out at night, and no one will ever know.
Then the rising flutter of excitement inside me was suddenly checked.

Laura.

What about the nightmares I’d had about her—wouldn’t they be a hundred times worse if I actually swam in the waters where she had drowned? My heart plummeted again. It was impossible, a stupid, sick idea.
Forget it.

I tried to. I really did. But one night I couldn’t sleep. Celeste had fussed about being cold and had turned up the heat until the room was sweltering. I was tired, but restless, lying awake for what seemed hours while the others slept, feeling anxious and hot and stifled. Eventually I flung off the covers and got up to open the window, but it was bolted shut. I could see the lake, pale and silver in the moonlight. It looked so cool and pure and inviting.

I couldn’t resist. I had to feel the air on my skin; I had to get outside; I had to be by the lake. I wouldn’t swim there, but if I could only look at it and feel the cool night breeze across the water…

Did I know, or guess, what would happen if I went out that night? And if I had known, would I have gone? All I know is that I persuaded myself that what I was doing was perfectly rational as I crept out of the dorm.

I decided to use the old servants’ staircase that Helen had shown me. There was less chance of being seen that way. Pushing aside the velvet curtain, I drew back the bolts and opened the door. I groped for Helen’s flashlight, then switched it on, my heart hammering away. The thin beam of light was comforting, though I hated the shadows that flickered all around me, and the dark cracks of those narrow steps.

Just get on with it,
I told myself. All I had to do was walk calmly down them, and I would be free.
One step at a time, one step at a time…

I reached the bottom and realized I had been holding my breath the whole way down. The door to the main hallway was ahead, and behind me was the desolate servants’ wing. I stepped forward and pressed my ear to the door. There were voices outside in the corridor. I caught the words “…another attempt…soon.” It sounded like Mrs. Hartle. Her voice sank too low to hear. Another voice—Miss Scratton?—protested, “No, not yet. We should wait.”

Then Mrs. Hartle cut in icily, “Am I the High Mistress, or you?”

A late-night teachers’ quarrel. It would be impossible to go that way. I would have to sneak through the servants’ wing and find my way to the green door that led to the stable yard. It was either that or give up and go back, and I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up. I had to go on.

I forced myself to walk down the musty passage, holding up the flashlight and trying to imagine that Helen was with me as I tiptoed past the deserted rooms and storage areas, past the row of old bells, past the door to the ghostly kitchen, on and on until I reached a cobwebbed green door. I tugged at the bolts and chains, and then I was outside in the cold night air.

The moon was huge and low and yellow in the autumn sky. A horse stamped restlessly nearby. I had made it. I took a few deep gulps of air and grinned. It had been worth it. I was free.

I tucked the flashlight behind the green door and ran lightly out of the stable yard to the terrace at the back of the house. Checking to make sure that no one was watching from the tall windows, I flitted across the lawns and under the shadows of the trees. The dark ruins on the other side of the water seemed to loom taller than in the daytime, and for an instant I thought I could see something fluttering between the broken archways. An owl hooted.
Go back, go back
…it seemed to screech. I ignored its warnings and made my way down to the silent lake.

I stooped over the water, feeling wildly happy. I was myself again, not a zombie in a Wyldcliffe uniform. My hair fell over my shoulders as I trailed my hands in the shallows, and the breeze ruffled my clothes. I closed my eyes in ecstasy, imagining that I was sitting on the beach at home, with the wind blowing and the waves racing and the water calling me.

Then I heard a footstep and I knew someone was behind me, watching me, waiting for me. I forgot to breathe, and cursed myself for being so stupid.
What dangers might be waiting?

I opened my eyes and saw my wavering reflection in the dark water, and behind it a familiar figure in a long black coat.

“I told you we would meet again.”

I whipped around. He was standing there in the moonlight, the boy with the haunting eyes.

“You terrified me!”

“And you enchanted me.” He smiled teasingly. “You looked like a water nymph saying her prayers. What were you dreaming about?”

I blushed scarlet and tried to summon a brusque tone. “It’s none of your business.”

“I want to make it my business. I want to know everything about you.”

“What makes you think I want to have anything to do with you?” I snapped. I had secretly hoped I would see him again, but now I wanted to get away and hide, as though he already knew too much about me. “I have to go, and so should you. You’ll be in terrible trouble if Mrs. Hartle catches you here.”

“So will you,” he replied. “What is the punishment for girls who wander by the lake at night?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.” I began to walk away.

“Don’t go yet,” he said. His voice was soft and pleading and I hesitated. “I’m not used to asking for things. But I’m asking now. Please stay. I just want to talk to you.” He came up behind me and wrapped his thick coat around my shoulders. The warmth of his body still clung to the heavy fabric. The strangest feeling that I had known him before, long ago, swept over me. For one crazy moment I wanted to sink into his arms and lose myself totally in him. But I pulled away and turned around to face him, trying to ignore his strange, compelling beauty.

“What happened that night when I cut my hand?” I demanded. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“To see you,” he replied. “I’ve been waiting for you, girl from the sea. I think I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

“How…how do you know I come from the sea?”

“I saw it in your face; that’s all.” His eyes held mine in their gaze, like a magician.

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever seen something that other people can’t?”

“Of course not,” I began, then stopped, remembering my “vision” of the old schoolroom and the girl in white. “I don’t know,” I said, confused. “Maybe in dreams.”

“One person’s dream is another’s reality.”

“But I cut myself. You touched the glass, and then it was mended. That wasn’t a dream.”

He walked abruptly to the edge of the lake. “It was nothing.”

“But—”

“Honestly, it was nothing. I just pulled an old trick on you, a stunt; that’s all. I wanted to impress you. To please you.”

“Why?”

“I behaved like an arrogant idiot when we first met. Then you were so upset over that photograph and I wanted to do something for you.” His voice sank low. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you care for and have nothing left but their image.” He began to cough, a hoarse sound that seemed to rack his whole body.

“Are you ill?” I asked, stepping closer to him.

“No…no…I’m getting better.” The coughing fit subsided. “I’m not ill. I’m just tired. I’m tired of being alone, Evie.”

“So am I,” I said blankly. The silence hung between us, and our eyes met. I felt as though he could see right into me, as though we could look at each other forever and not get tired of it…. I dropped my gaze and moved away.

“How do you know my name?”

“It was easy. I’ve been hanging around the school since we met, hoping to catch sight of you, trying to find out all about you.” He suddenly caught hold of my hands and drew me to him. A thousand pinpricks swept up and down my spine as he begged, “Let me get to know you. I’m sorry if I frightened you; I never meant to. Please promise you’ll see me again.”