Destiny (6 page)

T
HE
W
ITNESS OF
S
ARAH
F
ITZALAN

W
e were just waiting in the dark. I couldn’t bury our problems out of sight any longer. It was wonderful to be with Cal and my friends, but little by little Helen was slipping away from us, and I had to do something.

“We’re meant to be working together,” I fretted. “Why is Helen being so secretive? Why is she trying to push us away?” Cal, Josh, Evie, and I were in our usual haunt in the stable block. I jumped up from where I was impatiently shredding a piece of straw and said for the millionth time, “We’ve got to do something.”

“Just saying it won’t make it happen,” said Cal, putting his arms round me to try to make me feel better. “You’ve gone over everything so many times already. What more can you do?”

“If only Miss Scratton were still here,” Evie sighed.

A lump rose in my throat at the memory of our Guardian. I wanted so much to see her again.

“What would she want us to do?” I asked. “I mean, Miss Scratton?”

“Stay strong,” Evie replied. “Stay true to one another. Never be afraid.”

“Yeah, of course,” I agreed. “But there has to be more, something to do, something practical. It’s time we found out about those keys Miss Scratton spoke of. She said—what was it?—the secret of the keys is near. What did she mean?”

“She also said that this would be Helen’s time,” said Evie. “I’ve racked my brain to think what the keys could be, but maybe it’s for Helen to discover, like Miss Scratton said. All we can do is support her and be ready. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.” I felt Cal’s arm tighten around my shoulders. Being together felt very precious right then.

“We’re together, but Helen is still alone and unhappy,” I worried. “She hasn’t found what she’s looking for.”

“Didn’t Miss Scratton say that she was fated to meet someone?” asked Josh. He glanced hesitantly at Evie, and added softly, “Someone to love her. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?”

Poor Josh
, I thought. His own love for Evie was burning like a candle in an empty room. She blushed and looked away.

“Yes, she did,” I said briskly, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. “And Miss Scratton said to Helen…what was it? Something about someone who would love her beyond the end of the world. It sounded all very wonderful, but it doesn’t seem to be happening, does it? Helen says she’s okay, but I know she’s really wound up. She’ll never be at rest while that evil woman’s spirit is still waiting to break out and destroy us.”

“But what are you suggesting?” asked Evie. “We can’t
kill
Mrs. Hartle, can we? She’s dead already, at least what most people call dead, but in any case our powers aren’t to be used for destruction. We have to wait for her to make the first move, surely?”

“So we just wait and wait,” I grumbled, “until Helen has a nervous breakdown, or the coven attacks us, or Mrs. Hartle escapes?”

“Do you think the person that Miss Scratton talked about will really come to help her?” Evie said, looking troubled.

I sighed. “I wish we knew a spell to conjure up this mysterious stranger for Helen, and the keys, whatever they are, and a miracle of peace and happiness for everyone
at Wyldcliffe. But it’s not going to happen just like that. We’ve already tried everything we could in the vacation to find what the keys are. We’ve used finding charms and naming spells and all that kind of thing, but nothing has worked. It’s so frustrating not being able to
do
anything. I hate just waiting.” Cal picked up my mood, and my impatience was echoed in his voice.

“There’s one thing you could do,” he said. “The way I see it—well, of course, I’m really sorry for Helen, but it’s Laura that bothers me. The dead should be dead, not wandering about in some unnatural in-between state. I know there are gateways between this life and the next, we’ve seen that. Agnes speaks to you from the light, from whatever is beyond. And the Gypsy Brothers rode from death to help Sebastian and then returned to their resting place. But it’s different for Laura…she’s still stuck somehow between life and death…. I don’t know, it feels all wrong, like some kind of
amria
—a curse. Can’t you summon your powers to help her? And Evie still has the Talisman—why not use it?”

I knew I could rely on Cal. “Then let’s use it to try to free Laura,” I said eagerly. “We can’t find the keys out of nowhere—we don’t even know what they are yet. And we can’t make Helen happy. But we should at least do something for Laura, shouldn’t we? It’s bad enough that she was
murdered, but then to have her soul not able to pass on its journey and to be bound to Mrs. Hartle’s will—Cal’s right, it’s horrible. And if—
when
—the Priestess gets free again, Laura won’t be the only Bondsoul. It could be us next, or any of the girls here at Wyldcliffe, or the kids in the village school. That’s what she wants, a whole army of Bondsouls serving her master. We’ve got to make sure that doesn’t happen!”

“If we save Laura, it would be a huge blow to the Priestess, and her coven,” Evie said thoughtfully. “It would warn them against trying to enslave anyone else. It might even make them see that they’ve no hope of ever regaining their power.”

“Exactly! We’ve waited long enough. We’ve got to do this, we’ve got to!” I had worked myself up into a passionate plea, and I could see by their faces that the others were impressed. The idea of action roused us from our hesitation and questions. We were preparing for battle again, united in love and friendship, together forever….

And so I persuaded my friends, from the best of intentions, to follow the path that brought the great disaster crashing down onto our unwary souls.

T
HE
W
ITNESS OF
E
VELYN
J
OHNSON

I
t was so like Sarah to want to help Laura. Sarah could never bear to see anyone in pain, or lonely or suffering. And I agreed with her, in theory, that is. I wanted to be just as warm and loving as she was, but all the time I secretly knew that I was making Josh suffer and that there was pain as well as pleasure for him in our meetings. I didn’t want to hurt him, but although I had accepted that Sebastian was dead and had welcomed his release, I still felt frozen in time, like a statue made of ice.

I wanted to plunge into life again, just as Sebastian had urged me, but I was afraid. It seemed to me that if I allowed myself to love again, it would be the end of my love for Sebastian. He would finally be in the past: “Just a boy
I once knew, but it’s over now….” I couldn’t bear the idea of that. So I was clinging to his memory as the last rose of summer clings to the branch, long after its bloom and perfume have gone.

Josh and I were just friends, I told myself, and then I found every reason to see him at the stables, or to follow him down to the village on some trivial errand to the store or the church. He was so good and strong and kind—but I couldn’t admit to myself that I needed him, and how much I cared for him. Or perhaps my head simply refused to acknowledge what my heart already knew.

So there we were: Cal and Sarah, Josh and Evie. The four of us had agreed that we would find a way to release Laura, roused by Sarah’s eager arguments. After that, as we talked longer, the light faded and we drifted into dreams and fantasies. It suddenly seemed only a little task that stood before us, as if it would be easy to free Laura and deal the final, fatal blow to the Priestess and her coven. And then, very soon, Sarah and I could leave school and say good-bye to Wyldcliffe forever. We made crazy plans with the boys to move to London and study together, or for all of us to buy a big old house by the sea, when “all this” would be over and we could just get on with life….

Eventually we had to leave Josh and Cal at the stables. We ran over to the art room to find Helen and share our plans about Laura, but she wasn’t there. She had no doubt gone to supper, as the bell had started to ring. Although it would be impossible to talk in the crowded dining room, we hoped to find time in private together after the meal. As the mistresses filed in to take their places at the high table, Helen hurried into the dining hall late, looking pale and tired. I whispered to her, “Agnes’s study, after dinner. Okay?”

She looked strangely reluctant, but she nodded in agreement, and I waited impatiently for the meal to be over. However, instead of being dismissed when the tables had been cleared and the final prayers of thanks had been said, we were all ordered to sit down again for some important news. There was a rush of whispering and the scraping of chairs and benches as the students took their places in eager anticipation. It reminded me of my very first evening at Wyldcliffe, when I had been presented to the school by Mrs. Hartle, and two hundred pairs of eyes had turned on me with hostility and I had felt so alone, like a child torn from its mother’s arms.

But I had survived. Now I had friends at Wyldcliffe, deep bonds that could never be broken, whoever had
control of the school. Sarah and Helen, Josh and Cal: they were all part of me now. And hidden in the secret past of this strange place, Agnes—my ancestor and friend, my sister of fire—was always waiting for me to reach out to her across the river of time. We were connected by the magical Talisman that I wore hidden on a fine silver chain around my neck, and by our love for a boy called Sebastian Fairfax, who had been the whole world to me, and still guarded my heart.

It was Miss Hetherington who called us to attention. “Girls,” she said, “I know you have been eager to find out who will be leading us in this new academic year. Wyldcliffe’s tragic losses have been widely reported, and I don’t intend to go over them again. We must face the future.” I thought that the art mistress looked upset as she spoke, despite her brave words. It was hard to know exactly where loyalties lay at Wyldcliffe, and which of the teachers might be a secret member of the coven, but I’d always felt that Miss Hetherington supported Miss Scratton and her reforms, and it was difficult to imagine her as one of the Dark Sisters. Unlike most of the other mistresses, Miss Hetherington seemed vibrant and young. She was an artist, so she must have loved light and color and beauty. Would those ideals be enough to guard her from
falling under the malign influence of the coven? It seemed a flimsy enough protection, yet what did any of us have but the unseen mysteries of hope and love as our armor in this battle? Things unseen…a half-forgotten phrase came into my mind and gave me some comfort. T
he things unseen are eternal…

But Miss Hetherington was speaking again. I made myself concentrate. “As I have said,” she continued, “the school must prepare for the future. The school governors have searched widely for the right person to do that. Ladies, I am pleased to introduce the new High Master of Wyldcliffe, Dr. Franzen. Please make him welcome.”

A buzzing of scandalized voices swept though the room like a swarm of bees.
“Him?”
“Did she say
him
?” “Surely they haven’t brought in a
man
?”

Every head swiveled round to stare as a heavy, powerful figure marched into the dining room. He was about fifty, I guessed, but he radiated the energy and strength of a much younger man, despite the fact that he leaned on a silver-topped cane as he walked. His tawny hair fell long to his shoulders, and his soft beard and mustache all added to the impression of leonine, masculine force. For a moment I wanted to laugh. This was so unexpected, so incongruous. But as he took his place at the high table and
began to speak in a deep, cold voice, the laughter died on my lips.

“Good evening. I am Dr. Franzen. I am here to return Wyldcliffe to what it was before the recent unfortunate events. A rock in a changing world. A haven from the forces of anarchy. A pinnacle of excellence for you privileged few. There will no longer be a High Mistress at Wyldcliffe. From now on, I will be the Master here. The past mistakes can be torn up and discarded. This is day zero. Everything begins again.”

And that’s when it really did begin. Helen stood up as though something had shot her from her seat. She was gasping for breath and clutching her arm, and her face was white with pain. “No! I won’t…I can’t!” Her pale, terrified eyes sought mine. “Evie…tell him…tell him…” Then she crashed unconscious to the floor, and Dr. Franzen’s welcome turned to panic and disarray.

F
ROM THE
D
IARY OF
H
ELEN
B
LACK

O
CTOBER
3

T
hey say I was taken ill. I don’t really remember. I only remember that voice, the voice I had dreaded to hear, and feeling that the world was sliding away from under my feet. And now the sign of the Seal on my arm hurts so badly, as if it’s on fire, and I can’t think straight. The time I spent with my mother—her words and promises—all that seems distant now. Seeing that man has blotted everything else out.

The nurse let me leave the infirmary this morning, though I couldn’t face going to class. I have been lying on my bed, supposedly reading, but all I can do is think of you, my Wanderer, and what happened when I last saw you—and him. The bruises on your face…the blood on your lip…nightmare visions I wanted to
forget. But it’s all there still, as clear and sharp as a knife.

Wanderer, Dr. Franzen is here.

I feel sick even to write his name. How can I stay a minute longer in this place, now that this has happened? Perhaps Tony would let me live with him and Rachel if I ran away—

No. I mustn’t taint their lives with my presence again. I must keep away from everyone I care for. You, Laura, my friends—I seem to lead everyone into trouble and darkness.

Memories whisper and curse,

Dragging me back into the dark distant days;

And the trees blow in the wind,

Dropping thoughts like leaves

Onto the wet, black earth.

Torn petals falling on your grave.

Sarah and Evie came to see me again yesterday, and this time the nurse let them in. They were desperate to know what had made me collapse. I told them that Dr. Franzen was an “educational expert” who had been in charge at the children’s home, and that when I saw him I was simply upset by my memories. He had been overbearing, rather strict and old-fashioned, I told them. I couldn’t tell them that he was a brutal monster. But he won’t be able to do here what he did in the orphanage, not to these privileged
young ladies. He chose his victims carefully. He chose me.

I have never been able to face my past, not really. I once told my friends that the people at the home had tried to be kind. Kind! They were savage, inhuman, and it was all hushed up from anyone who might have been able to help. The beatings, the punishments, the humiliations, the unspoken dread of the even greater torments they could inflict. The people who were supposed to care for us treated us like dirt, and no one knew or cared, and he was the worst. But it is the victims who are left with shame and doubt and self-hatred, not the perpetrators. I could never speak of it to anyone.

It was the fear of returning to all that which kept me at Wyldcliffe after my mother turned against me, after the horror of Laura’s death. And now he is here, back in my life. I don’t know how I am going to bear it. Oh Wanderer, my oldest, dearest friend, help me. Help me.

When I saw Dr. Franzen walking into the dining hall at Wyldcliffe—leaning on that stick—and when I heard his voice, it was as though everything was wiped from my memory. I was no longer Helen, a sister of the Mystic Way, on a quest to bring healing and peace to my mother’s spirit. I was a terrified kid again, begging for help. I was being ordered to the cellar in the children’s home to be
locked up in the tiny, windowless room they used for punishing “unacceptable behavior,” with nothing to eat or drink, no light or warmth. How many times I’d been sent there and spent hours in misery, not knowing what was going to happen to me. That was the worst—not knowing. Whether I would simply eventually be let out after hours of isolation, or beaten, or…

It was like a miracle when I found that I could escape from that place with the power of my thought. At first it seemed simply like vivid daydreams and fantasies, but that soon changed. I really could send myself through the air to the empty backstreets of the town, or to the banks of the canal, or to the scrubby, neglected woods that sloped away on the edge of the town.

It was in that horrible cellar that my only friend took that final beating for me. He shouldn’t have done that. I could have coped. It was only one more, after all. But all those years later, at Wyldcliffe Abbey School for Young Ladies, my past leaped into life like a blinding storm as Dr. Franzen’s gaze swept the room.

My past. Here it is.

For years I knew nothing but the children’s home: fear and misery, and Dr. Franzen. He taught me that I was a disgrace, unwanted, hopeless, useless, stupid, disobedient,
that it would have been better if I had never been born…. But then a boy came along and entered my world, and for the first time I began to know what hope was.

The other kids in the home nicknamed him “The Wanderer,” because he never seemed settled in one place, or rather, he was always ready for the next adventure, the next vanishing act. It suited him better than his real name of Tom. He was never really a Tom for me—he was far more daring and elusive than that. I thought of him as a free spirit blown into the world to dance across its wild spaces and laugh at everything that got in his way. And so I learned to call him the Wanderer, like everyone else.

When he first came to the home I must have been about eleven, and he was a little older, twelve or thirteen. We were only children, but I knew as soon as I saw him that he was different. There was a light in him, a secret joy. It didn’t seem to bother him that he had no family of his own. He belonged everywhere and nowhere and merely shrugged each time he was offered a foster family. Funny, they always picked the Wanderer even though he didn’t make any effort to please. No one ever chose me, and I wasn’t surprised by that. I expected nothing good of life and was given nothing good in return. But this boy was different. He breathed a different air, and he
just shrugged with an even broader smile when the foster placement didn’t work out and he had to come back to the orphanage.

The Wanderer wasn’t interested in the bullying and status and hierarchies that kept the other kids busy, each of them defending their own little territory before anyone took it away from them. I was caught in their cross fire, though. They thought I was slow and stupid, and they made sure that I took the blame for anything that went wrong. Not everyone felt Dr. Franzen’s wrath or the blows from his cane, just a favored few, like me. I couldn’t defend myself against him. I had no friends or allies. But Tom—my Wanderer—saw something worthwhile in me. In the short time we spent together, he talked to me and made me smile and sang me songs. For those fleeting moments he put music in my heart instead of fear. He taught me to sing and told me stories of all the wonderful things we would both do when we were grown up and free of that place. He gave me hope and kept me sane. I suppose I must have seen him for only a few weeks every year, but these were the holidays of my life, when the Wanderer arrived and brought light and laughter into my angry, bleak existence. Strange, I remember that he looked slightly different each time, as though my eyes had to learn to focus and
see him again, though I told myself that it was just that he was older.

And then, when I was older, and beginning to see the world in a new light, everything came to a terrible end. Was it my fault, or Dr. Franzen’s?

After a particularly miserable day at the home, I managed to get out of my room at night unnoticed, using my secret gift. I was lying out in the woods, and even though it was desperately cold, I was glad to be there. I watched the stars overhead and listened to the voices of the wind and sang quietly to myself. The lights of the town burned a dull, tarry orange color below me, and for once I could imagine that my life was quite different, and that one day I might be free. I was torn between wanting to stay out in the woods always and wanting to go back to the home to see Tom in the morning at breakfast, to exchange a secret smile that would tell him that I had wandered beyond “their” boundaries. It was like a badge of honor to prove that nothing could crush me, not even the “enemy” of the staff at that place. I had told the Wanderer about my gift, and how I could sneak out of the home at night, and though I could never decide whether he really believed me, he didn’t laugh or call me crazy. The only kindness that ever touched me in that place came from him. He
was the stone in my pocket, something to hold on to, and I thought he would always be there.

I was wrong.

That night, I fell asleep in the wood, my back curled against a tree. When I opened my eyes it was already light. It was still early, but the town was starting to wake up. I jumped to my feet, worried about getting back to the home before anyone spotted that I had sneaked out, then I tried to step through the air again. Nothing happened. I panicked, thinking that I had lost the only thing that I was good at, that truly belonged to me. I didn’t know then that it’s just harder to travel the secret paths in daylight, that it requires greater concentration and confidence in one’s inner powers. And so I ran blindly, until my heart was hurting and my sides ached. I ran all the way back to the orphanage. The doors and gates were locked. I climbed over the wall, scraping my knees, then raced around to the back of the building, where I smashed a window by the kitchen door and crawled inside.

I got back to my room in time, but later that day the broken window was discovered and there was a terrible row. Dr. Franzen was only too happy to create a massive storm about it, going on and on in that smooth, slick voice of his about discipline and respect for property and
delinquent children who were out of control. Someone had to own up to doing the damage and be punished for it, and he would wait all day until someone did…. Just as I was about to step forward, the Wanderer spoke and took the blame for me. Dr. Franzen hauled him off to the cellar before I could find my voice and confess the truth. I remember that Tom turned and smiled at me as he was dragged away. But later, whenever I tried to picture him, I saw a distorted version of his face like a surreal painting: bruised and battered, splashed with blood.

He didn’t show up at breakfast the next day, or the next. The staff eventually said that he’d been sent to a new foster family. The other kids whispered different stories about the Wanderer. That he’d been beaten so badly that he could hardly stand. That he’d escaped and managed to stagger to the town hospital. That he’d been transferred to another home under Dr. Franzen’s control. That his body had been found in the local garbage dump. They told so many stories, and I never knew which one was true. I only know that I never saw the boy they called the Wanderer again.

Was that Dr. Franzen’s fault, or my own?

I was haunted by the fear that my only friend was dead, even though I tried to tell myself that he’d be back one day.
I was aching to believe that he would show up again, like he always had. But soon afterward, my mother came and found me and took me to Wyldcliffe. I thought it was a new life, but it turned out to be just another part of the old nightmare. The only comfort I found at Wyldcliffe was in art and poetry, and writing my diary for the Wanderer to read one day. Somehow I imagined that he knew what I was telling him and that one day he would answer. It seemed to keep him alive, even as my heart was breaking. For Tom, for my mother, for the family I never had, for the person I might have been and for the shame I couldn’t recover from. I found a poem in the library that said what I couldn’t say myself, and copied it into my diary:

That was me. That was my secret history. Then I found Evie and Sarah, and Agnes. I had my sisters, and though that was not everything I craved, it was a great gift. And I told myself that another good thing about Wyldcliffe was that I would never have to see Dr. Franzen again.

But there he was, tap-tap-tapping his way into the Abbey like a crippled devil, ready to send me back to hell.
And there was no one, not my sisters, or my mother, and certainly not a charming music student, who could protect me from him.

All I wanted to do was run.