Eternal (29 page)

“I’l never forgive that woman,” I said. “Never!”

“It is not Rowena’s dagger that has brought this about.

Do not blame her. Remember—forgiveness is stronger than hatred. I knew I would not be al owed to stay. I just did not see the way it would end. When I am gone, it wil be as though the car accident was real. Only you wil know the truth.” She coughed weakly, then struggled to sit up. Cal and I lifted her head and supported her in our arms. Evie was huddled close to Josh, but Helen stood apart, very pale and stil .

Miss Scratton looked up at her. “Helen—I need to tel you—”

“Why were you working against me?” said Helen abruptly. “It was you al the time, wasn’t it, holding me back?”

“I had to.” Miss Scratton sighed. “It wasn’t your time. I had to hold you back to protect you from your mother. She was cal ing you—and other powers too. We have fought over you—I had to make sure Celia Hartle didn’t find you on the secret ways through the air—she was searching for you and could have trapped you there and captured you.

She was once like you, and she knows those paths wel .

But she rejected the secrets—the secrets . . . of pure air . . . the light . . .” Miss Scratton’s voice faded, and we strained to listen to her words. “It’s you she real y fears, Helen. In some part of her sad heart she stil loves you, which makes her hate and fear and anger even more terrible.”

“You’re wrong about that. She never loved me. Her love has become corrupt. It fuels her hatred now. The Priestess wil try to destroy you—the whole of Wyldcliffe, in order to tear the last trace of love from her soul.”

“Helen—I’m so sorry, I should have done more for you.”

Miss Scratton beckoned Helen to come closer to her as her voice grew weaker. “I thought—I thought there would be more time. I didn’t tel you the whole truth about the brooch. I didn’t find it in the High Mistress’s study, though the coven was searching for it there. I had it, al these years. I was there in the home—I was your nurse, I kept the token—your mother’s seal. I kept it for you. Later I made sure that you could come to Wyldcliffe, and I watched over you. I found your father. But in al this I knew that you were unhappy. I would have liked . . . I would have liked you to have been my daughter.” Miss Scratton coughed again, struggling to breathe, and tears poured down Helen’s face.

I let her take my place at our Guardian’s side, and she buried her fair head against Miss Scratton’s shoulder.

“This was Sarah’s time,” Miss Scratton whispered, clutching Helen’s hand. “But someone is coming—your destiny is near—yours is the greatest gift of al . You have been marked with the sign—the sign of the great seal.”

She whispered something privately in Helen’s ear, her voice slurred and indistinct; then she turned to the rest of us and tried to speak aloud.

“You are al part of an eternal dance, good and evil, day and night, hope and despair. They wil try to destroy you—

destroy Wyldcliffe. But the secret . . . the secret of the keys is coming . . . be ready . . . be ready when he comes . . .

the dance . . . I wil find you . . .”

Then her eyes closed, and she fel back against Cal. A light seemed to radiate from her. And then the life left her body and the light was extinguished. Helen turned away and hid her face as Evie wept, clinging to Josh. Everything felt so stil , as though the world had stopped turning.

The sleeve of Miss Scratton’s robe was crumpled awkwardly. I reached out to smooth it into place and noticed that there was a curious mark on her arm. It was a circle, cut across by a shape like a bird, or a pair of wings.

Or even, perhaps, the crossed blades of two sharp daggers. The sign of the great seal. I pul ed the sleeve down to cover it and said nothing. Al explanations would have to wait. This was the time to mourn.

We waited until the sun had climbed into the pale, clear sky and then stood up. Enough tears had been shed, but our hearts were stil heavy. As the light grew stronger, Miss Scratton’s body dissolved into a golden mist. She was gone.

Slowly and reluctantly, we left the stone circle and started to make our way down the Ridge. A veiled figure crouching in the grass ahead of us stood up and began to run in the direction of the school.

“Who was that?” asked Evie.

“I don’t know,” said Cal, standing next to me protectively. “One of the coven women, I guess, eavesdropping. Anyway, she’s gone. There’s nothing we can do about her.”

But I had seen those eyes. It hadn’t been a Dark Sister spying on us. It had been something more unpredictable—

a Touchstone. Velvet Romaine. I hadn’t been expecting that. Not here. Not now.

“I hope it wasn’t Miss Dalrymple,” Evie said with a shudder.

“Don’t worry,” Helen said to Evie. “There are four of us, and only one of her.”

“Four?” said Josh.

“Evie, Sarah, me, and Agnes, of course,” replied Helen.

“Don’t you mean six of us?” he said softly. “There’s Cal, and me too.” Josh turned to Evie. “That’s if you stil want us to stick around and be part of this. Do you want that?” His eyes were asking her more than his words.

“I want you to stay, Josh,” Evie replied. “You know I do.”

He looked at her grateful y, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. They walked ahead of us down the hil as the sun shone golden and warm.

“‘Al shal be wel , and al manner of things shal be wel ,’”

Helen murmured. Then she looked up at me and Cal.

“Don’t forget,” she said. “Hang on to what’s real, like a stone in your pocket.”

“For al eternity,” I answered, and she nodded and fol owed Evie and Josh down the slope, leaving me with Cal. I took one last glimpse at the circle of stones, stark against the bright morning sky. One day, I promised myself, I would know Miss Scratton’s true name. And one day, I would see her again.

It’s a shame about Miss Scratton,” sighed Sophie. “I know she was real y strict, but she was always fair, wasn’t she?

And she taught my mom when she was at Wyldcliffe, years ago. It’s a real shame.”

I glanced down at the headline of the newspaper that Sophie was holding. She appeared to have recovered from her upset over Helen’s accident, and Velvet’s dubious friendship. I had done what I could to be kind to Sophie in the past few troubling days since the news had broken of Miss Scratton’s death after her “accident.” Good old Sarah, looking after everyone, always looking out for the underdog.

No, that wasn’t fair, or true anymore. I was kind to Sophie because I liked her, not because I felt I had to be some sort of mother hen to everybody. I had changed. I had learned that I didn’t always have to be strong for everyone else. Sometimes, I could be strong just for me.

Sometimes, I could lean on other people’s strength, like a rose twining around a pil ar and blossoming in the sun. It was my choice, my decision. I had learned so much, but even so, the scars of this term would take a long time to heal. Without Miss Scratton, Wyldcliffe was a far bleaker, more dangerous place.

“I said Miss Scratton was quite nice real y, wasn’t she?

Honestly, Sarah,” Sophie complained. “Aren’t you listening at al ?”

“What? Oh . . . um . . . no,” I said. “She wasn’t bad.”

Sophie shook the paper importantly and started to read the article aloud.

“‘SCHOOL PRINCIPAL IN FATAL CRASH. The High Mistress of Wyldcliffe Abbey School for Young Ladies has been killed in a road accident involving the school minibus and a deer. The animal leaped out in front of the vehicle, causing it to swerve off the road. The students and the driver suffered only minor injuries. They had been visiting the exclusive boys’ school St. Martin’s Academy to arrange a social event.’

“‘This is not the first setback for Wyldcliffe Abbey in the last few months. The previous High Mistress, Celia Hartle, was found dead on the moors near the school.

The coroner recorded an open verdict on Mrs. Hartle’s death. The incident caused some parents to withdraw their daughters from the school, which attracts the country’s wealthiest families. Recently appointed Miss Miriam Scratton—’” Sophie pul ed a face. “I didn’t know she was cal ed that.”

“That wasn’t her real name,” I said softly. “No one knew her real name.”

“Whatever . . . ‘Miss Miriam Scratton had announced a program of modernization at the highly traditional institution. A teacher at the school, who did not want to be named, said, “I hope her plans are still carried out. We needed her to bring the school into the modern age. It’s a great loss.” But others were not so happy with Miss Scratton’s plans, and critics of her scheme will be secretly relieved that Wyldcliffe and its traditions may now remain untouched.’

“‘Wyldcliffe Abbey has had a colorful history, with many legends, including the story of the ghost of Lady Agnes Templeton, who it is said will come back to Wyldcliffe one day to save it from great peril. . . .’ Ooh, do you think that’s true?”

“Don’t be sil y, Sophie,” I said. “How can anyone possibly come back from the dead?”

“I suppose so. Oh, and look, it mentions Velvet. It says,

‘Velvet Romaine is the newest student to join the school. . . .’ And there’s a photo of her—Sarah? Where are you going?”

I couldn’t trust myself to stay and listen without giving myself away. My Wyldcliffe was different from Sophie’s, and I didn’t ever want her to know the truth. “Just remembered something,” I said quickly. “I’ve got to go, see you later. . . .”

I walked out of the room and into the red corridor. It was Sunday afternoon, and the school had a sleepy air. Evie was out riding with Josh, and Helen had taken herself off to the library to write to her father. In a few minutes I would be heading down to the stables to meet Cal. And out on Blackdown Ridge, a bitter spirit was trapped in an ancient monument to the forgotten gods. Mrs. Hartle’s wasted soul was gnawing away in captivity, fretting and plotting and waiting to return with her army of Bondsouls and destroy us al . But we had one another, and we had the memory of

“Miriam Scratton,” and we had hope. We would never lose that.

Two sulky-looking girls trailed down the corridor in tennis clothes, heading for the common room.

“It’s so unfair,” one of them was complaining. “I’m sorry for Miss Scratton and al that, but everyone’s saying that we won’t even get our dance now.”

“And those St. Martin’s boys are so hot. . . .”

They passed on. Disappointment about a canceled dance was the greatest tragedy they could imagine. They were on the other side of the glass, like al the other Wyldcliffe students, remote from me and my life. I needed to be alone, just for a little while.

Instead of heading the way that would lead me to the stables and to Cal, I walked to the very end of the crimson-lined passage to where the old bal room was kept locked.

Miss Scratton had intended to open it up at Christmas and al ow some warmth and laughter into this gloomy, haunted house. I supposed the gossiping girls were right and that al her plans would now be squashed by Miss Dalrymple and the rest of them.

The entrance to the bal room was screened by a moth-eaten silk drape. I pul ed it to one side to reveal high double doors, carved al over with fruit and flowers. I placed my hands on the door and spoke silently to the trees they had come from, descendants of the one great Tree. I touched the lock and saw the metal as it had once been, a streak of ore in the deep earth. “Let me pass,” I asked. The locks clicked and the doors swung open. I slipped inside, pul ing the drape back over the doorway so that no one would know that I was trespassing there.

It was a cold, high, beautiful space, like a sleeping palace waiting to be brought back to life. The wal s were lined with pale gray silk decorated with white rosettes, and silver framed mirrors reflected my image on every side until it disappeared into infinity. Long white blinds covered the French windows, and the chandeliers were swathed in protective dust sheets. I seemed to catch an echo of Miss Scratton’s voice—Ladies, we must let the light into Wyldcliffe. I crossed the polished dance floor to the nearest window and opened the blind. The warm May sunshine poured in. Outside, the Abbey’s gardens and the ruins and the lake lay innocent and quiet.

I loved this place, despite al its stupid snobberies. I loved its history, and its secrets, and the wild hil s whose roots went so deep. But Wyldcliffe’s secrets were dangerous, too. So many of us had been hurt. Laura was stil hurting. The Priestess was stil out there. Velvet was torn between friendship and enmity, wondering where she fitted into this strange tale. This wasn’t over yet.

Do not be afraid.

For the moment, I had played my part. It had been my time. I had stepped into the spotlight and I hadn’t failed after al . I had kept my promises.

I heard the sound of music and laughter, quick and bright and far away, like the voices of ghostly children.

Then everything in the bal room shimmered and shifted.

Candles were burning in the great glass chandeliers, and the room was ful of light and warmth and people dancing.

Up on the balcony Sebastian and Agnes were looking down on the bal , and their smiles were like blessings.

Couples were drifting slowly across the floor. I saw Josh and Evie looking at each other shyly, and I saw myself dancing with Cal, his broad tanned face glowing with pride. I was wearing the embroidered dress that had belonged to Maria’s mother, and beyond the music I could hear the faint pulse of drums and the beating of my heart.

We were al dancing, we were ful of life, we were happy.

And then I saw Helen walking hand in hand with a tal , somber figure, but I could not see his face. . . .

I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know any more. I pul ed myself from the vision, drew down the blind, and walked away. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough. The eternal dance of good and evil would go on. But I was Sarah, and I was a queen. Whatever happened, I would be ready.

About the Author

Gilian Shields is the author of IMMORTAL and BETRAYAL, the first books about the sisterhood of the Mystic Way, as wel as many other books for young readers. She spent her childhood roaming over the Yorkshire moors and dreaming of the Brontë sisters. After studying in Cambridge, London, and Paris, she became a teacher.