The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall (20 page)

'Cause just now, when I spoke about Mum having a secret, Weezy said a knowing “Oh…”

If the secret wasn't about me going to boarding school, then what is it? At least I know Weezy is taking a chance on liking me now. Which means there's a good chance of her answering my question. I go to speak, but the first thing that pops out of my mouth is a startled “Ow!!”

Painful sparks are spiking my fingertips, where they're resting on the floorboards.

“
Mine… Mine… Mine…
”

The whispers rise from the wood. And my heart plummets with pure dread.

This can't be happening. I'm still in my own Wilderwood – I can feel Weezy's hand resting on my shoulder. But I'm halfway inside the
other
Wilderwood too, suddenly staring under a bed, candlelight casting long shadows.

A faded, well-worn, hand-crocheted blanket covers rough grey blankets, which are tucked into the space between the mattress and broken-looking springs. And just out of reach, I spot some kind of bundle that's been shoved underneath the bed. It looks like it's made of a cleaning rag – the sort that's kept in the housemaid's closet. Nothing I see here looks beautiful or sweet, but still, something
smells
sweet. A powdery soft whiff of scent I can't place.

I
wriggle, trying to sit up, but find I can't move properly – I'm somehow pinned here by the deepening weight of Weezy's hand. All I can do is try lengthening my arm, just that little stretch further, and yes … I've managed to gather a piece of the fabric in my fingertips and gingerly pull it towards me.

“That's mine,” says a voice close to my ear. My eyes meet Flora's. She's crouched down, wearing a nightgown and shawl, her feet bare. She's frantically trying to grab the small bundle from me, but I hold as tight as I'm able to.

My grip isn't firm enough, though, and she finally manages to tug and snatch it from me. But with that sudden snatch, the bundle unravels … and a flurry of objects spills out. Coins, an earring, a pocket watch, a silver spoon, a St Christopher medallion, some blocky object I can't make out – it's dark in here, with only a candle for light – and then rumbling and rolling clumsily across the floor is an oval brooch. A cameo. A piece of jewellery that has the flowery scent of its owner clinging gently to it.

Her breathing sounding panicked, Flora quickly gathers up her treasures while I lie trapped between
two
worlds, watching. And as she grabs the last object, I recognize it with a jolt; it seems I'm not the
only
one who's dipped in between worlds. Flora has found and saved my broken, dead phone from the floor of my room – brushed off my windowsill and forgotten – even though she can have no clue what it is or what it could do…

A harsh coughing startles me, and Flora too. She jumps up and the air is stirred. Spiralling columns of smoke begin to wind down towards the floorboards.

“Flora – what's happening!” shrieks a frightened voice, between coughs. A figure struggles to wake up and sit up in the other bed.

“It's a fire, Minnie,” says Flora, her voice retreating as she leaves the room.

“But what do I do?”

“Run, you fool!” Flora's voice drifts back.

As Minnie's bare feet stamp past me I can hear the sounds of more hysteria in the house. Shouts and screams, names being yelled. But it's the urgent call for help that cuts through to the core of me. I wriggle free of the statue-still hand of Weezy, and scramble to my feet.

Like the haze of a not-quite-there rainbow, the image of my stepsister hovers hazily in the middle of
the
floor. But everything in this
older
Wilderwood is pin-sharp, especially that voice.

“Help me! Please, someone!”

Out in the corridor, I come face-to-face with the door to my room. Fire is licking up it, smoke billowing as the toxic paint pops and blisters. The top half of the door shakes as Miss Matilda, trapped inside, hammers her fists desperately against it.

“Help! It's locked!” I hear her call out again, her words punctuated with coughs and gasps.

I feverishly glance around at the floor, searching for a key to the lock that – I realize with a jolt – is not there in my time. But all I see are bundled-up sections of a newspaper, which must have been used to deliberately set the small blaze.

A tiny scrap of one flutters in the updraught, edges alight. Printed on it is the single bold letter from a newspaper title, and partial date:
April 1912 …
and then it flitters and burns to a blackened ember in mid-air.

I fight a punch of panic. I'm from the future Wilderwood, I remind myself, so nothing in
this
world can happen to me! That means I need to stay calm and find a way to help Miss Matilda. I pull open the connecting door to the main house, looking
around
for anything that might help me smash open the door of my bedroom. Glancing along the landing, I see the master and the mistress being ushered down the grand stairway by a footman. Then my gaze lands on a vase on a stand close by. The vase … the stand; would either of those work?

Probably not; they're both too fine and frail and would just smash to a pile of china or firewood at the first impact.

“Mamma! Papa!” cries the little boy, being carried quickly out of the bedroom next to the nursery in the arms of Catriona.

The nursery … it's directly in front of me. Maybe there's something in there? I stand in the doorway, gazing at useless toys, rocking horses and clutter. And the clutter includes – I realize with a start – a futon mattress on the floor with bedding piled on top and Weezy's hoodie flung across it. Which means that
if
I'm dipping between the old and new Wilderwoods, some of Mr Fraser's tools could be in here too… I kick aside teddies and push-along dogs – and nearly cry with relief when I see it: a paint-splattered vinyl bag of shiny tools. I rummage, find a hammer, and hurry back to destroy my bedroom door.

Behind
it now comes the sound of coughing and sobbing.

“I'll get you out!” I yell, though Miss Matilda can't hear me.

Thankfully, she
can
hear the sharp bangs as I thwack repeatedly at the brass lock and doorknob.

“Oh, mercy!” she calls from inside. “Hurry, please – I can't breathe!”

I use all my strength for the last, splintering crack as the locking mechanism breaks off, and then a rush of energy barges into and straight through me. It's a man – I vaguely recognize him from the print in the Cairn Café. He was in his full butler's uniform then, rather than just a flapping shirt and hastily pulled-on trousers with dangling braces, as he's dressed now. But Miss Matilda is in no shape to be surprised at Mr Stewart's disarray; as soon as he pushes the door open she falls gratefully into his arms.

Watching him run off with her towards the back stairs and safety, I step slowly through the fire and the smoke towards the window. I peer out, down on to a scene of total confusion in the garden below; people are crying and comforting each other, some holding lamps to help the strongest men see so
they
can pump water from a large barrel on wheels into waiting buckets. Some are even using jugs and teapots to scoop water from the fountain and throw it uselessly in the direction of the building.

Only one person is on her own, standing still, staring up. Despite the heat, I feel a fierce chill inside when we lock eyes. Because Flora did this. Flora risked the life of the governess. She did it because she was raging at
me
, and worried Miss Matilda had found her out as a thief and would tell.

As I look down at her clutching her bundle of stolen treasures, I can't believe someone I cared for could be so calculating and cruel… But then Flora was obviously an expert at secrets; only her secrets were the wrong kind, the lying kind.

The only thing true about Flora, I see now – with a churn of the stomach – was that she did everything everyone accused her of. Of
course
she deliberately scalded Minnie with hot water. Of
course
she encouraged little Archibald to scorch his expensive toy. The dead mouse in Jean's bed; tricks and meannesses like that and more made Flora glad and made her sing inside. And when I came upon her in the grand bathroom, I see with a keener eye now what she was up to … she wasn't
sniffing
Mrs Richards' perfume bottle at all. She was spitting in it.

Oh, that poor dog with the rat poison…

But Flora's tortured expression tells me something else that is true. She knows this time she went too far. And I think
I've
gone too far. Too far from my time and place.

I turn and run back through the flames and smoke I cannot feel, past the young men now thundering towards me with their buckets of water and handkerchiefs tied around their faces, and allow myself to fall towards the bare floorboards of Flora and Minnie's room. As I fall, I can only hope that someone will be there to catch me…

At the last micro-second I feel her pull me to her, and let out a long slow breath as Weezy's arms cradle me close.

“It's OK, Ellis!” she's saying, unaware of where I've just been and what I've just seen. “I've got you, don't cry!”

But I
do
cry, with sheer relief at being here in this world, with this girl and not the other…

Time is a funny thing. It sounds so rigid, if you talk about it in maths speak, doesn't it? Sixty seconds in a minute. Fourteen days in a fortnight. Three hundred and sixty-six days in a leap year.

But we all know it's much bendier and stretchier than that. Even a number-loving maths professor knows that time goes fast when you're having fun and drags when you're bored.

For me, the last five months have passed in a blur of spring and summer, plaster dust and cold dips in the pool in the rocks. As for this last week, it's whizzed by in about five minutes, with me and Mum speeding around London, catching up with all sorts of people and places. And now I can't believe
it's
the last day of the holidays, and school starts back tomorrow…

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

Stepping into the Cairn Café, I'm immediately glad all over again that the new owners decided to keep the chirpy bell above the door, even if they didn't keep much else – apart from a stock of Tunnock's Teacakes. 'Cause yes, they ditched the tartan plastic and the dusty thistles. They ditched the old TV and video machine, and so the hairy kilted man plays his accordion badly no more. They even ditched Moira. Or at least, she'd enjoyed her rest so much when her son and daughter-in-law shut for the place for renovations back in May that she decided to retire and be a customer and eat cake instead.

Another casualty of the makeover was the collection of black-and-white historical prints that used to hang on the walls, though they (mostly) were happily rehomed to people in the village. Moira specifically asked her son to set aside the Wilderwood Hall one for us, naturally. But one of the builders knocked that particular print off the wall, breaking the glass and scratching the photo so badly that he ended up chucking it in the skip and hoping
no
one would notice. Moira was
so
apologetic, and RJ and Mum were
kind
of disappointed, but to be honest, I was secretly relieved…

“Hey, look who it is!” yelps Weezy, almost clunking a full tray of food off some tourist's head when she spots me. “And spooky – how's that for timing?”

She points to the wall-mounted telly that's tuned to a music channel. Playing now is White Star Line's “Turn the Corner”. I smile, but I don't love the coincidence … not with the memories that particular track stirs up.

“Glad to see you back, baby sister!” Weezy calls out, and – after dumping down her order – comes racing over in her beloved Doc Martens and dip-dyed hair. (It's still red, just the ends are purple.)