Verity Sparks, Lost and Found

BOOK: Verity Sparks, Lost and Found
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Contents

Cover

Blurb

Logo

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Copyright

Other Books By Susan Green

Melbourne. 1879.

Verity Sparks has found her father. But she has lost her gift – the ability to find lost things.

Papa Savinov, eager for Verity to become a proper lady, sends her to the exclusive boarding school Hightop House. But Verity is more interested in solving the case of the missing Ecclethorpe heiress.

As the investigation deepens, danger and intrigue grow closer. Will Verity’s gift return before it’s too late?

The Truth About Verity Sparks
was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers, CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012

1
THE DREAM

I was looking for something
.

But what was it? Mist swirled around me and I could see only as far as my outstretched hands. Grey shapes – were they trees or rocks? – loomed up and then vanished as I ran past. My ribs ached and my breath came in ragged gasps, but I couldn’t stop. I had to find it
.

I looked down at my fingers, willing them to itch or tingle, to give me a sign, to show me what I was searching for. But they were just ten ordinary digits, like everyone else’s. How could I find it if I’d lost my gift?

It was cold. My nightdress clung damply around my ankles and my bare feet were almost numb. Keep going, I told myself. Don’t give up now
.

What was that? The snap of a twig, a rustling sound. Something – or someone – was close by. I stopped, listening, but now all I could hear was my own breathing
.

With my next step I stumbled and lurched forwards. I put my hands out to save myself but I was falling through empty space, plummeting down into the darkness. I screamed
.

“Veroschka! Veroschka, it’s all right. Hush,
ma petite
. Hush now.”

“Oh, Papa!” I felt his arms around me and the quilted silk of his dressing-gown against my cheek. There was his familiar smell, of cigars and French cologne. “Oh, Papa. It was that nightmare again …”

“Just a dream. Nothing more.”

“I’d lost something and I couldn’t find it without my gift.”

“Hush,
chérie
. It doesn’t matter. It’s all for the best.”

“And I was falling.” Still trembling, I snuggled against him. It seemed so real – the desperate search, and then that awful second when I pitched forwards into the dark.

There were footsteps, and a short, plump figure with a candle appeared in the doorway.

“You all right, miss?”

It was Kathleen, one of our Irish maids.

“Miss Verity’s had a nightmare, that’s all,” said Papa.

“Warm milk?” she asked.

I shook my head, but Papa nodded. “Yes, please, Kathleen. Now Verity, it is scientifically proven that warm milk helps with the sleeping. And you need your sleep. After all, tomorrow is an important day, is it not?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He sat with me while Kathleen prepared the milk, and stayed for a little while after I drank it. But when he left my bedroom, I lay there for a long time, restlessly turning this way and that. It was such an odd dream. And always the same; I was searching but not finding, and all the while not even knowing what I was looking for.

Some people think dreams are just crazy jumbles of real life and imagination. But I knew that dreams were worth paying attention to. Sometimes they had a meaning or a message. This dream was about my gift. My itchy fingers.

I hadn’t had itchy fingers since Alexander died, and I wondered if my gift – teleagtivism, the Professor called it – was gone for good. I used to form a picture of what I was looking for in my mind, concentrate and – it might sound silly, but this is the way it worked – my fingers would itch and somehow lead me to my object.

Before we had left England, I’d talked it over with Miss Lillingsworth. She was an old friend of the Professor’s, and I smiled, remembering her horsy face and kind eyes. It was she who’d helped me understand my psychic gifts in the first place.

“I can still find lost knitting needles and keys and Papa’s cigar case,” I told her. “I’m good at remembering where things are. But my gift seems to be gone.”

“I think I know why,” said Miss Lillingsworth. “Your gift has served its purpose. Every single thing that happened to you, from the day you finished Lady Throttle’s hat, led you to your father. Now that you and Pierre are reunited, maybe your psychic abilities are meant to simply fade away.”

I think Papa was actually glad I no longer had itchy fingers. My gift reminded him too much of that bad time last year, when Alexander was hunting me, stalking me like an animal, chasing me in the dark …

Perhaps Miss Lillingsworth was right. Perhaps I no longer needed my gift. So why did I keep having this dream?

The next thing I knew, daylight was streaming through the windows and Kathleen was standing in front of me with a tray.

“Come on, sit up now, miss,” she said in her kind, bossy way. “The master said you was to have your breakfast in bed.”

I glanced over at my clock. It was already half past nine. The morning was almost gone, and if I didn’t hurry, there would be no time for my writing. I was up to the fifth chapter, and I could hardly wait to get stuck into it again. Fifth chapter? I’d better explain. I had decided to become an authoress.

It was Mrs Morcom who had started me off, just before we – Papa and me, along with Mrs Morcom, Saddington Plush (or SP, as we all called him) and Judith and Daniel Opie – set sail for Australia on board the ship
Herringbone
.

“Here,” she said, handing me a book. “Something to do on the voyage.”

At first I thought it was a novel, for it was bound in leather, with marbled endpapers and a design in gold on the front cover. But when I opened to the title page, it said, in fancy lettering, “Verity’s Journal”. And the rest of the pages were blank.

“One does get awfully
bored
with one’s fellow passengers,” Mrs Morcom said, wrinkling her nose like a naughty monkey. “Just pretend you’re seasick and retire to your cabin.”

By and by, besides keeping a journal, I started to write a story as well. It was about a girl who worked in a hat shop, who had a mysterious talent. I’d changed all the names, of course, and made up lots of characters, but I had no need to ginger up the action. Fact really
is
stranger than fiction.

The clock chimed the quarter hour, and I realised I’d just wasted more of my precious time by thinking about the past. If I was going to be an authoress in the future, I’d better put on some bloomin’ speed right now. I hurried off to wash and dress.

“Verity! Where are you,
chérie
?”

Surely it wasn’t time for luncheon yet? But when I looked at the clock, I saw that two hours had passed. I put my pen down and blotted my page.

“In my study, Papa,” I called, trying to sound pleased about the interruption.

Papa came into the room and gave me a kiss on the cheek. But then he frowned. “You’re not ready. Have you forgotten that we are going out straight after lunch? We are to visit Hightop House Academy for Young Ladies.”

I had to stop myself from groaning. You see, Papa hadn’t given up his dream of making me into a proper young lady. Soon, he was going to Queensland on business, and though he said that the final choice was mine, I could tell he was determined to place me in Melbourne’s most exclusive girls’ school while he was away.


Chérie
, I just want us to make a good impression. After all, Mrs Rowland said that Mrs Enderby-Smarke is–”

“All she said, Papa, is that she is very particular.” I put my hand on his arm. I couldn’t imagine why he felt so anxious about this headmistress. “I’m sure she will be very impressed with you. You look so distinguished in that grey suit.” I sniffed. “And is that a gardenia in your lapel?”

But Papa would not be distracted. “I wish Mrs Rowland was coming along with us. I would feel so much better if she was there.”

Perhaps I should tell you who the Rowlands are. We met Mr Rowland on board the
Herringbone
. The voyage took a hundred and three days, and Papa and Mr Rowland had spent lots of time strolling the decks together in a manly style, talking and smoking cigars. Mr Rowland, who was born and bred in Melbourne, was full of information about the colonies. And he assured Papa that his wife would be delighted to take me under her wing.

BOOK: Verity Sparks, Lost and Found
10.86Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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