They made me go shivery…
Verity unfolded pieces of lace. ‘Why do you say they stole the baby?’
‘They did. The people at the asylum took it off her when it was born and buried it somewhere.’
‘It’s not exactly stealing though, is it? If it was dead, they’d have to bury it.’
‘What if they didn’t?’
‘Oh, Meredith, of course they did.’
‘No, I mean what if they didn’t tell her where?’
In the garden, surrounded by the old magic her grandmother had once conjured, Verity wondered what Mared would make of what they were doing.
‘Do you think Nain would understand about a ghost?’
‘Probably,’ Meredith said. ‘I still don’t want to tell her though. We can’t risk Allegra finding out.’
Verity agreed. ‘What I meant was, would she understand about us making a twig baby for a ghost.’
‘Of course she would,’ Meredith said. ‘She’s a witch.’
‘Oh, Meri, that’s a game.’
‘You reckon?’ Meredith raised her head from her work. ‘This is a magical place – we’ve always known it. Nothing’s ever died in here, not even after Nain went away. Allegra’s never lifted a finger to look after any part of the garden and neither have we, not really. The chickens don’t count.’ She waved her arm. ‘Look around, Verity, where are the weeds?’
It was true. Since Mared left the blue garden may have become wild and overgrown – still the weeds hadn’t entirely taken over.
‘Nain’s always said it’s protected, hasn’t she?’
Meredith snipped a bit of thread with the tiny pearl-handled scissors. ‘Yes. It’s like the wood. She told me, if I wanted to see the Others, I just had to look properly.’
‘Like the fairies, in here.’
Meredith sighed. ‘Not fairies, Verity. How many times, they’re called the Fae.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yes, it’s the same in here; it’s why you were able to see Angharad’s ghost. It’s Nain’s magic.’
‘If Nain’s a witch, what does that make Allegra?’
‘An idiot? She wouldn’t know a spell if it bit her on her bum.’
For the first time in days, they fell about laughing, uncontrollable, joyous laughter making the birds sit up and listen.
‘Do you suppose we’re witches too?’
‘I don’t know, I certainly hope so,’ Meredith said. ‘We have a special spell to make.’
Verity fashioned a face for the twig baby from a small round piece of wood and Meredith produced one of her mother’s paint boxes.
‘Are you sure she didn’t see you take it?’
‘She won’t miss it,’ Meredith said. ‘This one’s been in the glory hole for ages.’
Carefully, she licked the brush, painted closed eyes and a tiny rosebud mouth.
‘You’re very sure it was a girl,’ Verity said.
‘I know it was. Angharad said so.’
Now she had allowed herself to become so irrevocably involved, Verity no longer questioned any of it. In some part of her she sensed her sister knew exactly what she was doing. She watched as Meredith played with different grasses, with scraps of thistledown and old man’s beard until she’d created a cloud of hair.
‘Find me some feathers,’ she ordered.
Verity wandered off, found some tiny ones the colour of mist and Meredith wove them into the thistledown.
The little head was fragile; Verity fastened it to the body with silk thread and a few thin roots, weaving them in a neat spiral, making a neck. It was basic and rough but so delicate and slender it looked right. Meredith fiddled with the hair, told Verity to sort out some bits from the sewing box to make clothes.
With scraps of lace and one of the lawn handkerchiefs, they made a trailing gown to cover the stick arms and legs. Meredith sewed stitchwort to the waist so it fell down the skirt. Once she was satisfied, she played with the arms and legs, twisted more tiny bits of twig into slender hands and feet.
She wanted it to be pretty, she said, like a real child.
Verity thought it looked more like one of her sister’s Fae people.
Meredith tied a narrow length of pale pink ribbon at the twig baby’s waist and wound sprigs of speedwell into the hair.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It’s done.’
Verity said it was perfect. ‘What now?’
‘We’ll leave it here for tonight.’ She placed the twig baby in the cleft of a low branch of the wisteria.
‘What if it rains?’
‘It won’t.’ Meredith smiled. ‘It’ll be fine. The moon’s dark tomorrow so we’ll come back then. No one will see us. She’ll be safe there and if Angharad comes, she’ll find her and she’ll let us know if we’ve done it properly. That’s the test. Then later, we can bury her.’
Verity rolled up a piece of lace. ‘I keep wondering why it was only me who saw her, at first.’
‘Maybe it’s because you struggled to believe she was real and she was trying to prove herself to you?’
Verity decided this made sense. ‘We do have to be careful though, Meri. I know you’re not scared, but I still am. A bit.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. Angharad won’t hurt you.’ She began packing away the contents of the sewing box. ‘The thing now is, Allegra mustn’t find out. We have to tread on eggshells and you have to be nice to her.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Verity handed the lace to Meredith. ‘Don’t you wonder what she’d have to say about it though?’
‘No.’ Meredith’s pale face became defiant again. ‘I’m not interested in what she thinks. All I know is I’m not letting her or anyone else stop me.’
Thirty-nine
Early the next morning, they crept past Allegra’s silent bedroom.
‘We have to go while she’s asleep,’ Meredith insisted.
At this time of the day, the house looked different. The stairs appeared endless, the hall cavernous. A thin trail of dawn light bled through the window, pooling on the floor like spilled cream.
Invisible as ghost children themselves, the Pryce Sisters left the house.
The blue garden looked different too. Verity shivered, unsure if she wanted to be there.
Meredith had been persuasive. ‘We have to take care of it; like it’s a real baby. And get things ready for tonight.’
Verity knew she ought to say no. Put a stop to the venture. Meredith was elated and focused and Verity kept thinking back to how she had looked when Mrs Trahaearn said it was the brother needing locking up and not the daughter.
It doesn’t matter … I’ve everything I need…
They found the doll exactly where they’d left her.
Meredith had brought one of the red flannel hearts with her. She lifted up the twig baby. ‘Verity, look.’ Trailing through the thistledown hair were more flowers; yellow ones like tiny suns, and more feathers attached to the skirt. ‘She must have done it – Angharad. It’s a sign. I told you she’d let us know.’
‘That’s impossible. How could she?’
‘Ghosts can do anything.’
Laying aside a sense of disbelief comes easier to a child who once convinced herself she could grow flowers out of her fingers.
Meredith stroked the feathers. ‘We can’t start questioning this stuff now, Verity. If we can’t accept it, then it means we don’t believe it’s real.’ She stroked the twig baby’s hair, touched her silent, sleeping face.
Verity watched as her sister tidied the folds of lace and lawn, retied the pink ribbon.
She’s making it a certainty…
It was one thing to close your eyes and pretend to believe in fairies; to leave acorns and biscuits for imaginary beings from a make-believe otherworld. This ghost story was beginning to look as if was happening, right here in their grandmother’s garden.
Perhaps it was her own fault for telling Meredith what she wanted to hear.
But I saw her … we both saw her…
‘Angharad approves,’ Meredith said. ‘She must do, she wouldn’t have added these extra bits if she didn’t like what we’ve done.’ She smoothed the flimsy lawn skirt. ‘You’re Angharad’s baby now. You belong to her.’
‘I’m still worried about rain.’
Meredith tucked the red heart into the crook of the arm. ‘Don’t be. Nothing’s going to touch her – only Angharad.’ She adjusted the position of the twig baby until she was satisfied. ‘Because you’re the one who sees her best, I think she’ll let you know when it’s time to bury the baby.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t look so freaked.’ Meredith placed a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘It’ll be all right. Angharad won’t hurt you. Tonight though, you have to try and see her.’
To Verity’s dismay, tears appeared in Meredith’s eyes.
‘Don’t cry, Meri. Please don’t get upset.’
‘You have to do it, Verity. You have to try and see her again. Not for me, for her. So she can tell us it’s right.’ Meredith’s hand hovered on the twig baby.
Its tangible presence made Verity more nervous. In the face of Meredith’s tears she gave in.
‘Okay, I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
‘And I’m coming with you.’
‘Are you? Why?’
‘Because you’re still scared and I’m proud of you.’ Meredith’s eyes still shone with tears. She smiled and took Verity’s hand in hers. ‘And perhaps this time, we’ll both see her again.’
‘It’s dark, Verity,’ Meredith whispered. ‘It’s time to go.’
Verity struggled to wakefulness. ‘I’m not sure…’
Meredith hadn’t bothered to dress; she wore a cardigan over her nightgown and thick socks.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘And be quiet. I heard her go to bed about an hour ago, but she might still be awake.’
Verity didn’t need any urging. The last thing she wanted was for Allegra to find out what they were up to. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed, pulled on her dressing gown and followed Meredith downstairs. Once again they slipped from the house like a couple of wraiths.
The night was radiant with stars, brilliant trails of them scattered across the sky. With the door to the blue garden ajar, Meredith hovered on the threshold, urging her sister ahead.
‘I’ll wait here; you have to promise to tell me the moment she comes.’
It was colder than either of them expected and it had rained earlier. Verity felt a damp chill on her legs. It wasn’t quite dark; slivers of rainlight shifted in the shadows. She fastened her hands across her chest, clasped her arms and waited.
I must be mad.
It was as if she had fallen into one of Meredith’s dreams.
And then, in front of her she saw how the little patch of grass in the centre of the garden was flattened out, as if a foot trod on it. The air shifted and the indentation became a dark shadow.
She gulped and blew out a long, low breath. ‘Are you there?’ Her voice caught and she stared at the shape on the grass, watched it move and spring back into place. An opaque swirl moved towards the wisteria tree.
‘Meri?’ It was barely a whisper and the best she could do.
Verity knew her sister hadn’t heard her.
It’s mist … only mist…
The shadow stopped, drawn to the tree; still wavering as if it unravelled, separated into skeins of grey then refolded itself. As Verity watched, it became more solid, a thin creature, one arm stretched out towards the tree, pale fingers searching.
Verity couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe and inside her chest something threatened to choke her. It was a moment so intimate and desolate, that if she had been able to move she wouldn’t have wanted to.
The garden ceased to move too: grass, stones, insects; flowers and birds: each one stopped, witnessing the ghost of a vanished girl reaching for her lost, dead child.
‘Verity?’
Meredith stood at her side and unable to speak, Verity pointed.
As she did, the ghost turned, her eyes beseeching and Meredith fastened her hand into her sister’s.
Take her … make it right…
Meredith shook so hard her breath came out in a series of jerks.
The ghost unravelled into the darkness. The twig baby slipped to one side in the cleft of the tree. Meredith squeezed Verity’s hand so hard the nails dug into her palms before letting go.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll get her.’
In spite of the rain the twig baby was still perfectly dry. Meredith wrapped her in her cardigan, cradled her in her arms.
‘I promise,’ she whispered and walked back to her sister.
‘Come on, Verity, we can go now. I know what we have to do.’
Forty
The moths in Meredith’s bed were dead or dying.
‘They know something.’
Verity helped her get rid of the crushed bodies.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Meredith cradled a still fluttering moth in her hands. ‘I was wrong; he’s part of a very bad spell.’
Verity said she didn’t believe spells had anything to do with it. ‘He’s far too real.’
Another week passed and although he wasn’t there all the time, the man hung around, like a dealer in desire, tempting Allegra – already addicted – with her downfall.
Determined to make herself as visible as she could, whenever he was in the house Meredith shadowed them both, making no effort to conceal the fact she was listening to their conversations. Each time she saw him she stared straight at his face, infecting him with her light-littered eyes so he couldn’t doubt he was being watched; that he was an intruder and superfluous.
From the sitting-room window, she observed the two of them together; saw her mother, stretched out and languorous on the lawn, her elbow bent; her head in her hand, leaning back to get his attention. The man didn’t look at her; he sat with his own elbows on his knees, answering something she said, shifting position, turning to the window and then away as if he hadn’t seen Meredith.
She knew he had.
Good.
It wasn’t until Allegra’s conversation became peppered with his name they spotted the real danger. She became more distracted, her attention more erratic than usual. Meredith still tried to convince herself he was a passing fancy, like the others. He wasn’t good enough for her mother and Allegra would surely see this.
It made no difference. He was there: in the house and almost part of the furniture.
Meredith became alarmed.
‘I don’t trust him, creeping around like he owns the place. We can’t risk burying the baby yet in case he sees us.’
She sent her sister to collect the twig baby and they hid it in the space under the window seat in Verity’s room.
‘I’ve made an invisibility spell,’ she said, ‘so no one will find it.’
He found some things: the paintings that hadn’t sold, stacked in the tower room, faces to the wall. Without asking, he turned several round, stared at the light and the loveliness of them.
‘They’re remarkable.’
As he reached for a larger canvas, Allegra took a step forward, her hand poised to stop him.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not that one.’
‘Why not?’ He turned it round anyway and was met by a startling, extravagant swathe of brilliant colour. ‘Well, well, what do have we here?’ He stood back, narrowed his eyes. ‘This is more like it.’
‘I’m not much of an abstract painter. It’s not my thing … more of an experiment.’
‘Oh, I think you are,’ he said, ‘but unless you show this stuff – any of it – have an exhibition, who’s going to know how good you are?’
Meredith watched her mother blush and appear flustered.
‘Like that’s going to happen,’ Allegra said, ‘round here. It’s the back of beyond.’
She had already explained about the gallery, which was little more than a craft sh
op, the stretch of wall space she rented, how she was lucky if she sold half a dozen decent sized paintings throughout the entire summer.
‘You said it. You’re talking about here, not London.’
He raised his eyebrows and although he managed to make Allegra return his smile, Meredith wasn’t fooled. She knew what she was seeing and her heart beat faster.
‘And landscapes? Really?’ He emphasised the question, stroked his hair back from his forehead. ‘No offence, sweetheart, they’re lovely, but landscapes?’
Allegra said she wasn’t at all offended.
Meredith was. His hair reminded her of an animal’s pelt; a wolf’s.
‘My mother’s landscapes are phenomenal.’
The man turned, as if surprised to see her although Meredith knew he was perfectly aware of her presence.
‘And I suppose you’re an expert.’
‘As a matter of fact, I am. My mother’s paintings are renowned.’
Allegra laughed. ‘Oh, darling, you’re so sweet; he does have a point though. They don’t sell well.’
‘Yes, they do. They do all right. And everyone who buys one says how beautiful they are.’
The man moved between them, blocking Meredith’s view of her mother, his head moving from side to side, taking in both of them.
‘You paint landscapes because it’s what people think they want,’ he said. ‘You’re conforming to an ideal instead of painting what you want. You have to stop being a painter and become an artist.’ He winked his wolf eye. ‘Make some real money?’
He moved closer to Allegra.
Meredith watched his narrow lips move, his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
A hungry, dangerous wolf.
‘I thought the point about art,’ she said, refusing to back down from his stare, ‘was it matters for its own sake.’
Allegra went to town, came back with new paints and a roll of canvas; she ordered frames and overnight, changed her style and began painting abstracts.
She stopped going to the beach and worked solely in the conservatory, focused on paintings which to the girls looked like unconnected daubs of colour. She worked for hours at a time, oblivious to their criticism, surrounded by paints and palettes and over-flowing ashtrays.
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