Miss Carter is supervising Plum and Susan as they load our water bottles into the plastic crate they came from. Plum is grumpy, but Susan reaches out to stroke her hair briefly, calming her down.
“Now carry them out to the coach,” Miss Carter says briskly. “Get the keys from Miss Wakefield.”
“My nails,” Plum moans, but she takes one end of the plastic crate; Susan already has the other.
“I’ll get the keys for you,” Lizzie offers, bustling away, as Taylor and I lean against the wall, enjoying the sight of Plum doing manual labor.
“Use your wrists to take the weight more,” Taylor says affably to Plum, who positively snarls at her as she staggers by.
“Everyone, grab your coats and scarves!” Miss Carter says. “And make sure you’re all wearing sensible shoes.”
“I don’t even know what sensible shoes look like,” Nadia says, tossing back her heavy mane of hair. Miss Carter glares at her.
“St. Tabby’s versus Wakefield Hall,” Taylor comments cheerfully. “Nice. It’s sort of like a cage match.”
But we have no idea how extreme the division’s about to become. Our destination—described last night as a “bracing scenic walk” by Miss Carter—turns out to be a hike up the mountain we saw yesterday, towering over Holyrood. It’s called Arthur’s Seat. From Aunt Gwen’s endless talk yesterday we know that’s it’s an extinct volcano, and it’s very high indeed.
“I’m not!” Plum wails as we disembark from the coach and take our water bottles from the crate. “I’m not going up there! You can’t make me!”
“Hill walking is very good for the quads, hamstrings, and glutes,” Miss Carter says, beaming evilly. “If you’re going to keep wearing miniskirts, Plum, you’ll want to make sure your legs are toned.”
Before us are the green grassy downs we looked over from the cemetery, soft, gentle rolling hills. Dogs are gamboling over them, off the leash, their owners jogging beside them or throwing balls for them to fetch. The grass is dotted here and there with tiny white daisies; a couple of young men on mountain bikes sweep dashingly past, turning their heads to check out our group, their T-shirts clinging to their lean frames.
And then we look up at the high peak of Arthur’s Seat, stony, steep, and forbidding.
“Cool,” Taylor says happily.
“No!” Plum pleads desperately. “My asthma!”
“Oh? Show me your inhaler,” Miss Carter says smugly.
Plum glares at her as Ms. Burton-Race says:
“Right, St. Tabby’s girls! Anyone who wants to climb Arthur’s Seat is more than welcome. The rest of you can join me and Miss Wakefield for a wildflower-spotting walk over the downs.”
“All Wakefield Hall girls, to me and Jane,” Miss Carter says as a breeze begins to lift our hair.
“It’s going to be windy up there,” Taylor observes as our group heads off to the foot of Arthur’s Seat, Plum staring longingly at the other girls, who have already stopped in their tracks as Ms. Burton-Race points down at something in the grass. Aunt Gwen leans over to check it out; I assume it’s a wildflower rather than dog poo. Nadia looks over at our intrepid posse and waves her manicured fingers rather tauntingly at Plum, while Sophia mouths “Good luck!” at Lizzie.
I know which of them I’d pick as a friend.
“Oh, and if I hear anyone complain, they’ll be helping the kitchen staff with the washing up tonight,” Miss Carter tosses over her shoulder.
She and Jane, I know, go on hiking holidays together every year; their sports gear is slick and aerodynamically sleek, leggings under snugly fitting zipped gray jackets piped with reflective strips, water bottles strapped neatly onto hip loops. Miss Carter’s bum, which we get a very good view of as she leads the way up the hill, is a miracle of taut, toned muscularity; it doesn’t wobble at all, even as she’s leaping and bounding up the shallow stone steps cut into the hillside. We’re in more motley clothes—you can tell which girls work out enough to have their own proper outfits and which ones have just brought the brown regulation Wakefield Hall tracksuit trousers that we wear for PE in the winter months.
And then there are Alison and Luce, the only volunteers from St. Tabby’s, clearly determined to make the point that St. Tabby’s girls can be tougher and sportier than anything Wakefield Hall can field.
“Race you up?” Luce says to Alison, loud enough so that she can be sure I’ve heard her.
“Great!” Alison says at the same volume. “I don’t see any competition round here, do you?”
“God, no!” Luce says, giving a high-pitched, totally fake laugh.
I bristle and glance at Taylor, expecting her to be on the balls of her feet already, about to take them on. But she shakes her head at me, frowning.
“Leave it,” she mouths as Alison and Luce take off, darting up the steps past Miss Carter and Jane.
“Good for you, girls!” Jane calls approvingly.
The steps are narrow and steep and we have to wait, often, for people coming down to pass us, or step aside, clambering over rocks to take shortcuts. Taylor and I take it in bursts, using the occasional forced stop to drink some water and do some quick calf stretches. Below us, Lizzie, Plum, and Susan toil up the hill, leaning on every railing and outcropping they can find, casting looks of agony at each other, but not daring to voice their misery out loud in case they get stuck with washing-up duty later on.
They’ve stopped on a bend almost directly below us, twenty feet down; Taylor uncaps her water bottle and leans over the edge of the rickety wooden railing, yelling:
“Hey! Want to freshen up a bit?”
She trickles a drop out, and with her excellent aim manages to land it on Lizzie’s head. Lizzie squeals in shock.
“No, Taylor! My hair!” she wails, clapping her hands to her scalp. “Please! It takes hours to do!”
Plum and Susan crane their heads back to see what’s happening, and promptly gape in horror.
“Taylor! Please don’t!” Susan pleads, her pale, beautiful face upturned to us, her hands actually pressed together as if she’s praying. Plum, of course, has ducked behind her, using her as a shield.
“Ah, I can’t do it,” Taylor sighs, recapping the bottle. “It’d be like stoning puppies.”
I want to laugh at that, but I’m too dizzy. Which is weird. Maybe I leaned too far over the rail, sending blood rushing to my head, but that doesn’t sound right. It’s not like I’m not used to being upside down. So it’s odd that, when I straighten up, I’m still feeling unsteady on my feet. I take a long drink of water, hoping that will help. The people we were waiting for have passed us by now, heading down, and Taylor and I set off again. I find myself reaching out to balance myself on rocks and the moss of the hillside, but Taylor’s in the lead, so she doesn’t notice, which I’m grateful for; she’d definitely take the piss.
We level out onto a mossy plain after ten more minutes, and I’m taken aback by how relieved I am that the climb is over. My muscles are working, my lungs pumping oxygen round my body just like they’re supposed to, but it’s as if I’m feeling everything from such a distance that my head might as well be floating a couple of feet above my body.
I look round, a little dazed. The view is breathtaking; straight ahead of me, across the plain, beyond the city, the sea stretches away, steely blue, rippling in the breeze. It’s the harbor of Leith, the port of Edinburgh, and I can see the far shore, hills rising on the other side, but nothing as high as where we’re standing. Clouds scud across the sky, and now that we’re not sheltered by the hillside, the wind is knife sharp, slicing through my fleece jacket and wool sweater. It wakes me up, clears my head. I take another long pull of water. Okay, I’m not feeling brilliant for some reason, but I’ve managed the climb, and if I came up, I can go down again. I’ll have a snooze in the bus on the way back to school till the dizziness passes.
“Come on!” Taylor’s saying impatiently, bouncing from one foot to the other. “What are you waiting for?”
/> “What?” I blink at her, confused.
And then I see that she’s pointing off to my left, where another steep hill rises sharply. It looks like it’s entirely made of rocks piled on top of each other in a sheer, uninviting peak.
“Oh no,” I mumble, but Taylor’s already taken off.
Reluctantly I follow her, and promptly turn my foot. Looking down, I see that the grassy ground is thickly scattered with stones. I do an awkward, barefoot-on-coals dance across them on tiptoe, scared of falling, unsure of my balance; by the time I reach Taylor, waiting for me at the foot of the peak, she’s snorting with laughter.
“That was the best imitation of Lizzie!” she says. “You looked exactly like her when Miss Carter’s making her run laps!”
God, I must be in even worse shape than I realized, I think. I bite my lip, hard enough so that the pain gives me a much-needed shock. What I really want to do is slap my own face, but I don’t want to look like a loony in front of Taylor. She’s already turned to the rock face, and I see with huge relief that there’s a cleft in it; a couple of people are already farther up it, clambering and using the sides for extra leverage to pull themselves to the top.
I can hold on all the way, I tell myself. And then I’ll sit down and clear my head properly. Maybe Miss Carter’s got some sports drink or something with sugar in it.… That would help.…
There’s no point worrying about what’s wrong with me right now. I just need to get to the top of Arthur’s Seat and have a rest. Lizzie and Plum and Susan will be miles behind by now; that’ll buy me plenty of time before the group descent. I’ll have a good twenty minutes to sit—or even lie—down, close my eyes, and get hold of myself.
And whatever I do, I mustn’t panic. Must not, must not, must not …
It’s only the thought of being able to lie down that gets me to the top of the climb. My head’s spinning by now, as wobbly as a balloon tied to a stick. My hands keep slipping off the rocks on either side of me; I’m leaning forward so the front of my body’s almost grazing the slope, desperate to make sure I don’t fall backward. My legs are moving like a robot’s, carrying me up the hill as if someone else is pushing me. By the time my head rises over the last ridge, I feel as if I’m made of jelly.
I just manage to swing my legs up so I’m sitting on the rocks. Heaving myself on my bum a few feet away from the top of the cleft, so I don’t block access to it, I wrap my arms around my knees and lean forward to rest my head. It’s perishingly cold up here; wind gusts round the peak as loud as whip cracks. My teeth are chattering. I take long, slow breaths of ice-cold air through my mouth, pulling it deep down into my lungs, steam forming in front of my mouth as I exhale again.
A crow caws, gliding past on the wind, its black wings outstretched, one beady eye turned to the people clustered on the mountaintop. I half close my eyes and suddenly it turns into a whole group of crows, clustered together, their wings flapping in unison.
I know a flock of ravens is called an unkindness of ravens, I think, because it’s the title of a mystery book I read. But what do you call a group of crows? I’m sure I’ve heard the name for it.…
I’m shivering from the inside out now, but at least I’ve come up with a reason for why I’m feeling so weird. I’ve remembered that my period’s due in a few days. I don’t usually get much period pain, just enough sometimes to make me take a couple of ibuprofen, but sometimes I do feel a bit dozy just beforehand, a bit sluggish. I sit around and stuff down carbs and drink hot chocolate for forty-eight hours; and then, when it does arrive, I get a burst of energy, as if in compensation, and find myself going for salads and fruit instead. I haven’t hit the carb craving yet, but maybe the dizziness I’m feeling is because I’m actually hungry.…
This is such a good theory that it cheers me up hugely. The worst part of this dizziness is the panic that I’m losing control of my body and I don’t know why. Managing to come up with a reason, a good, solid, logical reason, reassures me enough to get me hoisting myself to my feet, looking around. Forget sports drinks; maybe someone’ll have something to eat up here. A sandwich or something, a sports bar—
“Scarlett! Come over here!” Taylor’s calling.
I scramble over to where she’s standing, right on the top of the very tallest part of the peak, shading her eyes from the sun that’s come out from behind the passing clouds. Beside her is a sundial—or I think it’s a sundial. It’s a huge, smooth metal disk like a table, set onto a rough stone base, lines radiating out from the center with writing along each one.
“Hey, we’re two hundred and fifty meters high,” Taylor says, reading off the disk. “These must be all the highest hills in the country or something. Allermuir … Lammer Law … Carberry Hill … Traprain Law … North Berwick Law … Wow, why are there so many Laws?”
“It means ‘grave mound,’ lassie,” a nice older lady bundled up in a dark blue padded jacket and woolly scarf informs her. “We do have a lot of them in Scotland, I suppose.”
“Cool! Grave mounds! That’s so dark!” Taylor says, leaning farther over the disk.
“Your friend doesn’t seem too well,” says the lady, looking over at me. “Does she mebbe need to have a wee sit-down?”
Damn. I didn’t think it was that obvious. I’ve got both palms of my hands flat on the disk now to steady myself, but maybe I’m rocking back and forth a little bit. I don’t feel that the ground is a hundred percent stable beneath my feet.
“Crap!” Taylor says, staring at me hard. “Uh, excuse me,” she says politely to the lady. Swiftly, she picks her way round the radius of the disk to my side. “Scarlett?” she says, right next to me; I can feel her breath on my ear. “What’s up? You look really weird.”
“I think I’m getting my period,” I say, having a hard time making my lips work properly. “I feel all wobbly.”
“You feel wobbly cause you’re getting your period?” she says, frowning. “That’s new.”
“I think maybe I need to eat something,” I manage to say.
She’s still frowning, but she nods.
“Stay here,” she says. “I’ll see if anyone’s got something to eat. Do you have any pain?”
“No—I’m not due for a few days—”
“I don’t get this,” Taylor mutters. “Look. Sit down, okay?”
She puts her hands on my shoulders, helping me to an outcropping, where I sink gratefully back to my bum again.
“Whoo,” I hear myself say as Taylor disappears. I tilt my head and find myself looking down at Edinburgh, stretched out directly below me. Wide green velvety swathes of grass wrap around the base of Arthur’s Seat, and beyond them the city rises away, the hills it’s built on so steep that I can’t see the streets, just the elegant lines of gray buildings. Blocks of them, stacked at weird angles because of the way they cling to the sides of the hills. The shapes they make look like train carriages piled up, crashed into each other. Children’s toys, dropped from a great height.
I uncap my bottle and finish my water. It’s freezing cold by now and feels great going down, so good that on a sudden whim I upend the bottle over my head, the last few drops dripping icily down the back of my neck. I gasp in shock: it’s exactly the wake-up call I need. I heave myself to my feet, embarrassed that I’m making this fuss about something as silly as a bit of pre-period wobbliness. Walking past the disk, I start picking my way down the rocks to where most of the Wakefield Hall group is standing. Taylor’s taken Miss Carter and Jane aside, tactfully, to explain to them what’s going on with me; Jane’s already riffling through her backpack.
I’m doing fine. I’m really pleased with myself. I can walk over to them like someone who may not be feeling at her very best, but isn’t collapsed on a pile of rocks making a whiny fuss about something really minor.…
And then the crow swoops past me, cawing loudly, its sleek black body so close I think I could reach out and touch its wing. I jump in shock, my heart pounding so fast that my chest hurts with the e
ffort of containing it.
“God, what’s up with Scarlett?” I hear Plum comment. “She looks like she’s been hitting the cocktails! Is there a bar up here?”
Lizzie titters with laughter, and so does Luce; my vision’s blurred, but I’d recognize Luce’s high, girlish laugh anywhere.
I want to retort, but my lips can’t maneuver around the words. The icy water on my scalp is clammy; I’m sweating suddenly, hot and cold at the same time. The crow turns on the thermal it’s riding, making another pass, and I panic, thinking it’s coming straight for me. My vision blurs further as I put up a hand to try to block the crow, stumbling away from its path.
My foot turns under me, the molded rubber heel of my trainer catching on a rock and slipping sideways. I’m falling, the edge of the cliff coming up to meet me. And this isn’t like it was in the stairwell, when my brain and my body snapped into action together to save my life. Now my brain and body are as fuzzy as they were alert two nights ago. I can’t jump out of danger; I can’t rely on my quick-fire reflexes. Below me the rocks are an open mouth full of sharp teeth, and though I’ve put out my hands to protect my face, I know that when I hit them I’ll be tumbling down the side of the cliff.
I’ll get torn to pieces. And though that knowledge should make me scream in panic, I can barely connect with it. My skull might as well be packed with cotton wool. Even as I fall, I’m passing out.
The crow caws again, a weird, high-pitched, screaming cry, and my last thought before everything goes dark is:
It’s a murder: that’s what you call a group of crows. A murder of crows.
nine
“THIS ISN’T A COINCIDENCE”
I’m shivering all over. There’s water running down my face, and it’s hard to open my eyes. I try to raise a hand, meaning to wipe them, but my arm’s as heavy as a sandbag and I barely manage to lift it an inch.
Someone exclaims loudly:
“She’s moving! Look! Miss Carter, she’s moving!”
Inexpertly, they dab at my face with a wodge of cloth that momentarily blocks my nose. I gulp for breath, turn my head away, and knock it on a sharp edge.
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