Chris began the verse just as Dulcia’s voice was on the third line, but after a few moments, he found that he was singing in unison with her once more. He looked around and was relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one finding it difficult. Only Lexi and Sebastian, staring straight ahead of them, seemed able to maintain the wrong verse—the others were all doing the same as Chris, once again singing in time with Dulcia, the fog still heavy around them.
Chris looked over, still singing, and motioned for them to put their fingers to their ears. He was surprised to find, when he did this himself, that it didn’t help as much as he had thought it would—Dulcia’s voice was still as loud as before—but at least the others were muted. He tried again.
“ ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Up above . . .’ ”
Chris began to relax and, as he did so, his voice grew louder in his mind. The others were clearly having the same success as Chris began to notice Dulcia’s voice falter slightly. He kept going as loudly as he could, forgetting his embarrassment at singing in front of others, and then, suddenly, Dulcia’s singing stopped. The fog began to clear, but he kept singing, as did the others, loud enough that even when Dulcia’s voice started up again, it was confused. The voice stopped again and started at the beginning of the verse once more.
“Go!” said Cassandra’s voice from somewhere behind him.
Chris looked around and noticed that the room was now completely empty except for himself and the others and the sound of their singing. Turning, he found the door he was looking for, the entrance into the rest of Dulcia’s mind, and he began to run.
“Quick—her block is getting stronger again,” said Cassandra. Sure enough, Chris noticed a cloud begin to form on the ceiling of the room.
He raced up to the handle and opened the door. Usually, at this point, Chris would be looking at a large city filled with buildings, but in this instance, there was nothing, just a black void. He leaned forward, slowly moving past the doorway until, suddenly, the screens around him turned black.
“Excellent,” said Cassandra, suddenly appearing in front of him. Chris looked around and saw that he was back in the room with the others, facing the window into Dulcia’s cell.
“Let’s try it again,” she said.
• CHAPTER EIGHT •
That night, the pupils of Myers Holt were sent to bed early. Chris, although excited at trying out the new technique they had learned, fell asleep easily, only to be woken up what seemed like a few minutes later by Maura in her nightgown, carrying in a tray of tea and toast.
“What time is it?” asked Philip, bleary eyed.
“Three in the morning, not that you could tell in here,” she said brightly.
Chris looked around at the bright blue skies and noticed that the sun was high, clearly a trick designed to wake them more easily.
“Urgh,” he groaned, sitting himself up and taking the cup of tea from Maura.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready,” she said.
Chris nodded and took a slow sip as Maura walked over to Philip’s bed and shook him gently.
“Philip, love, no sleeping.”
Chris turned to see that Philip had pulled the duvet over his head.
“Philip?” asked Maura, giving the lump a nudge.
“Okay, okay,” said Philip, pulling the covers off himself. “I’m getting up.”
• • •
Nobody said a word as Ron drove Chris, Sir Bentley, and Lexi to the prison. A second car, driven by John and carrying the rest of them, followed as they sped through the empty London streets.
“We’re here,” said Lexi, recognizing the building from their training that afternoon.
Chris nodded. In spite of their practice session in the think tanks, and that he now had his friends to support him, his heart began to race.
The warden, the same man who had escorted them that morning, was waiting for them.
“No explanation?” asked the warden.
Sir Bentley shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t say anything.”
“I see. So be it,” said the warden. “Follow me.”
Chris and the other pupils followed Sir Bentley into the building, where a guard was sitting behind a desk.
“Is she sleeping?” asked the warden.
“There is nothing to report,” replied the guard without expression. “The prisoner remains seated and appears to be asleep. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Everything is just as it always is.”
“Thank you, Russell.”
“Yes, sir. Just doing my job, sir.”
The warden looked at the guard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, well, thank you.” He walked over to the door and turned to face the pupils.
“The room you will be in is soundproofed, but the corridor is not. I believe you need the element of surprise—I have no idea why—but I therefore recommend that you remain silent until the door of the observation room is closed.”
Everybody nodded, and the warden led them over to the door next to the guard.
“I’m nervous,” whispered Daisy.
“Don’t be,” said Chris. “She won’t even know we were here.”
Daisy nodded but nevertheless clung onto Chris’s sleeve as they walked down the hallway, as if she were expecting Dulcia to jump out at them any moment.
The warden unlocked the door and motioned for them all to enter. Sir Bentley stepped in first, followed by the children, who waited in darkness until the warden stepped in himself and turned on the switch.
The light from the adjoining room flooded the space as the wall turned into a window onto Dulcia’s cell, lit harshly by a bank of fluorescent strip lights. Chris stared. It was exactly as it had been on his previous visit, with one notable exception.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said the warden, not having noticed the confused look on all the visitors’ faces.
“Erm, Mr. Robinson?”
“Yes, Sir Bentley?”
“Where is she?”
It was the warden’s turn to look confused. “What do you mean?” he asked, stepping back inside. “She’s over . . . What?”
Chris stepped back as the warden rushed forward and pressed his face to the glass, frantically looking for Dulcia, though there was little to check: The small room, with its two pieces of furniture, offered no place for a person to hide.
“RUSSELL? RUSSELL! GET IN HERE!” shouted the warden. Then, changing his mind, he pushed past the children and ran off down the corridor.
Chris and the others followed behind Sir Bentley, who, although he hadn’t said anything, was looking equally concerned.
“RUSSELL!”
“Yes, sir?” asked the guard calmly.
“Where is prisoner Genever?”
“In her cell, sir, of course. She’s been there all night. Look.”
The warden leaned over and stared at the screens on the guard’s desk for a moment, his face slowly turning a deep red.
“Is this a joke? There is nobody there!”
The guard looked at his boss as if he were crazy. “What do you mean? She’s right here,” he said, jabbing his finger at the screen.
Chris craned his neck around the desk to have a look and saw that the guard was pointing at the clearly empty chair in the corner of the cell. His heart sank. He had been hoping for a rational explanation—that she’d been moved to another cell, perhaps. Chris could tell by the confused look on his face that the guard genuinely believed what he was saying, but there was no doubt: Dulcia Genever had escaped.
He turned to Philip to say something to him, only to find that he and the other pupils were all whispering excitedly among themselves.
“Magic—it’s got to be magic,” whispered Daisy.
“Yeah,” agreed Lexi. “Maybe she’s the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“And somebody splashed her with water,” added Philip.
“Argh,” said Rex, in a hushed,
high-pitched voice, “I’m melting. . . .”
Everybody giggled. Well, everybody except Chris, who stood staring at them in shock because it was only in that moment he realized that for them this was all a game—a real-life think-tank scenario they could just walk away from. They weren’t woken up by nightmares through the night; they could never understand what he was going through or why he wouldn’t make jokes at a time like this.
The warden, who had been leaning over the prison counter taking deep breaths, turned to Sir Bentley, his eyes about to pop out of his head. “The man’s lost his mind,” he said. “I don’t know what to do. They’re going to sack me for this.” He turned back to the guard, “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Calm down, Mr. Robinson,” said Mr. Bentley, interrupting with a hand on the agitated man’s shoulders. “We need clear minds.”
He turned to the guard. “Russell, can you rewind the tapes?”
The guard nodded and pressed a button. The group watched in silence as the clock on the tape clicked back in time—one hour, two hours, until, finally, there was a blur of movement.
“Stop there,” said Sir Bentley. The guard paused the video, and simultaneously, the group gasped.
Chris looked at the screen in disbelief. There, standing up, was Dulcia, and next to her was the pale young boy he had seen at the Antarctic Ball. The twin brother of the boy he had killed. Chris felt his stomach turn. In guilt, perhaps, or fear, or maybe even relief—he couldn’t be sure.
Chris turned his head and saw that his friends were no longer playing around. In fact, they had all frozen, looking almost as shocked at seeing the boy as he was. There were no longer any whispered jokes, only the sound of Sir Bentley, his face tight and somber, directing the guard.
“Rewind it, please . . . a little bit more. . . . Yes, stop. Play it from there.”
Chris watched Dulcia sitting in her chair, not moving. The door opened, and the boy walked in calmly. He looked around, caught sight of his mother, and appeared to say something. Dulcia didn’t move. The boy walked over to the chair, paused, and then reached out and shook Dulcia, who turned her head suddenly. There was a moment where the two stared at each other and then, slowly, a dark smile appeared across Dulcia’s face. She stood up, placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder, and they walked out, the boy following calmly behind her.
Chris looked over at the warden, whose face was now ashen.
“What . . . What is going on?” he whispered.
“I don’t understand, sir,” said the guard. “Everything looks normal to me.”
Chris suddenly realized why the guard was acting so strangely.
“He used his Ability,” said Chris quietly. Sir Bentley nodded.
“What are you talking about?” asked the warden, leaning over to the phones. “I’m calling the police. They could be anywhere by now.”
Sir Bentley leaned over and took the receiver from the warden’s hand.
“It’s okay—we’ll deal with it,” said Sir Bentley in a calm but firm voice. He placed the phone back in its cradle, and the warden, too shocked to say anything, didn’t resist.
Sir Bentley turned to Philip. “Suggestion, please. Immediately. Dulcia Genever has been transferred to another prison, and nothing out of the ordinary happened tonight. Repeat it clearly three times.”
Philip nodded and turned to the warden, who was looking increasingly panicked at the strange reaction from his visitors. Chris watched as Philip’s eyes glazed over and, after only a minute or so, the warden appeared to relax.
“I’ve done it,” said Philip.
Sir Bentley nodded and turned to the warden. “Mr. Robinson, how are you feeling?”
The warden looked up at Sir Bentley and appeared slightly confused but calm. “Fine, thank you. Can I help you?”
“No, no,” said Sir Bentley.
Chris felt Sir Bentley’s hand on his shoulder pushing him toward the door.
“We seem to have made a mistake. We’ll come back during visiting hours.”
The warden nodded, as if a group of children coming for a visit to a prison in the middle of the night was a normal occurrence. “No problem at all. Have a good night,” he said brightly.
“Thank you,” said Sir Bentley. With a small wave of his hand, he signaled for the pupils to hurry out. Chris and the others walked as quickly as they could out the entrance and into the night, toward the waiting cars.
“Let’s go,” said Sir Bentley to John as he climbed into the car behind Chris and Lexi, “as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” said John as the engine fired up.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Chris as the car waited for the barrier to rise.
“There’s nothing you can do. Go straight to bed when we get back to school, and I’ll worry about this mess.”
• CHAPTER NINE •
Later that morning, whilst the pupils of Myers Holt were still fast asleep, Ernest was busy making breakfast for his mother at Darkwhisper Manor, an intense look of concentration on his face. Barely a word had passed between the two of them since they had left the prison the night before, though it was clear that she was pleased with him—she had sat next to him on their taxi ride home with her arm uncharacteristically wrapped around his shoulder. There was a time, not so long ago, when that small gesture would have meant the world to him.
“Good morning, Ernest.”
Ernest looked up from the frying pan to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, looking very different from the night before. Her prison uniform had been replaced with one of her long black gowns, and her hair was washed and glossy, hanging down over her shoulders and framing her pale face. She had also, Ernest noticed, replaced her contact lenses so that her green eyes were once again pure black. Strangely, he found this comforting—it was clear that, as far as she was concerned, they were back to how they had been before everything had happened.
“Good morning, Mother. How are you?”
“Very well rested, thank you.”
“There’s tea for you on the table. I’m making pancakes, and I picked some strawberries this morning, if you’re hungry.”
“Yes, very much so. I barely ate while I was away.”
Ernest said nothing. Instead, he piled the last of the pancakes onto the warm plate and placed it on the kitchen table, in front of his mother, who was now sitting down, sipping her cup of tea.
Ernest walked back over to the sink and started washing dishes in silence. A few moments later, he looked up to see his mother, though he preferred to think of her as Dulcia now, staring at him.
“Come and sit down, Ernest. We need to talk.”
Ernest took a deep breath, put the tea towel down on the counter, and walked back over. He took a seat opposite Dulcia and waited for her to speak.
“How have you been?”
“Fine,” said Ernest.
“I’m glad to see you’ve kept the house clean and tidy while I’ve been away.”
“Yes.”
There was an awkward silence. Ernest watched his mother fidget with her cutlery and realized that Dulcia was feeling uncomfortable about the talk that she clearly felt they had to have.
“I suppose it’s been a difficult time for you,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“But,” said Dulcia, “there is good to have come out of your brother’s death.”
Ernest swallowed hard, trying to keep composed. “Why?”
“Because now you’ve seen for yourself how evil those people are. By leaving me to those kidnappers all those years ago, they caused this to happen.”
Ernest was stunned. He opened his mouth to respond, to remind her that though she hadn’t been the one who had killed him, Mortimer would still be alive if he hadn’t been following his mother’s instructions, but then he remembered that this was not the right time for a confrontation.
If Dulcia noticed the anger in Ernest, she didn’t show it.
“Clea
rly you are stronger than I gave you credit for. Perhaps your brother’s death will be the making of you.”
“Perhaps it will,” said Ernest as calmly as he could manage. Underneath the table, however, his hands were clenched tightly in fists. “And now?”
Dulcia calmly took a sip of her tea and then set it back on the table. “And now, my son, we continue with my plan, of course. Your brother’s death won’t make any difference—I still have you, and that is all I need. We’ll begin training and planning immediately. I’ve decided that the attacks on the remaining traitors will begin in a month, once the storm has settled.”
“What about the boy who killed Mortimer?”
“What do you mean?” asked Dulcia.
“Do you want revenge on him, too? He killed your son . . . my brother.”
Dulcia thought about this for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “That boy is of no concern to me. What happened happened. If your brother had been as strong of mind as you are showing yourself to be, he would still be alive. Therefore, the original plan for my own revenge is your only concern. That is what I have spent my life planning, and I’m not going to be distracted by anything else. Understood?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ernest.
“Good,” said Dulcia, standing up. “You have an hour of free time. Lessons will begin at eleven in the playroom.”
Ernest didn’t respond. Instead, he watched in silence as she walked out of the room, and then, once the door had closed, he raised his hands, still curled up in fists, to his face and shuddered with rage. Even after everything that had happened, part of him had still hoped for some explanation, maybe even an apology that would change how he felt. Instead, she had been even more cold and calculating than he had remembered. But, although he was angry with her, his so-called mother, the woman who had adopted him and Mortimer with the sole intention of exacting her own plans for revenge, he was even more furious with himself. If he had only opened his eyes to the true nature of Dulcia sooner, he could have done something. Then, perhaps, his brother would still be alive.
But it was too late, he thought, brushing off the tears that were beginning to form. He stood up and shook his head, as if trying to shake some sense back into himself, and picked up Dulcia’s empty plate and mug. At least, he thought, this is the last day that he would ever have to set eyes on her.
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