“Where’s Adam?” asked Owen.
Adam entered the kitchen just as Holly picked up the note from the kitchen table and waved it under Owen’s nose.
“I’m back,” Adam announced.
“You missed out,” said Chantel.
Adam snorted.
“No really,” Chantel insisted. “The naming ceremony was great.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. A few stray rose petals still dotted her hair. “I wish I’d had a naming day like that.” She sighed longingly. “Rosie Dawn’s a beautiful name.”
“You’re no judge,” said Adam. “You called a doll Marshmallow.”“So? I was three. And she was soft and squishy,” said Chantel defensively as everyone laughed.
Holly’s wreath had slipped over one eye. She pulled it off and wound it artistically around a candlestick. “It was fun. They blessed the baby and showered her with rose petals. The man with the staff, Dave . . . ”
“Dave the Druid,” interrupted Adam, laughing rudely.
“Dave the Druid,” said Holly equably, “called in the four directions as witnesses and we all toasted the baby with drinks of water.”
“It was beautiful,” said Chantel dreamily, “and there’s going to be dancing and music all day.”
Adam rolled his eyes.
Lynne placed her camera on the counter. “Life certainly isn’t dull in this village. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Food!” came the cry.
They all busied themselves making sandwiches.
* * *
Holly pulled the passes out of her pocket. “Are we going to the museum this afternoon?” she mumbled with her mouth full.
Her mother coughed warningly.
Holly swallowed. “Well? Are we?”
“Sure,” said Adam.
The others looked at him in surprise.
“You’re in a good mood,” observed Owen. He rinsed his plate and leaned it up to dry.
Adam followed suit. “Got something to tell you . . . about your dream,” he said.
Both boys slipped out to the patio.
“What’s the big secret?” Holly and Chantel had followed close behind.
“Keep your voices down! I’ve found out the answer to Owen’s dream. When the shaman talked about water from the stream that didn’t run.”
Everyone looked expectantly at Adam.
“Well, there really is one!”
“What, a stream that doesn’t run?” echoed Owen.
“Yup. It’s just outside the village. The River Kennet runs in the summer but dries up in the winter.”
“No. You’ve got it the wrong way round,” said Holly. “Streams dry up in the summer and run in the winter.”
“Not the Kennet,” said Adam triumphantly. “I guess that’s why it’s supposed to be magic. Go see. It’s running now, but Mrs. Bates says it doesn’t run in the winter.”
“Weird.” Holly furrowed her brow. “There must be an explanation.”
Adam shrugged. “Sure, there must. But in ancient times it would seem like magic, right?”
“Right,” agreed Owen.
“That’s not all. There should be four elements in a ritual and I know what they are, earth, air, fire and water. Mrs. Bates told me.” Adam glanced uneasily at Holly. “She didn’t say anything about mistletoe, though.”
“Earth, fire and water were in Owen’s dream. So was mistletoe,” said Holly slowly. “But was mistletoe air?”
There was silence while everyone thought.
Owen suddenly pulled the feather from his pocket and waved it. “This was air . . . the hawk-headed shaman used a feather. Birds fly in the air and Ava flies! Hey . . . what if Ava’s air?”
“Earth, air, fire and water,” said Holly slowly. “It sounds right. Ava could symbolize air . . . but what was the White Horse?”
“Earth,” said Chantel.
Everyone stared at her.
“The White Horse and the Red Mare were carved in earth,” Chantel explained patiently. “Everything was earth. The talisman was buried, the dragon was buried and Adam had to go underground to see Wayland. So Equus is earth.”
“That can’t be right. If Equus is earth and Ava is air, what about fire and water? There are only three Wise Ones,” said Adam.
Holly shook her head. “There are four,” she said firmly.
“No.” Adam ticked them off on his fingers. “Equus, the horse; Ava, the hawk woman; and the old man, Myrddin. Three Wise Ones.”
Holly shook her head. “There are four. I know it. I don’t know how or why. I just know it.” She pressed the sides of her head with both hands. “It’s like something inside is telling me.” She dropped her hands and continued with utter conviction, “There are four Wise Ones, and Myrddin is fire and the other is water.”
Owen and Adam looked unconvinced, but Chantel touched Holly’s arm and they exchanged quick smiles.
Owen shrugged. “Then the mistletoe must mean some–thing else.” He punched Adam’s arm. “Thanks, Adam!”
* * *
The long-haired girl staggered as another wave of dizziness hit her. She thrust the penny whistle at the musician beside her. “ I must have sunstroke,” she muttered and stumbled to the shade of a tree at the edge of the field.
She sat on the grass and leaned against the trunk. The dizziness grew worse. She closed her eyes and a shiver ran through her body. Blackness gathered and she was sucked down into an icy swirling void.
She surfaced angrily. Angry that she had got sunstroke, angry at the stones because it was their fault, and angry at . . . at . . . her mind cast around trying to make sense of her anger . . . Aaah! She was angry at those kids who’d run into her. They laughed when she dropped her ice cream. How dared they?
A rush of fury flooded her body. She’d get even with them if it were the last thing she did!
The girl clambered to her feet and swayed groggily. She’d find those bratty kids and teach them a lesson. Maybe they were among the people watching the festivities. She made her way unsteadily back to the edge of the Stone Circle and stared at every kid, but none of them were the right ones. She’d try looking in the village next.
* * *
Following the arrows labeled MUSEUM, Owen, Holly and Adam pushed the Bath chair containing Chantel into a large cobbled courtyard surrounded by trees. Loud caws burst from the trees as they walked past.
“Crows?” asked Chantel.
“Rooks,” said Owen. “Look.” He ran under the trees and clapped his hands loudly.
With cries of alarm the rooks rose from the branches in a great black cloud and wheeled angrily overhead.
As soon as Owen had disturbed them he felt guilty. He shouldn’t have frightened them. He’d been a bird last night. He remembered the feel of the wind under his wings and his delight in the freedom of flight. Then he remembered how his heart had pounded in his chest when he was buffeted and blown in the snowstorm. He sent a mind message. “Sorry, rooks, I won’t frighten you again.” To his surprise, they immediately stopped their cries and settled back in the tree branches.
Adam pointed across the courtyard. Several wooden tables were filled with people eating and drinking. Behind them were the open doors of a converted stable. “Great, a restaurant. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”
“We’ve just had lunch,” protested Holly.
Owen backed up Adam. “There’s always room for snacks.”
“Later,” insisted Holly, rolling her eyes toward Chantel.
She marched into the doorway of the largest building. “Come on, show your passes.”
The ticket collector waved through their passes but pointed to the Bath chair. “That stays outside. It’s too big, but we’ve a wheelchair you can borrow.”
“Thanks,” said Chantel. She climbed out of the Bath chair and hopped over to the waiting wheelchair. “Hey, I like this.” Spinning the wheels by hand, she propelled herself into the barn.
The others followed.
The barn was cool and dim after the brilliant sunshine.
The thick stone walls and massive interior roof beams arched high over the children’s heads.
“It’s like being in a church,” said Chantel softly as she gazed up into the shadows.
“Something up there moved,” said Holly. Her voice echoed in the large space.
“Looking for our bats?” asked an interpreter.
“Bats?” said the children. They all stared intently at the roof.
“Occasionally one moves,” continued the interpreter. “Or you hear the odd squeak, but they sleep during the day. The best time to see them is dusk, when they stream out of the vent holes to catch flying insects. It’s quite a sight. There’s been a bat colony in the barn for hundreds of years.” She laughed. “We could only get permission to make the barn into a museum if we promised not to disturb the bats.”
“Neat,” said Holly.
“I’m Sue,” said the interpreter. “You can come and ask me anything you like about Avebury.”
“I want to know about the Stone Circle,” said Owen eagerly. “Who built it, and why are so many stones missing?”
The interpreter pointed to a small ramp. “If you go up the ramp you’ll find information about the builders. Then move to the middle of the barn for information about the Barber Surgeon and how he helped destroy the stones.”
“Barber Surgeon?” questioned Chantel.
Sue smiled. “Yes, a man who wandered from village to village pulling teeth, lancing boils and cutting hair. He made quite an impact on Avebury.”
“Thanks.” Owen flashed her a smile and ran up the ramp.
He stopped short and pointed. “I don’t believe it! That could be Hewll!”
A life-sized model of a man with long hair, wearing a leather tunic and a woolen wrap, stared at them. He was holding an antler pick in his hand as if about to strike. Below the model were a couple more antler picks and some scapula shovels. Above them a sign said “Please Touch.” “Those clothes, the antler pick, it’s just like my dream,” whispered Owen.
Adam picked up an antler pick and swung it experimentally. Holly tried hefting a bone shovel.
Chantel picked up a stone hammer and banged repeatedly on a log provided for the purpose. The stone head wobbled and fell off as the leather binding loosened. Chantel looked embarrassed and dropped the handle back on the display table. “It’s hard to believe the ditch and Stone Circle were made with these tools. The Circle is so massive and the tools so . . . so . . . ” she searched for the right word, “so fragile.”
Holly was reading the exhibit labels. “It took two thousand years to build the ditch and the Circle.” Her voice was filled with awe. She lifted an antler pick again in her hand. “Making it must have been really important to the people who lived then.”
“Of course it was,” hissed Owen. “They’d promised Ava.” He paused, a look of revelation on his face. “That’s where the name comes from, isn’t it? Ava’s circlet is buried here . . . Avebury. Brilliant!”
He went charging off to see what else he could find.
* * *
Ava lay weakly on a rafter. She struggled to raise her head. Owen was near; she could sense him. He would help her, but they were running out of time. He needed one more clue for the ritual. If only she had enough strength to show him another glimpse of the past.
* * *
“Hey, Owen, here’s the Barber Surgeon.” Adam waved Owen over and pointed to a photo of human bones poking out from beneath a massive stone, and the rusted remains of ancient tools and a knife blade in a glass case. “This guy tried to wreck the stones, but they wrecked him. One fell on him and crushed him.”
“Good for the stone,” said Owen. He peered at the exhibit as Adam wandered off to the next section.
A strange feeling swept over him, a momentary dizziness as though his eyes weren’t focusing properly, then a feeling of seeing things from far away. One moment Owen was leaning against the museum case, peering through the glass to look at the bones and read the story. The next minute the glass dissolved, the exhibit disappeared and it was as though he was hovering, hawk-like, above the Stone Circle, watching the past again!
* * *
It was a cold crisp midnight and the air smelled of Christmas. Mulled spices and cooking odors wafted from the open door of the Catherine Wheel Inn. Owen watched as the Barber Surgeon strode angrily out, his bag of knives and tools clinking on his belt. Behind him, drunken voices sang a raucous version of an ancient carol as the roasted head of a pig with an apple stuck in its mouth was hoisted onto the inn table.
The Boar’s Head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary,
And I pray you my masters be merry,
Quo estis in convivio.
The inn door slammed on the voices as the Barber Surgeon strode down the street toward the church, muttering, “’Tis blasphemous.”
A bunch of children, boys in breeches and jerkins, girls in woolen kirtles and shawls, ran past him to gather around the church door as a lantern-lit procession emerged.
A fiddler led the way as the congregation, joined by the children, marched from the church, winding in and out of the great stones. The lanterns were placed against the stones, and the people moved to the center of the Circle. They held hands, made their own circle and began to dance, moving sedately first to the left, then to the right.
The Barber Surgeon followed and stood by a stone, glaring at them.
* * *
Owen noticed the faint mist gathering as the night-prowling wraith lurked on the edge of the Circle. He sucked in his breath, knowing what was likely to happen.
As the Barber Surgeon stood against a stone, the mist rose up around the man’s feet and melded with him.
* * *
The Barber Surgeon watched and listened in anger and disbelief as the villagers raised their voices in song and tripped around and around.
Oh, the Holly bears a berry as white as the milk.
And Mary bore Jesus who was wrapped up in Silk.
Oh, Mary bore Jesus our Savior for to be.
And the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.
Holly, Holly.
Oh the first tree in the Greenwood, it was the Holly.
“DESIST!” The Barber Surgeon erupted into the middle of the dancers. Instead of just being angry, he’d suddenly become filled with a strange power. Power to change the world. “I will not stand by and watch blasphemy,” he roared. “Where is your priest?”
The villagers stopped in bewilderment.
“He’s in yon church, but he be coming along directly,” said a cherry-cheeked woman. “We be celebrating Christmastide with the stones. Come, stranger, celebrate with us.” She moved over to make a space.
“I will not!” shouted the Barber Surgeon. “The stones are evil. Who raised them?”
The people looked at each other and shrugged.
“Please, sir, they’ve always been here,” said a youth.
“Could you have raised them?” the Barber Surgeon asked. The youth shook his head.
The Barber Surgeon pointed a finger at the biggest man, the smith. “You?”
The smith shook his great head. “Not I. ’Twould take stronger men than me.”
“Only one person could raise this Circle. THE DEVIL!” roared the Barber Surgeon. “There is no place for the Devil’s work in a Christian world.” He pulled a crucifix from his jacket and held it up. “This place is cursed. I travel the length and breadth of England and never have I seen or felt a place so steeped in evil.”
The villagers looked at each other in fear. They stepped back.
“Save yourselves before it is too late,” roared the Barber Surgeon.
“How?” asked the smith.
“Topple and bury the stones. Let the blessed church protect you instead. The stones must be destroyed.”
* * *
Owen watched the vision with disbelief as, exhorted by the stranger, who was now joined by the priest, the shocked villagers were bullied and browbeaten into fetching spades and picks and working through the night, digging deep holes into which they would topple the great stones.
“Don’t do it,” Owen whispered, but the people of the past couldn’t hear.
* * *
The scene became a celebration as religious fervor enveloped the village. Fires were lit to soften the ground and provide light. The night took on a hideous glow. Then someone thought of laying fires at the base of the stones.
“Burn them like witches!” cried one woman.
“Yes, let them taste Hell,” answered another.
“Watch me,” boasted the smith. “Witness the art of the blacksmith. I know the magic of fire and water.” He gestured to the observers. “Fetch water from the stream that does not run. Go to the village well.”
A woman rushed to the inn courtyard and lowered a bucket into the deep stone-lined hole.
The drunken revelers spilled out from the inn to join their sober neighbors.
“Aye . . . what sport. Let’s topple the stones,” shouted a brawny farm worker. He brought forth a great hammer and swung it against the nearest stone. A chip flew and he laughed and swung again.
A stone, faggots blazing around its base, glowed with the heat.
“Bear witness to the power of the blacksmith,” shouted the smith. He took the brimming bucket and dashed the icy cold contents against the hot rock. With a great crack the stone split in three pieces and fell to the ground.
A cheer went up.
The priest knelt and prayed with the stranger, giving thanks that this Christmas night had seen the old religion finally overthrown.
“Come . . . we need more men.” The cry came from a group of shadowy figures struggling to push a large stone into a yawning pit at one side.
The priest and Barber Surgeon rose to their feet and ran to help.
All threw their full weight against the stone, but still it stood.
“Wait.” The Barber Surgeon threw himself on the ground and felt along the base of the stone. “There is a smaller stone preventing it. Hand me a pick.” He leapt eagerly into the pit beneath the looming Sarsen.
The villagers watched aghast as the stone shifted and tipped of its own accord.
The ground shook as the great weight thudded down, crushing the Barber Surgeon before he could utter a word of protest.
Silence fell.
“The stones are angry,” whispered a woman.
A man nodded. “This was a poor night’s work. We will regret it.”
One by one the villagers retreated, leaving the priest praying amidst fire and devastation. No one noticed a thin mist rise above the pit before being sucked swiftly back into the ground.
* * *
The vision wavered and became smaller, dimmer. A moment’s dizziness, and once again Owen was leaning against the glass case, staring at the bones and rusty knife. His eyes were moist. “How could they?” he muttered to himself. He blew his nose noisily. “And how come I’m seeing things without Ava’s help?” He shook his head to clear it and moved away to find the others.
Owen . . . Owen! The voice in his head was a tiny sibilant squeak.
Owen stopped in mid-step. He looked around.
Holly and Chantel were still exploring the exhibit around Hewll. Sue the interpreter was talking to a person in the doorway. Adam was playing on a computer exhibit at the other side of the barn. No one else was within earshot.
A tingle ran up his spine. “Who’s there?” he whispered.
The answer came back in short squeaky bursts of thought.
Me. Swoop. Friend of Ava. Mindspeak. I hear.
Owen concentrated and spoke using his mind. Where are you?
Up . . . up.
Owen looked up. Hanging from the rafter was a small brown bat with bright eyes. It dropped from the beam and fluttered silently through the museum to the far corner of the barn.
Owen hurried after it.
Swoop hung from the corner of an exhibit case containing a computer simulation of the various stages of building Avebury.
Sit. I talk.
Owen settled on the bench opposite the screen.
Ava took acorn.
Owen gave a huge sigh of relief. Ava saw what happened at the stone? Thank goodness. We were afraid to touch the acorn once the wraith was inside it.
Ava hurt. Drop acorn.
WHAT . . . where is she?
Here. Sheltering. In roof, squeaked Swoop.
Owen stared up at the rafters. He could see nothing in the shadows. Ava, are you up there? Did you send me the vision of the Barber Surgeon? Are you okay?
Owen had a blinding flash of Ava’s pain. He swayed on the bench. AVA, what happened?
Her mind touched his for only a moment as she tried to mindspeak. King heal, was all he got. It made no sense. He looked worriedly at the bat.
Help Ava. Swoop continued. When museum shut. Come. Bring bag. Carry her.
I’ll come, promised Owen.
Take her. Gold King, squeaked Swoop.
Take her where? asked Owen.
Silbury Hill. Go sunset. Gold King help.
The Golden King, said Owen doubtfully. King Sel? How are we supposed to find him?
The bat ignored his question. Go Silbury Hill. Sunset.
Swoop vanished into the shadows.
* * *
Owen tugged Adam’s arm. “We’ve gotta go. Where are the girls?”
A puzzled Adam pointed around a screen at another set of exhibits. “There’s still loads to see,” he protested.
“Come on. It’s important,” insisted Owen. He ran over and whispered in the girls’ ears.
“This better be good, Owen,” grumbled Adam as the four of them huddled around one of the wooden tables outside.
“Good . . . it’s terrible! But keep your voices down,” Owen whispered. “Ava’s hurt. Really hurt. I felt it.” His voice was raw with worry. “She’s sheltering in the roof of the barn with the bats. One of them’s been talking to me. I’ve got to find Ava after the museum closes. I need a bag to carry her in.”
The cousins gawked.
“I hope she’s a hawk, not a woman,” said Adam. “Or you’ll need a pretty big bag.”
“She’s a hawk, stupid,” said Owen. He paused. “I hope,” he finished uncertainly.
Adam grinned.
“Adam, give over!” said Owen. “Or I won’t tell you what else.”
Adam sobered. “There’s more?”
“Loads. She sent me a vision, about the Barber Surgeon! But the most important thing is to rescue her. The bat said to take Ava to Silbury Hill and the Golden King, at sunset.”
Adam looked nonplussed. “Who?”
Holly nudged him. “Remember, Mum told us about Golden King Sel, the one who’s buried under Silbury Hill.”
Owen nodded eagerly. “That’s the one. The bat says he’ll help.”
Adam shifted uneasily. “This is nuts. And I thought the last adventure was complicated!” He started ticking things off on his fingers. “Wise beings, dreams, a magic acorn, the Mother Tree, a wraith and stones that are supposed to dance. That was all complicated enough. Now suddenly Ava’s hurt and there’s a talking bat and a Golden King.” He spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “It’s too much. We’ve not even figured out the ritual yet. I can’t keep track because everything’s happening at once.”
“‘The light grows, but dark things stir,’” quoted Chantel softly. “It’s the Old Magic waking everything up. Good things and bad things all happening at the same time.”
“Let’s hope nothing else wakes up, or we’ll be toast,” muttered Adam.
“How are we going to reach Ava?” asked Holly, sensible as always.
Owen shrugged. “Dunno yet.”
Holly checked her watch. “The museum closes in about half an hour, but the sun won’t set for ages. Why don’t I take a bike and ride over to Silbury to check it out. It’s only a mile away. I’ll come back and report just after five. You go home and find a bag or something for Ava.”
“A backpack would work, wouldn’t it?” suggested Adam.
“Will we need the first aid kit?”
“Good idea.” Owen looked at Chantel. “Someone should stay and keep an eye on the barn. Do you want to do that?”
Chantel nodded. “We can hide Ava in the Bath chair to get her home,” she suggested.
“Okay,” Owen said. “I’ll fill you all in later.”
“Right. We’ll meet back here in half an hour,” said Holly.
She, Adam and Owen scattered.
* * *
The teenage girl paused in the village street. There was no sign of the children she was searching for. She rubbed her head again. She could remember nothing, not even why she was angry, but the anger drove her on. She walked up the lane toward the museum.
Suddenly, there was one of them, the small red-haired girl with the broken leg, sitting on her own in the courtyard. The girl who’d laughed! A wave of hatred swept over the teenager and wiped out all rational thought.
The wraith’s knowledge filled her mind. This was a Magic Child, a child linked to the stones’ magic. A child who had resisted a melding. She was a threat and must be destroyed.
* * *
Chantel stared at the roof of the barn. What could have happened to Ava? How could a Wise One get hurt? They were invincible, weren’t they?
She sat up straight. Something else was wrong. She could feel it. Something or someone was staring at her, hating her. It was the same feeling she had experienced from the wraith.
“Not again,” she whispered and frantically looked around.
She saw nothing to alarm her. The museum barn, the stable block, all looked normal; none of the visitors was paying attention to her. Still the feeling persisted, eyes of hate boring into the back of her head.
Chantel extracted herself from the table and grabbed her crutches. She caught the glance of the long-haired teenage girl standing in the middle of the lane.
Eyes blazing, the girl stepped toward her.
Chantel shuddered and limped away from the table. She propelled herself across the yard in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going, just as far as possible from the mad-looking girl.
In a blind panic she moved rapidly beyond the barn and along a cobbled path. Suddenly there was a wall. She was trapped. No, she spotted a gate and a turnstile, the entrance to the manor grounds. Chantel waved her pass at the ticket collector and hobbled through with a sigh of relief.
The girl chasing her would have to stop to pay. That should give her time to hide.
“OY! Where do you think you’re going?”
The teenage girl rattling the turnstile turned to stare at the ticket collector.
“Costs money to get in here.” The man held out his hand.
“Two pounds or get lost.”
The girl fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a pile of change. She flung the coins toward the ticket collector and pushed again at the turnstile.
The ticket collector swore under his breath and clumsily bent down to pick up several coins that had fallen to the ground.
The girl rattled the turnstile again.
“Wait your patience,” said the ticket collector, creakily standing upright. He released the catch.
The girl pushed through and took off at a run.
“OY, you,” called the ticket collector. “You gave me too much.”
The girl ignored him.
* * *
The manor grounds were large. Winding paths linked together yew walks and several small gardens. In between were expansive lawns with curving borders of flowers and stands of trees offering places to dodge behind.
Chantel could dodge no more. Her leg throbbed, her heart thumped and her breathing hurt. Whichever way she turned, the footsteps followed.
Panic-stricken, Chantel gazed around the garden she had just entered and realized she was cornered. This garden was walled on all sides; a single gate acted as both entrance and exit.
Frantically she looked for a place to hide. She was in a topiary garden. Yew trees had been trimmed into fanciful shapes. Chantel’s eyes passed rapidly over a lion, a peacock, a unicorn, a wild boar and a sphinx. The hedge beside her was carved into waves. Some small trees were shaped into diamonds and hearts. A knee-high spiral maze surrounded an ornamental pond in the middle of the garden.
Chantel’s heart sank. Nothing here offered concealment. She turned to leave. Too late! She cowered behind the hedge as footsteps stopped at the garden entrance.
The girl peered through the arched entrance. Hanging ivy obscured her view. Swearing, she pulled it away from the wall and left it in a heap on the ground.
The waves of hatred filled the air.
“Equus, help,” whispered Chantel, but no comforting presence enveloped her. A sob escaped her. “Ava! Trees! Someone help me. Where can I hide?”
With a rustle, the yew hedge beside her parted its branches and revealed a hollow cavity at its heart. Chantel edged inside. The branches gathered around, their dense green leaves hiding her from view.
“Thank you,” Chantel whispered. She patted the dark central trunk.
The leaves rustled. “Welcome, Magic Child. Forest Magic is always yours to use.”
“Forest Magic?” whispered Chantel. Her hand flew up to her cheek and touched the faint mark left by the acorn. “Of course!” Flooded with newfound courage, she stared intently between the leaves. As the teenage girl crept past, Chantel pointed a finger and whispered, “Lhiat myr hoilloo. To thee as thou deservest!”
* * *
The girl stopped dead in her tracks. She turned her head to locate the source of the whisper, but was distracted by something catching at her ankle.
A thin tendril of ivy caught her sandal. She lifted her leg to pull it free, but a second tendril thrust up from the gravel and whipped around the other ankle. Within seconds, ivy was winding around her body, binding her legs and skirt, her chest, her arms, her hair and covering her face. It happened so fast that she made no sound. The topiary garden was now graced by a new sculpture in the center of the main path.
* * *
Owen and Adam ran back into the museum complex. Owen’s pack bounced up and down on his back. Adam carried a first aid kit. They stopped at the empty table. Chantel was nowhere to be seen.
They hung around, scanning the people moving in and out of the restaurant.
“Where’s she gone this time?” said Adam.
Chantel didn’t reappear, but the abandoned Bath chair was still parked on its own by the barn wall.
Owen approached the next table. “Excuse me. Did you see a red-haired kid with a broken leg sitting at this table?”
The older woman nodded. “Yes, I noticed her. Was she waiting for you?”
Owen nodded. “Did you see where she went?”
The woman waved her hand vaguely beyond the museum. “That way, I think. I wasn’t really watching.”
“Thank you.” Owen walked to the museum and poked his head inside. “Chantel,” he called, “are you in here?”
Sue looked up, waved and shook her head.
Baffled, the two boys walked past the museum and toward the entrance to the manor gardens. Owen peered over the turnstile but didn’t expect to see his cousin. She’d had no reason to go into the grounds.
“Looking for someone?” grunted the ticket collector.
“My cousin. She’s got red hair and a cast on her leg.”
“Oh aye, she came through about fifteen minutes ago. Just before the crazy girl.”
“What girl?” said Adam.
“A teenager. Real rude she was. Flung the money at me and took off as though she was chasing something.” The man stopped and scratched his chin. “That’s funny. Come to think of it, your cousin seemed in a right old hurry too.”
Owen fished in his pocket and pulled out his pass. “I’ll fetch her. Thanks.” He turned to Adam. “There’s something going on,” he hissed. “You get the Bath chair.”
Adam nodded and ran back to the barn.
“We’re closing in fifteen minutes, so don’t you be long now. By rights I shouldn’t be letting anyone else in,” grumbled the ticket collector.
Owen smiled winningly. “My cousin’s not got a watch, so I’ll just find her and remind her what the time is.”
The ticket collector grunted and released the turnstile.
Owen jogged rapidly through the gardens but saw no one. “Chantel,” he hollered. “Where are you? It’s nearly closing time.”
Chantel stumbled out of the walled garden, tears of relief pouring down her face.