I STAYED awake half the night trying to work things out and hoping that Oliver and the Bishop were doing the same. There was so much we didn’t know and what we did know sent more waves of adrenaline rippling through me. I felt like I’d been living on the stuff for a week, but it was still only two days since I’d first heard about the ghostly plane and witnessed the supernatural attack on the Froyle twins.
The most important thing was to save Aunt Butters. According to the Bishop, that meant freeing Jane Austen’s ghost from our world. If I only knew how.
Not that Miss Austen wasn’t enjoying our world – certain aspects of it, anyway.
It was fascinating watching her discover modern inventions one by one. I’d worked out that she only seemed to notice things once she’d had direct experience of them, which probably explained why she hadn’t yet asked about cars. I was looking forward to that conversation. But Queen’s Solar turned out to be a cornucopia of wonders to her all on its own – especially the bathroom. Miss Austen had been captivated by the toilet and its position inside the house, but the shower had been a shock to us both – though for entirely different reasons.
I’d screamed when I found her hovering behind me in the stall. Snatching up my bath-towel I’d stood there shivering while she’d gazed open-mouthed at the steamy cascade of hot running water. Then she’d floated into it and I’d watched in wonder as the running water passed straight through her body. She’d tilted her head back and waved her arms through the torrent but she’d made no impression on the flow.
‘It feels so strange to be in the world but not of it,’ she’d murmured, hugging her reticule to her chest.
‘Are you cold?’ I’d asked curiously, my teeth chattering.
‘No. I am neither cold nor hot. I am just…’ she paused. ‘I am just… here, Cassandra.’
There was something about the way she’d said it that had almost made me want to cry. She’d looked so lost.
I’d said staunchly, ‘Well, you won’t be here for long because I’m going to fix things.’
I’d coerced her out of the shower by drawing her attention to the bathroom cabinet so I could finish washing in peace. Unfortunately, Miss Austen’s thirst for knowledge had meant explaining everything in the cabinet – including tampons. Eugh.
When I’d finally headed to bed she’d wafted over as I was pulling on my pyjamas and demanded to know, where was my nightcap? At first I’d thought she meant a drink, and I’d momentarily flashed back to Oliver and the rum-punch, but then I saw her staring at my bare head and had been obliged to explain that no one wore hats to bed anymore. She had taken it better than I’d feared she would.
But it was electricity that fascinated her most. She was enthralled by my electric toothbrush, blown away by my hairdryer and captivated by the lights in every room. She’d quickly learned how to flick a light-switch by shooting tiny bits of ectoplasm at it, and she became so adept at turning my bedroom light on and off that I’d finally had to beg her to stop so I could go to sleep.
And that was another thing – Jane Austen’s ghost did not sleep. I’d felt kind of shy asking her about it, but she hadn’t seemed to mind.
‘Sleep?’ She’d seemed surprised by the question. ‘I think I remember it, but it is a clouded recollection. I believe I dreamed of St Swithun once – did I write a poem about him? Or was that—?’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I cannot now be sure what was real and what a dream, for sleep is but a memory. I do not belong in this world and I know I can never truly rest until I am released.’
I’d stared at her, aghast. ‘I–I’m sorry. It must be awful—’
‘Oh no.’ Miss Austen had smiled reassuringly. ‘Time is of no consequence to those who inhabit the Phantral Realm. There are merely periods when the mind is occupied and those when it feels no charge upon it to think at all. Consequently, I do not feel the need for sleep.’
But I needed to sleep, and sometime after midnight I’d finally drifted off.
I must have been tired because it was ten in the morning when I was startled awake by a nightmare in which I’d been trapped in a dark room full of ghosts and ghouls. ‘Let us out!’ they moaned. ‘He is coming!’ Then a huge and menacing black shape rose up from beneath the earth and began to swallow me. I heard myself scream, and woke bathed in sweat.
I threw off the bedclothes, sat up, and tried to calm my racing pulse.
Was the dream a message? Or was it because of something Mordaunt – or maybe Melford – had said? Maybe my subconscious was alerting me to something I’d missed. There had been something about a ghost train and too many spirits in the Phantral Realm… But what did that mean?
I shook my head as if to clear away the confusion. There had been too much talk of ghosts. The dream was probably just my brain’s way of trying to deal with the stress I was feeling over how to free Aunty B. And yet, I’d seen with my own eyes the press of ghosts in the crypt. And all of them had been desperate to move on to the Celestial Realm. Which begged the question: why? I took several deep breaths and tried to think.
For some, the reason was obvious. Because of Jane Austen, they’d been trapped for years and her incredible success had drawn so much energy from the mortal world it had blocked the gate—we were sure of that now, and no doubt a lot of those ghosts had been annoyed that they couldn’t pass on when they had wished. But Jane Austen’s ghost had told me time was irrelevant in the ghostly plane – and yet still the ghosts had become increasingly frantic. I’d witnessed that myself. But was that because there were too many of them trapped in the Phantral Realm? Or because Jane Austen’s fame was still growing? Or was it something else?
I recalled the great dark mass I’d seen moving through the crypt when Aunt Butters had cast her spell. I recalled the intense urgency with which it had moved when the Gate had turned from yellow to orange. And when it turned red I’d been struck by…
I gasped. Malevolence. That flaming orb had exuded an overwhelming sense of malevolence.
I shivered. There was more to this than we thought.
I jumped out of bed. Once again, I needed to speak to the Bishop.