OLIVER was delighted to be admitted to the inner sanctum. The Bishop got straight to the point. ‘As you know, Mr Carling,’ he said, ‘Two nights ago, Lady Butters attempted a ritual in the cathedral crypt. There has been some… trouble, lately, and Amelia believed she could help our resident spirits depart if she could only open—’
‘The Phantral Gate,’ said Oliver, obviously pleased to know this much.
The Bishop nodded. ‘Yes. And the ritual was mostly a success, except—’
‘Except that the Phantral Gate or some power connected to it sent a giant flaming ball after Cassie—’ God, he’s quick. It’s going to be hard keeping secrets from him. The thought rose unbidden in my mind. I instantly quashed it. ‘—Which suggests that something went wrong,’ continued Oliver.
‘Yes.’
‘And you believe it was because of Clarke’s curse.’
‘Yes.’
‘On Jane Austen.’
Bishop Stiles pursed his lips in disapproval at Oliver’s eagerness. ‘Before I answer that, you must give me your solemn oath that you will keep secret what I’m about to tell you. Promise me that you will speak of it to no one.’
There was an earnestness in Oliver’s eyes that surprised me. ‘I promise to keep secret whatever you, or Cassie––’ he looked at me and his crooked grin flashed for an instant. A warning bell went off in my head and once again I was assailed by sudden doubt. Maybe working closely with Oliver wasn’t such a great idea after all. ‘––or anyone else may tell me about Jane Austen’s ghost.’
‘Then I will tell you that there is a curse on Jane Austen’s ghost.’
‘Oh my God.’ Oliver’s eyes shone. ‘It’s incredible. I mean, I had my suspicions, but to know for certain that Jane Austen’s ghost is real—’ He broke off. ‘I want to help.’
A little taken aback, the Bishop said, ‘Exactly what is it that you want out of this, young man?’
Oliver looked surprised. ‘To break the curse, of course. To free Jane Austen.’
‘And write a book about it I suppose?’
‘I have no intention of selling the story.’
‘Just using it in your Doctoral degree.’ Bishop Stiles was cynical.
Oliver flushed. ‘No, of course not. Who would believe me?’
He had a point.
‘The truth is, I was brought up on Jane Austen. My mother is a… huge fan. She’s spent years studying Austen and re-reads her books on rotation.’
‘Sounds just like my father,’ I muttered bitterly.
Oliver glanced at me sideways. ‘Anyway, the thought of Jane Austen’s ghost being trapped anywhere is doing my head in.’ He held out his hands. ‘I promise you I only want to help.’
‘Yes, but we are not entirely sure how to proceed,’ said the Bishop with a sigh.
Oliver looked surprised. ‘But … surely we need to break the curse?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The trouble is, Bishop Stiles has discovered that Clarke used a super-powerful book of magic to cast his spell––’
‘A Grimoire,’ interjected the Bishop. His shoulders slumped. ‘Clarke used a true Grimoire, which is why Knox’s flesh turned black.’
‘Sounds nasty,’ said Oliver. ‘But is it a problem?’
‘It is if we want to undo the curse,’ replied the Bishop. ‘My reading of Knox’s letter and of the Chronicles suggests that any counter-curse would need to be very powerful.’
‘And you think we need another Grimoire to cast this… this counter-curse?’ asked Oliver.
The Bishop sighed heavily. ‘Worse than that. I very much fear that to free Miss Austen’s ghost, we will need to use a spell from the same Grimoire.’
Oliver glanced around the library. ‘Is the original Grimoire here? Did Knox leave it with Bishop North after he cursed Clarke?’ I glanced curiously at Oliver. He seemed to take so much in his stride, whereas the very word ‘Grimoire’ gave me the creeps. ‘Have you searched the Palace yet?’ he persisted.
Bishop Stiles shook his head. ‘I will certainly do so, though I should think it a fruitless task. The fact is, I haven’t the faintest idea where the wretched book may be – it could be lost or destroyed or in the hands of some reclusive bibliophile. And without it, how are we to negate Clarke’s curse?’
‘You’re sure there’s nothing in the Chronicles about a counter-curse?’ asked Oliver. ‘Or maybe a hidden clue or another letter?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said the Bishop slowly. ‘But searching them is a slow business, and if we are to save Amelia––’
Oh. My. God. Aunt Butters. I’d been meaning to call the hospital all morning, but I’d been so distracted by my nightmare, by Miss Austen’s insights into her writing, her take on my life and her analysis of Oliver’s character, that I’d completely forgotten. A tidal wave of guilt washed over me.
‘I have to go. Right now.’ I pulled Aunty B’s phone from my jeans as I ran. ‘I need to see Aunt Butters.’ I was out the door before they could answer.
THE nurses all assured me Aunt Butters was doing fine. ‘Just sleeping,’ they said. ‘There’s no change in her vital signs.’ They agreed her condition was a mystery, but were still convinced she would soon wake up. I wasn’t so sure, and as I stood by Aunt Butter’s bed it occurred to me that Miss Austen, so recently expelled from the Phantral Realm, might know more.
‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ I asked her ghost. ‘Can’t you wake her or… I don’t know… contact her telepathically? Do a mind-meld or something?’ I looked at the ghost, floating calmly over Aunty B’s head. ‘What about that thing you did with the Bishop? You threw that stuff – that ectoplasm – at him and made him see you. Can’t you do that for Aunty B?’
She shook her head. ‘I am afraid not. I fear I may only share my essence with those bound by the Phantral Decree. At least––’ she hesitated. ‘It is true that Amelia wanders on the Cusp, so perhaps…’
‘She must be bound by the Phantral Decree, too!’ I cried. ‘Won’t you at least try, Miss Austen?’
‘Very well.’ She raised her hand. This time, the ball of ectoplasm was tangerine. It whizzed through the air and hit Aunt Butters on the cheek. As before, the strange substance sank into her skin and I held my breath and waited with my fingers firmly crossed.
Nothing happened.
‘Maybe try again––’
‘Hush,’ commanded Miss Austen. ‘See, her eyelids flutter.’
‘Aunty B,’ I called. ‘Wake up.’
‘They told me how to break the spell.’
I jumped. It was Aunt Butters’s voice, only coming as if from far away. I stared down at her. Her eyes were still closed but her lips were moving. I leaned closer. ‘Please wake up, Aunty B. I need you.’ Tears ran down my cheeks.
‘You will need the book, her possessions and a sacrifice.’
‘Wh–what? The book? Do you mean the Grimoire? And whose possessions? Do you mean Miss Austen’s?’ I looked wildly at the ghost. ‘Do you know what she means? What does she mean by a sacrifice?’
‘I do not know.’ Miss Austen wafted forward. ‘Amelia,’ she called. ‘What do we seek? Tell us––’
‘Swithun knows. You must hurry, before he raises them and––’
Aunt Butter’s voice faded.
‘And what, Aunty B? Who is “he”? Do you mean St Swithun? Who’s he going to raise?’ I shook her arm.
Suddenly, she sat up, cried, ‘He is coming!’ and fell back upon the bed, silent and still.
‘Aunty B, Aunty B!’ Panicked, I bent over her and pressed my ear to her chest. Her heart was thumping steadily. I raised my head and tried to lock in everything Aunt Butters had just said. A book, a sacrifice, her possessions… and something about… St Swithun.
I leapt up. ‘Come on,’ I called to the ghost. ‘We’re going to the cathedral.’
THE vestry was just as Aunty B and I had left it only two days previously. I didn’t have her wand, but I was bound to Jane Austen’s ghost and I hoped that would be enough to make contact.
‘St Swithun,’ I yelled. ‘I need to talk to you. Swithun!’
There was no answer.
‘Swithun,’ cried Miss Austen. ‘Please, Swithun dear. We need your counsel.’
Nothing.
‘Maybe we do need Aunty B’s wand.’ I turned to leave, dejected, and fell back in fright. Floating through the wall was a tall, well-built apparition. He had a large translucent head with wide brown eyes beneath heavy lids and waves of long dark hair that touched the collar of his elegant green velvet coat. A yellow neckcloth was tied round his neck in a floppy bow and his full lips smiled mockingly as he drifted languidly towards us.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilde.’ Miss Austen nodded coolly. ‘I see that you, at least, did not pass through the Phantral Gate.’
Oscar Wilde’s ghost bowed. ‘But why would I pass on? I have no wish to go to heaven when none of my friends are there.’
Miss Austen frowned. ‘Have you no one in the Celestial Realm with whom you yearn to be reunited?’
‘Perhaps there are some I should care to see again, but, unlike those who passed on, I feel no urgency to leave this place.’ He murmured dreamily, ‘I thought Death would be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. Is that not heaven, Miss Austen?’
‘If there is no one whom you love better than yourself, then it may be heaven.’
Oscar Wilde sighed plaintively. ‘When people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.’
Despite the urgency of the situation, I almost laughed. Perhaps I did not need to ask Miss Austen about her quotations, after all. It seemed they all did it. I was almost tempted to ask Oscar Wilde to name his source but he was staring down at me and I didn’t have the nerve.
‘What do you think, Miss Austen’s little friend? Should I remain here? Or should I pass on to that great realm beyond?’
‘I … I’m not sure,’ I stuttered, struggling to grasp the fact that the Oscar Wilde had just asked my advice. ‘Miss Austen wants to pass on, I know that.’
‘Does she, indeed?’ His ghost looked pleased. ‘That’s good, that’s very good.’
‘Only, we need to break the curse that is upon her and we’re not sure how to go about it.’ This time I met his gaze. ‘Maybe you can help us.’
‘I?’ He grimaced. ‘You wish me to break the Phantral Decree? To speak of that which must not be spoken?’ He raised a hand dramatically to his brow. ‘You ask too much.’
‘You are right, Mr Wilde,’ replied Miss Austen calmly. ‘Of course, you must do your duty with vigour and resolution.’
Oscar Wilde’s eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Ah, but duty is such a bore. Truly, you tempt me, and I have always found that I can resist everything except temptation.’
‘Yes, you’re famous for saying that,’ I said, a trifle testily – this was getting out of hand. ‘Can’t you just tell us what we need to know?’
He considered. ‘Perhaps. After all, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’
This time I bit down on a sarcastic reply. Don’t get huffy. Make a game of it. One point per quote I recognise, and two if Miss Austen does it. I forced a grin. ‘Great. We need to know––’
‘Only I may not tell you about the curse that lies upon the beguiling Miss Austen.’
‘What? But you said––’ I stared angrily up at him. ‘That’s not fair!’
He laughed softly. ‘Life is never fair. And perhaps it is a good thing that it is not.’
That old chestnut. Still, one point to me. ‘Bollocks.’
A choked laugh came from Miss Austen, though. I’d been sure I’d offended her sense of propriety. Again. She was a surprising companion.
‘Mr Wilde,’ she said, regaining her composure, ‘will not you enlighten me, if indeed you can, as to the particulars of this curse?’
‘It is not for me to enlighten you, Miss Austen.’ He glanced around warily, then lowered his voice. ‘But this I can tell you: you know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.’
Point.
Miss Austen sighed. ‘You really cannot resist, can you, Mr Wilde? If you are not being excessively witty, then you are determined to be enigmatic.’
He bowed. ‘Your powers of observation are as acute as ever, Miss Austen. I confess it is true that I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.’ Point. ‘In this instance, however …’ His face grew serious. ‘In this instance, I mean precisely what I say.’
She frowned. They gazed at each other for several seconds before her brow cleared. ‘I see,’ said Miss Austen, clearly quicker than I was to grasp his meaning. She said carefully, ‘I believe I must obtain possession of a certain volume – a Grimoire, is it not?’
Oscar Wilde gave the faintest nod.
‘And two… or perhaps three items I once owned?’
A tiny shake of his head.
‘Four items?’
A nod.
‘And were I to suggest that I must sacrifice––’
‘Nothing!’ screeched a voice and St Swithun rushed through the stone wall, his skull shaking in terror under his arm and rattling against his skeletal ribs. ‘Ye may say no more, Master Wilde, for the Phantral Realm hath cast her out.’
‘Seems kind of harsh,’ I said suddenly. ‘I mean, why did it do that? After all, she is a––’ I looked sideways at Miss Austen, hoping I wasn’t about to offend her. ‘She is a ghost. So why couldn’t she stay in the Phantral Realm?’
The skeletal saint shuddered and his skull bent towards me, its strange milky eyes meeting my questioning stare. ‘She draws to herself a mighty power,’ he murmured. ‘Tis too great. Too––’
‘It’s not her fault,’ I cut in. ‘She didn’t even know she was famous!’
‘If I am cast out and no longer bound to the ghostly plane,’ interjected Miss Austen impatiently, ‘why then may I not pass on to the Celestial Realm?’
The skeletal mouth dropped open with a clack, but Swithun did not reply.
I turned to Miss Austen, confused. ‘But you’re a ghost. How can you not be bound to the ghostly plane? Isn’t that what it’s for?’
‘Yes, but I am now in the mortal world, Cassandra,’ she explained patiently. ‘Bound to you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. For, unlike Swithun and Mr Wilde, and my old friends Eadwig and King Canute, I can now feel time passing.’ She ran a luminous hand down her ghostly arm. ‘It reminds me of the sea. Of standing upon the shore at Lyme in the current’s flow, feeling the water moving past me.’ She looked gravely at the ancient skeleton floating before her. ‘I fear that time will have its way with me if I do not soon pass on, Swithun. Pray tell me what I must sacrifice to be free.’
‘I canst not say. I must not,’ whispered St Swithun miserably. ‘I crave your pardon, Mistress Jane, but I am bound by the Phantral Decree. If I should’st speak––’ He groaned horribly. ‘Ye knowest not what ancient peril awaits. If he should’st––’
‘Swithun!’ Oscar Wilde roared the name and everyone jumped. ‘You old reprobate – you’re worse than I am.’ He seized the ancient skeleton by the arm and pulled him through the wall.
We heard a faint cry of, ‘Godspeed, Mistress Jane,’ then silence.