ALL the remaining pages were blank.
Oliver and I examined the parchment while Jane floated anxiously overhead. I ran my fingers over the empty pages and scratched at them with the paperknife, while Oliver said the Latin words for ‘reveal’ and ‘open’ and ‘counter-curse,’ in the hope of revealing the spell.
But there was no sign of the counter-curse.
We looked at each other in dismay.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Oliver.
‘There must be some sort of unlocking incantation,’ I said. ‘Something that will reveal this part of the Grimoire. If only Aunt Butters were here, she’d know what to do.’
‘Maybe it’s written in invisible ink?’ suggested Oliver. ‘I know it’s grasping at straws, but I could ask Mrs McGurk for some lemon juice…’
I looked at the Bishop, certain he would object to this idea, but he was staring vacantly into space and did not appear to be listening. I breathed deeply. ‘I’ll try anything.’
‘Okay.’ Oliver cantered out the door.
Jane drew nearer. ‘Though I cannot like this Grimoire, perhaps I can help?’
At the sound of her voice, Bishop Stiles stirred. He blinked and looked up. ‘Sho you’re here, are you? Sh––shouldn’t be. Musht free Jane… Aushten’s ghost or else dishaster… calamity.’ His face crumpled. ‘It will be a catashtrophe.’
I patted his shoulder. ‘We’re working on it, Bishop. Don’t worry.’
‘We musht… we musht shtop him…’ Bishop Stiles’ head drooped again. He began to snore.
I turned back to Jane, who was waving her hand at the book flipping the blank pages back and forth.
‘Can you see anything, Jane?’
‘Nothing, but perhaps…’ She shot a dart of ectoplasm directly at each empty page. Still nothing.
I was about to give up hope when at the second-last page something gleamed.
‘Wait, was that––I thought I saw some letters there. Do that again.’
Another bit of ectoplasm hit the page. Definitely letters.
‘Try the other pages again.’
Jane obeyed, but nothing appeared on any of the other pages.
I turned back to the second-last page. ‘Maybe if you… maybe put your hand on it?’
She nodded and laid her outstretched hand in the middle of the empty page. Instantly I heard a distant noise like clamouring voices and the faint sound of beating wings before words appeared, pale and indistinct, beneath her fingers. The letters glowed green for an instant, then vanished.
‘There’s something there!’ I cried ‘Do that again!’
Once more she laid her hand on the page; I saw the letters gleam… and disappear.
‘There’s no time to read the words!’ I exclaimed in frustration. ‘We must be missing something.’
‘I suspect you’re right, Cassie,’ said a voice from the doorway. I spun round to see Oliver, his face wary and his eyes alert, holding a small glass jug, ‘And I don’t think it’s lemon juice!’
I gaped at him while my brain seethed with plausible explanations for what he’d just heard. There weren’t any.
Jane was blunt. ‘An unhappy alternative is before you, Cassandra.
Half a point.
‘For you must either lie to Oliver or tell him the truth. To lie would be wrong but to answer him honestly would be to betray your solemn promise and risk breaking the Phantral Decree.’ She sighed. ‘I would advise you, but I perceive that it is for you alone to decide how to answer him.’
Great. I could either lie right to Oliver’s face or break the promise I’d so solemnly vowed to keep. Lucky me.
‘Cassie?’ There was something in Oliver’s voice that told me this was serious – that he needed me to trust him or our relationship would be forever tainted. I didn’t want that. I wanted our friendship to continue. Only, if telling him about Jane and breaking my promise was really as serious as the Bishop had suggested, then I couldn’t risk it.
That’s when it hit me: the third alternative. I didn’t need to tell Oliver about Jane Austen’s ghost. He could tell me.
‘What do you think we’re missing, then?’ I asked, very carefully.
‘I think you’re––’ He broke off as his eyes met mine.
I gazed at him, willing him to understand what I could not say aloud. He stared at me, then his eyes darted around the room. It was only seconds before I saw light dawn in his face.
‘Oh my God, she’s here, isn’t she? Jane Austen’s ghost! She’s really here, right here in this room!’
Unsure of exactly what constituted ‘telling Oliver’ and thereby breaking my promise, I looked imploringly at Jane. She instantly flipped the Grimoire shut, levitated it into the air and sent it floating towards him.
‘No way!’ he breathed, catching the book and setting it down. ‘She’s really here. But… why didn’t you tell me about her?’ He sounded hurt. ‘I wouldn’t have told anyone.’ He grasped my hand. ‘You can trust me, Cass. Even with a secret as big… as big as this.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, it’s Jane Austen.’
‘Shhh.’ I hoped Mrs McGurk wasn’t in earshot. ‘I couldn’t tell you. The Bishop made me swear a solemn oath not to tell anyone!’ I locked eyes with Oliver. ‘And now that you’ve guessed you can’t tell anyone either.’
‘I won’t say a word.’ His crooked grin made my heart skip a beat. ‘Besides, who’d believe me, anyway? People would think I was bonkers!’ He scanned the room. ‘Is she still here? Can you see her?’
I nodded.
‘And can she see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can she speak to you and… can you speak to her?’
‘I can.’
‘It’s incredible!’ His eyes were alight with excitement. ‘What have you two talked about? I mean, you must’ve had a million questions. Have you asked her about her writing? And her life? Has she told you about Tom Lefroy and Harris Bigg-Wither? Has she explained why she changed her mind about marrying Bigg-Wither and—’
‘—and she can hear every word you’re saying.’
Oliver froze. Then coughed. He addressed the air, shamefaced. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Austen,’ he said. ‘That was rude. I’m afraid I got a bit carried away. It’s such an honour to meet you.’ He bowed, but by now Jane had floated over his head and was regarding him with wry amusement. ‘Is she okay?’ murmured Oliver. ‘Am I forgiven?’
Jane’s eyes twinkled. ‘Please tell Mr Carling I do indeed forgive him. However, you may also tell him that, while I am flattered by his interest in my life and writing, I should infinitely prefer it if, instead of seeking to understand my past, he would apply his mind to the problem of my future.’
‘Cassie?’ Oliver straightened.
I grinned at him. ‘Jane says to tell you that she forgives you, but asks you to please forget about her past and figure out how to undo the curse.’
‘Jane?’ repeated Oliver, open-mouthed. ‘You call her “Jane”?’
‘We’re friends,’ I replied simply.
Oliver glanced around the room, then strode towards the brandy decanter he’d confiscated from the Bishop. ‘I think I need a drink.’
TEN minutes later we were on our way to Queen’s Solar with the Grimoire safely stowed in the mortuary chest. Oliver had been doubtful but I’d insisted we needed the housing, because neither Jane nor I could bear to feel the Grimoire’s pulsating power and we already knew the chest could to contain it.
The Bishop had woken as we were shutting away the Grimoire and his vociferous protests had alerted Mrs McGurk. Fortunately, she’d been more than a match for him.
‘Now then, your Lordship, no need for distress. That wicked book will soon be gone and you’ll be yourself again.’ She’d turned to me, her face grim but her voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. ‘Take that heathen thing away, Miss Cassandra,’ she pleaded. ‘And I’ll be thanking you forever.’
As we drove away in Dexter, Oliver looked anxiously around. ‘Is she here, or is she… back there haunting Bishop’s Palace?’
I glanced at Jane, who was sitting in the front seat between us.
‘She’s sitting right next to you.’
He jumped, then shifted sideways, squeezing up against the car door. ‘Don’t want to crowd you,’ he murmured.
Jane laughed. ‘Please tell Mr Carling that I appreciate his courtesy.’
Smiling, I conveyed her message.
‘And speaking of courtesy,’ I added, mindful of my own early errors in dealing with Jane Austen’s ghost, ‘I’d probably avoid words like,’ my voice dropped to a whisper, ‘haunting.’
‘That is kind of you, Cassandra.’ Jane nodded. ‘But I believe I am at last reconciled to my death and to my… supernatural state. Although,’ she added with a frown, ‘you are quite correct to suggest that I should prefer not to hear words like “haunting”.’
‘You’re so lucky,’ said Oliver, oblivious to Jane’s remark. ‘It must be incredible seeing her and talking to her and… well, it’s Jane Austen! I can’t even begin to imagine.’
‘You know, the fame thing doesn’t mean that much to her.’
‘Seriously? I’d have thought she’d be chuffed to find her books have become classics.’
‘Oh sure, she’s pleased about that and she loved watching Pride and Prejudice—’
‘She what?’ gasped Oliver.
I grinned, and with many witty interpolations from Jane, told him about our girls’ night in, about Jane’s discovery of her immense fame, and her night spent on the internet catching up on the last two hundred years of history and entertainment.
He laughed and laughed and it occurred to me (not for the first time) that Oliver and I had a lot in common. Plus there was that kiss in the wardrobe… Except that I’d initiated that, so I wasn’t about to assume it meant anything. I’d done that too many times before and being proved wrong was too painful. I couldn’t risk it.
Focus on Jane and saving Aunty B. I mentally repeated the words like a mantra.
As we pulled up outside Queen’s Solar I said seriously, ‘As much as Jane has enjoyed discovering how popular she has become, Oliver, the fact is, she’s dead.’ I spoke gently. Though Jane had said she’d accepted her death I wasn’t entirely convinced she’d meant it. I glanced sideways at her and she smiled serenely back at me. Phew! ‘What she cares about most of all is being freed from the curse so she can be reunited with her family in the Celestial Realm.’
‘The Celestial Realm? Do you mean Heaven?’
I bit my lip. Oh, God. Had I already said too much? The trouble was, I didn’t actually know all the rules of the Phantral Decree. Which made it damn hard to abide by them!
‘I’m not sure how to answer that,’ I said, as diplomatically as I could.
‘But if Jane Austen hasn’t made it to Heaven yet, where’s she been for the past two hundred years?’ asked Oliver.
Fair question. ‘Uh, I’m really not sure how much I can tell you. There’s this thing I can’t break and I can’t explain it to you—’
‘—do you mean the Phantral Decree?’
‘H—how did you know?’ I stuttered.
‘So they were telling the truth,’ muttered Oliver. ‘All that stuff about ghostly planes and the Phantral Realm and St Swithun.’
Light dawned. ‘Melford and Mordaunt Froyle!’ I cried. ‘Those sneaky devils.’
He grinned. ‘I wasn’t sure if they were pulling my leg. They do love a joke. I’d heard of the Phantral Gate because Lady B said some stuff before she passed out in the cathedral that night, but the stuff the Froyle’s told me sounded nuts.’
‘It isn’t nuts. Jane’s been stuck in the Phantral Realm for over two hundred years and now we’re pretty well convinced we only have until midnight on St Swithun’s Day to free her.’
Oliver sat up. ‘Does she have any ideas that might help?’
‘Only that we need to find her stuff – or a substitute.’
He frowned. ‘That reminds me. That letter of Cassandra Austen’s, about the items her mother gave to Bishop North… what did it say?’ he asked, frowning. ‘Wasn’t it about her letter being “wept over” and her manuscript page being written “with all the vigour of her heart and mind”? Maybe that’s telling us something?’
I thought for a moment. ‘You mean it’s a clue to the sorts of things we need to break the curse? Great, so we not only need to find four undiscovered heirlooms of Jane Austen, we also need them to be certain kinds of heirlooms.’
‘Maybe. It’s just a theory. If we could just find the counter-curse in the Grimoire, we’d know for sure.’
‘At least we’ve found the Grimoire,' I said. ‘I’m sure if—’ I stopped, struck by a sudden idea.
‘What is it, Cass?’ asked Oliver.
‘When Jane put her hand on the Grimoire, I saw letters, only they disappeared before I could read them. Do you think if we had something Jane had touched while she was alive—only maybe something she more than just touched—’
Oliver cut in eagerly. ‘You mean something that she’d – I don’t know – bled or cried or sweated into?’
‘I most certainly did not sweat!’ objected Jane.
Ignoring her, I swivelled in my seat and regarded Oliver admiringly. ‘Yes! Like a letter Jane had wept over.’
‘Or a page of manuscript written with vigour,’ added Oliver, his eyes lighting with excitement.
‘And she would have worn her necklace against her skin and held her quill,’ I added eagerly.
‘So what you’re saying is that we need things that have her, I don’t know…’ Oliver’s brow furrowed. ‘Her essence or something like that in them?’
‘Her essence…’ I whispered. I looked at Jane. ‘Maybe that’s what lights up the letters in the Grimoire. Do you think there’s still a trace of physical essence left in you?’
She held out her hand. It was like molten white glass lit from within. Jane peered at it. ‘To be sure, I am no longer corporeal, but I am still me, Cassandra. And therefore I believe that were you to place a material object which I had touched or worn with the Grimoire it may well reveal the counter-curse.’
‘Great. So all we have to do is find the desk with your possessions in it. That’ll be easy,’ I added sarcastically.
‘If only our Austen-obsessed parents owned something of hers,’ added Oliver, glancing at me a little sheepishly.
But I really had forgiven him his reticence about his mother. I smiled at him. Now that he knew about Jane and the Phantral Realm, I hoped there were no more secrets between us. ‘Not that they’d ever lend anything like that to us, even if they did have something,’ I said ruefully.
Oliver’s eyes shadowed for a moment. ‘True. So it has to be the desk.’
‘There must be something I have touched besides those items in the Green Man desk,’ said Jane, a touch impatiently. ‘It is already Sunday and St Swithun’s Day is on Wednesday. Which means we have but three days to resolve this business. Can not you and Oliver––’
But Oliver had claimed my attention. ‘I’ve got an idea. It might not work but––’ He opened the car door. ‘I’ve got an afternoon shift tomorrow, but if you can spend the morning with me, I could pick you up at eight a.m.’
‘Sure, if you think it’ll help.’
‘And—’ Oliver hesitated. ‘Do you think Miss Austen would come with us?’ He glanced around. ‘I mean, does she mostly hau—stay around Winchester, or can she go where she pleases?’
‘Well, it’s more that she goes where I please. She’s—well—kind of bound to me.’
Oliver stared. ‘Bound? What do you mean “bound”?’
‘It’s a magic thing. It happened after Aunty B cast her spell in the crypt.’
He jumped. ‘The fireball and that weird snowstorm.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So… at Chawton. You were talking to Jane Austen’s ghost, right?’
I grinned. ‘She was trying to steal her own necklace and I was trying to stop her.’
‘One cannot steal one’s own possession,’ said Jane with dignity. ‘Besides, it did not work.’
‘Would have solved everything if she could have grabbed her own stuff,’ said Oliver thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we should head back to Chawton,’ he added, his eyes gleaming wickedly.
‘Sure, if you want us to get arrested!’ I retorted.
He grinned at me. ‘My mother would happily break us out of jail. She’d sell her first-born to get her hands on something of Jane Austen’s!’