I SCREAMED at him, I ranted, I yelled, but my father remained unmoved.
Ignoring my desperate protests, he escorted Olive Trewell to his study and locked the door behind them.
I pounded on the wood with my fists, but it was solid oak and wouldn’t budge. I was about to run to the shed for an axe when Oliver appeared.
‘I am so sorry, Cass,’ he said. ‘I never meant—’
I rounded on him. ‘What the hell were you thinking!’ I shouted. ‘How could you let your mother come down here? You knew what she—’
‘Cassandra.’ My mother’s voice broke over my tirade. ‘Please don’t blame Oliver. I’m sure it’s not his fault. Anyone can see that his mother is a—determined sort of woman. I imagine he had very little say in the matter once she’d heard your voice message about Jane Austen.’ She looked up at Jane hovering by the door. ‘I’m so sorry, Jane. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled things.’
‘Your husband promised to return my letter in the morning,’ said Jane anxiously. ‘Do you think he will honour his word?’
‘Why, yes, I think so—that is—I hope—’ She paused.
‘It’s no use hoping, Mum.’ I turned desperately to Jane. ‘Can’t you do something? Can’t you go in there and – I don’t know – make them give you your letter!’
‘If I only could, Cassandra, I surely would do so.’ Jane raised a pale hand but no shining ball of ectoplasm appeared. ‘I am just not sure how.’
‘Go through the door and levitate your letter out of Olive Trewell’s hands.’
‘And what then would I do with it?’ demanded Jane tersely. ‘You know I cannot pass material items through solid objects and there is not enough space beneath the door.’
‘Okay, so what about you?’ I glared at Oliver. ‘She’s your mother. You must know how to get Jane’s letter back.’
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. ‘Short of pinning her to the ground and taking it by force—’
‘Let’s do that, then.’
‘Cassie!’ My mum shook her head at me disapprovingly.
‘I’m serious, Mum.’ I forced myself to speak calmly. ‘We’re running out of time. It’s almost St Swithun’s Day. If we don’t bring Jane back to life by midnight tomorrow, then we can’t free her from the curse. And if we can’t do that, then Aunty B will die, Jane will be stuck here and, according to the Bishop, some kind of terrible calamity will befall us all.’
‘I’m sure your father will return the letter, Cassie,’ said my mother.
‘I’m not.’ I slumped to the floor and buried my head in my hands.
‘Maybe we can resurrect Jane without the letter,’ suggested Oliver, dropping down beside me. ‘I assume you found the parcel? Was there—were the other things there?’
‘Yes,’ I said shortly. ‘But I don’t know if three out of four things will be enough. Going by what Aunty B said when Jane roused her, I’m pretty sure we need four items to match the four elements in order for the spell to work.’
‘Can I see them?’ asked Oliver, the eager note in his voice unmistakeable.
I looked up at him, suddenly suspicious. Okay, so he wanted to see Jane’s stuff. It was perfectly natural. Especially after everything he’d done to help. Only— had he really tried to stop his mother coming here? Did Oliver truly want to rescue the letter and sacrifice it to the spell? Was his asking to see the rest of Jane’s things the natural reaction of a dedicated Austenite or did he have a darker purpose? I tugged on the straps of my backpack to reassure myself that the parcel was still in there and tried to think of how to answer him.
‘Cassie?’ Oliver laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I scrambled to my feet. ‘Maybe later. Right now, I need figure out how to get Jane’s letter back and I want to spend time with my mum.’ I checked my watch. ‘It’s almost ten. They have to come out of the study soon.’ I locked eyes with Oliver. ‘What time are you and your mother leaving?’
He coloured. ‘Mum doesn’t like driving late at night, so your dad asked us to stay over.’
‘Of course he did. And quite right, too.’ Mum took my hand. ‘There you are, Cassie. That shows you he’s planning to give you back the letter in the morning.’
Weird logic. But maybe Mum was assuming Father and I couldn’t fight over the breakfast table. Which might have been true last week, but not anymore!
She smiled at me. ‘Why don’t we go and have some supper? Let your father and Professor Trewell enjoy the letter tonight and tomorrow you can take it Winchester in time for your ritual.’ She put her hand to her heart. ‘Such excitement. I think I’d like to sit down.’
A rush of guilt swept through me. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ I put my arm around her. ‘Lean on me. I’ll make us some tea. Only—’ I frowned at the study door.
She intercepted my glance. ‘Don’t worry, Cassie, we can have supper in the dining room. If we leave the door open we’ll easily see if anyone goes to the front door.’
‘And Mum won’t go without me, Cassie,’ added Oliver reassuringly. ‘Remember, we came in my car.’
‘I remember,’ I said darkly.
‘CASSIE, wake up.’ Someone was shaking me.
‘Wh—whatsamatter?’ I groaned and cracked open an eye.
Mum was standing by my bed. ‘She’s gone! Oh, Cassie, if I’d only known—if your father had only told me sooner.’
An icy hand closed over my heart and I sat bolt upright. ‘Who’s gone? You don’t mean—’
‘Olive Trewell. I’m afraid so. George says she left just after dawn, and—oh, Cassie, I’m so sorry, but he gave her Jane’s letter!’
A white-hot rage flooded my veins and sent me leaping from my bed, swearing and cursing.
‘Cassie!’ cried my mum, in a half-hearted protest.
‘Sorry, Mum.’ I grabbed my phone. ‘What’s the time? Oh my God, it’s almost nine!’ I quickly pulled on my clothes.
Mum nodded ruefully. ‘I was so angry with George for not waking me.’
‘Where’s Oliver?’ I demanded, grabbing my backpack from under the duvet where I’d hidden it after showing him Jane’s things. He’d been ecstatic about the manuscript page and he’d practically drooled over Jane’s quill and necklace. He’d muttered something about DNA and then begged me to let him look after them.
I’d refused.
I’d had no choice, because I’d had to tell him what Aunt Butters had told me – that Jane’s things would have to be sacrificed to the spell. That they would be cast into the fire and gone forever. The look on his face was more than I could bear, so I’d taken the cardboard folder and gone back to be with my mum in the dining room. We’d stayed up talking and laughing (and crying) together. When she’d finally persuaded me to go to bed – having assured me she’d personally see Olive Trewell into the best guestroom the moment she emerged from Father’s study – it was after three in the morning.
Oliver had said goodnight at midnight and gone to bed in the second-best guestroom. He hadn’t been completely happy but he’d kissed me and told me he’d see me in the morning before taking his mother back to Oxford.
But now it appeared she’d gone without him.
I shook my mother’s arm. ‘Mum? Is Oliver awake?’
She wrung her hands. ‘He’s not in his room. I think… that is… I’m awfully sorry, Cassie, but I’m afraid he went with his mother.’
It was as if all the air had been sucked from my lungs; I almost doubled over with the pain. ‘No!’ I cried.
Jane came gliding quickly through the wall. ‘Good gracious, Cassandra. Are you all right?’
‘Olive Trewell’s taken your letter!’
She turned a deep shade of puce. ‘That woman! Worse than Mrs Dashwood! Worse even than Mrs Norris.’
‘Yes, and Oliver’s gone with her.’ I angrily dashed away a tear. ‘He lied to me, Jane.’
She gave a decided shake of her head. ‘I do not scruple to tell you, my dear Cassandra, that in this regard you are being absurd. Oliver is Darcy, he is not Wickham. Of that we can now be sure. You cannot doubt that his heart is really attached. He has grown to love you, Cassandra. He would never betray you.’
I stood there, torn between hope and despair, wanting to believe her. I thought of Oliver, of his Austen research and his obedience to his mother’s wishes. I remembered his reluctance to give up Cassandra Austen’s letters, his eagerness to find the Grimoire and the Green Man desk and his excitement on learning about Jane Austen’s ghost and the look on his face when at last he’d seen three of her possessions. But I also recalled his kindness, his care of the Froyle twins, how he’d rescued me from the snow and the falling wardrobe, of the laughter we’d shared and the night I’d taken him to bed. I pictured his crooked grin and wayward fringe and his grey eyes smiling down at me and I remembered the kiss in the Bodleian.
I didn’t know what to think.
But I knew what to do.
‘Come on, Jane.’ I hugged my mother briefly and strode to the door.
‘Wh—where are you going, Cassie?’ quavered Mum.
‘To find Oliver and rescue Jane’s letter!’