WE reached Oxford in under an hour.
I’d never driven Dexter so fast or with such intensity. But then my whole life felt intense now. Ever since my arrival in Winchester, crazy things had happened. I’d become bound to Jane Austen’s ghost, seen Aunt Butters gradually fading, handled a Grimoire, read Cassandra Austen’s letters, discovered spells and curses and a counter-curse, learned the truth about life after death and… I bit my lip and finally let myself think the fatal words: I’d fallen in love with Oliver Carling.
I let out a long breath.
That was the truth. And I’d done it less than a fortnight.
But maybe what I felt for Oliver wasn’t love? Maybe it was all part of these insane, supernatural events. Maybe, when it was all over and Jane was gone and my life had returned to normal (whatever that meant), I’d realise that my feelings for Oliver were not real, after all.
Except that when I thought about Oliver and everything we’d done together, it felt like I’d lived a whole glorious lifetime in just ten days.
I knew what I felt for Oliver was real. Which meant that if he really had betrayed me and used me and conspired with his mother in order to get hold of Jane’s things, then this was going to hurt. A lot.
I parked the car and resolutely pushed the thought from my mind. Our focus was finding Olive Trewell. Right now, that was all that mattered.
‘Come on, Jane,’ I said. ‘Let’s try the Bodleian.’
WE tried the library, Balliol, St John’s College, Christchurch, New College, Magdalene, and every other place where anyone who knew Professor Trewell thought she might be.
We drew a blank at all of them.
I tried calling Oliver several times but he never picked up and as the day wore on, my attempts to reach him grew less and less frequent.
By three o’clock I was frustrated and footsore and Jane was becoming increasingly worried.
‘Should not we return to Winchester?’ she asked, after our third visit to Olive Trewell’s office. This time, the professor’s secretary had not been so polite.
I looked disconsolately at Jane. She was pale, with faint tinges of lavender disturbing her essence. ‘I think we’d better. Maybe we should run straight over to Chawton and see if the Museum has—’
Jane shook her head. ‘I am afraid none of those letters would do, Cassandra,’ she said dolefully. ‘In pondering our situation, I have remembered that my sister described the letter Knox needed as one over which I had wept. Did we not conclude that it was intended to represent water?’
My heart sank as I realised what she meant. ‘None of the letters at Chawton fit the description do they?’
‘They do not, for I wept over none of them. Therefore, I think we should go home. Perhaps the Bishop may have an idea.’
‘I wish,’ I said and led Jane back to the car.
BUT it was my mother who had ideas. To my surprise she met us at the door of Queen’s Solar.
‘I told George that we had to come and support you, Cassie,’ she said, after I’d climbed out of Dexter. ‘He knows he’s upset me, and now that I’ve explained things, he says he’s very sorry for giving away Jane’s letter. You didn’t get it back from Professor Trewell, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid not. We couldn’t even find her. Or Oliver,’ I added bitterly.
She led me into the sitting room. Jane followed. Her colour had faded to a pale grey.
‘So what will you do now?’ asked Mum, handing me a cup of tea.
I sighed. ‘If Oliver doesn’t come back with Jane’s letter, it means I’ll only have three of the four things I need to cast the spell. I’d go ahead and cast it anyway, in case it achieves something, only I can’t even do that because I need Oliver to be the spell-caster.’
‘Oh?’ Mum looked surprised. ‘I thought that you would cast the spell.’
‘I can’t. I need to give up some of my life force to help bring Jane back—’
‘Your life force? Whatever do you mean, Cassie?’ Mum turned anxious eyes to me.
‘It’s okay, Mum.’ I managed a smile. ‘The spell requires a sacrifice – someone has to give up a year or maybe two of their life in order for it to work. Aunt Butters said—’
‘I’ll do it.’ My mother laid her hands over mine.
I stared at her in horror. ‘No! I won’t let you—’
‘But I want to help you and Jane, Cassie. You are my darling daughter and Jane Austen’s novels have helped me through some of my darkest hours. You can have my life force for your spell, as much as you need.’
‘No, Mum. You can’t—’
‘Of course I can. I will give you whatever is required, for I will not have you shorten your life by so much as an hour, if by my sacrifice I can prevent it.’
THE next few hours were torture.
Mum refused to listen to my protests. I didn’t want her to sacrifice a single second of whatever time she had left to her and I tried everything I could think of to persuade her. I even enlisted my father’s help, certain that she would respond to him if he begged her to change her mind.
Nothing worked. Mum sat placidly through our tears, our anger and our pleas. For the first time in my life, she refused to listen to a single word my father said.
She was immovable.
And I still hadn’t heard from Oliver.
I wanted to believe that he’d come back. I needed him to come back, if only so he could cast the spell and I could sacrifice my life force instead of my mother sacrificing hers.
As the hours ticked away my anxiety grew, and the hope to which I’d so fiercely clung – that at any moment Oliver would come bounding through the door triumphantly brandishing Jane’s letter – faded.
The afternoon dragged into evening and by ten o’clock there was still no news.
IT was a forlorn group that approached the great doors of Winchester Cathedral at the end of St Swithun’s Day.
Jane glided ahead of me as I walked beside my parents. I didn’t know if the spell would work without Jane’s letter, but I’d decided to go ahead and try it anyway. My father seemed to have finally resigned himself to my mother’s decision to help me, and for the first time in my life, he was silent.
Outside the cathedral, Mordaunt and Melford were waiting for us.
They greeted me and my parents warmly, before Melford said, ‘Where’s young Oliver?’
‘He weren’t at breakfast, said Mordaunt, frowning.
‘Nor on our outing to Bath today,’ added Melford. ‘I wanted to show him the Jane Austen Museum.’ He winked at Jane, who smiled wanly.
‘He––he left. His mother took Jane’s letter and Oliver––went with her. I don’t think he’s coming back.’
The two old men looked at each other.
‘Course he’s coming back,’ said Mordaunt.
‘The young whippersnapper,’ said Melford. ‘He’d better come back or––’ He shook a gnarled fist.
‘We should go in,’ I said. ‘There’s not much time left.’
‘I will stay here and wait for Oliver.’ My mother lifted her chin defiantly. ‘He will come, Cassie.’
‘I hope so, Mum.’
‘I’ll stay with your mother.’ To my surprise my father reached out his hand to me.
I did not reply, and I did not take his hand. I still burned with anger every time I thought of my father giving Olive Trewell Jane’s letter. Maybe one day I might forgive him, but now was not the time to think about it.
I turned away and slipped into the cathedral.
No one spoke as we settled ourselves near the crypt door, but when the clock struck eleven, I finally gave voice to my worst fears. ‘He isn’t coming. If Oliver was going to bring Jane’s letter back, surely he’d be here by now?’ I looked imploringly at Jane Austen’s ghost.
She glided closer. ‘Do not give in to fear, Cassandra. You have done all you can. Though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.’
I didn’t have the heart to award myself a point. ‘It’ll be worse than the worst if Oliver doesn’t bring back your letter, Jane.’ I glanced at the crypt door and fancied I saw a malignant red light pulsing beneath it.
‘We must have faith, Cassandra.’
‘It’s eleven o’clock, Jane. St Swithun’s Day is nearly over.’
‘It’s cutting things much finer than I’d like,’ grumbled Melford.
‘Yes, but I still don’t believe young Oliver will let us down,’ said Mordaunt.
‘I don’t want to believe it either,’ I said dolefully. ‘But I think we need to face reality.’
An image of Oliver in the Bodleian, holding me in his arms, rose up in my mind. I remembered the incredible sense of rightness, of being where I belonged, of being loved.
Was it all a lie? Could I really have been so wrong… again?
There was a sudden sound at the far end of the cathedral. My heart drummed as I heard voices and the great door opening. A moment later, my father came running towards us. ‘He’s here, Cassie! Oliver is here!’
I gulped back a sob but nothing could stop the tears when ten seconds later Oliver burst through the door and came pelting down the aisle. He overtook my Father and made straight for me. ‘I’ve got it, Cass. My mother took me all the way to Glasgow before I convinced her to give it up, but I’ve got it – I’ve got Jane’s letter!’
He lifted me off my feet, spun me around and kissed me.