She woke in the infirmary, with the major at her bedside.
‘Ah good,’ he said. ‘You’re awake. You’ve been asleep a very long time.’
She looked towards the window, and saw that it was light outside.
‘What is the time?’ she asked.
‘About two o’clock in the afternoon. You’ve slept almost around the clock. Quite the fright you gave us, I must say. You were clinging to the side of the boat when we found you, and fainted when we plucked you from the water. It’s been a dramatic day, one way and another – the weather, the marquee, Frau Kirschner’s resignation … But really, in the drama stakes, you take first prize.’
Alice, feeling mortified, mumbled an apology.
‘I fancy myself a good judge of character, Miss Mistlethwaite,’ the major mused. ‘And yet I confess myself a little baffled by yours. What do you say?’
He peered at her with his good eye.
‘I don’t know … I mean, I don’t know what you think about me, or my character.’
He sat back in his chair, resting his chin on his hands.
‘It seems to me,’ he explained, ‘that since you arrived here, your behaviour has been, shall we say, erratic. On the one hand, you have made friends. You have joined in. Your teachers tell me that, bar a pronounced tendency to daydream, you work well in class. On the other hand …’
He performed a sort of royal wave, as if to infer that the other hand, comprising as it did rooftops, gongs, explosions and near-drownings, was too exhausting to detail.
‘I never used to do mad things,’ she told him. ‘At home, I mean. All I did was read and write stories. It’s just, since I’ve been here …’
‘Yes?’
How did she explain – the sense of vastness from the moment she stepped off the train at Castlehaig, that first morning hammering the gong in the silent hall, the sky on the roof of the keep, the feeling of being a queen with the world at her feet, the sun path on the loch …
‘It’s like stories come alive here,’ she said. ‘And it’s so big. I think it makes me want to be big too.’
The major nodded, looking pleased. Then asked, curiously:
‘Tell me, what you were thinking, when you took the boat out on the loch, alone and without informing anyone, in such terrible conditions?’
‘That I was in a story,’ Alice admitted, feeling even more mortified. ‘And that I wanted to do something brave.’
‘Ah,’ said the major. ‘Something brave.’
He closed his eye, thinking – as he quite frequently did – that children were fascinating, but also exhausting, and he stayed like this for so long that Alice thought he might have fallen asleep. She was just wondering if it would be acceptable to poke him when he stirred and asked:
‘Were you afraid?’
‘Not when I set out,’ she replied. ‘Only later, when I thought I couldn’t get back.’
There was another pause, and then, ‘I am not sure you can be brave, if you are not afraid,’ the major said. ‘Being brave means standing up to the things that frighten us, even as we are quaking in our boots. There is so much in this world that is utterly bewildering. Jumping into lochs, dancing about on rooftops – these things may be reckless, or joyous, or dangerous, but I do not think they are courageous. To be fearless, we must first banish our fears, and to achieve that we must look them in the face.’
He smiled, seeing how hard she was trying to understand him.
‘However! There is more to life than fear and bewilderment. Sometimes, the beauty of the world can take your breath away – just wait for the Orienteering Challenge, and you will see what I mean! And the summer nights – the wonderful northern summer nights! Soon they will be so short it will be almost always daylight. Students will sneak out for midnight picnics while the staff pretend not to notice … Dr Csintalan will row on the lake in the small hours of the morning composing poetry, and who knows? Perhaps Mr Madoc will find love again. We must take care of the beauty in the world, Miss Mistlethwaite. It is one of the reasons I started the school here, in this valley. We must look after it – but perhaps, we may also enjoy it? Perhaps … you could try to enjoy it?’
It was a tempting proposition, especially to a girl who in the past day had almost drowned, nearly blown herself up, and been sorely disappointed by her only parent. But there was one last thing, and if Alice was to face up to her fears, she knew that she had to ask.
‘Sir, shouldn’t there be Consequences? Melanie, the girl who had my room before – she was expelled for blowing up the chemistry lab. Isn’t this just as bad?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said the major. ‘A bit of a scare, but no harm done. This is your home, after all. I think we’ll give you one more chance.’
Alice felt immeasurable relief. The major stood with a great creaking of bones and pressed his giant hand on top of her head in a kind of gentle blessing. ‘But perhaps try to keep out of trouble until the end of term?’
He smiled, so benevolently it was impossible not to smile back.
‘I promise,’ she said.
‘Excellent! And meanwhile, perhaps, things are not as bleak as you imagine them.’
He left. Alice sank back into her pillow. She wondered what he could possibly mean, then forgot it, lulled by the surprising softness of her infirmary bed, the crisp linen, the smell of lavender. Unlike the rest of the castle, this room was neat as a pin, freshly painted white, with gleaming floorboards and clean windows through which she could see the tops of trees. She felt safe, and cosseted. An improbable lightness began to bubble up inside her. There were things she was afraid of, and one day she would face them, and become fearless. But in the meantime – midnight picnics sounded fun, and white nights. She could already feel the stirrings of a new story, a happy one, about a family of hares driven from their home in the south, coming to a new valley …
She turned towards her bedside table for a pen.
There were two envelopes leaning against the lamp, both in Barney’s handwriting.