Margaret almost flew
along the darkened corridors in her haste to get to class. How could
she have fallen asleep during lunchbreak! “Stupid, stupid,
stupid,” she muttered to herself. She glanced at her watch and
started calculating the possibility of her reaching the classroom
before Miss Macmillan. It didn’t look good.
Unfortunately this was
the moment that the young man chose to step out of the caretaker’s
room. Margaret crashed into him at full tilt, books flying. As she
slid slowly to a stop, Margaret suddenly realised that she just
didn’t care any more...
After several minutes,
Margaret picked herself up and dusted down her skirt. Noting that she
hadn’t a clue who he was, she smoothly cut across his constant
repetition of “Sorry, miss,” and asked casually, “New
here?”
“Yes, miss.”
For some reason, being
called Miss by someone who was definitely older than her struck a
nerve in Margaret. On an impulse she said, “Please, call me
Margaret.”
He smiled shyly and
replied, “Yes, Mi…Margaret.”
Margaret picked up her
books and carried on with her otherwise uneventful day.
The weeks passed. Exams
were panicked about and written. Grades improved (except PE, but that
wasn’t of import to a future film director). Margaret built up
quite a friendship with Nigel, the new caretaker. Her other friends,
Peony and Theresa, displayed an amazing variety of emotions. Peony, a
scatter-brained blonde, cycled through jealousy, longing, loneliness
and happiness, whilst Theresa merely showed concern in case Margaret
became inappropriately attached.
Nigel, she had realised
early on, was a godsend for St Judes. He displayed an uncanny
knowledge of where everything was in the huge, rambling building, and
had a knack for turning up just when he was wanted. The fact that no
one could remember showing him around the school, or why the old
caretaker had retired, seemed to worry no one.
The 18th of
June, a quiet, warm Thursday almost designed for shopping, found
Margaret scrabbling around in the enormous props room behind the
stage. Someone (she suspected Miss Macmillan) had decided that it
would be a wonderful team-building exercise for the upper sixth to
put on an appropriate play for the final assembly. No one had the
courage to tell her that this was pointless, as after next Friday it
would be unlikely that any of the upper sixth would be working
together again, ever.
This whole charade,
Margaret had reasoned out, had been concocted so that Miss Macmillan
could make, nay force, Margaret to find an old painting of someone’s
dog that was used for any attempt at historical drama.
Quite unexpectedly, her
train of thought was derailed by a small object on the line. It was a
fairly unremarkable object, a small box apparently made of ebony, or
so Margaret thought. It reminded her of one of those tacky jewellery
boxes that she had seen on a weeks holiday in Switzerland, all inlays
and curlicues, but this was infinitely more tasteful. Margaret’s
curiosity was roused. She grappled vainly with the lid for several
minutes, then mentally gave a philosophical shrug and resolved to see
if Nigel could open it. It was his job after all.
When Nigel saw the box
some hours later, he opened it without any problems. When he saw the
surprise in Margaret’s face, he couldn’t help grinning.
He answered the question in her eyes by showing her a small catch
hidden behind one of the legs of the box. “I only knew it was
there because my mother had one like this.”
Margaret gave him a
Look, then, eager as a child, she asked, “Why isn’t
playing?”
Nigel replied, “It’s
wound down, probably.” He gently shook the box. It rattled.
“Sounds like the key’s still in here.”
Margaret watched as Nigel opened the
box fully, shielding the contents of the box from her with the lid.
He took out a small brass key and closed the box. She heard the catch
click. He turned the box around and wound up the mechanism, counting
the number of turns under his breath. “That should do it,”
he muttered, and opened the lid.
As the familiar
fairground tune washed around her, Margaret saw them. Two figures
whirled around each other in an unceasing waltz, a young pale-faced
man with blue eyes and brown hair, and a gypsy girl in a red dress,
holding hands above a central point while the girl spun on bare
delicate feet. It was possible to see every feature on their faces,
and someone had taken the time to sew patches onto the girl’s
dress.
Before she could study
the figures closely, however, Theresa’s voice rang out from the
end of the corridor. Margaret suddenly remembered that she had
promised to go shopping with the ‘gals’. She picked up
the music box and the key, said a hurried thank you to Nigel and
rushed out of the room.
Left alone in his
office, the smile faded from Nigel’s face. He wiped the back of
his hand across his eyes, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.
“Maar-greht…”
Margaret couldn’t help wincing slightly as Peony’s whine
cut through her thoughts. “Can you help me with my homework
please.” Margaret suspected that Peony was actually a lot more
intelligent than she let herself appear, possibly as a way of
attracting boys. With a small sigh she pushed aside her own work and
asked, “And what homework is this?” Peony thrust the
paper at her; it was French, Margaret’s pet hate. It was
amazing how Mr Baldwin kept piling on the work even though the
A-levels had finished.
Margaret started to try
to explain the homework to Peony, but it was like trying to explain
astrophysics to a puppy. Then Peony went oddly quiet. This was
somehow more unnerving than all the chatter from beforehand. Margaret
turned round to see Peony trying to open the music box. Peony looked
up sheepishly. “The lid’s stuck,” she offered by
way of explanation. Margaret took it off her and flicked the catch.
As the lid opened the same measured tones rang out. For some reason
it sounded louder and harsher than it had before to Margaret, but she
paid her ears no attention. She had just begun to explain how she had
got the box when there was a loud thud, several quieter thuds and a
great deal of swearing.
Margaret shut the box
and ran towards the noise, Peony trailing along behind. She entered
the library through the upstairs door and shot down the steps.
Theresa was lying on
the floor. Around her was a pile of encyclopaedias. Margaret tiptoed
towards her, fearing the worst. Then she realised that the muttering
sound was in fact Theresa, apparently trying to say her entire
vocabulary of swearwords, so she asked nonchalantly, “Need a
hand up?” The swearing got louder, and Theresa rolled over,
glaring at Margaret. She still excepted a hand up, however.
After Margaret had
carted Theresa off to her room, Peony self-consciously began to pick
up the fallen books and shove them onto the shelf in no particular
order. At first she didn’t notice the solitary book still
standing in the middle of the empty space. When she did remark upon
it, she seemed to ignore it, but anyone in the room would have
noticed the difference in her face. The detached, vapid expression
vanished and was replaced by a sharp look of intelligence, and her
Barbie-doll features became a model of European sophistication. She
reached up without looking and moved the book to one side. Behind it
was a small slot in the wall. There was a small leather-bound volume
in the slot. She slipped it out and pocketed it before replacing the
encyclopaedia and leaving the library.
With Theresa safely in
her room, Margaret returned to her homework. She found it too
difficult to concentrate after the brief excitement. Almost angrily
she went to grab her hairbrush. Her hand barely brushed the music
box, but the lid sprung open, the music started playing and the
figures began the waltz. She moved to close the box. A slight sound
made her spin around. Then she saw her.
At first she was just a
silhouette in the mirror on the wardrobe door, her back towards
Margaret. Slowly her image filled and coloured, blurring and
overwriting Margaret’s own reflection. She was looking at her
hands, as though she couldn’t believe they existed. She
suddenly lifted her head like a deer that had caught the scent of a
hunter and spun around with superhuman grace. Her face contorted in a
mixture of rage and fear and she beat against the glass with her
fists; Margaret stepped backwards, wanting to get away but too scared
to turn tail and run. The look in the eyes of the girl was that of a
trapped beast. In what appeared to Margaret to be a last futile
effort, she turned slightly and threw her entire weight at the glass.
It shattered. Her form changed as she fell, blurred and blew away
like smoke on the breeze.
Margaret ran from her
room, the one place she had always believed to be safe. She could
hear someone, something, screaming. It wasn’t until Nigel
caught her as she tripped headlong and held her to him that she
realised it was her.
Alone in her room,
Peony barely heard the commotion. She flicked through the little
black book, searching for something she somehow knew would be there.
She found it, and
smiled.
Later, over a cup of
tea judiciously laced with sugar, Margaret said jokingly, “Y’know,
if you weren’t my friend, and my parents were the sort of
people who sue, you would be in big trouble right now.”
“Probably,”
Nigel replied, “but one, I am your friend, two, your parents
are supposedly reasonable human beings and three, I am your friend.”
“You’ve
said that last one already,” Margaret pointed out.
“Well, perhaps
I’m a friendly friend,” Nigel countered, “but
seriously, what on earth were you so scared about?”
Margaret was silent for
a moment, before slowly answering, “She was in my room.”
“Who was? One of
the other girls?” Margaret shook her head.
“The girl from
the music box. She got into my mirror somehow.” She fell
silent once more.
“Please, go on,”
Nigel prompted. He seemed anxious about something, almost hungry.
“She was trying
to get out, I think, trying to escape from something. She – ”
Theresa stuck her head around the door and addressed Margaret.
“Sorry to
interrupt, but are you busy? Peony has something she wants to show
us.” Margaret rolled her eyes, gave Nigel a “sorry about
this” look and ran after the fast disappearing shape of
Theresa.
“So what’s
the drop,” remarked Margaret as cheerfully as she could manage
as she entered Peony’s room. “New sweater? Poster of
Pierce Brosnan?”
“Be serious for
once,” Peony retorted angrily, all traces of cuteness gone,
“This is important.” Margaret shut up immediately. “What
I want to show you is this.” She took the book out of her
drawer.
“A diary. How
fascinating.” Margaret was not impressed.
Peony quickly explained
where she had found the diary and showed them the name on the
flysheet. “If this isn’t a fake,” she carried on,
“then this book is at least two hundred years old.”
“And –”
demanded Margaret. “Something like this wouldn’t normally
get you so excited.” Secretly she was amazed; Peony was never
like this ever, let alone in normal circumstances.
Peony leafed through
the diary until she came to a drawing. “This look familiar?”
It was the music box.
Margaret gasped out loud. Theresa looked puzzled. “What are the
pair of you talking about? Does one of you own this box? And Peony,
do you not realise that by taking this book without permission, you
are stealing school property?”
Peony snapped at
Theresa, “If you want to do the correct English never-wrong
head girl thing, go somewhere else. Otherwise, be quiet unless you
have something important to say.”
“Tetchy,”
muttered Margaret fondly. Peony held her gaze for several seconds,
and then began to read from the diary.
“June first,
1743. Jonathan has sent for something from London, a music box or so
I am led to believe. When questioned, he says it is intended for his
betrothed. I had not realised that he is in love, and this news is
well received, as he is of an age to be married.
June fourteenth. I have
asked the gardener’s boy to spy out my son’s movements,
with the promise of money as an incentive.
June seventeenth. I
have, to my horror discovered Jonathan’s secret love. She is a
common gypsy girl by the name of Rita. I offered her twenty pounds to
break off her engagement to my son. The wench refused. I shall not be
thwarted so easily.”
Peony broke off and
looked up. “So we have the unsuitable secret love and the
jealous mother, a fairly every day story. But now things get more
interesting.” She carried on reading.
June eighteenth. Today
the music box arrived whilst Jonathan was out riding. The figures
inside appear to be representations of my son and that gypsy whore. I
have concealed it in my rooms.
June – ”
“Hang on,”
Margaret interrupted. “June eighteenth; that was when I found
the music box.”
“Exactly,
Watson!” exclaimed Peony.
“Thank you,
Sherlock,” remarked Theresa, pithily. “Now will you carry
on, please.” Peony rolled her eyes and continued.
“June twenty
first. I have procured a book of the dark of the dark arts, and the
gardener’s boy has collected most of the ingredients for the
right of Moloch. All that is needed now is a lock of the harlot’s
hair; I am sure that my son has one in his possession.
June twenty sixth. The
magic came off admirably. The wanton went missing after I performed
the spell. I gave the music box to my son, saying it had just
arrived; he cast it from him like a poisoned snake. He will not miss
his love.
August eighth. A body
was discovered in a lake some miles away. It was her. Jonathan has
gone into mourning. Will she never leave us in peace?
August tenth. I have
hidden my grimoire in the high attic. The servants have become
suspicious and I do not trust them any more. I will also hide this
diary to prevent my secret being discovered.”
Peony shut the book
with a snap. “I did some research on the history of this
building, and there was a Squire Jonathan in the 1700’s. He did
fall in love with a gypsy girl who drowned not long after they got
engaged.” She looked oddly triumphant.
“I’m sorry,
but you can’t seriously believe this,” exclaimed Theresa.
“I can and I do,”
retorted Peony, “because I went up to the attic and found
something that proved it.” She got up and stepped over the
pouffe to her bed. She took out from under it a large tatty book
bound by heavy clasps. “One genuine book of black magic,”
she announced while opening it at a bookmark, “containing one
rite of Moloch, and the instructions for how to undo it.”
Margaret whistled softly through her teeth. Theresa still looked
disbelieving.
“I didn’t
understand everything, but there’s a list of ingredients at the
beginning. Luckily for us, I already own most of what we need as part
of my cute act; but there are a couple of things we’ll have to
find, like leaves of Mother Die – ”
“Hemlock,”
said Theresa, the perennial botanist.
“Pheasant’s
eye?” Peony asked hopefully.
“Pheasant’s
eye,” replied Theresa. As Peony blanched, she added, “A
plant.”
“Like, rewind,”
said Margaret urgently. “You actually want to try this out? Are
you insane?”
“Why not? We can
get the ingredients, we have the spell, all we need to find is…”
Peony checked the spell, “the focus, which I gather is Rita’s
lock of hair. Think of it as one of these do gooding missions the
teachers keep trying to send us on.”
“Do you realise
how hard it’s going to be to find that hair? For all we know it
could be scattered all over the school!”
Theresa spoke up
unexpectedly. “It won’t be though. It will be
somewhere…safe. Somewhere secure, secret.” She got up
and left the room. She returned some minutes later with the music
box, her eyes bright. “This has something to do with it, I know
it!”
“Well, let’s
open it then,” said Peony, taking the box off Theresa. Before
she could open it, however, Margaret snatched it off her.
“Wait!” she
exclaimed, highly alarmed. “The only times I’ve opened
this, weird things have happened. I don’t know if it’s
lifting the lid or the music playing or the figures moving that
caused them, but I’m not risking it.”
“We can prevent
two of the possibles easily,” replied Theresa, unconsciously
slipping into Peony’s idiolect. “Put the key in the
keyhole and hold it still. That jams the mechanism, so no music or
motion.”
Margaret reluctantly
took the key out of her pocket and placed it in the hole at the back.
“Ready,” she said. Peony lifted the lid. Nothing
happened.
“See anything in
there?” asked Margaret. Peony started to shake her head, then
Theresa said, “Does anyone have a pin?”
She realised that the
others were giving her an odd look, so she quickly explained. “If
that hole,” she stated, pointing at a small hole between the
dancing figures, “was part of the mechanism then it would have
been covered over. As it hasn’t been covered, it must have a
reason to be there.” Peony reached over to her sewing box and
took out a pin, which she gave to Theresa. Theresa inserted it into
the hole and waggled it around.
“Something’s
moving,” she murmured excitedly. “Something’s –
ouf!” The front of the box shot out, catching her in the
stomach. There was a small drawer set in the space where the front
had been. Peony opened it carefully. It contained a lock of black
hair, tied with a fraying piece of red ribbon. The girls looked at
each other. “I’ll get the herbs,” wheezed Theresa,
still winded. Peony removed the lock of hair and shut the front of
the music box. Margaret forced the lid shut. Surely it hadn’t
been this stiff earlier, she thought. The box played a brief angry
cord as she took the key out.
Nigel paced up and down
his office floor, muttering, “It can’t be her. Why is she
here?”
The girls congregated
in the attic at half past nine. “I hope Cook doesn’t miss
us at supper,” worried Theresa.
“Didn’t you
hear?” queried Peony. “Cook’s gone to hospital. She
dropped a vegetable knife on her foot and chopped her toe off.”
Theresa winced.
“Let’s get
this over before anything else happens,” urged Margaret.
“What’s first?”
“I draw the
pentagrams, while you crush the hemlock and pheasant’s eye in a
bowl and Theresa fills the censers.”
“The what?”
asked Theresa.
“The incense
burners,” sighed Peony wearily.
“Did you steal
the pestle and mortar from the kitchens?” asked Margaret
suspiciously.
“No; that would
be dangerous,” said Peony indignantly. “It’s from
the biology lab.”
It took them about
twenty minutes to set everything up. Peony stood up, dusting off her
hands. “Right, now we – ” She was interrupted by a
peal of thunder.
“Someone up there
has a sense of drama,” Margaret commented.
“As I was
saying,” said Peony, trying to regain some dignity, “Theresa
and I hold the censers, while you, Margaret, stand outside the small
pentagram with the box of matches. When I say so, light a match and
drop it in the bowl.”
“Question. Why am
I standing in a large pentagram?” asked Margaret suspiciously.
“That’s
just in case things go…wrong.” She began the chant. The
candles flickered. The smoke from the censers coiled into peculiar
half-familiar shapes. Margaret lit a match nervously.
Peony and Theresa came
to the climax of the chant. Peony suddenly shouted, “Now!”
Margaret dropped the match.
The room filled with
the smell of smouldering hair. “Well, that was a bit of an
anticlimax,” remarked Margaret as she moved away.
The fireball lifted her
off her feet.
As she hit the floor,
Margaret rolled and looked back. A column of lilac coloured fire was
spurting out of the bowl in the centre of the room; the candles
flared in the same colour. The fire twisted and for a second it
formed the shape of a young woman, before the fire went out and the
smoke drifted away.
Margaret gingerly
reached forward and touched the bowl. The cold nearly froze her
fingers off. There weren’t even ashes left.
Theresa coughed. She
said, sounding rather embarrassed, “I think we ought to clean
up now.” She and Peony began to rub out the pentagrams, put out
the censers and blow out the candles.
Margaret remained where
she was, staring at a glint of light on the opposite wall. She
realised suddenly what she was staring at.
The corner of a gilded
frame was poking out from behind a dustsheet. Margaret walked over to
it and pulled the sheet to one side. The frame and picture were
covered in a thick layer of dust. She began to feverishly brush and
blow the dust off them. Peony and Theresa wandered over.
Finally the painting
was clear. It was of a man in his early twenties with blue eyes and
dark brown hair. A thin pale scar ran along his jawline, and he was
smiling. The nameplate on the frame said, “Squire Jonathan”.
“Here’s our
mystery man,” remarked Peony, “and good luck to him.”
It’s odd, thought
Margaret, but in this light…he looks just like Nigel…
It started to rain.
That night Margaret
bunked down on the floor of Peony’s room, neither of them
wanting to be alone after what they had done. They lay there,
listening to the rain beating against the window. There had been a
question in the back of her mind since Peony had read from the diary
and in the quiet of the room she decided it was finally time to ask.
“Peony, what happened to Jonathan? Did he go on to marry
someone his mother approved of?”
She heard Peony roll
towards her, then her voice came out of the darkness. “Didn’t
I tell you? A few years after his mother died, Squire Jonathan went
riding near the lake. They only found his horse.”
Silence reigned once
more.
Margaret went to talk
to Nigel the next morning. After knocking on the door of the
caretaker’s room for several minutes she tried the door handle.
The door swung open.
Margaret tiptoed into
the room. “Hello?” she called softly. “Nigel?”
The curtains were still drawn, but there was no one around and
Nigel’s bed hadn’t been slept in.
The mirror caught her
eye as a thin shaft of sunlight slipped through the curtains. On it
in blue marker pen was written the words “thank you”.
Taped t the glass was a
Polaroid. Margaret carefully pulled it off the mirror and took it to
the window. It was of Nigel and a young, dark skinned woman. They
were smiling.
Margaret smiled back,
walked out of the door and carried on with her otherwise uneventful
day.