floor where you could see straight down into the heat and bustle of the kitchen, the smell of fresh-baked bread and meat turning on the spit rising to the rafters . . .
‘
Aspicio
,’ I whispered.
Suddenly I was flying.
I gasped as my body left the ground. There was a frightening weightlessness, and a tight feeling in my chest, a fear that I might fall. Colours spun about me in a blurred rush, green fields and the cold grey of the wintry sky. My hair was loose, blowing back over my shoulders as wind dragged past me, my body flying faster and faster.
Yet I knew that I had not moved, that I was still kneeling in the abandoned hayloft with Richard watching me.
Abruptly the world tilted.
My eyes opened, and that was when I realized they had been screwed tight shut, for the flying sensation had left me a little sick. I gazed about myself, breathing shallow, my eyes slowly adjusting to darkness. I was standing on the upper landing in my father’s house, looking down the stairs into the hall. Or rather my mind was there, my body still a good two miles away in the hayloft.
The detail shook me. I could see knots and cracks in the wall beams, a beetle crawling in the dust at the top of the stairs, and down in the hall I watched as one of the serving women came hurrying out of the scullery, three or four brown eggs cradled in her apron.
There was a sound behind me. I turned in my dream, and saw my brother’s door open.
Without moving, I found that I was inside his bed chamber, as though my thought alone had taken me there.
William was lying on his bed, his arm over his eyes, a small book open on his chest. As I watched, he sighed deeply as though distressed by some memory or imagining.
‘Alice,’ he whispered. ‘Alice . . .’
After a moment, his arm fell away from his eyes and I realized that he had been crying.
William rolled onto his side and continued to read from his book. In my head, I heard him reciting a poem softly to himself. A love poem. The words fell away into shadow, but my brother’s red-rimmed eyes were clear enough.
‘Meg.’
I started violently, thinking William knew I was there in his chamber and was saying my name. My eyes blurred, there was a hideous rushing in my ears, then I was back in the hayloft, staring at nothing like a mad thing, my whole body aching, with Richard on his knees before me, his face pale and drawn.
‘Come back to me, Meg,’ Richard said urgently, and snapped his fingers in front of my face.
A shudder ran through me, everything turned misty, and I felt horribly sick.
Richard nodded unsympathetically. ‘Good, you’re awake.’
‘What . . . what did . . .’ I tried to stand up but Richard pushed me back.
I did not argue, for I was dizzy, my head spinning unpleasantly.
‘Stay where you are. God’s blood, Meg, you turned cold and seemed to lose your senses there. I could not rouse you for several minutes. I told you not to be too free with these spells from your mother’s book, that they were dangerous.’ He sounded furious. ‘When will you listen to me?’
‘Never,’ I muttered.
Richard crouched down, looking at me, his head on one side. ‘I’m not made of stone, Meg. I have no taste to see you die again under my care. I have not forgotten that night at Hatfield. Having to carry your dead body back to the house nearly finished me. Not a night I wish to live through again.’
‘But it worked,’ I said eagerly, and struggled to my knees, blenching when my stomach rebelled at the too abrupt change in position. I put a hand to my mouth and waited, eyes closed. ‘Oh God.’ I slowly dropped my hand as the sickness abated. ‘Richard, I have to tell you,’ I whispered. ‘I was there.’
‘Where?’
‘I thought of my father’s house. Built it in my mind’s eye as the book says to do, then said the spell. And straight away I was flying. At least, it felt like I was flying, and I could see the ground flashing past me. Then I was there,
in
‘
Aspicio
,’ I whispered.
Suddenly I was flying.
I gasped as my body left the ground. There was a frightening weightlessness, and a tight feeling in my chest, a fear that I might fall. Colours spun about me in a blurred rush, green fields and the cold grey of the wintry sky. My hair was loose, blowing back over my shoulders as wind dragged past me, my body flying faster and faster.
Yet I knew that I had not moved, that I was still kneeling in the abandoned hayloft with Richard watching me.
Abruptly the world tilted.
My eyes opened, and that was when I realized they had been screwed tight shut, for the flying sensation had left me a little sick. I gazed about myself, breathing shallow, my eyes slowly adjusting to darkness. I was standing on the upper landing in my father’s house, looking down the stairs into the hall. Or rather my mind was there, my body still a good two miles away in the hayloft.
The detail shook me. I could see knots and cracks in the wall beams, a beetle crawling in the dust at the top of the stairs, and down in the hall I watched as one of the serving women came hurrying out of the scullery, three or four brown eggs cradled in her apron.
There was a sound behind me. I turned in my dream, and saw my brother’s door open.
Without moving, I found that I was inside his bed chamber, as though my thought alone had taken me there.
William was lying on his bed, his arm over his eyes, a small book open on his chest. As I watched, he sighed deeply as though distressed by some memory or imagining.
‘Alice,’ he whispered. ‘Alice . . .’
After a moment, his arm fell away from his eyes and I realized that he had been crying.
William rolled onto his side and continued to read from his book. In my head, I heard him reciting a poem softly to himself. A love poem. The words fell away into shadow, but my brother’s red-rimmed eyes were clear enough.
‘Meg.’
I started violently, thinking William knew I was there in his chamber and was saying my name. My eyes blurred, there was a hideous rushing in my ears, then I was back in the hayloft, staring at nothing like a mad thing, my whole body aching, with Richard on his knees before me, his face pale and drawn.
‘Come back to me, Meg,’ Richard said urgently, and snapped his fingers in front of my face.
A shudder ran through me, everything turned misty, and I felt horribly sick.
Richard nodded unsympathetically. ‘Good, you’re awake.’
‘What . . . what did . . .’ I tried to stand up but Richard pushed me back.
I did not argue, for I was dizzy, my head spinning unpleasantly.
‘Stay where you are. God’s blood, Meg, you turned cold and seemed to lose your senses there. I could not rouse you for several minutes. I told you not to be too free with these spells from your mother’s book, that they were dangerous.’ He sounded furious. ‘When will you listen to me?’
‘Never,’ I muttered.
Richard crouched down, looking at me, his head on one side. ‘I’m not made of stone, Meg. I have no taste to see you die again under my care. I have not forgotten that night at Hatfield. Having to carry your dead body back to the house nearly finished me. Not a night I wish to live through again.’
‘But it worked,’ I said eagerly, and struggled to my knees, blenching when my stomach rebelled at the too abrupt change in position. I put a hand to my mouth and waited, eyes closed. ‘Oh God.’ I slowly dropped my hand as the sickness abated. ‘Richard, I have to tell you,’ I whispered. ‘I was there.’
‘Where?’
‘I thought of my father’s house. Built it in my mind’s eye as the book says to do, then said the spell. And straight away I was flying. At least, it felt like I was flying, and I could see the ground flashing past me. Then I was there,
in
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