Over the next few days we searched for the Book in the library and in every classroom and on every shelf, as well as the hidden attic, but we discovered nothing. There was only one person left who could help me now.

Agnes. I still had her diary. Perhaps there would be some clue there, something to guide me….

One evening after supper, we had a late study period. The class trooped into Miss Scratton’s classroom, all slightly tired and bored, but dutiful as usual, getting on with their work without complaint. I glanced around. Sarah was writing notes methodically. Helen’s face was half-hidden by her hair, but I could tell that her mind was far away from the intricacies of English history.

“Helen Black, I will be handing out a detention to anyone who does not complete this assignment satisfactorily,” Miss Scratton said crisply.

Helen sighed and tried to concentrate. I wrote quickly and neatly, churning out a whole lot of stuff about King Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries, when he had smashed up the old religious orders and taken their lands for himself and his cronies. It was odd to think that Wyldcliffe itself had once been a great house of religion, where aristocratic young girls had been sent into the care of the holy sisters until they were of marriageable age. Perhaps nothing much had changed, really. I looked around the classroom. Celeste was poised confidently over her work. India, Sophie, Rachel Talbot-Spencer—whose mother was actually Lady Something-or-other—Lucy Lambton, Caroline and Katie and Charlotte—the whole crowd of them were there to be turned into perfect English young ladies, polished, polite, and slightly dead. We lived side by side and yet I hardly knew them.

I thought about what Josh had said about the rumors swirling around Wyldcliffe and wondered if any of the girls’ parents would take them away. Probably not. They would see only what they wanted to see: nicely brought-up girls with the right accent and dress code and social skills. A Wyldcliffe education was more important than worrying about gossip in the local village.

I scribbled a few more sentences, racing through my assignment. As soon as I had finished, I raised my hand.

“Please, can I go to the library?”

“Finished so soon, Evie?” said Miss Scratton dryly. “Very well.”

I walked down the corridor, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor, then crossed the tiled entrance hall and slipped into the library. There were only a couple of other students there, leafing through some old magazines and yawning to themselves.

Grabbing the first book from the nearest pile, I found a seat at a table in the corner. I glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then pulled a small black book from my pocket. It was Agnes’s journal. I wanted to read it again and search for any clue that could help, however small or insignificant it might seem. I hid the diary inside the covers of the dull-looking textbook I had picked up and began to read, my eyes skimming quickly across the familiar pages.

“Oh!” I jumped. Someone had crept up silently and was reading over my shoulder. I slammed the book shut to hide the journal and twisted around.

It was Harriet.

“I didn’t see you,” I said, trying to speak casually. “You gave me a shock.”

“What are you reading?” Harriet seemed as tense as a cornered animal, but I was the one who felt trapped.

“Um…” I showed her the cover of the book. “Intermediate Biology…”

Harriet leaned toward me. “What are you really reading?” She put her hand on the book and tried to wrench it out of my grip.

“No!” I shouted, and one of the girls reading the magazines looked up and frowned. “It’s private,” I whispered desperately. “Please don’t look, Harriet. It’s my diary.”

“I don’t believe you,” she snarled. I stared at her in amazement. All her awkward timidity had vanished, and she reminded me of a drunk I had once seen outside the local pub, his eyes full of fire and self-pity. “I need it. I want it. Give it to me.”

She suddenly let go of the science book, raised her hand, and slapped me across the face. I cried out in astonishment, and the girls on the sofa turned to stare at us.

“What’s going on?” one of them said. Harriet had collapsed on a chair and was weeping noisily.

“I’m so sorry, Evie, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly to the others. “She’s upset—homesick, that’s all.” I didn’t understand why I was protecting Harriet, but I didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. “Can you go and get Miss Barnard? Harriet’s in her class.”

They nodded and went out. Harriet clutched my hand. “I’m so sorry, Evie,” she repeated. “I like you; I want you to be my friend. You’ve been nice to me, and nobody else is. And now you’ll h-hate me….” Her voice trailed off into incoherent sobs.

“I don’t hate you, Harriet, I just don’t understand—”

“I’ve got such a headache,” she wailed.

“Don’t cry; it will only make it worse.” But there was nothing I could do or say to comfort her.

The door opened and Miss Barnard appeared. She was younger than most of the teachers, and she looked concerned.

“What happened? Jenny said there was some kind of incident.”

“No, not really.” I hesitated, not sure how much to say. “It’s just that Harriet isn’t feeling very well.”

“I’m afraid this is the time of year for flu and fever,” Miss Barnard replied, and she reached out to feel Harriet’s forehead. The girl jumped away like a ferocious animal. “Don’t touch me!” she spat, the wild look burning in her eyes again, but the next minute she slumped limply in her chair again, looking exhausted. “It’s so dark in here,” she murmured. “So dark.”

I looked at Miss Barnard, feeling really alarmed. “What’s wrong with her? Is it because of the accident she had?”

“She should have gotten over that by now. But boarding school isn’t for everyone. Harriet seems to be finding it hard to settle here. I think we may have to get in touch with her family.”

“No! Please don’t tell my mom! You mustn’t!” Harriet stopped crying and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I just got upset and silly because I’ve got such a bad headache. But I’ll be better tomorrow, I promise. Please tell her, Evie.”

I hesitated. Part of me felt that if I told her how Harriet had exploded and slapped me, Miss Bernard would arrange for her to be sent home. I was so tempted. It would be such a relief not to have Harriet around the place with her awkward, needy presence. But her frightened eyes pleaded with mine.

“It must be awful to have migraines like that,” I said with an effort. “Poor Harriet. She’s just really worn out. I’ll keep an eye on her, if you like.” As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

Harriet looked at me, embarrassed but grateful. “Thank you, Evie. You’re my friend. You’re my only friend.”

I smiled back uneasily. If Harriet liked me so much, why had she been glaring at me a few minutes ago with such hatred? Why on earth had she slapped me? And why was she so desperate to read Agnes’s diary?

The church clock in the sleeping village struck midnight. Another restless night. I had tried to put Harriet out of my mind, but I couldn’t relax. Agnes’s words in her journal haunted me as I lay in the still, white dormitory.

He still has the same eager air, the same desire to share everything with me, the same intense blue gaze…dreadfully ill…he is troubled…making new discoveries each day…hours studying the pages of the Book…I would do anything for him….

I had read the whole journal again, hiding in the bathroom, but I didn’t feel any closer to finding what I needed to know. Turning over in bed, I tried to think for the hundredth time of where the Book could be. Helen was able to pass through locked doors, and she had already told us that it was not in the High Mistress’s study, which Miss Raglan now occupied. I mentally checked off all the places we had looked, and my mind was drawn back to the library, and Harriet’s outburst. Her face seemed to float behind my eyelids, and I experienced again the moment of panic when she had crept up behind me and I slammed the book shut. Slam the book shut…hide the book…lock it away like a secret….

I sat up suddenly. That had happened before, here at Wyldcliffe. A book had been shut up in panic and hidden away. I had seen it happen…I had seen the faces with their looks of alarm, and the quick movements to conceal the precious object.

I remembered. I remembered everything. My heart was hammering with excitement. In my first term, when I had been so new that I didn’t even know my way around the building, I had blundered by mistake into the teachers’ private common room. There had been six or seven mistresses huddled around a table, reading from an old book that looked like an ancient Bible. Miss Raglan had been there, and Miss Dalrymple, I remembered. And the book—they had covered it with a rich cloth when they had seen me, and Miss Raglan had been furious. Now I knew why. I had unknowingly caught sight of the Book, the ancient relic of the Mystic Way. It was here at Wyldcliffe, only a few yards away from me, hidden away on the floor below.

I didn’t stop to think. Reaching in the dark for my robe, I crept out of the dorm and down the corridor, then peered over the banister of the marble staircase and listened carefully. The whole house lay still and silent. A small lamp gleamed faintly. I thought I could risk using the main stairs down to the second floor. If anyone saw me, I would say that I was feeling ill and on my way to the nurse’s room. Oh, I didn’t care what I would have to say, or what story I might have to invent. All I cared about was getting hold of the Book. Once I had it in my possession, nothing would stop me from devouring its secrets. Knowledge was power. Soon, very soon, I promised myself, I would know enough to awaken the Talisman and end this nightmare forever.