When I opened my eyes, it was dark. I had slept dreamlessly for a couple of hours, and now the miniature alarm clock I kept under my pillow had woken me. The numbers on its tiny face glowed luminous green, and I saw that it was just before midnight. I sat up cautiously. Velvet, who had sighed and complained and flopped around on her narrow bed for ages before finally falling asleep, was lying on her back with her arm flung up over her pillow. A thin gleam of moonlight passed over the window, and I saw that she looked younger and prettier without her makeup, as if she were dreaming innocently. She sighed and turned over as I got out of bed, but she didn’t wake up. I was safe. Ruby was deeply asleep as usual, snoring slightly. I put on my robe and crept out of the room, carefully feeling my way.

I knew exactly where I was heading. There was a hidden staircase in the corridor outside Evie and Helen’s dorm, concealed by a curtained door. It led up to the abandoned attic on the third floor, and down to the disused servants’ quarters and old kitchens way below us. Evie had used these secret stairs many times to sneak out and meet Sebastian at night, and lately we had discovered Agnes’s private study in the old attic. That was our special meeting place. I reached the curtained alcove, quietly opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind me. The air was stale and musty in this closed-up wing of the old building, but I didn’t care. I began to climb the narrow stairs. A faint light wavered ahead, and I guessed that the others were already there.

“It’s me—Sarah,” I called softly, and soon I had reached the dusty wooden landing that led to a warren of attic rooms. Helen and Evie were standing outside the door of one of them. Behind that door was a rich store of potions and ingredients, books and learning, which had been used by Agnes in her work of healing and her study of the Mystic Way.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered. “Why haven’t you opened the door?”

Helen turned to me, looking sickly pale in the harsh rays of Evie’s flashlight. “We can’t open it. We’ve already tried. It’s locked from the inside, like it was when we first discovered it.”

“Can’t you pass through the door, Helen?” I asked in surprise. Locks and bolts were usually no barrier to Helen, our sister of air, who could travel distances by the power of her thought. Dancing on the wind, she called it. She had first opened Lady Agnes’s study for us by vanishing like a silver mist in front of our eyes and stepping invisibly through the air to the other side of the door, where she had unfastened the inner bolts.

“No, I’ve tried twice,” Helen replied. “Both times I get turned back. Some stronger force stops me getting through. That’s never happened before.”

“What do you think it is?” I asked. “Could it be the coven?”

“But the coven was broken and scattered the night that Mrs. Hartle died,” said Evie. “Isn’t everything safe now that Miss Scratton is in charge? It’s like I said before—perhaps we don’t really need our powers now. Perhaps it’s all over for us.”

I recognized the hope in her voice, and the fear in her eyes. Poor Evie, she had already been through so much. It was as though one minute she could convince herself that she was strong, and the next she simply wanted to run from the past. If at that moment I could have made everything how she wanted it to be, I would have done it. I would even have made it so that she could enjoy the warmth of Josh’s smile and the comfort of his arms.

“I can’t believe it’s going to be so simple, Evie,” I said gently. “Don’t you think that the coven will band together again? Those women hate us. Why would they just leave us alone? And Mrs. Hartle’s body might be dead, but her spirit isn’t. We saw her go with her Unconquered master into the shadows.”

“Yes, but we don’t know that she can enter this world again,” Evie replied. “Anyway, it was Sebastian’s powers that she wanted, and now Sebastian is . . .” She stopped, then began again with an effort. “Sebastian has gone. He’s at peace. Surely the coven has no reason to pursue us anymore?”

“Then why do I have this feeling that we are still being watched?” I asked.

Evie shuddered. “I hope that you’re wrong, Sarah. I really do.”

“I don’t think she is,” said Helen in a low voice. “Something, or someone, is trying to reach us. Trying to reach me, at least. I didn’t want to tell you, Evie. I wanted this term to be a new start. You deserve that, after everything that happened. But Sarah’s right. It’s not over yet.”

“Why not?” Evie asked, looking scared. “What’s going on?”

“I need to show you something.” Helen fumbled with the sleeve of her nightgown and rolled up the material to expose her slim white arm. There was a mark on her skin, a circle with a pattern across it shaped like a bird, or a pair of wings. Or even, perhaps, the crossed blades of two sharp daggers. “Look,” she said. “It won’t wash off. The mark is burned into my skin, like some kind of tattoo.”

“How on earth did that happen?” I gasped.

Helen covered her arm again. “It first appeared in the holidays.” She stared ahead, remembering. “I was staying with Tony—my father—and I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling confused. I was sleeping in the spare room in their apartment in London, of course, but at first I didn’t recognize it. I thought I was back in the children’s home and that I was locked in as a punishment, like I had been so many times. I needed to feel the air on my face, so I got out of bed and opened the window. There were bars on the window—the apartment was high up and Rachel had told me they were to protect the children, but I forgot all about that now. I thought I was in some kind of prison, and I just had to get out. I placed my hand on the bars and imagined them moving and dissolving and—well—they did. But perhaps it was only a dream.” She pushed her fair hair out of her eyes and frowned.

“Anyway, I managed to squeeze through the bars until I was standing outside on the window ledge. It was a long way down to the ground. In my mind I was back in the children’s home and had crept up onto the roof, and I was looking down, wanting to stop hurting—to stop existing even—daring myself to jump. And then I saw my mother standing below me. She looked like a bright angel. I wanted to throw myself into her arms and be wrapped up in her love. I wanted that so badly.”

“Oh, Helen—”

She waved away my sympathy and carried on. “But that image was broken up like interference on an old TV set. Everything changed. I was seeing another scene. It seemed far away. My mother was young and pretty like she had been in those photos of my dad’s. But she was holding a baby and crying. She was crying about me. I saw her taking me to the home with just a few little dresses and keepsakes. One of them was a small gold brooch, which she pinned to my shawl. Then she left. After that I saw someone come in—I’m not sure who, a nurse maybe, I couldn’t see her face properly. Anyway, this nurse came in and picked me up. She saw the brooch and unfastened it and put it in her pocket.” Helen looked up hesitantly. “That brooch was the same shape as the mark on my arm.”

“Go on,” I said. “What happened next?”

“There was more interference and flashing lights. I was back standing on the ledge with the road spread out below. My mother was waiting for me. ‘Come to me, Helen,’ she was saying. ‘All you have to do is jump. I’ll catch you.’ She was smiling, but when I looked again, her face changed to a . . . to a horrible mask . . . like a shrunken white skull. ‘Come to me, come to me, my daughter,’ she said, again and again. ‘No, never, never,’ I screamed, and there was this terrible noise. It was drums beating wildly, on and on, as though the sound itself could destroy me.”

“Drums?” I whispered. “But I—”

“That was only a dream, Helen,” said Evie. “You mustn’t let it get to you.”

“Yes, but when I woke up a pain was burning in my arm. And this mark has been there ever since.” She touched her arm again, rubbing the place where the mark was hidden by her nightshirt. “It had stopped hurting, but the pain started again when Miss Scratton was speaking before supper. That’s why I decided I had to tell you.”

Dreams. Faces like masks. The sound of drums. It was the same as I had seen and heard. For a moment I couldn’t speak. “So what—what do you think the mark means?” I stammered. “What do you think is happening?”

“I think my mother is trying to contact me from the shadows and drag me into her world,” Helen replied. “She won’t let me alone until I am her creature. That night last term, out on the moors, she said I would acknowledge her as both mother and High Mistress before she was through.”

“But she’s not the High Mistress anymore,” argued Evie. “She’s dead. She’s gone, Helen. Wasn’t all that stuff about seeing her just a bad dream?”

“So how do you explain the mark?” asked Helen.

“Well, I guess it could be a good sign,” Evie suggested. “A protection of some kind.” Helen looked unconvinced, and Evie turned to me pleadingly. “What do you think, Sarah?”

I didn’t know what to think. “I suppose it could be a good omen,” I said cautiously. “Let’s hope it is. But why would Agnes’s study be sealed against us? Who—or what—is behind that?”

Evie answered hurriedly. “What if it’s Agnes herself? Maybe this is her way of telling us that our time with the Mystic Way is finished. And if the mark on Helen’s arm is for protection, maybe Agnes is telling us there is nothing more we need to do.”

“And what if the mark is hostile and it’s Mrs. Hartle or the coven stopping us going through the door?” I asked.

Evie looked self-conscious and replied in a strained, artificial voice. “Of course,” she said, “there’s the possibility that the mark could be some kind of psychosomatic phenomenon—”

“How sane and rational!” Helen’s pale eyes flashed with quiet anger. “Yes, it could be that. I could have imagined the whole thing. Everyone says I’m half-crazy anyway. Is that what you think too, Evie?”

There was a silence. It was the nearest we had ever come to a quarrel. I had to sort it out, be the peacemaker.

“Evie doesn’t think that, Helen. She’s just tired and upset. It’s all been so difficult for her, we have to remember that.”

“I know—,” began Helen.

“Do you? Do either of you really know what is feels like to be me?” Evie said with a sob in her voice. “I am so tired of hiding in the shadows, of dealing with death and sorrow and ancient wrongs and powers. Sebastian wanted me to move on, to live in the light, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I just don’t think I can cope with any more of this.”

“Don’t you think I’ve had stuff to cope with too?” replied Helen wildly. “I’d been tormented by my mother long before you even came to Wyldcliffe, Evie. You and Sarah both take the fact that you have your families for granted. And you had Sebastian, if only for a short time. You were loved! No one . . . no one . . . has ever loved me.”

Helen’s face was tight with pain, and she leaned against the wall in despair. I wanted so much to reach out to her, but she seemed to radiate a cold, invisible barrier. Evie was crying quietly, wrapped up in her own unhappiness.

This couldn’t happen. We had to stay together. “Stop it, both of you,” I begged. “Please, we mustn’t fight. Evie, don’t let this happen!” She took a deep breath and scrubbed the tears from her eyes, then pulled herself together before making a stilted apology.

“I’m sorry, Helen, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“We love you, Helen,” I added. I gave her a hug, but she didn’t respond. “And don’t you remember what Miss Scratton said? That one day you will meet someone who will love you—”

“Beyond the confines of this world,” finished Helen in a shaky voice. “Yeah, I remember. But I don’t see how that can ever happen. Anyway, it doesn’t matter about me. Please forget what I said. The mark is my problem, not yours. And I do want you to be happy, Evie. I want you to find the peace you’re looking for, I really do.”

The moment of anger was over. We were sisters again, but for how long?