It’s a shame about Miss Scratton,” sighed Sophie. “I know she was really strict, but she was always fair, wasn’t she? And she taught my mom when she was at Wyldcliffe, years ago. It’s a real shame.”

I glanced down at the headline of the newspaper that Sophie was holding. She appeared to have recovered from her upset over Helen’s accident, and Velvet’s dubious friendship. I had done what I could to be kind to Sophie in the past few troubling days since the news had broken of Miss Scratton’s death after her “accident.” Good old Sarah, looking after everyone, always looking out for the underdog.

No, that wasn’t fair, or true anymore. I was kind to Sophie because I liked her, not because I felt I had to be some sort of mother hen to everybody. I had changed. I had learned that I didn’t always have to be strong for everyone else. Sometimes, I could be strong just for me. Sometimes, I could lean on other people’s strength, like a rose twining around a pillar and blossoming in the sun. It was my choice, my decision. I had learned so much, but even so, the scars of this term would take a long time to heal. Without Miss Scratton, Wyldcliffe was a far bleaker, more dangerous place.

“I said Miss Scratton was quite nice really, wasn’t she? Honestly, Sarah,” Sophie complained. “Aren’t you listening at all?”

“What? Oh . . . um . . . no,” I said. “She wasn’t bad.”

Sophie shook the paper importantly and started to read the article aloud.

“‘SCHOOL PRINCIPAL IN FATAL CRASH. The High Mistress of Wyldcliffe Abbey School for Young Ladies has been killed in a road accident involving the school minibus and a deer. The animal leaped out in front of the vehicle, causing it to swerve off the road. The students and the driver suffered only minor injuries. They had been visiting the exclusive boys’ school St. Martin’s Academy to arrange a social event.’

“‘This is not the first setback for Wyldcliffe Abbey in the last few months. The previous High Mistress, Celia Hartle, was found dead on the moors near the school. The coroner recorded an open verdict on Mrs. Hartle’s death. The incident caused some parents to withdraw their daughters from the school, which attracts the country’s wealthiest families. Recently appointed Miss Miriam Scratton—’” Sophie pulled a face. “I didn’t know she was called that.”

“That wasn’t her real name,” I said softly. “No one knew her real name.”

“Whatever . . . ‘Miss Miriam Scratton had announced a program of modernization at the highly traditional institution. A teacher at the school, who did not want to be named, said, “I hope her plans are still carried out. We needed her to bring the school into the modern age. It’s a great loss.” But others were not so happy with Miss Scratton’s plans, and critics of her scheme will be secretly relieved that Wyldcliffe and its traditions may now remain untouched.’

“‘Wyldcliffe Abbey has had a colorful history, with many legends, including the story of the ghost of Lady Agnes Templeton, who it is said will come back to Wyldcliffe one day to save it from great peril. . . .’ Ooh, do you think that’s true?”

“Don’t be silly, Sophie,” I said. “How can anyone possibly come back from the dead?”

“I suppose so. Oh, and look, it mentions Velvet. It says, ‘Velvet Romaine is the newest student to join the school. . . .’ And there’s a photo of her—Sarah? Where are you going?”

I couldn’t trust myself to stay and listen without giving myself away. My Wyldcliffe was different from Sophie’s, and I didn’t ever want her to know the truth. “Just remembered something,” I said quickly. “I’ve got to go, see you later. . . .”

I walked out of the room and into the red corridor. It was Sunday afternoon, and the school had a sleepy air. Evie was out riding with Josh, and Helen had taken herself off to the library to write to her father. In a few minutes I would be heading down to the stables to meet Cal. And out on Blackdown Ridge, a bitter spirit was trapped in an ancient monument to the forgotten gods. Mrs. Hartle’s wasted soul was gnawing away in captivity, fretting and plotting and waiting to return with her army of Bondsouls and destroy us all. But we had one another, and we had the memory of “Miriam Scratton,” and we had hope. We would never lose that.

Two sulky-looking girls trailed down the corridor in tennis clothes, heading for the common room.

“It’s so unfair,” one of them was complaining. “I’m sorry for Miss Scratton and all that, but everyone’s saying that we won’t even get our dance now.”

“And those St. Martin’s boys are so hot. . . .”

They passed on. Disappointment about a canceled dance was the greatest tragedy they could imagine. They were on the other side of the glass, like all the other Wyldcliffe students, remote from me and my life. I needed to be alone, just for a little while.

Instead of heading the way that would lead me to the stables and to Cal, I walked to the very end of the crimson-lined passage to where the old ballroom was kept locked. Miss Scratton had intended to open it up at Christmas and allow some warmth and laughter into this gloomy, haunted house. I supposed the gossiping girls were right and that all her plans would now be squashed by Miss Dalrymple and the rest of them.

The entrance to the ballroom was screened by a moth-eaten silk drape. I pulled it to one side to reveal high double doors, carved all over with fruit and flowers. I placed my hands on the door and spoke silently to the trees they had come from, descendants of the one great Tree. I touched the lock and saw the metal as it had once been, a streak of ore in the deep earth. “Let me pass,” I asked. The locks clicked and the doors swung open. I slipped inside, pulling the drape back over the doorway so that no one would know that I was trespassing there.

It was a cold, high, beautiful space, like a sleeping palace waiting to be brought back to life. The walls were lined with pale gray silk decorated with white rosettes, and silver framed mirrors reflected my image on every side until it disappeared into infinity. Long white blinds covered the French windows, and the chandeliers were swathed in protective dust sheets. I seemed to catch an echo of Miss Scratton’s voice—Ladies, we must let the light into Wyldcliffe. I crossed the polished dance floor to the nearest window and opened the blind. The warm May sunshine poured in. Outside, the Abbey’s gardens and the ruins and the lake lay innocent and quiet.

I loved this place, despite all its stupid snobberies. I loved its history, and its secrets, and the wild hills whose roots went so deep. But Wyldcliffe’s secrets were dangerous, too. So many of us had been hurt. Laura was still hurting. The Priestess was still out there. Velvet was torn between friendship and enmity, wondering where she fitted into this strange tale. This wasn’t over yet.

Do not be afraid.

For the moment, I had played my part. It had been my time. I had stepped into the spotlight and I hadn’t failed after all. I had kept my promises.

I heard the sound of music and laughter, quick and bright and far away, like the voices of ghostly children. Then everything in the ballroom shimmered and shifted. Candles were burning in the great glass chandeliers, and the room was full of light and warmth and people dancing.

Up on the balcony Sebastian and Agnes were looking down on the ball, and their smiles were like blessings. Couples were drifting slowly across the floor. I saw Josh and Evie looking at each other shyly, and I saw myself dancing with Cal, his broad tanned face glowing with pride. I was wearing the embroidered dress that had belonged to Maria’s mother, and beyond the music I could hear the faint pulse of drums and the beating of my heart. We were all dancing, we were full of life, we were happy. And then I saw Helen walking hand in hand with a tall, somber figure, but I could not see his face. . . .

I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know any more. I pulled myself from the vision, drew down the blind, and walked away. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough. The eternal dance of good and evil would go on. But I was Sarah, and I was a queen. Whatever happened, I would be ready.