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  Good old Sarah. Always reliable, always there. Josh swung away with his graceful, confident stride. I waited until he had gone, fighting temptation. As soon as he was out of sight I gave in weakly and unfolded the note. Dear Evie, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Meet me by the gates before breakfast tomorrow. I can’t wait to hear what you think of this. . . .

  Bang, boom, bang . . . My heart thudded, wounded by jealousy and despair. Why was I bothering? I had tried to be strong and good, but no one wanted anything that I had to offer. I looked up, and the evening sun dazzled my eyes. Bang, boom . . . Hope drained away. The hills seemed full of watchers. The drums were coming closer, but I still didn’t know what they meant.

  I turned away from where Josh had been standing and leaned my head against Starlight’s neck. No one could help me. Nobody wanted me.

  My heart ached for everything that I might have had if Cal had not moved on. I wished with all my soul that I could ride away from Wyldcliffe and follow Cal and his Gypsy brothers over the horizon, into a different life.

  Chapter Ten

  MARIA MELVILLE’S WYLDCLIFFE JOURNAL

  APRIL 6, 1919

  It was when we walked to the village church one Sunday that I first saw the Gypsy Brothers. We were walking as usual in a “crocodile”—a long row of neat girls dressed in Sunday-best coats and hats. I was walking next to Violet Deane from the lower form. No one ever walks with her, as she stutters. Poor Violet, I don’t mind her slow speech. As we walked together I told her the names of all the plants and trees that I could see. Some I already knew from home, others Miss Scarsdale had shown me.

  “Maria Melville, we do not need you to make a commentary on the local wildlife,” Miss Featherstone scolded. She told me to walk in silence like the others, but just then a murmur ran along the line of girls like a flame running through dry grass.

  “Look! Look over there in the field! They’ve come back. We saw them last year, don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, look at their little carts! Aren’t they sweet?”

  But there were other whispers too.

  “That man is staring at us.”

  “How black his eyes are!”

  “What a ruffian he looks—it shouldn’t be allowed.”

  Now Miss Featherstone was really angry. “Young ladies, you will not notice, you will look straight ahead, and you will remain silent!”

  But we couldn’t help noticing. A Gypsy camp had sprung up overnight on the edge of the village. It was like something from a fairy tale. There were brightly colored wooden houses on wheels and a smoking campfire and horses and dogs. And the people! I thought my heart would burst with excitement. There were people like me with dark hair and skin. Their eyes seemed full of sharp wisdom, as if they could see far away and yet right inside my heart. I stood staring, and a boy of about sixteen grinned at me. I smiled back. This was my family—my real family, like Adamina and Stefan.

  “Maria Melville, stop gaping like a street urchin,” Miss Featherstone snapped at me. “Take two bad conduct marks.”

  After that we marched in silence into the stone church, which was too cold and empty for my God to inhabit. Later Miss Featherstone told us that we were forbidden to visit the village because of the “undesirable strangers in our midst.” But I knew that this was a rule I would break. I had to see them again, especially the boy with the black hair and laughing eyes.

  Mother had given me a purse of pocket money to take to school for treating my friends to cakes and ices. Poor dear Mother, she didn’t know that no one at Wyldcliffe would condescend to take tea with a Gypsy brat. But the money came in useful. All through the following week I bribed the groom to let me ride to the village every morning before breakfast, despite Miss F.’s edict. Joseph knew it was against the rules now for me to go to the village, but he was torn by the money, and he didn’t mean me any harm. He would ride out of the school grounds with me just after daybreak, and then hang back by the entrance to church, muttering and praying to himself as I went on to meet with the Gypsies.

  The boy, Zak, was my first friend. He was dark-eyed and fearless, poised between boy and man, and he welcomed me with frank curiosity. I showed him the little photograph I have of my blood parents, Adamina and Stefan, and he accepted me straightaway. He said that Wyldcliffe was one of his family’s regular stopping places, where they could rest and wait until the better weather had settled. Then they would travel on the open road again, following the traditional routes. While they stayed in Wyldcliffe the men did odd jobs in the village, and the women sold lace and baskets where they could. The older people in the camp were wary of me at first, but once they believed my story they accepted me as one of their own. Zak’s father gave me a carved whistle, and his mother taught me some of her secrets for foretelling the weather. And every morning Zak and I raced our ponies over the sweet turf of the moors and laughed until I could hardly breathe. I thought I knew a lot about the countryside, but he showed me where the earliest flowers were raising their heads, and where the mother birds had laid their eggs, and where the badgers made holes for their young. Then I had to hurry back to school before I got into trouble with Miss Featherstone.

  Once, as we lay on the grass under the bright new sun, Zak leaned over and kissed me.

  Perhaps I should cross that part out of my tale, but I am not ashamed of it. His lips tasted of sweet apples, and there was a look in his eyes as he held me that turned my heart over. The next moment he laughed again and pulled me to my feet. But I thought often of that kiss, and the smell of his skin and the touch of his dark hair on my cheek. I still think of him. I always shall.

  The Gypsy men kept themselves a little apart from the women and the children in the camp. They were proud and handsome and marvelous riders. They talked amongst themselves in harsh voices, sometimes in English and sometimes in their own language. Zak told me that they called one another “Brother” and would do anything to protect one another’s honor and safety. One day soon, Zak said, on his next birthday, he would be a Brother too.

  There was another man living in the camp. He was very good-looking, with long black hair like the Gypsies, but his skin was fair and his eyes were as blue as the sapphires in Mother’s ring. He spoke softly, just like Father does. The other men called him Fairfax, and Zak told me that he was gaje. That means that Fairfax was not one of the Roma. But Zak said that Fairfax often traveled with his family for a while; then he would go away and no one would know where he had gone. He was a great conjuror and helped the Gypsies earn money when they visited towns and fairs.

  When Fairfax was in a good mood, he showed me some of his conjuring tricks. He made coins and playing cards disappear and drew an egg from my ear. At least he seemed to. Once he broke a little mirror into pieces, then spoke some strange words, and when he showed me the mirror again it was smooth and unbroken. He made me laugh with his tricks, but his blue eyes looked sad. Zak whispered in my ear that Fairfax had killed someone and was under a curse that meant he could never grow old. I didn’t believe him. Fairfax couldn’t have been a murderer. He was too sad and beautiful for that. Besides, I wasn’t afraid of him, and I am sure I would have been if he had really been a criminal. I wasn’t afraid of any of the Brothers. Perhaps it would have been better if I had been.

  The nurse is coming into the room.

  I must hide this.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darling Sarah,

  Hide this when you get it. I couldn’t bear anyone to read it except you, my Gypsy girl. I can only speak in this way to you and to no one else. I don’t open my heart easily.

  It is three weeks since I left Wyldcliffe with my family, and every day has been filled with thoughts of the time we spent together. It was far too short, but the memories will always be precious. I remember our rides on the moors and evening sun on your hair. I wanted so much to hold you in my arms, and to ask you to run away with me, but I knew that would be impossible. Fate has declared that we must be apart. Instead I onl
y have your memory for consolation, but I will return one day, so that we can be together again. Then you will have a thousand kisses from me, my angel. . . .

  Yours for all eternity, Cal

  I never got that letter. It existed only as a fantasy in my head. Even if Cal had written to me, he wouldn’t have used such words. They were the clichés I had read a hundred times in library books, and had nothing to do with the rough-haired, fiercely independent boy that I had met. Cal had been terse and guarded and unexpected, but I had sensed his warm nature underneath his caution of strangers and his hard way of life. And he had liked me, I was sure of that. On the night of Mrs. Hartle’s death on the moors, when we were all standing about in shock, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to lean against Cal for comfort, and to feel his arm round my shoulders. Afterward we had often ridden out together, and he had given me small tokens and gifts—a flower, a feather, a carved whistle—but he had never kissed me. My body was aching with secret desires, and I knew it wasn’t really about Josh.

  As I watched Josh walk away from the stables, happy in the knowledge that he would see Evie in the morning, I forced myself to acknowledge that my feelings for Josh had been nothing but a crush that would fade as easily as it had blossomed. Officially, of course, I had already completely forgiven Evie for being the one to attract Josh instead of me. What was it I had said? My heart isn’t broken, only bruised.

  It wasn’t just my heart that had been bruised, though; it had been my pride. If Cal had stayed, maybe things would have been different, but he was gone and he hadn’t written and I felt abandoned. My pride had turned sour, like milk standing in the sun.

  I gave Starlight a last, lonely hug and wandered out of the stable yard and into the walled kitchen garden nearby. Hardly any students went there, apart from the few of us who were keen on growing flowers and fruit on our own little patches of ground. This place had given me such pleasure once, but it seemed dead and overgrown now. There was no one there, and I sat disconsolately on a low stone bench, alone with my uncomfortable thoughts.

  Oh, I had always been so honest and frank, but I hadn’t been truly honest with Evie, or even with myself. Now I had to admit to my shame that although I loved her like a sister, I also secretly resented her. What do they call it? Sibling rivalry?

  I loved Evie for her beauty and grace and courage, for her talents and the mysterious depths of her personality. She seemed to me to be like some kind of mermaid princess, with her sea-gray eyes and her slim figure and her long red hair. Sebastian had loved her almost to madness, and now, as easily and naturally as breathing, Josh was ready to love her too. And what was I in comparison? Apple-cheeked Sarah, everybody’s friend and nobody’s soul mate, my fingers grubby from digging herbs and plants in my garden, or from grooming horses and playing with the stable cat. There was nothing mysterious about me. Nothing to attract that look of love that I had dreamed about so many times.

  There is a temptation to tear this part out of my story and present myself in a better light, but I won’t. The Mystic Way is a path of healing, and telling the truth about one’s malady is the first step to being cured.

  Sitting on that stone bench in the empty, chilly garden, my self-pity threatened to overwhelm me. But the promises I had made to myself dragged me back to the present like a heavy chain.

  I stood up and pushed Josh’s envelope into my pocket. It was no use brooding over pathetic dreams of love and romance, I told myself, when my sisters were in danger. Miss Scratton had said there would be something we could do to protect ourselves. At least I could find out what that was and do it, whatever it was, whatever it cost. It would be a way for me to hide my ugly feelings and be useful to the others, to prove that I loved them and to earn their love in return. . . .

  I would be good.

  I would be strong.

  I would be Sarah.

  I found Evie in the music room, where she was sorting out scores for choir practice—one of the jobs she had to do as a scholarship student.

  “Hey,” I said. “Have you got a minute?”

  “I’m kind of busy,” she mumbled, not looking up from the sheets of music spread out on the top of the grand piano.

  “I saw Josh. He asked me to give you something.”

  Now I had her attention. “Josh? What did he say? Is he still waiting for me?” Her cheeks flushed slightly, and there was eagerness in her voice.

  “No, he had to go home. But he wanted me to give you this.”

  I handed over the little package, and she opened the note quickly. I was going to walk away and leave her there to enjoy her love letter, but she gave a low gasp.

  “Sarah, wait, it’s something about Agnes. Oh my God!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Josh has found a connection between his family and Agnes . . . listen . . .”

  She smoothed the note out and started to read aloud in a hurried whisper.

  “‘Dear Evie’. . . um . . . then it says, ‘I’ve found something out about Agnes. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it. You remember I showed you the photo my family has of Martha—Agnes’s old nurse? She lived at Uppercliffe Farm and secretly looked after Agnes and her daughter, Effie (your great-great-grandmother, of course), when they came back from London. I told you my mother’s family was related to Martha’s. They lived at Uppercliffe before the farm was abandoned after the First World War. The three brothers in the family were all killed, and there was no one to carry on. Anyway, I asked Mom to dig out any more photos she had of the old days, and she gave me a whole bunch of mementos that had come from the farm, old photos and letters, all sorts. Mom isn’t really interested in the past—much too practical, and she’d never really bothered to take much notice of this stuff, but I think it’s amazing. And it might be important—for us. I must see you tomorrow—’”

  Evie broke off. She looked scared, but I was burning with curiosity. “So what is it?” I said. “What has he found?”

  She slowly undid the bundle of papers. There were more sepia-tinted photographs printed on stiff card, of long-dead people connected to both Martha and Josh. The photos showed strong, upright farmers and their stoutly handsome wives, dressed in their awkward Sunday best and staring rigidly ahead into the camera. But one photo was of a young girl of about eight years old, with fine features, silky curls, and haunting eyes.

  “Look, Sarah, this has to be Effie!” Martha’s family had adopted her as one of their own after Agnes died, so Agnes’s parents, Lord and Lady Templeton of Wyldcliffe Abbey, never knew anything about her. Evie gazed in fascination at the faded image of her great-great grandmother.

  “There are some other things,” I said. “What are they?”

  Tucked under the photographs was a fine sheet of paper, almost as thin as tissue. Evie unfolded it and said, “It’s Agnes’s handwriting . . . it’s a letter.”

  She sat down at one of the desks in the music room, and I could see that she was trembling.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” I asked.

  “Yes . . . no . . . I . . . oh, Sarah,” she whispered. “It brings it all back! This brings Agnes so close . . . and Sebastian . . . I don’t know if I can take it.”

  “But Josh thinks it’s something you’d want to know. If it had been something bad, he would have warned you, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.” She raised her beautiful gray eyes pleadingly. “Will you read it, Sarah?”

  She passed the fragile piece of paper to me, and I began to read the letter aloud.

  “‘London, ninth November 1884. My dear Martha, How good of you to write to me here in my humble lodgings! It was kind of you indeed to send me your heartfelt consolations after my poor Francis’s death. He was a tender and faithful husband, despite his poor health and ill fortune. My grief for him is tempered by the knowledge that he is released from his earthly sufferings, and I am comforted by the “sure and certain hope” tha
t we shall be reunited in the next life. And he has left me with the most precious gift, my bairn as you call her, dearest darling little Effie. She is such a bonny baby, and I long for you to see her and pet her as you once petted me. Your letters are like treasures that I pore over again and again, my faithful friend. You are my only link with my old life at Wyldcliffe. I long to get away from this smoky, foggy city, and I dream of returning to my dear valley’s clear air and familiar scenes. If only my parents at the Abbey could see my baby and welcome her too.

  “‘There is something I need to speak of, Martha—’

  “Are you okay, Evie?” I asked, breaking off from the letter. She was gripping her hands together as though dreading what might come next.

  “Yes—carry on—we have to know—”

  “‘There is something I need to speak of, Martha. When, almost two years ago at the start of this strange journey, I healed the blindness caused by the cataract in your eyes, you did not know then that it was the sacred fire of the Mystic Way that gave me the power to help you. Now you know all my secrets, and although you were first afraid that such dealings were ungodly, you understand now that all I could do was sanctioned by nature and the Great Creator. After long study, I know more of these mysteries and their workings. I must tell you about something that I did not know when I cured your failing sight.

  “‘In reaching out to heal you, a spark of the sacred fire passed from me to you. It will do you no harm, but will warm and radiate the people around you—passed in its turn by your love to your dear family, those living now and those to come. It is a great mystery, but I repeat—it will do them no harm. The spark may lie hidden for generations, then blaze out like the sun, linking that person back to me and my path of healing. Fire is the divine force that sears to cleanse and cure, that touches all our passions and drives our loves. I hope that you will not be afraid but welcome this news as a gift. Your family may not be rich in coins, but touched by the secret flame, they will always be rich in love. I see your descendants striding tall and courageous over the moors, tending the land and their flocks, golden-haired like the ripe corn, as true and strong as the oak trees that grow on the grounds of my old home! May they be blessed.