I don’t like you looking at some of those books.’
‘I washed my hands,’ she whimpered. ‘Promise.’
‘It’s not just that. Shhh. Be a brave girl, now, and listen to me. Some of those books, you see, are about things you don’t need to know about, not yet. That one you were looking at … You know what magic is, don’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Well people used to believe there were different kinds of magic – good and bad magic. That book talks a lot about bad magic. You can read it when you’re older, but if you read it now you might get upset and have bad dreams. You don’t want to have bad dreams, now do you?’
Lyn shook her head in tearful mute agreement.
‘There’s a good girl …’ He fingered her fringe; then smiled at her. The fond, familiar smile she knew of old. ‘You really like reading, don’t you? Like to find things out. That’s good, Lyn. Very good. I shouldn’t blame you.’
‘Martin calls me Bookworm,’ she mumbled.
‘Never you mind what Martin says. You keep on reading. But remember that some things aren’t for you yet. Until I think you’re old enough, all right?’
She nodded again; then hesitated. ‘Daddy … will I need glasses?’
He gave a quizzical frown. ‘What makes you think you do?’
‘Martin says I’ll need glasses, ‘cos I read too much.’
‘Does he, indeed? Well I don’t need them, and look how much I’ve read. Don’t worry about your brother, he’s just a jealous little rascal.’ He jogged her on his knee. ‘What is he?’ She smiled tremulously. ‘A jealous little rascal.’
‘That’s more like it. Come on, now. Let’s see if Mummy wants some help with supper …’
Or something. He’d said something like that. It was curious how clearly she remembered. Most of the words had faded, but the pictures were still clear. Daddy’s hair had been mostly black – not silver-grey like now. And there she’d been, still small enough to sit on his knee. So different from her tall, slim self today.
Daddy’s grown-up daughter now; the clever girl he’d always been so proud of.
Lyn sat down on the sofa, and tucked her legs up under her. A dull weight of nostalgia filled her chest. She’d already written home this week – but when she got back tonight, she’d phone as well.
After more than a decade, she could still feel a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t made her promise not to read those books again – and so, one afternoon, she’d gone and done so.
It had taken her a while to work up the nerve. He’d told her not to do it, and by and large she did what she was told. But a strange, perverse attraction won her over in the end. The lure of the forbidden: sickly-sweet. An urge to peep at things that might upset her.
She remembered how her heart had thudded as she’d taken down the heavy book, and turned its dusty pages. The picture of the star-chart had stayed in her head; a shadow at the back of her mind. Enigmatic. Secret. Her lips felt as dry as the leaves of the book as she unfolded it again.
Memory had built it up; spread out, it looked much smaller. The words still made no sense. Not even the ones around the rim, which – though clearer – had been printed in some foreign-looking language.
She’d turned to the text: there had to be a reference in the chapter. Something to explain that troubling description. She’d found the passage, but could only remember fragments of it now. Fourteenth-century copy of an earlier work, now lost. The word had struck her, even as she kept on reading. With all these books around her, how could anything be lost? Surely it was hidden somewhere; forgotten, in an attic or a cellar. It bothered her to think that it had ceased to exist. If there hadn’t been a copy, all that work would just have vanished. As if it had never been.
The writing (she discovered) was Medieval Latin, with the constellations labelled in Old English. Hebrew characters as well. No wonder that she couldn’t understand it.
… Ursa Major is marked as ‘æelgar’ (a personal name), while ‘fluar’ (meaning unclear) denotes the constellation Draco …
There was more on the way the star-chart was set out; but though she strained her mind now, only those two names had stuck. She’d taken them phonetically back then: Edelgar, of course, not …
Athelgar.
She knew it was coincidence, the testament she’d found. So that was enigmatic, too. So what?
Fluthar was a nonsense-name. She couldn’t work it out. Scribal error, probably. The earlier work already being corrupted.
She lay there on the sofa, feeling listless. It must be the link with Martin that had got her down like this. Her jealous little rascal of a brother. She sniffed, and was surprised to find how close she was to tears.
She’d got what she deserved, that day; the thought was almost satisfying now. Growing bored with the so-called Magic book, she’d put it away, and returned to the big volume on the Middle Ages. One of the chapters was called King Death. Something had made her hesitate; and then she’d turned the page – and kept on turning.
Horrors swarmed towards her, almost boiling from the book. A painting from a manuscript showed knights being hacked to pieces, limb from limb. Statues carved on tombs were split and rotting, full of worms. A skeleton was riding down his victims, his eyeless horse as ghostly as an X-ray. And there he was, King Death himself: a gutted, grinning figure with a gold crown on his skull.
She’d wanted to stop looking, but she couldn’t. As if she had to know the very worst. She’d come to another fold-out page – and opened up the gateway into Hell.
A panoramic painting, full of horrid, screaming detail. A tide of naked people, flowing down into the Pit. Hideous monsters clutched at them, and beat them with spiked clubs. Real, despairing faces cried for help – but the devils overwhelmed them. They seemed to spring up everywhere, alive on the page: shaggy, scaly, homed and fanged. She’d sat there with wide eyes and soaked it up.
It had taken quite an effort to close the book again. The images stayed crowding in her head. Subdued, she’d put the book away, and crept out of the room. And Daddy had been right, of course. That night she’d had bad dreams.
1
They’d walked for a while in Christ Church Meadow, then meandered into Oxford through the backstreets and the lanes. Sitting on the steps of the Martyrs’ Memorial, Fran reckoned she must still look like a student. Same gypsy clothes, same sturdy boots. Same undernourished look.
Craig’s arm was resting gently round her shoulders. He’d held on a little tighter as they’d walked past Christ Church College, as if afraid she’d break away and run towards the walls. But all she could do was turn her head, and watch it passing by. The citadel from which she’d been excluded.
The pavements here in front of her were thronged with real students. She wished she could slip through time again, and fall into step beside them. Being twenty-three had never felt so old. She rested her head against Craig’s shoulder, and smelled the musty leather of his coat.
‘You sure about this evening?’ he asked quietly.
She raised her head again. ‘Would I have asked you if I wasn’t?’
He conceded the point with an amiable shrug. ‘I wanted to be sure I wasn’t … rushing you too much.’
‘Don’t worry.