Can we go home already?

  “I’ll do the walk-through,” I say, already regretting it. But I also know it’s my decision. I want to do it. Sort of.

  “Anyway, go warm yourself downstairs and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”

  I grab my hot chocolate and head back out into the hallway.

  The festering growth stirs upstairs.

  I know you’re there, I acknowledge the spirit, wanting to stand up to it. To her. Madame LeNoir.

  I walk purposefully towards the stairs and take them at a normal pace.

  Around me, the walls remain still and smooth.

  I’m in the lovely warm kitchen in no time. It’s all set up for the afternoon’s visitors, complete with mince pies, sweet little marzipan mice and cups ready for welcoming mulled wine.

  The yellow glow of the fire shines bright off the copper pots and pans hanging above.

  The fancy jellies on the kitchen table gleam, as if illuminated from within.

  The gingerbread men’s currant eyes twinkle.

  The hearth beckons me towards it.

  “So, you’re finally ready.” Elsie doesn’t need to turn around in her chair to know it’s me.

  I go over and sit down. “Yes. And, um, I’m sorry. For taking so long.”

  She smiles at me. “That’s all right. What made you change your mind?”

  “I met Freya’s mother last night. Robyn. And . . .” I pause, not really knowing how to explain what happened. “It was sort of like everything that came out of her mouth was wrong.”

  Elsie chuckles. “That sounds like Robyn.”

  “Anyway, I thought . . . I don’t want to be that sort of person. The sort of person who’s only worried about what they want and think and feel. Who can’t see what other people need. That’s the thing . . . I knew you needed my help and I wanted to help you. I was just scared, I guess.”

  Elsie nods. “I know. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all get scared sometimes. What’s important is what you do with that fear. I’ve always found it best to acknowledge it and then to do exactly what it is you know you must do anyway.”

  “Freya wasn’t scared. Of her mother, I mean.”

  “No. She never has been, really. She was lucky that she made such good friends at boarding school. She made her own family, really. Cobbled it together.”

  “You’re a cobble. I’m a cobble.”

  Elsie laughs. “And very happy cobbles we are together too.”

  “Robyn said one thing that made me think. About Clementine. She asked Freya how she’d react if I had a friend who was a bad influence.”

  “Ooh, that is a tricky one. And I suppose she does have a point. It must be very worrisome to have a child who is getting into trouble at school. But you can’t just go around cutting everyone out of your life every time they do or say something that you think isn’t right. I suppose the thing about Clementine was that she could sometimes do things and say things to get attention. That was because she’d worked out over the years that her parents wouldn’t give her attention any other way. She was a troubled soul. And she could be a difficult person. But being troubled and difficult doesn’t make you bad. Far from it. She was someone who felt very deeply and cared very much. She would have done anything for Freya. And for you. That much I know for certain.”

  I think about this. “You know that Freya and Clementine fought before Clementine had me? Freya wanted her to move into her apartment, but she wouldn’t. But she did listen to her. Freya always says she knows she must have listened, because everyone thought I’d have medical problems when I was born, but I didn’t.”

  “Yes,” Elsie says. “That’s exactly what I mean. I’m sure Clementine struggled during that time, but she somehow managed to look after herself. For you. And because, deep down, she knew Freya was right, even if she couldn’t admit it to her.”

  I look up at the ceiling, thinking about what’s above me.

  “I know,” I say. “About Madame LeNoir. I mean, I’ve always known in one way or another. But now I also know some of her story. I read Tanice’s book. And . . . well, I guess I’m ready. For whatever it is you need me to do.”

  Elsie stares back at me for what feels like forever before she answers. “You can do this, Lolli. I suspected it would all come down to you right from when you were a baby and you had such strong feelings about being in the house. Your connection to the twilight world is strong. Much stronger than mine. Maybe even as strong as Clara’s. And that’s who you need to speak to. So you run off upstairs and find her now. Clara will explain everything to you.”

  I go back upstairs. Tanice and Freya are now in the Regency drawing room. The room is decorated in robin’s-egg blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, dotted with gold-framed portraits. It’s not like the Victorian parlour, all cosy and snug. It’s a very prim and proper room, dotted with little tables and chairs for groups of three or four and one chaise longue that looks really uncomfortable.

  I pause for a moment in the doorway, my gaze skimming over all of this. I can’t see Clara anywhere.

  Slowly, slowly, I open myself up to the energy of the room.

  Nothing.

  I can’t feel Clara’s presence at all, though I can feel Madame LeNoir’s grinding anger upstairs.

  Inside the drawing room, Tanice and Freya are at the side table that runs against one wall, oohing and aahing over a cake.

  “Come and see!” Freya says, beckoning me over. “It arrived this morning.”

  I walk over to take a closer look. To be honest, it doesn’t look all that impressive. It’s a big round fruitcake decorated with plain white royal icing, white icing swans circling the top as if they’re sitting on a frozen lake. It’s the only Christmas decoration in the room.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much.” Tanice seems to guess at what I’m thinking. “But Christmas wasn’t really celebrated as we know it until the mid- nineteenth century. This is a Twelfth Night cake, which is what the Georgians would have had. There’s a little dried bean and a dried pea hidden inside, the pea on the left side and the bean on the right. Ladies get a slice from the left and gentleman from the right. If they find the pea or the bean, they become Queen or King for the night and rule the household.”

  “Sounds fun. But I prefer the internet.”

  Tanice laughs.

  “No cake for you,” Freya says.

  “I came to see if I could do the walk-through now?”

  “Sounds like a great idea,” Tanice says. “We’ll keep working.”

  “You know the drill,” Freya says. “By yourself. In silence. Really take everything in.”

  “I know.” I turn to go.

  “Lolli?”

  I look back at Freya.

  “All good?”

  I nod, even though everything feels far from good.

  Freya gives me a thumbs up.

  “I hope you love it, Lolli,” Tanice says. “If you open the front door wide and close it again, the audio will activate and play from the start.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I struggle to keep my voice from shaking.

  I leave the room and head back downstairs, all the time dodging and weaving inside – trying to find a way to block Madame LeNoir’s energy, while remaining open to Clara’s. It takes a lot of concentration and I’m not sure how to do it. Every time I open up to Clara, I find Madame LeNoir’s energy seeping in as well. Standing on the stairs, my hand on the handrail, I imagine that iron door of mine again. I visualise Madame LeNoir’s energy behind it. I make another door in front of that. And another. Iron over iron over iron. I shut them all tight. She will be forced to stay behind those doors until I choose to let her out.

  When I open my eyes again, I realise it might have worked. The angry spirit seems more distant, the roiling anger still there, but subdued. Held back. Maybe I can do this after all? Maybe I really do have the abilities Elsie thinks I have?

  I run the last few steps down and over to the front door, which I open and close quickly. The audio pauses and resets.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes once more.

  Here we go.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

  My eyelids flicker open.

  All is silent and still.

  And I am in the past.

  The hallway is dim, lit only by the glow of the candles on the wall lamps. Overhead, garlands of holly, ivy and mistletoe hang heavy. I hear the sound of a door slam upstairs. Footsteps. The family who lives here is moving about. Down below, in the kitchen, a voice, the scrape of a chair.

  I feel like an intruder. Like I should announce myself.

  But, no. There is to be no talking. Only observing. Feeling. Though I still don’t feel Clara.

  Where is she?

  Clara? I call out to her silently as I move down the hall. Clara!

  A few more steps take me to the first door on my right. I slip inside. It is a Georgian dining room. Painted a deep forest green, the low winter light coming in through the front window gives the walls a glossy sheen. Above, a chandelier is decorated with pine branches and cones and oranges. Dominating the room is a large portrait of a family member. He scowls down from above the fireplace. A dark round wooden table sits in the middle of the room. Four uncomfortable-looking high-backed dining chairs are pushed out at angles around it, as if the sitters have just upped and left the room. Food remains upon their plates. Some shucked oysters, half-drunk wine, clay pipes and spilled tobacco, a bowl of walnuts in their shells, some already cracked, a bowl of Turkish delight. A linen napkin lies scrunched, another rests over the back of a chair. I hear a voice in the hall. Have they gone to greet a family member at the front door? Maybe.

  One thing I know for sure – Clara is not here.

  I retrace my steps into the hallway and continue on.

  I know the next door to my right is a small study. But when I poke my head inside, I am met with nothing but a many-drawered heavy wooden desk and papers everywhere. The important Victorian businessman of the house has been doing his accounts, or Tanice has made it look this way. Before starting, he has made himself comfortable, shedding his silk waistcoat. I can hear his rumbling voice. A laugh. He has taken himself to the dining room for sustenance and will return to work late into the night by candlelight. It’s only when I look up that I see Christmas has come to the room – the children of the house have provided paper chains to jolly up Papa’s surrounds.

  Again, I back from the room. And I’m about to enter the next room on my right – the Victorian parlour – when I pause.

  Upstairs.

  The feeling is overwhelming.

  I need to go upstairs.

  Still attempting to keep Madame LeNoir at bay behind those doors in my mind, I place my hand on the rail and start upwards, leaving the crackle of the parlour fire behind me.

  Along the landing, the door to the Regency drawing room is still closed. I know the room that lies directly in front of me is the largest bedchamber. Beside it is a lady’s dressing-room.

  And I know Clara is in that dressing-room, hiding.

  Hiding from Madame LeNoir.

  I can feel it. Her.

  And I can feel that she wants me to come in there.

  She wants me to find her.

  My heart racing, I enter the room.

  It is frothy and frilly. A stuffed canary tweets prettily in a cage upon a small table set for tea. On a wooden dresser, a few small Christmas presents are stacked and others lie waiting to be wrapped.

  “Clara?” I whisper.

  My eye is drawn to the small fireplace and then up to the ornate mirror above it.

  I see myself.

  And a girl, standing behind me.

  I startle and whirl about.

  But there is no one there.

  I turn back around again to view my reflection and there she is once more. She has beautiful dark loose ringlets and wears a deep plum striped dress with full sleeves and many tucks upon the bodice that lead up to a high frill of lace about the neck. Her mouth has an interesting twist to it and her eyes are bright. She looks clever. As if she knows things. As if she knows me.

  “Hello, Lolli,” Clara says.

  “Elsie said you would come to find me.”

  I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. She is more real than any other spirit I’ve ever encountered. More present somehow. If I could turn around once more and see her actually standing in the room just as I see her in the mirror, I would believe that she is really, truly here.

  But I know I can’t do that.

  “Don’t move,” I say into the mirror. “Just . . . stay still. Stay right there.” It’s not that Clara is scary-looking, but the thought of her moving about if I take my eyes off her for a moment is creepy.

  Breathe. Just breathe. In and out. In and out.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you.” Clara looks worried.

  “No . . . it’s only . . .” I’ve never really spoken to a spirit before. Not properly, like this. Up until now, I’ve always pretended not to see them. I take a deep breath. “Elsie wanted me to find you. She keeps saying there’s something I have to do.”

  “Elsie’s been so good to me. So patient. I only wish we had been successful.”

  I frown. “What do you mean? Is this about Madame LeNoir?”

  “Yes. Elsie told me of your horrible experience with Madame LeNoir. I’m sorry you had to meet her.”

  “I’ve just been reading about her. I know that you were her apprentice and that she treated you badly – that you weren’t given enough to eat, that she made you lie to the Queen. That you ran away.” I stare at Clara in the mirror. For her to appear like this – as a girl of around twelve years or so – the rumours must have been true. Madame LeNoir must have taken her life. How awful. I have to say something. But what do you say about something like that? “I’m, um . . . I’m sorry that Madame LeNoir . . . er, you know . . .”

  “Oh! Oh, goodness no.” Clara shakes her head, her ringlets swaying. “It’s unfortunate that everyone thought as much at the time, but that’s not what happened. In fact, I lived a very long and happy life until the grand old age of eighty-nine. I married and had four lovely children. I did feel quite bad about those rumours when I found out. But the truth was I didn’t find out that everyone believed this until years afterwards. You see, I ran all the way to Dorset and had no contact with my family after that, or anyone I’d previously known. I was too afraid they would send me back to Madame LeNoir again.”

  I don’t understand. “But if you lived to be an adult, then why do you look like this?”

  “Elsie didn’t explain?”

  I shake my head. “She wants you to explain, I think.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, the reason I look like this is because Madame LeNoir did something almost as wicked as taking my life – she stole a piece of my very soul. She took it and bound it to something in this house. She thought by doing so that I’d never dare run away again. But I did.”

  “You mean she bound it to an object?”

  Clara’s head bobs. “Exactly that. And ever since my passing, I’ve been stuck here, trying to find out which object it is. Elsie’s been helping me.”

  “I didn’t know it was possible to do something like that. And you haven’t been able to work out which object it is? Not even together?”

  “No. We have no idea.”

  There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense to me. “But then why is Madame LeNoir here as well? And why is she so angry? Isn’t this what she wanted? For you to be trapped here?”

  Clara opens her mouth as if to begin explaining, then pauses. “It’s probably easier if I show you. May I?” She takes a tentative step forward.

  I pause for a moment as well, then nod. Elsie obviously trusts Clara, which means I should too.

  Clara comes to stand close to the mirror and I gasp as she places a palm up to touch it. It’s bizarre. Surreal. As if she’s on the other side of the mirror itself. Slowly, I bring my own hand up to touch hers.

  “Close your eyes,” she says.

  I’m hungry. So hungry. As if I haven’t eaten for days. Weeks.

  “Get upstairs. Go! Ungrateful, insolent child.”

  Someone pushes my back and I lurch forward, stumbling onto a set of stairs. I have to grasp at the handrail beside me to save myself. It takes me a moment to realise where I am. I’m on the stairs in the house. Except everything looks slightly different. A little more worn. Grimier. Another push forces me to start up the stairs, even though I barely have the energy to move. It takes everything I have to drag my feet up one step, then another. I see I’m wearing little leather boots with hard soles. They peek out from beneath my full, striped skirt.

  Finally, I understand.

  I am Clara. I am seeing the past through Clara’s eyes.

  Another shove as I round the corner.

  “Keep going. All the way. Go!”

  I have to drag myself upwards using the handrail, hand over hand. It’s as if my stomach is eating itself.

  “You think you can leave? After all I’ve done for you? I gave you a home – a good home – and this is how you repay me?”

  This isn’t a home, I want to argue. It’s a place of lies and fear. Of cruelty and starvation. But there is not enough energy for arguing. I’m not even sure I can make it up the final flight of stairs.

  “Get up there! To think you would disappoint the Queen herself. The Queen who only wants to converse with her dear, departed husband. Who do you think you are to deny the Queen?”

  I don’t know how I do it, but I make it into the attic room. My room. Clara’s room. Bare except for a small, hard iron-and-brass bed and a trunk that holds my few items of clothes. I want to fall onto the bed, weak and tired, but I don’t dare. There will be no rest until she leaves. Instead, I shuffle over to lean on the wall. I want to run. I want to push past Madame LeNoir like a whirlwind. Bolt downstairs to freedom. But I have used up the little energy I had left running to my family home. The moment my mother opened the door I knew I’d been wrong to do so. The look on her face. And all the things I’d forgotten – the smell. The wracking coughs. The fear in my mother’s eyes when she thought Madame LeNoir might believe she had persuaded me to come home. No, there will be no more running. Now I can only lean on the wall. Captured. I am a caged animal in her circus.