When alive, Renoir had relished teaching Charlotte pretty much all he knew while Morag, on the other hand, nurtured Edessa’s creativity. The twins were like the grandchildren the couple had never had. Since Renoir had passed away, Morag spent most of her free time with the Stones and was virtually one of the family, acting as guardian for the twins when their parents were away. While she had business in Paris, they were all staying in the tiny apartment above a bakery on the Rue des Saules.
It wouldn’t be long before it was back to the relatively boring Pimlico flat and a classroom routine (there had even been disturbing suggestions of the twins actually attending a school), so they were determined to make the most of their final days of freedom. Edessa and Morag adored spending hours floating around the various art galleries Paris had to offer, while Charlotte was most at home in the airy halls of the Louvre amongst the Egyptian antiquities.
The various artefacts on display were like old friends to Charlotte and she knew each one intimately. She smiled as she walked leisurely through the collection, mentally correcting a number of the information cards as she went. On the back wall a new stela caught Charlotte’s attention and naturally she made a beeline to it.
‘Hello, you’re new,’ she muttered excitedly to herself, checking there were no guards around.
Charlotte ignored the Ne pas Toucher sign and placed her hands on the cold stone tablet, breathing deeply. It had been marked up as 18th dynasty – that was wrong, this was much older. She got a feeling of 5th dynasty and the birth of Hieroglyphics.
The image showed an acacia tree under which stood two identical people, one on each side of the tree in traditional, symmetrical Egyptian poses. She had no idea why, but the image gave Charlotte goosebumps, especially when she noticed the lozenge-shaped object at the bottom of the stela. It radiated light, each beam tipped with an ankh symbol, while a third figure buried it deep in the ground. Charlotte scrolled quickly through the glyphs that accompanied the image for any clues of its meaning, but there was nothing – just like the stone in the cave.
As she closed her eyes Charlotte could feel the power of chisel against granite, biting out deep flecks of sparkling rock; this was an official proclamation and the stela had been manufactured in haste. It was also deliberately vague, its meaning to be understood only by a select few. Soon Charlotte found herself in a blur of Nile sounds and the heat of an ancient sun. She would get nothing more.
‘Charlotte,’ someone hissed.
Charlotte snapped back to the stark light of the Louvre to find Morag looking over her square glasses with a serious look on her face. Morag always knew exactly where to find her: amongst the Egyptian collection as usual. She was nothing if not predictable, like father like daughter.
‘Charlotte, you need to come with me please.’ Morag beckoned her to hurry.
‘What’s happened?’ Charlotte could feel her stomach tighten; she could tell something was wrong as soon as she saw Morag’s face.
‘You have to come quickly,’ Morag replied.
‘I’m not going anywhere till you tell me why,’ Charlotte insisted. If Morag had bad news she wanted to be in familiar surroundings.
‘This really isn’t the place for this.’
Charlotte crossed her arms resolutely. ‘It’s the perfect place, and I’m not moving from this spot till you tell me what’s going on.’
‘Fine,’ Morag sighed, taking a deep breath before she continued. ‘You might want to sit down for this.’
Under a colossus of Rameses II, Morag divulged the full contents of the email she had just received.
‘Lost? Presumed… dead?’ Charlotte repeated the words. There had to be a mistake. She had seen her parents alive and well less than forty-eight hours ago, waving excitedly as they boarded a plane for Ghadames. No, she refused to believe it; they knew how to take care of themselves.
‘There’s more.’
Charlotte was not normally prone to panic but the room felt as if all the oxygen was being sucked out of it and she was having trouble breathing as her skin became clammy and crawled with dread. Edessa! Something had happened to Edessa.
‘Your sister…’ Morag struggled to find the words and avoided eye contact, ‘… well, she’s… we don’t know how it happened…’
‘She’s unconscious,’ Charlotte whispered.
‘She’s in a coma, Charlotte.’
There was no other way to say it.
Morag put her arm around the girl. Normally so full of fire and determination she had never seen her so fragile and deflated; and in the blink of an eye. Morag had been dreading this moment. She knew Charlotte would take the news of her sister the hardest and she felt powerless as the young girl sat there, silent as a statue. Morag imagined she could see the light dim slightly in Charlotte’s eyes, and her heart broke at the sight.
‘Let’s go home, sweetheart,’ Morag finally whispered.
‘No, I need to see her. Take me to the hospital… please,’ Charlotte murmured, determined not to cry.
Rosemary Heights
Charlotte didn’t say a word all the way from London to Norwich. She would have made it all the way to Wykenhall if it hadn’t been for the chatty conductor.
‘So, you off to the seaside, little lady?’
Charlotte just scowled, something which she now had down to a fine art. Morag gave her a warning glare.
‘I guess so,’ Charlotte muttered mutinously, staring resolutely out the window. The conductor mumbled something about the youth of today before walking off down the aisle.
It wasn’t long ago that Charlotte had had a normal life. Well, maybe not normal compared to most thirteen-year-olds, trekking around remote places in the dust and bones of ancient civilisations, but she had a family and a life she loved. She’d even been known to smile then, Morag had once barked after losing patience with her for the umpteenth time. Morag herself had been more laid back and fun then too, Charlotte recalled.
She would visit the Stone household almost every evening, cooing over Edessa’s artwork and enthralling them all after dinner with a rendition of some Scottish fairy tale. That had been part of ‘family Stone normal’ though, and that had long since disappeared.
Outside, the view was looking decidedly cold and wet and Charlotte’s heart sank. She was not fond of the drab English countryside and it was clear Morag considered her an inconvenience, to be dumped on some stranger in the back of beyond. Anger bubbled inside her.
‘It’s best you’re with family,’ was all Morag would say on the subject but Morag was family and Charlotte felt betrayed.
Charlotte’s things had already been packed and sent ahead to East Anglia and her head was still spinning from the swiftness of it all. Brackenheath-on-Sea. She didn’t know exactly where it was but she already knew she wouldn’t like it. She rolled the word round in her mouth and it felt weird, tasting of sour milk, twigs and damp grass.
Madame Cortes’ prediction was not lost on Charlotte – ‘A journey to the East’ – but it didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. A jumble of noise over the tannoy brought her back to reality and the train began to slow.
Though the platform was surprisingly busy, Wykenhall station did nothing to reassure Charlotte. It was little more than a hut. Sickly green paint peeled off the walls and the wooden benches lining the platform were crumbling into dust. Outside, the road wasn’t even tarmac, just a narrow dirt track. Squat oak trees enclosed the place, their gnarly trunks stained with dark goo that filled the ugly splits in their bark.
While Morag tried to locate their host Charlotte just stared through the branches into the blue sky above. A breeze sent a shower of waterdrops down on her and as she brushed them out of her eyes she thought she saw something on the track. A watery shimmer appeared for a split moment to her left before disappearing into the air, reminding her of the mirages of the Moroccan deserts.
As the breeze picked up, dust and twigs tumbled down the track in its grasp. Charlotte swore she could hear
chanting, like the navigation song of the Bedouins – perhaps her parents were singing their way back home right now. It was a crazy notion and she dismissed it immediately. Charlotte strained to make out the voices but they were indistinct. She couldn’t tell if they were male or female but she could just about make out the sounds as they echoed around her. ‘Saaaaaaar, Reeeeeeeei, Gaaar…’
The sudden blast of a car horn startled her as a yellow VW Beetle came charging down the road and the chanting was gone.
So this is the mysterious Aunt Clarissa I’ve never heard of, Charlotte thought to herself as a thin, silver-haired woman dressed in purple gracefully extricated herself from the car.
‘So sorry I’m late, dears, traffic is awful again.’
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, looking up and down the road that was empty of any other ‘traffic’.
Clarissa and Morag exchanged greetings like long lost friends then, without warning, Clarissa rounded on Charlotte. She stared intently for a good couple of minutes, which unnerved Charlotte. It wasn’t so much the staring – Charlotte would have enjoyed a good staring match – it was the strange, almost sinister look in the old woman’s eyes and the sense that she had seen her somewhere before.
Impossible, Charlotte thought but Madame Cortes’ words ‘ancient family’ echoed in her ears.
Aunt Clarissa was not so much looking at her but through her, as if she was in some sort of trance. Even the sky had darkened as if in sympathy with her solemn mood. Charlotte was just about to say something just to break the silence when Aunt Clarissa suddenly announced cheerfully, ‘You must be Charlotte. You have your mother’s eyes.’
The clouds rolled away and a beam of sunlight suddenly burst through the branches above them making Charlotte jump. What is wrong with you? she thought, trying to maintain her air of indifference.
‘Well, I’m sure you must both be parched after your trip so why don’t we head home for a nice cup of tea…’ Aunt Clarissa beamed, pushing the front seat forward so that Charlotte could get in the back. ‘… And yes, of course you can have something “a bit more interesting”, my dear,’ she added, winking at Charlotte.
‘How old are you?’ Charlotte asked as they drove off, face pressed against the car window.
Morag reddened. ‘You, child, have the manners of a goat. What has happened to you?’
‘Well, let me see…’ Charlotte’s voice was loaded with sarcasm and she desperately wanted to find something clever to say but the statement simply hung in the air while memories threatened to engulf her. She said nothing more in case her voice betrayed her.
‘Eighty-six, dear.’
Distracted from goading Morag and grateful for the break in the silence, Charlotte swivelled round in surprise. ‘But that’s ancient!’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You don’t look that old.’
‘Well, thank you, dear,’ Clarissa stifled a laugh. ‘Coming from you I suspect that is a compliment!’
‘How are we related exactly?’ Charlotte changed the subject.
‘Technically I’m your great aunt on your mother’s side… it is good to finally have you home, though it’s a shame it had to be under these circumstances.’ Clarissa gave her a sympathetic smile in the rear view mirror.
The landscape was alien to Charlotte; flat and boring with too much sky. Chocolate-box cottages trailed with the bare branches of rose and wisteria passed her by, alternating with freshly ploughed brown fields as the car sped onwards along the bumpy and ridiculously windy country roads. Most were barely wider than the car with bushy hedgerows obscuring from view anything that might be hurtling, equally as fast, in the opposite direction.
A madman must have made them, Charlotte concluded as she was tossed around in the back of the car, and a crazy old bat is driving on them; what a way to die.
The first sight Charlotte had of the family house, Rosemary Heights, was a glimpse of the turret room above the tree-tops of the small wood that cascaded down the shallow valley of Brackenheath-on-Sea. Aunt Clarissa pointed out with enthusiasm that it was to be her room. At the top of the cliff, the grand house dominated the skyline, towering over the little village.
As they drove through the main street they passed the only local amenities – a tiny shop, a park and weathered old pub. In that moment the true horror of her situation dawned. She would find no solace in grand libraries and museums here.
Rosemary Heights was impressive and old, but it was out of keeping with the modern buildings that now surrounded it. If it wasn’t for the soft green lawn, rosemary bushes and the climbing ivy that gave it a more gentle feel, it would have been very sinister indeed.
Sea mist melted the pointed turret tops, and moss-encrusted stone gateposts, topped with gargoyles, guarded the entrance. Charlotte could smell the rosemary that gave the place its name. Large bushes of it full of delicate blue flowers were growing along the neat gravel drive adding a dash of colour to the sleeping landscape. The drive wound its way through a huge undulating front lawn up to the main door at the side of the house and to the most spectacular stained-glass window Charlotte had ever seen.
A life-sized, serene female dressed in simple robes of various greens holding a bouquet of rosemary coloured from white to dark blue flanked the heavy wooden door. Below the window was a man-made pool, which caught the flowing waters of a natural spring.
‘It’s a depiction of St Lucci,’ said Aunt Clarissa, noticing Charlotte’s thrall as they got out of the car. ‘She’s a local saint and this place used to be her sanctuary at one point in its long history.’
Remembering that she didn’t actually want to be here, Charlotte just shrugged and turned to get her bags out of the boot. Behind her the two women smiled at each other knowingly; she hated it when adults did that and they probably thought she hadn’t seen them!
Aunt Clarissa retrieved a heavy-looking iron key from her pocket and opened the front door to reveal a stone-floored porch beyond which was a large circular lobby, its walls partly covered in light wood panelling. On either side of the glass porch doors were two huge geodes of dark purple crystal that were slightly taller than Charlotte.
They sparkled in the sunlight and the cream carpet and walls of the lobby beyond were covered with jewel colours that flickered and shifted like the patterns inside a kaleidoscope. When Charlotte looked up she saw the cause of this light display was another stunning piece of stained glass in the domed skylight overhead.
The place felt wonderfully calm and even had that smoky sweet smell of churches. No other children lived here, that was clear, but that didn’t bother Charlotte as she removed her shoes reverently; she was quite happy to have this beautiful place all to herself.
Stepping past the crystal geodes Charlotte suddenly felt her legs buckle beneath her and she almost fainted, just managing to steady herself at the last minute on the glass doors. A brilliant light pricked the back of her eyes and after a moment of silence a single note pulsed through her body from the soles of her feet to the hairs on her head. A sense of being home overwhelmed her.
Charlotte couldn’t be sure how long she had been stood there, but the gentle brush of a cat’s tail and plaintive meow brought her back to her surroundings. This is not my home, she thought angrily before marching into the hall. In the middle of the hall a fluffy grey cat sat staring at her, head cocked as if it was assessing this new addition to the household.
‘That’s Quintillian,’ Aunt Clarissa said behind her as if nothing had happened, and the cat meowed again at hearing its name, before running off into the depths of the house.
Pets; that could be fun, Charlotte thought. She had never been allowed pets before, well, if you didn’t count the hamster that Morag had ended up looking after and eventually donating to a local school.
‘Do you have any other animals?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Why yes, dear,’ Clarissa beamed. ‘There’s Quintillian’s brother Cicero; he’s a skittish little thing so you probably won’t see him for a while. Then the
re’s Maude and Maurice the chickens and Obadiah the goat.’ Charlotte nodded politely but said nothing. It was not exactly a typical home menagerie.
Around her now were four chunky wood doors leading to rooms she would explore later. Her attention was drawn instead to the magnificent sweeping staircase to her right that led up to a balcony overlooking the lobby. Somewhere up there was her own turret room. Without even a backward glance at the adults she picked up her suitcase and headed up the stairs taking them two at a time. As first impressions went, she had to admit that this place was amazing – but she still wasn’t planning on staying long.
Charlotte instantly disliked her suite of rooms, impressive as they were. Not only was it very girly with the light pink walls, Charlotte had never had so much space to herself. Here she had her own bathroom and sitting room complete with an open fireplace. There was even a veranda and lots of beautiful antique furniture, including a mahogany desk inlaid with green leather and a number of bookshelves, perfect for her collection of scientific journals, artefacts and history books. It should have been heaven, but it felt too big and empty without her sister.
The massive windows allowed light to pour in and gave her panoramic views of the sea and surrounding heathland. Other people might like such a view but to Charlotte it seemed like the landscape was intruding and she felt vulnerable and exposed.
The Stone residence by comparison had been a small flat close to the Thames in Pimlico, which they had inherited from some distant relative on her father’s side.
Edessa and Charlotte had shared a room as the tiny third bedroom was needed for their parents’ study but it had been no hardship sharing with her twin. Even though the room was barely large enough for the double bunk they shared, it hadn’t felt overcrowded, just snug and cosy like the rest of the flat. Charlotte had always been neat and tidy but her sister took after her parents and the flat was full to bursting with an organised mess of ballet pumps, art brushes, archaeology books, tools, journals and trays of various bits of rather boring ancient relics like bones and broken pottery.
Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet Page 2
