by Sam Short
“How long has he been asleep?” asked Reuben.
“Not long,” said Millie, using a fingernail to open the letter. “I’m going to wake him up soon. I’m going to tell him, Reuben.”
Despite what she’d heard Sergeant Spencer say to George, she was still going to tell him. Even if he did respond negatively. A negative response was still a better outcome than one of the alternatives. The idea of watching Sergeant Spencer’s memories being taken from him while knowing that he’d never — not even for a minute — known that Millie was his daughter, was tragic. That chain of events was not something she would accept. Even if the only memory of Sergeant Spencer as her father was of him telling Millie he didn’t want her as a daughter, that memory was still infinitely better than having not a single memory of him as her father.
“Good,” said the cockatiel. “I’m glad. You’d regret it if you didn’t.”
Unfolding the letter she slipped from the envelope, Millie began reading, her mind spinning as she made sense of the words before her.
Dear Millie,
Firstly, I should apologise for the way I treated you when you came to visit Beth. I was very abrasive and rude towards you, and I am truly sorry. I was reacting as a mother protecting her daughter, but I understand you meant Beth no harm; you just wanted answers to your questions.
Although I can be of no help with your murder enquiry, I do believe I can be of some help in the matter of your mother and her failure to revisit this world.
After you had left, I consulted some books on the matter. Although not apparent in the way it is written, I believe I understand why your mother has not yet returned as she promised she would.
The problem lies with the permanent bridge between her world and yours, which you told me your mother had spoken of. Your mother would have genuinely believed that a permanent bridge had been formed until she attempted to use it once more.
The bridge, of course, is metaphorical in construction. It is more likely to be a simple barrier of energy, a gate if you will, between the place your mother’s energy resides, and our world.
Having scoured the old texts, and performed a few translations, I think I understand why your mother hasn’t revisited you. The bridge she spoke of is only permanent when used by occupants from both worlds the bridge reaches between. When the spell that you cast formed the bridge, it would have felt permanent to your mother. The mistake she made in telling you so was a simple one to make, but in reality, the bridge will only remain permanent when you have used it to cross to her world in the same way she did to yours.
Having given you that information, I’m sorry that I cannot provide you with a suggestion as to how you can use the bridge. I will continue to study the books in search of an answer, but I’m not sure that I will discover one.
I hope this note helps you understand why your mother has not yet returned, and please know that my door is always open to you.
With regards,
Victoria
P.S. I’m sorry about the mess in your kitchen. Your familiar forced me to prepare cheese sandwiches for him. He flew onto the roof of your cottage with my car keys and refused to come down until I had fed him.
He possesses quite a rude vocabulary, doesn’t he?
Folding the note, Millie sighed.
“What did she say?” asked Reuben, cocking his head. “Did she say anything about me? If she did, it’s probably slander and lies.”
“No,” said Millie, giving her familiar a smile. “She didn’t say anything about you, Reuben. Victoria thinks she knows why my mother hasn’t revisited.”
Reuben gave Millie an inquisitive look, his head laid on his shoulder. “You don’t look very happy about that revelation, if I may say so. We’ve both been working hard to try and find out why your mother hasn’t returned. I’d have thought you’d have been relieved, at least.”
“I am,” said Millie. “But at the moment I have bigger priorities.”
“Of course,” replied the bird, turning his gaze to the man in the bed next to him. “Sergeant Spencer. Your father.”
“I’ve already lost my mother,” said Millie. “I had a long time to get used to the fact that she was dead. When she returned, it was amazing, beautiful, miraculous — all of those things, but now she’s gone again, I’m sort of used to it. I’ve had almost fifteen years of practice.” She stood up and approached the bed, placing a hand gently on her father’s chest as it rose and fell. “But not him. He’s different. I’ve only recently discovered that he’s my father, and it seems that I’m going to lose him before I even get to know him. My mother is gone, Reuben. My father is here, but he’s going to be gone soon.” Tears ran a warm course down her face. “I don’t think I can bear it,” she wept. “I’m not strong enough, Reuben.”
“You are, Millie,” said Reuben. “You are strong! You’re the strongest person I know. I won’t hear you speaking in that way about yourself! Not after what you’ve overcome in your life.” With a brisk flapping of wings, he flew from the bed and landed on Millie’s shoulder. He placed his beak tenderly against his witch’s ear and spoke in a whisper. “Wake him up, Millie. Right now. Wake Sergeant Spencer up and tell him he’s the father to a courageous, beautiful, intelligent, kind, and amazing daughter.”
“Thank you, Reuben,” sobbed Millie. “Those words meant a lot to me.” Taking a deep breath and wiping as many tears from her face as she could, she moved her hand to her father’s shoulder. She looked into the sleeping man’s face. “You’re my father,” she whispered.
“Louder, Millie,” urged Reuben. “Shake that man awake and tell him.”
Applying pressure to his shoulder, Millie leaned closer to Sergeant Spencer’s face. “Wake up,” she said, shaking him gently. “Wake up.”
“He’s in a deep sleep,” said Reuben when the policeman failed to respond. “Shake him harder.”
Raising her voice and shaking him with more intent, Millie stared into his face. “Wake up!” she commanded. When Sergeant Spencer gave no indication he was about to wake up, Millie moved her hand to his face. Maybe he required a gentle pat on the cheek to raise him from his slumber. As her fingers made contact with his cheek, Millie gasped. “There’s something wrong!” she said. “He’s freezing! He’s so cold I can barely touch him! Go and get Edna, Reuben.”
As if responding to Millie’s voice, footsteps echoed in the corridor and the concerned voice of Edna Brockett drifted into the room. “Hurry, Fredrick! This is serious, we may be too late!”
As Millie attempted to wake Sergeant Spencer again, Edna Brockett burst into the room, accompanied by Fredrick. She pushed Millie aside and leaned over Sergeant Spencer, her hand on his face. “It’s as I thought. We’re too late!” she said. “The concealment spell has accelerated. He has little time left until his memories are gone!”
“What is it?” said Millie. “What’s happened, Edna?”
“It’s the werewolves in the dungeons,” said Fredrick, from behind her. “They’ve been yelling their protest about being locked up. They’ve also been making it quite apparent that they believe Sergeant Spencer is responsible for killing Trevor Giles. The passion behind those accusations has not gone unnoticed by the magic within Spellbinder Hall. The extreme emotions of the four werewolves have affected the concealment spell. The werewolves are paranormal. Sergeant Spencer is human. The spell is acting to protect the paranormal community against what it believes to be an attack from a non-paranormal person. The spell senses an emergency. It believes, as much as a non-sentient stream of energy can believe, that Sergeant Spencer attacked our community.”
“And the speed in which the spell is working has increased dramatically,” added Edna. “The spell has placed the poor sergeant in stasis so he cannot attack any more members of our community. His memories are being erased at an alarming rate. I’m afraid I cannot see a way out. I’m afraid that Sergeant Spencer, as we know and love him, is lost to us.”
Chapter 33
“N
o!” said Millie, her hands trembling as she stepped away from the bed. “No! That can’t be right!”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Edna, moving a hand towards Millie, who backed away, shaking her head. “We must be strong, though. We need to think about Judith. She’s going to be awake soon, and when she learns about what’s happening to her father, she’s going to be devastated. She’ll need our strength to help her through the hard times which lay ahead.”
Still shaking her head, Millie screwed her eyes shut. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something. Somebody. She wanted to collapse to the floor and curl into a ball. She wanted somebody to take her in their arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright. She wanted her mother. She wanted her father.
Pushing Fredrick aside as she made for the door, Millie allowed her tears to flow. She bumped into somebody as she pushed through the doorway, not caring about who it was, and increased her speed until she was running. She followed corridors, not thinking about where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there. She wanted to put space between her and her problems, and running seemed the most appropriate way to do so.
Taking three steps at a time she made quick work of two flights of stairs, and it was only as she ran along another dark corridor and smelled the sweetness of warm cinnamon and chocolate, that she realised she’d instinctively made for the nearest place she considered safe; her classroom.
Through hot streaming tears and the sound of her loud weeping, she still discovered herself wondering why she could smell baking emanating from her classroom. It was the school holidays. Nobody should be there.
She sighed. Emma Taylor. Of course, she’d allowed her to use the classroom during the holidays. It appeared that it hadn’t taken the young witch very long at all to make good use of the permission.
Deciding that entering the classroom and speaking to Emma might help her to calm down, Millie began taking back control of her emotions. She sucked in four deep breaths and used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her face clear of tears. She imagined her eyes were still puffy and bloodshot, but that didn’t matter, Emma was a teenager, she’d seen people cry before. She wouldn’t judge her or ask questions.
Taking one last deep breath, Millie put a smile on her face, and pushed the door open, the scent of baking becoming stronger as the door creaked on its old hinges. She looked towards the line of ovens as she entered the room, and froze, a scream stuck in her throat.
The figure which had been bent double in front of an oven, its hooded head level with the glass door as it peered inside, stood up straight and turned its attention towards Millie.
An eerie silence seemed to fill the classroom, an oven fan providing the sparse sound that there was. The door closed behind her with a soft thump, and she jumped, the soles of her trainers squeaking on the floor. She stared at the ghost, her mouth dry and her heart galloping. “Hello?” she offered.
The towering apparition remained silent, the shadows formed by its hood offering no clue as to what lurked beneath the black robes. It shimmered for a moment, and then moved toward Millie, gliding silently as it approached her.
“Stay back!” warned Millie, raising both hands. “Please stay back!”
The ghost stopped abruptly, its hood moving slowly from left to right, giving the impression that it was studying Millie. It lifted an unhurried hand and extended one of its gloved fingers, pointing to a spot over Millie’s right shoulder.
Moving cautiously, Millie turned her head. “The blackboard?” she said. “You’re pointing at the blackboard?”
The ghost gave a slow nod.
“You want to write on it?” asked Millie, the tremble in her voice betraying her fear.
The ghost nodded once more.
Moving backwards towards the door, Millie gave a nod of her own. “Okay,” she said. “Go on. Use the blackboard.”
Moving with elegance, the apparition floated a few inches above the floor as it approached the blackboard. Seemingly aware of Millie’s fear, it gave her space, choosing to skirt the edge of the room.
Millie steadied her breathing. The ghost meant her no harm. That much was obvious. She watched in fascination as the ghost attempted to take a piece of white chalk from the shelf at the base of the blackboard. Its fingers passing straight through the chalk and the board, the ghost paused for a moment, its form flickering. It waited for a few seconds as if gathering strength and then tried again. This time it managed to take the chalk between finger and thumb, and slowly lifted it to the board. Making careful marks on the surface, the ghost began writing.
As the first sentence was formed, Millie nodded. “Of course,” she said, remembering the group photograph she’d seen in Cuthbert Campion’s home. Miss Timkins had towered over everyone else in the picture, and here she was in Millie’s classroom, towering over her.
She reread the sentence. ‘I’m Miss Timkins,’ it said, in a childlike scrawl. Millie took a step towards the ghost as it wrote another three words, this time the writing a little neater. ‘Don’t be scared.’
“I’m not,” said Millie, moving closer to the ghost. “Not anymore.”
Miss Timkins gave a slow nod and put chalk to board once more. ‘I wear the robes to hide the scars. Something terrible happened to me.’
“I know,” said Millie. “I’ve been told about your accident.”
Miss Timkins shook her head slowly, her hood drooping over whatever terrible injuries it hid. She touched the chalk to the board, white dust falling as she wrote. ‘It was no accident.’
“What do you mean?” asked Millie. “Did someone put you in the oven on purpose?”
Miss Timkins nodded, her robes suddenly flickering and the chalk dropping to the floor as she vanished. Almost immediately, she reappeared and took another piece of chalk from the tray. She lifted it to the board and wrote slowly, her handwriting barely comprehensible. ‘Strength fading’ she wrote, the chalk wobbling in her grasp. ‘What happened to me was no accident. I was put in the oven by a pupil. It was Trevor Giles, he —’
Miss Timkins flickered and Millie jumped as a loud squawk came from behind her. “Open the door! Quickly! It’s important!”
“Don’t go,” said Millie, as Miss Timkins faded from sight. “It’s only my familiar.”
The chalk the ghost had been holding clattered to the floor, snapping as it landed, and instinctively, Millie knew the spirit would not be returning. Not for a while, anyway.
“Millie!” squawked Reuben from the corridor. “Open this door!”
“What is it?” asked Millie, swinging the door open. “I think I was just about to witness a murder confession from a ghost.”
Reuben flew quickly into the classroom. “As intriguing as that sounds, and as eager as I am to ask you what you’re talking about, what I have to tell you is far more important!”
“So tell me,” said Millie.
“We might be able to save Sergeant Spencer,” said the bird. “We might have found a way to save your father, but it’s dangerous, Millie, for both of us.” He landed on Millie’s shoulder. “But I’m willing to take the risk if you are. Get back to Sergeant Spencer immediately. There’s someone with him who has an idea.” He lifted his beak and jerked his head towards the ovens. “Is that chocolate soufflé I can smell?” he asked. “Are you making soufflé?”
“No,” said Millie, hurrying across the room and switching the oven off. “It wasn’t me who made it.”
Chapter 34
Hurrying along corridors and down flights of stairs, Millie winced with pain as Reuben kept his balance on her shoulder with sharp claws that hurt. “He came bearing good news, and you winded him when you ran out of the infirmary room,” said the bird. “You barged into him and just left him there, gasping for breath.”
Millie rounded a corner at speed, almost knocking over the suit of armour which guarded the empty corridor in complete silence and indifference. “I know I banged into somebody, Reuben,” she said. “But wh
o was it, and what’s the good news?”
“It was one of the ASSHAT fellows,” said Reuben. “The one who wasn’t all there to begin with. The one whose brains were like jelly.”
“Really?” said Millie, slowing as she navigated another corner. “I haven’t seen either of them around here much. They stay locked away in The Chaos gate room.”
The two scientists, who were given the job of examining the magical gateway to The Chaos, had been employed in Spellbinder Hall ever since their accidental involvement in a murder case. They’d been dragged into the case while studying a skeleton which they had believed was the remains of an extraterrestrial being. The skeleton had not been an alien, though — it had been the still living bones of a demon, but the two men from The Alien Search Syndicate and Hazard Awareness Team, or ASSHAT for short, hadn’t known that.
When the junior member of ASSHAT had found himself possessed by the demon, people had almost been hurt, but using magic, Millie had subdued the possessed man, and the demon had been sent back into The Chaos. The man who had been possessed — Peter Simmons, had suffered from damage caused by a brain injury before the creature had taken control of his body, but when the demon had been cast from him, his brain injury had healed, and the two scientists had been offered a job at Spellbinder Hall. Using scientific methods, instead of magical ones, it was hoped that they might be able to help prevent more evil entities from passing through the gate.
“It’s lucky for you that they have kept themselves hidden away in The Chaos gate room,” said Reuben, as Millie turned into the final corridor and hurried towards the room at the end, the room in which her father lay. “Because if they hadn’t, they might not have come up with a way to contact Henry Pinkerton.”
“They know how to contact Henry?” said Millie. “So have they done it? Have they sent him a message?”
