The White Tower

by Cathryn Constable

  ‘I won’t tell Mummy.’ Tom was standing in his bedroom doorway, staring at her intently.

  ‘Won’t tell her what?’ Livy pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever, Tom,’ she said, going into the bathroom to clean her teeth.

  Tom appeared in the doorway. ‘Will you take me with you?’

  Livy laughed. ‘To school? They don’t have little children like you at Temple College.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Not there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Will you take me to the sky? I won’t tell.’

  A trembling image of a boy clutching at a dark sleeve. Livy gasped and shook her head to free herself of that troubling scene.

  ‘The sky’s no place for you, Tom,’ she snapped. ‘It’s no place for anyone, only birds.’

  ‘And Count Zacha,’ Tom said, his eyes wide. ‘He chases pigeons. I want to chase them too.’ He put his arms out and tilted his body to get past her. ‘Pyoo-pyoo . . .’ he cried, mimicking the sound of his Warrior Copter as he pretended to fly towards the stairs. ‘Watch out pigeons! I’ll get you for my pie!’

  The morning dragged, the time crawled. Livy watched every clock in Temple College and checked her phone frequently to see how much longer it would be until she could climb out of her window and on to the roof.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ Celia asked as Livy pushed her uneaten lunch around her plate. ‘You seem distracted.’

  Livy’s skin burnt and itched; she felt as if her blood was too hot inside her veins. She looked up to see another portrait of Peter Burgess staring down at her. He looked older and sadder in this painting – his dark eyes could have been holes cut in the canvas – and he held a full white rose in his hand. She had never noticed before, but there was a large drop of crimson blood on one of the petals.

  The boy on the roof, Livy thought for the hundredth time that day. What was this bad blood between them? And what could be starting again? But the more troubling question was: how could it have anything to do with her?

  ‘Livy?’ Celia nudged her. ‘What’s up?’

  Livy shrugged. The effort of speaking was almost unbearable. ‘Headache.’

  ‘Do you want me to take you to the school nurse? She gives you chocolate and you can lie down in the sick bay.’

  Livy shook her head.

  ‘Can I have your pudding?’ Martha asked, not waiting for a reply as she stuck her spoon into the crumble. ‘If you’re not going to eat it. It’s Thursday. I can have pudding on a Thursday.’

  Livy pushed the tray towards her. ‘Be my guest.’

  Livy stood on her own in the Court of Sentinels. Celia had left to go to one of her many clubs. Today’s was a ‘Young Women in Science’ study group with Dr Smythe. Martha and Amy, who had promised to look after Livy, were standing a few feet away, whispering to each other as they looked intently at Martha’s phone.

  Livy saw Alex disappear into the archway that led to the cloisters. She followed him.

  ‘Where’s she going?’ Livy heard Amy ask Martha.

  ‘To be boring somewhere else.’

  Livy saw Alex staring up at a blue plaque on the wall with gold lettering. She remembered that Celia had told her that it held the names of the poor children that Master Burgess had brought to Temple College and educated at his own expense. It was an odd thing to be looking at so intently.

  ‘What’s so interesting?’ Livy said.

  ‘Do you see anything odd?’ Alex said, not taking his eyes from the dull gold letters and seemingly not surprised that she should be standing next to him.

  Livy looked up. ‘Hugh Foxe, Ezra Maskelyne,’ she turned to Alex. ‘Is that who the house is named after?’

  ‘His son,’ Alex nodded. ‘Something big in astronomy.’

  ‘Josiah Phelps,’ Livy continued. ‘They had pretty weird names back then.’

  ‘Not the names,’ Alex said, sounding irritated. ‘Look at the spaces between them.’ He reached up. ‘There’s a gap here,’ he whispered, tapping his finger on the board. ‘As if someone’s name has been removed.’

  Livy looked up. She risked standing on her tiptoes, even though that sensation of lifting her heels off the floor was dangerous. She put her finger to the place where another coat of blue paint had been applied.

  ‘Something happened to that boy,’ Alex said, thoughtfully. ‘Why else would his name be removed?’

  ‘Perhaps he just left the school.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t have to paint out his name. I think something more serious happened and it was covered up. This is as if someone had tried to erase not just the boy’s name, but his existence.’

  ‘Why do you care so much?’ Although Livy, too, felt curious.

  ‘I told you: I’m interested in the history of Temple College: all the stained-glass windows and the paintings. But when I asked Mr Hopkins why Peter Burgess put seven Sentinels on the roof, he just said, “Tempus fugit” and “Only a real Burgess would know.” What sort of answer is that? Especially as it is now clear that you don’t know anything! But he seemed frightened too, as if there was something he couldn’t say.’

  Lunchbreak was almost over and they walked slowly back into the Court of Sentinels. Alex looked up at the roof. ‘See?’ he said. ‘How many can you count?’

  ‘There are seven,’ Livy said. ‘I don’t need to count them.’

  ‘And yet there are only six names on the board,’ Alex mused.

  ‘Seven sentinels, six scholars . . .’ Livy was trying to remember something. ‘Dr Smythe said perhaps it cost more to educate a boy than have a Sentinel carved. Perhaps Master Burgess was going to pick another child, but he ran out of money.’

  ‘Was this something else she said at your interview?’ Alex looked unimpressed. ‘That you can’t really remember?’

  Livy’s attention was taken by seeing Celia chatting animatedly to Amy and Martha. All three girls stopped and stared as Joe Molyns walked past. He halted a few feet away, unaware of his audience.

  Alex said, puzzled, ‘Why does Celia bother with those two?’

  ‘It’s a girl thing,’ Livy said. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  Livy was thinking about Celia and Joe as she turned into Leaden Lane. Would he really be more interested in Martha or Amy?

  ‘A penny for them, Miss Burgess?’

  Mr Hopkins, looking tired and unkempt, as if he had spent the night under a bridge or sleeping on a bench, had tapped her on the shoulder. His hat was squashed as if he had sat on it.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Livy explained. ‘I was just thinking about some people at school.’ She smiled. She felt awkward that this poor man had been thrown out of his house and now was clearly in need of somewhere decent to sleep.

  ‘Not Dr Smythe?’ Mr Hopkins winced.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A relief, Miss Burgess.’

  Anxious to get away from the subject of Dr Smythe and how she had sacked Mr Hopkins and given his job and house to Livy’s dad, Livy asked the first thing that came into her head. ‘Could I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course. I’d be delighted to help you. If I can. Time was when I was being asked questions all day long. There were plenty of curious minds at Temple College.’ And his eyes glinted.

  ‘Why are there seven Sentinels on the roof? You told a friend of mine that only a real Burgess would know.’

  ‘Do you mean Alex? The clever Russian boy?’

  Livy nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you are not meant to know . . . yet . . .’ The man frowned. ‘A word of warning, Miss Burgess.’ He looked over his shoulder as if he expected they might be overheard. ‘Don’t let Dr Smythe know of your interest in these matters.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged his shoulders inside his crumpled coat. ‘It will only cause trouble.’

  ‘But the missing boy?’ Livy asked.

  The man looked surprised. His eyes darted towards Tem
ple College. ‘What boy?’

  ‘Everyone talks of the six boys that Peter Burgess brought to Temple College–’

  ‘And there are six names on the board,’ Mr Hopkins interrupted her. ‘Abel Carter, Hugh Foxe, Ezra Maskelyne, Edmund Moore, Josiah Phelps and George Philips.’

  ‘There wasn’t one more?

  ‘Why, no!’

  ‘But underneath Josiah Phelps. There’s a space where a name could go. It’s been painted over.’

  Mr Hopkins shook his head. ‘Well, so far as I know, there were only six children.’ The man shivered as if he were cold. ‘I don’t suppose that you could spare some change for a cup of tea?’ He coughed. ‘It’s turned very cold of late.’

  Livy stared out of her window at the Sentinel with the broken wing. The seventh Sentinel on the roof. No. It was silly. Alex had got her mind racing. Mr Hopkins had been quite clear. There were only six boys. She thought about Alex and the way his face had lit up as he looked at the scholars’ board. He had made her think there might actually be a mystery!

  She wondered what Mahalia would have said if she had been there.

  Livy looked up at the sky. The winter was already here, heavy and cold. All those days that Mahalia had not seen.

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered to a bright star above the Sentinel’s head. ‘Can you see me? No! Don’t look over there. I’ve moved. I’m here. I’m hanging out of the window to make it easier for you. Look, I’m waving to you.’

  She put her arm down then, feeling slightly foolish. Her chest felt tight.

  ‘I’m in a muddle, Mahalia,’ she said, although whether she was speaking to her friend or herself, she didn’t really know. ‘I don’t know what I think about anything any more. Or how I feel. Except that I feel strange. I wish you could come back and talk to me. Let me know that you are safe. I gave Jerron your glass heart . . .’

  But she didn’t want to say any more about that afternoon. The boy hadn’t even known Mahalia’s name.

  ‘I’m at this new school, now. With new people. Maybe you saw Martha and Amy. They’re the shiniest shiny girls ever. But Celia is nice. You’d like her, I think. She’s mad on a boy called Joe. But she won’t talk to him. She’s not brave like you.’

  Livy felt her throat go dry. She chewed her lip for a moment.

  ‘And there’s this other boy called Alex. He’s really into history. He thinks there’s a mystery at the school. He thinks a boy disappeared. It was hundreds of years ago, when the school was new. Except Mr Hopkins – he’s the old librarian, my dad took his job, long story – says the boy was never there in the first place . . .’ She was running on. ‘Sorry if I’m boring you . . . And then there’s . . .’

  How could she explain how she had climbed on to the roof?

  Livy swung her legs out of the window. ‘Maybe I’ll just show you. Watch me, Mahalia . . .’

  Livy immediately felt lighter, as if the confusion and heaviness of the day was no longer a burden. ‘Abel Carter, Hugh Foxe,’ she whispered. ‘Ezra Maskelyne, Edmund Moore, Josiah Phelps, George Philips . . .’

  The six names had the quality of a poem, she thought. Or a spell.

  ‘Can you see me, Mahalia?’ she said. ‘Look how fast I am! I’m not scared. I’m brave. Like you.’

  She stretched out her hand towards the Sentinel and thought that she saw the great wings shudder and move to reveal . . . the boy! He was standing on the parapet, looking down into the Court of Sentinels.

  ‘Hey!’ she cried.

  The boy turned, his coat flapping in the wind; Livy increased her pace.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  The boy looked angry. ‘Get away!’ he yelled.

  ‘But I want to talk to you! I want to tell you that . . .’

  ‘Is it gold you want? Like the last Burgess? Do you want to be rich beyond measure?’

  ‘No!’ Livy cried. The boy must be disturbed to be shouting like that.

  ‘A child will suffer!’ he said, his face contorted with anger. ‘I won’t help you! I won’t get the leeches!’ He turned away and raised his arms as if he were about to dive into a swimming pool.

  Livy halted. ‘Leeches?’ But the strangeness of his speech was soon blown away as the boy raised his heels off the stone. He closed his eyes, tipped forwards. ‘No!’ she cried out, but he seemed to hover there, on the very edge of the roof, for longer than was possible. The minutes swelled and expanded. How was he able to hang in the air for so long?

  ‘Stop!’ Livy yelled, running towards him again.

  The boy looked over his shoulder; his eyes flashed.

  And then he jumped.

  Livy stopped. What had she seen? The boy had been there one minute and gone the next. ‘He’s all right, he’s all right, he’s all right,’ she told herself as she climbed up on to the roof. But her pulse was racing and her palms were so slippery that she nearly fell back on to the roof of the house below.

  She scrambled over the parapet and was in such a state that she thought that she felt the Sentinel’s broken wing shiver as she touched it. She felt the lead beneath her feet shake: a heavy door had been slammed deep in the tower. She heard footsteps running across the Court of Sentinels. Is it him? Blood pounding in her head, she forced herself to look over the parapet at whatever might be below.

  But there was no body lying broken on the flagstones and whoever the footsteps had belonged to had disappeared into the deep shadows cast by the moon.

  ‘Where are you?’

  As Livy stared down, she noticed that the window in the tower just beneath her looked as if it had been pushed open. Had the boy done that? Had he climbed down? There was no other way he could have gone. There was a solid-looking drainpipe and, if she could hold on to it, she might be able to reach the window. Really, it wasn’t such a difficult thing to do.

  She swung her legs over the parapet, reached across to grasp the cold metal drainpipe and then, a moment later, she had jumped across the gap and was standing on the curved stone window ledge, pulling the mullioned glass further open. But here she was stopped: the shutter was jammed. She dug her fingers between the wooden panels. When the wood gave, her heart leapt as she almost toppled back. She grabbed at the window frame just in time.

  She let her breathing settle before she pushed at the heavy shutter. It opened with a creak as if it were complaining at being moved.

  Livy climbed inside; the window was so small that she had to bend and squeeze and draw her legs to her chest before she could drop down on to the floor.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom.

  Livy was standing in a small round room with a low ceiling.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out.

  There was no reply. She went to the door and rattled the handle. It was locked. Seeing logs burning in a carved stone fireplace and realizing that her hands were cold, Livy stepped forwards. The warmth from the flames felt so delightful that she flopped down into the depths of a saggy velvet-covered armchair. By her elbow was a low table on which someone had placed a pewter jug, a horn beaker and a plate of small iced biscuits.

  Suddenly ravenous, Livy’s hand hovered over the biscuits. Would anyone notice? I’ll just take a couple, she told herself, rearranging the others to make her theft less obvious. They tasted of butter and brown sugar and cinnamon. She poured a drink into the beaker and sipped at the elderflower cordial, Mahalia’s favourite.

  Feeling revived, Livy looked around her. ‘What a strange little room,’ she said to herself. Could this be where the boy lived? Perhaps he had climbed down here each time he had disappeared so swiftly. But it was a strange sort of room for a boy to live in. There was a round mirror on the wall, but when Livy stood up to look into it, the mirror did not show her reflection, remaining blacker than the night. There were piles of crystals on tables and a large cupboard which, when opened, revealed row up on row of slim drawers. Livy pulled at one and inside found trays of feathers, all neatly labelled.

  She turned the handle on t
he door: it was locked which meant that she would have to leave by the same way that she had got in. But why would the boy lock the door? Was there something of value in the room? Something more precious than a tray of feathers?

  There were scratches on the doorframe and she reached out to trace them. They must have been old because they were blurred and dark, as if they had been drawn in charcoal. ‘RS’, she breathed. They meant nothing.

  Unable to stop herself, she took another biscuit. But, thinking that perhaps this was the boy’s food that she was eating, she put the biscuit back. She wanted to think of him sitting here in front of the fire surrounded by the astrological charts that lined the walls. He had always looked so cold and hungry.

  Perhaps these were his books on the bookshelf. She picked up a tiny leather-bound volume. ‘The Weight of an Angel’s Wing’, she read in the minuscule gilt lettering on the spine, ‘By a Scholar of Temple College’. She opened the book carefully and gasped at the intricate ink drawings of an angel flying through the night sky, hair curled around its noble face and wearing a long gown like her Sentinel.

  ‘The wingspan of an Angel is the length of seven Celestial Kingdoms,’ Livy read, ‘and its weight is but that of a Rose Petal.’

  It was so odd: Temple College had a centuries-old reputation for educating scientists. In fact, Dr Smythe had taken an assembly that morning where she had talked about a famous physicist who had been a Templar. Livy had not listened, preferring instead to look up at the remains of the stained-glass window, now held together with sheets of plastic. But she remembered Dr Smythe explaining that the real discovery that had been made at Temple College was you should believe only what you could see with your own eyes.

  ‘Unlike other places of learning, four hundred years ago, there was no magic at Temple College,’ Dr Smythe had declared. ‘Only science.’

  And yet here was a book written by one of the scholars of Temple College that was not remotely scientific, that was all about angels and celestial kingdoms, imaginary things that could never be seen.

  Livy put another log on the fire and, as the sparks flew, she noticed a low bench on which several flasks and glass beakers had been set out. Was the boy engaged in some sort of experiment? She thought of that peculiar burning smell that always seemed to surround him. On the bench was another book, slim and bound in red leather. ‘On Alchemie’ was stamped in faded gold letters on the cover.