The White Tower

by Cathryn Constable

  On the first page was a woodcut of a rose. It had been pierced with a lance and there was a single drop of blood that had been coloured in bright red ink. Roses like this were all around Temple College, repeated so often that no one took any notice of them. Like those words, tempus fugit, no one really knew what they meant.

  Livy turned the page. The words seemed to tremble as she read them: ‘To make a Powder of Alteration that will heal and purify the Bloode.’ Below the title was a picture of flasks and beakers set out exactly as they were on the bench.

  Is this what the boy was studying? Could he be trying to solve the problem of impure blood, blood that did not behave as it should? Such a powder of alteration would have been something that would have saved Mahalia. Could it stop Livy’s pulse from racing and arrest this itching, burning sensation under her skin? She felt an answering flare in her veins, as if her blood agreed. Livy picked up a flask filled with strange grey dust. She shook it and the dust clung to the side of the flask. She thought of her science paper – a cure for leukaemia and how Dr Smythe had encouraged her. Could she really make a powder that would calm her blood? Was it too much to imagine that this old, time-worn book, written when medicine was more magic than science, contained a long-overlooked secret that only she could understand?

  But then she remembered Alex. Thirteen-year olds don’t find cures for anything.

  Livy put the flask down, her mood deflated. It couldn’t happen and was, in any case, too late for Mahalia . . .

  But then, why had the boy, for it must have been his room, set out these flasks and beakers and powders and liquids like this, just as they were shown in the book? She read and re-read the book, trying to understand what she was to do. The words read like a fairy story of Red Kings and White Queens . . . red and white. Red blood, of course, was good, but white blood . . .

  Livy thought about the thin tube – a cannula – that had been in stuck into the back of Mahalia’s hand when she first went into hospital. This was so the nurses could take phial after phial of her blood. Mahalia didn’t complain, but she did say that it made her vein sore. Peter Burgess, according to Dr Smythe, had used leeches to take blood for his experiments. She shuddered. Had his young patients been as calm as Mahalia? Or had they cried out in alarm and squirmed as the creatures were put on to their skin? But perhaps leeches weren’t actually painful. Perhaps they tickled, like when she and Mahalia had lain in the grass in the park, talking and talking, and the ants had crawled over them. The paintings of Master Burgess did not make him look like a cruel man.

  A sliver of grey light slipped on to the floor. The sun had come up!

  Livy put the book back on the bookshelf, ate just one more biscuit and climbed out of the window.

  She didn’t feel tired. Instead she felt as if she had enjoyed the longest sleep and was only now waking up. She lay full-length on the lead-covered roof and stared up at the Sentinel’s face above her. It must have been cold because her breath floated out on a cloud, but she felt warm, as if the flame from the candle in the little room was now burning inside her.

  She had jumped down on to the roof behind the White Tower when she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Rise, ye children of golde!’

  She turned: a man wearing a long black cloak was standing on the roof, his arms outstretched as if he would pull the sun up above the horizon and set it in the sky above him. A group of children huddled together.

  ‘Hey!’ Livy called out. ‘Be careful.’

  But they couldn’t have heard her.

  Was she seeing things? The light had a peculiar quality to it, shivering and humming. The figures were not solid; she had to strain her eyes to hold the picture clearly. The boys were dressed strangely, wearing loose thin smocks. They clung together, their thin little bodies shivering in the morning chill. One could not have been much older than Tom. He turned his head towards Livy.

  ‘Be careful!’ she cried out. The boy was so little and too close to the edge.

  ‘I’m so hungry,’ he whispered, his lips chapped. ‘I could eat the heavens like a pie.’

  Livy could see the last morning stars twinkling through the boy; he was no more solid than the thinnest wisp of cloud.

  A siren blared in the street below. The air shook, and emptied itself.

  It was just a waking dream, she told herself as she climbed carefully over the tiles back down to her room, an illusion brought on by spending all night awake in the tower trying to find a cure for bad blood. And this had got mixed up, like the filings swirling in the flask, with Alex and his daft ideas about the scholars that Master Burgess had brought to the school. Yes. That was what it was. Her imagination was making pictures out of nothing.

  Livy lifted a lock of her hair to her nose. It smelt of smoke. So did her school sweater. She remembered her sessions with the counsellor her mother had sent her to during those long, dragging summer weeks after Mahalia had died.

  ‘There will be things your parents can’t understand about what you are experiencing,’ the woman had said. ‘And even if you tell them, they won’t be able to help you . . .’

  The words had made Livy feel very small and alone. She had always had someone to talk to before. But now the secrets were piling up and she had no one to tell about the way she felt in her body, those strange sensations where her blood seemed to burn in her veins and the way her heels would rise up off the floor. She couldn’t tell anyone about her impulse to climb out of the window and on to the roof. And the boy who had disappeared into the night. She definitely couldn’t tell anyone about the boy . . .

  But she had read about a powder of alteration that would heal and purify blood. And she would make a powder of alteration that, if it was too late for Mahalia, would alter her, would get rid of these sensations, these secrets, these stupid visions and make her feel like herself, her real self, again.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  It was Tom. He had climbed on to Livy’s windowsill and was leaning right out, craning his little head to look up at her.

  ‘Tom,’ Livy said as calmly as she could. ‘I want you to climb back down.’

  Tom didn’t seem to care that he was just inches from peril.

  ‘But did you see Count Zacha?’ Tom was peering past Livy at the sky and the Sentinel.

  Livy slid as quickly as she dared down to her window and almost pushed Tom off the windowsill. ‘Don’t ever climb up here again, do you hear me?’ she said, her pulse hammering.

  Tom narrowed his eyes. ‘Why can you climb out of the window and not me?’

  Livy looked at him. His hair was ruffled and he rubbed his fat-lidded eyes. What should she say?

  ‘You’re tired, Tom,’ she whispered into his ear as she picked him up. ‘I don’t think you did see me climb in through the window. I think that you are having a dream.’

  Tom put his head on Livy’s shoulder.

  ‘You are going to wake up later and you will be all warm and cosy in your bed,’ Livy went on as she carried him down the stairs.

  ‘But I don’t think this is a dream.’ Tom pulled his head back and looked at Livy suspiciously. ‘I think I am awake. Look!’ And he opened his eyes as wide as possible.

  ‘I’m not so sure, Tom,’ Livy whispered as she put her little brother down on his bed. ‘Dreams can feel very real.’

  She tucked his quilt around his squat body and stroked his hair.

  Tom yawned. His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. ‘I am lying on a cloud,’ he said.

  ‘Is it soft?’ Livy said.

  ‘It is floaty,’ Tom whispered and sucked his thumb.

  Livy sat with him until his breathing was regular and his thumb fell out of his mouth.

  Martha and Amy were up to something, Livy could see. They whispered and giggled all through the first lesson with more drama than usual.

  As they left the classroom, Livy got a notification on her phone. She opened it to see a little bit of shaky film.

  ‘What’s that?’
Celia asked, craning her head to see the screen.

  ‘Nothing!’ Livy slipped her phone back in her pocket. She wouldn’t give Martha or Amy the satisfaction of knowing that she had seen it.

  But – of course – Celia had been sent the same notification. Livy wanted to tell her to put her phone away, but that would only make it worse. Martha and Amy would love the drama. Livy knew that Celia was now looking at that same film, which started with moving blurry grey blazers. The blazers would part and there would be a glimpse of Celia, staring into the distance with the words ‘Celia Jones ♥ Joe Molyns’ below her rapt expression. Whoever had been secretly filming Celia then moved the phone to show what she was staring at: Joe Molyns standing with his back to her, oblivious of her adoration. ‘#Unrequited’ now covered the screen, pulsing in bright fluorescent green as a cartoon tear splashed on to the ground.

  ‘Oh,’ Celia said quietly as she put her phone away.

  ‘Celia! Did you see this?’ Amy gasped, waving her phone.

  ‘Who could have done such a mean thing?’ Martha said, a look of fake concern on her face.

  Others in the group waiting to go into the next class were looking at their phones and whispering, turning to stare at Celia.

  ‘It’s just too cruel.’ Amy’s eyes glittered. ‘Don’t cry, Celia.’

  ‘She’s not crying,’ Livy said as she pulled Celia into the classroom.

  ‘I’ll never live it down.’ Celia closed her eyes.

  ‘Just delete it.’

  ‘But what happens if . . . if . . . Joe Molyns sees it?’ She sank into a chair and put her hand to a flushed cheek. ‘Tell me: do I really look that obvious?’

  ‘I doubt he’ll see it. It’s only been sent to our class.’

  Celia groaned. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’ Celia looked startled.

  ‘You’re going to do nothing. You’re not going to give them the pleasure of knowing that they’ve upset you. If they can’t upset you, they can’t win.’

  ‘But who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  Celia’s mouth twitched. ‘But they wouldn’t.’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘But they’re my friends.’

  ‘Look, we’re sorry.’ Livy and Celia turned to see Martha and Amy standing in the doorway. Martha pulled a face. ‘Don’t be mad, Celia. It was just a little joke, a bit of fun.’

  ‘Quite harmless,’ Amy added.

  ‘Is Celia laughing?’ Livy snapped.

  ‘But it was just a little bit funny,’ Martha explained as if Livy were stupid. ‘With the hashtag and the tear . . .’ She pulled an exaggerated sad face.

  ‘How? How is it funny for Celia?’

  Martha’s mouth twitched. ‘Well, Livy, we can’t expect you to understand. You don’t know how things work around here. You’re new. And . . . and . . . different.’

  ‘That bag,’ Amy interrupted. ‘I mean . . .’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘But Celia’s one of us. She understands our little jokes,’ Martha continued. ‘She knows that we find other people amusing.’ Martha stared at Celia, who looked down at the desk. ‘Remember, Celia? Who we found funny yesterday?’

  ‘No,’ Celia said. ‘No, I don’t remember. And even if I did, I didn’t like it. I didn’t agree with what you were saying. You were being mean. And unfair.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to get all weird about it.’ Martha flicked her hair.

  ‘Good luck with your new best friend – I mean your leech.’ Amy smirked and they retreated to the other side of the classroom as Mr Bowen came in.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Celia whispered to Livy as Mr Bowen started handing out worksheets. ‘They were a bit mean about you yesterday and I didn’t stick up for you hard enough.’

  Livy knew how it felt not to stick up for someone. When the ‘shiny girls’ at her old school had laughed about Mahalia being too tired to do PE, Livy had said nothing just to avoid being turned on herself. A week later, Mahalia had been in hospital.

  ‘But you stood up for me,’ Celia went on. ‘Thanks.’ And she squeezed Livy’s arm.

  ‘What happened?’ Alex, late as always, threw his bag under the desk and slumped into the seat behind them. ‘You two look intense.’

  ‘Girl stuff,’ Livy explained.

  ‘Mean girl stuff,’ Alex corrected her. ‘Let me guess: Martha and Amy.’

  Celia looked flustered. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘You got upset about that stupid film?’

  ‘It was humiliating, Alex,’ Celia muttered.

  ‘Not really,’ Alex said. ‘Those two are such idiots. They’re the ones who should feel humiliated.’

  Celia looked less sure.

  ‘Why not tell Mr Bowen? Give them a scare!’

  ‘Because Martha and Amy will love the drama.’ Celia sighed. ‘What am I going to do?’ She glanced across the classroom. ‘I’ve got art club with them after lunch.’

  ‘Come to chess club instead!’ Alex smiled. ‘You can come too, Livy.’

  ‘Chess?’ Celia groaned. ‘Is this what my life has become?’

  Livy did not admit when she climbed on to the roof that night that she was hoping to see the boy. If she hesitated before she swung her legs over the parapet to clutch at the drainpipe and make the leap to the window, she told herself that it was because the night was clear and cold and that she was looking at the stars. Despite the glow over the city, she could clearly see the pole star above her. ‘I won’t be disappointed,’ she said to herself, ‘if, when I push open the shutters, the room is empty.’

  Of course, it was empty, but when she jumped down into the quiet room, she had the impression that someone had only just left. The logs had not been alight for long and the room was still cold.

  She took a cinnamon biscuit, just one, in case the boy should return and feel hungry.

  ‘I had a friend,’ she whispered to herself, practising what she would say if the door opened and the boy stepped inside. That scowl on his face would melt away as she explained to him what she was doing. ‘She was my best friend. We did everything together. But then she got ill. She had a problem with her blood. Did you know that Peter Burgess called blood a “living force”?’

  No, she shouldn’t mention Peter Burgess to the boy: that would bring the scowl back. She took another biscuit while she considered what she should say. ‘My friend is on her own, now,’ she said, filling the empty air with a trembling image of the boy. She made the image tilt his head as if he were listening more intently. ‘Mahalia was so funny. She would even make you laugh! We told each other everything. We made a promise never to have any secrets and now, every day that she’s not here, I’m breaking that promise.’ Livy closed her eyes. ‘She must be so lonely because she had to leave everyone behind.’ She swallowed. ‘Who can she talk to now?’

  The boy’s imagined face softened. She had made him feel sorry for Mahalia. Livy opened her eyes. She made him ask her how long Mahalia had been alone for.

  With a catch in her voice, Livy whispered back, ‘Five months. That’s a long time – too long for Mahalia.’

  ‘And it’s only the beginning,’ the imagined boy replied, shaking his head.

  ‘Thing is –’ Livy sniffed. This conversation was harder than she had thought it would be – ‘I’d like to make friends. Celia’s nice and Alex too. But it doesn’t seem right for me to forget her and be happy with new people while she is so alone.’ The boy nodded as if he understood. ‘I think you are lonely too,’ Livy whispered. Even though this was an imagined conversation and therefore the boy ought to behave as expected, he stepped away from her, turning to the door. She would have to speak fast to persuade him to stay. ‘I think that’s why you shouted at me. You got me wrong. I’m not like how you say I am. I’m doing something good! I’m going to try and make this powder of alteration. From the book you left out for me, see?’ She imagined him turnin
g back to her, now, and she raised the book to show the page to the empty air. ‘It says here that you can make a powder that will cure any illness in the blood. Oh, I know it won’t help her, it’s too late, but . . . perhaps I can help someone else. My own blood is doing really weird things and I know Alex said I couldn’t cure anyone because I’m only thirteen, but he can’t know everything. I know it sounds silly, but just imagine . . . imagine if . . . I could really change someone’s blood.’ Livy frowned. ‘Perhaps you want me to make this powder?’ A thought struck her: ‘Is there something wrong with your blood too? Perhaps you need it just as much as me?’

  The logs settled in the fireplace, throwing up a shower of sparks. She was alone in the room.

  But Livy felt different, as if after weeks of her body behaving in a way she couldn’t understand and was unable to control, she might finally have a cure. She might, again, be able to rest in a body that felt like her own.

  She settled down to read the book by the firelight, even more determined to make the powder.

  There were no more stories of Red Kings and White Queens. Now she had come to the pages where whoever had written the book had set down his method. ‘Count 240 fine poudered grains and put to the flame.’ Livy, puzzled, looked at the illustrations again and came to the conclusion that she was to heat some of the metal filings over the candle. ‘Is that it?’ She was perplexed; it didn’t seem very scientific.

  Livy inspected the equipment that had been left out for her on the workbench. Inside a smooth white stone bowl was a heap of dark metal filings. Would she really have to count them? She took up a pair of tiny tweezers and settled down to try and pick them up one by one and place them into the curve of a small wooden spoon. Some time later, she carefully poured these ‘poudered grains’ into the narrow neck of the flask.

  She lit the candle; the flame danced and then settled. She swirled the metal filings around and then put the bottom of the flask to the flame. Livy watched, enraptured, as the grey metallic dust turned deep red and small pieces of a white substance appeared, like roses blooming on a lake of blood. This was the impurity, what the book had called ‘the dross’, which needed to be repeatedly scraped away once the metal had cooled.