The White Tower

by Cathryn Constable

  There was a moment when she burnt her hand on the heated glass of the flask. As she blew on her skin, she did see how silly she was being: how could this metallic dust – that mere spoonful of metal filings – have the power to alter anything? But the thought quickly dissolved as she pulled her sleeve down over her hand to pick up the glass. She would do it again and again, all seven times as instructed. And tomorrow she would bring her mother’s oven gloves from the kitchen to prevent further accidents. The candle flame flickered as if in agreement and Livy worked happily for hours – heating, cooling, scraping off the petals of dross – in the deep quiet of the room.

  ‘You’vejustgot to say hello to him, Celia. You can do that.’

  They were standing a few feet away from the tuck shop. Joe Molyns was second in the queue.

  ‘I can’t! I’ll get nervous and fluff it.’

  ‘But look, he’s just standing there waiting to buy a drink. His friends aren’t around. He’s on his own. Just go.’

  ‘OK . . . Do I look OK?’

  ‘You look fine. Better than fine. You look . . .’

  Celia set off.

  But just as Celia drew near, Joe turned and looked up the corridor as if he were looking for a friend. This spooked Celia. She swerved, flapped her arms in a strange little gesture and turned round, her cheeks flaming. ‘Did he see me? Oh no. Oh Livy. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. What will he think?’

  Another boy had joined Joe and they were talking amiably as Joe handed over his money and took the bottle of water.

  ‘He won’t think anything if you don’t do something.’ Livy smiled. ‘You’ve got to be a bit braver.’

  Alex joined them just as Joe was leaving. ‘Do you have any money? I need sustenance!’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Then what are you doing hanging around the tuck shop?’ He put his hands to his stomach and mimed fainting. ‘I missed lunch because I was in the library. What’s wrong with your dad, Livy?’ He looked at Livy accusingly through narrow eyes. ‘He’s so grumpy. I asked if I could go into the school archives and he nearly bit my head off.’

  ‘What do you want in the archives?’ Livy asked. Celia was staring down the corridor, hoping for Joe to reappear.

  ‘I wanted to find the list of the first pupils in Temple College. I thought that it would help me find out what happened to that boy. The seventh scholar.’

  ‘Are you still going on about that?’ Celia said.

  ‘Who told you?’ Alex said, surprised.

  ‘You did. You’ve been trying to get into the archives for weeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry about my dad,’ Livy said. ‘He’s really stressed. He can’t find the books Dr Smythe is looking for.’

  ‘I thought she would be behind it,’ Alex said. ‘As she’s behind most of what’s odd around here.’

  They stepped out into the Court of Sentinels. Joe Molyns and his friends were kicking a football around. Martha and Amy were talking to one of the group.

  ‘Urgh,’ muttered Alex.

  ‘Joe’s bound to pick one of them,’ Celia muttered. ‘Do you think if I changed my hair he would notice me? I could put a purple streak in.’

  Livy pulled a face. And then felt sad as she remembered how she and Mahalia had sprayed silver streaks in their hair last Hallowe’en. But it was paint and they’d had to cut the streaks out.

  ‘What is it with girls and their hair?’ Alex grumbled. ‘You’re either nice or you’re not. What your hair looks like makes no difference! Honestly, you must think boys are stupid if you think a bit of purple is going to alter anything!’

  ‘Are you going to try and say anything?’ Livy whispered to Celia.

  ‘After what just happened? I’m not brave enough.’

  ‘Just try.’

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Time to turn that frown upside down, Celia!’ Alex laughed.

  Livy was so surprised that she laughed too.

  ‘Come on,’ Alex said, tugging at Celia’s sleeve. ‘I’m going to beat you at chess!’

  ‘You wish!’ Celia sniffed.

  Later, as Livy put her key in the door, she thought about the room at the top of the White Tower and the powder of alteration. How long would she have to wait before she could go back there? Perhaps she could tell her mother that she had a headache, that she didn’t need supper and then she could go up to her room immediately. She assumed an ‘ill’ expression as she opened the door. But her mother was oblivious, scarcely looking at her as she carried two mugs into the sitting room.

  ‘Oh, Livy,’ she said. ‘You’re back at last.’ She widened her eyes and tipped her head towards the door. ‘We’ve got a guest.’

  ‘I don’t feel that great,’ Livy started to say, but her mother took no notice.

  ‘Mr Hopkins came to pay us a call. Isn’t that nice? He used to do Dad’s job.’ She lowered her voice so that the man in the sitting room wouldn’t hear her. ‘I found him outside on the pavement a bit confused and upset.’ She raised her voice again. ‘Why don’t you come and introduce yourself?’

  Livy looked into the sitting room. Mr Hopkins had taken off his hat and was perched on the sofa.

  ‘I must say, Mrs Burgess, you’ve made the house very cosy. I like all these cushions; it makes the sofa so comfy.’ He sighed. ‘A woman’s touch.’ He looked broken and lonely and grateful for the tea her mother had made, wrapping his cold bony fingers around the warm mug.

  ‘I am Tom!’ Tom was standing on the back of the sofa. ‘I can fly – just like Count Zacha.’ He stuck his leg out into the air.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Livy’s mother whispered to Mr Hopkins, rolling her eyes. ‘He’s just showing off.’

  ‘Ah, the young.’ Mr Hopkins smiled, sadly. ‘Such imaginations! If only the world did not let us down as we get older. No, don’t make him come down, Mrs Burgess, let the boy dream.’

  Tom leapt forwards and landed in a heap on the floor. Thud.

  ‘Tom! Will you stop doing that!’ Livy’s mother said, sounding tired.

  ‘He’s got a bit of work to do on his landings.’ Mr Hopkins chuckled indulgently.

  Later, when Mr Hopkins had gone, Livy finally convinced her mother that she wasn’t feeling very well. She escaped from the kitchen, having been given an apple in case her pretend headache improved. But as she climbed the stairs, she heard her father come in, banging the front door closed. He was in a bad mood.

  ‘Good day?’ her mother called out.

  ‘Urgh!’ her father groaned. ‘That wretched man!’

  ‘Who?’

  Livy peered over the banister to see the tops of her parents’ heads.

  ‘Mr Hopkins . . . Honestly, if I ever see that man . . .’

  ‘Oh no, James, don’t say that. He’s a sweetheart.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  There was a second’s silence.

  ‘Ros?’

  ‘I think if you met him, James, you’d feel very differently.’

  ‘Would I?’ Livy’s father dropped his briefcase and kicked it under the hall table. ‘I somehow doubt that.’

  ‘Well I feel sorry for him, James. He’s had a hard time. No job. Left homeless. Dr Smythe is the real villain of the piece. She’s a witch, James. I’m not joking. She treated that poor man so badly.’

  ‘What makes you such an expert?’

  Livy’s mother must have whispered something that Livy couldn’t hear.

  ‘You did what?’ Livy’s father cried.

  ‘I had to ask him in. He was standing outside in tears.’

  ‘Really? He’s made my life a misery with his wretched filing, and you invite him in for tea? You’d better check where the teabags are, Ros! Mr Hopkins will probably have put them in the freezer! Oh, and if you’re looking for biscuits, try the bathroom!’

  ‘Oh James, you’re being unfair. He’s just a lonely old man.’

  ‘Why do you think Dr Smythe got rid of him? Because he was bad at h
is job.’

  ‘So she says!’

  ‘Well anyway, if she hadn’t, we would not be in this house and Livy would not be at Temple College. We could never have afforded those fees without the scholarship that comes with my job. Or would you rather that he got his job back and we had to move?’

  Livy pushed the idea away that they might leave the narrow house on Leaden Lane as she climbed the narrow stairs to her bedroom. She had work to do: tonight she would test her powder of alteration.

  The book had many warnings to be careful when handling the powder. It was powerful and harmful too, if touched by the wrong hands. It must be treated with care. Livy had taken the precaution of bringing her mother’s best leather gloves from the drawer in the hall table because the oven gloves were too thick for such delicate work.

  The powder was too strong to be used on herself without first being tested. On that, the book was clear. As she stood in her bedroom, her veins itching, she looked around for a suitable object to test her powder on. Of course, she thought as she reached out her hand and closed her fingers around the little box.

  Moments later, she was in the room at the top of the White Tower. The fire was burning in the fireplace, the quiet of the room settled around her. She took a deep breath, the air faintly scented with metal and smoke. Blowing into her hands (the night climb had chilled her), she bent over to inspect her row of flasks. Her powder had bloomed again since the night before and she carefully scraped off the white petals of dross.

  She took the small box out of her pocket and pushed it open to reveal the brown coin. She took it out and held it in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Do you remember, Mahalia?’ Livy pulled on her mother’s gloves and then, numb to the metallic grains of powder and their effect, she sprinkled a pinch of grey powder on to the little disc. ‘This is your lucky penny. It never brought you any luck but I’m going to test my powder of alteration on it and perhaps it will become the luckiest penny ever.’ She had read in the book that the powder was so powerful that it could easily turn base metal into gold.

  She held her breath, bending over the coin. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, tapping the edge of the coin with her gloved finger. ‘Do something.’

  The dull coin stubbornly refused.

  The candlelight flickered and the fire stirred as a log settled, but the coin remained unchanged, unaltered in any way.

  Livy stepped back from the desk, pulling off her gloves with her teeth. She felt sick. What was she doing? All this ridiculous counting of grains of metal and endless heating of the heavy flask in this stupid room! She looked around her. She wouldn’t be helping anyone with a sickness in their blood. Not Mahalia, not the boy and certainly not herself. She scratched at the veins on her wrist. Stupid powder. Stupid coin. Stupid book. She snatched it, her veins on fire. ‘Stupid me!’ She hurled the book towards the fire.

  The book sat on the logs, the flames extinguished. ‘Good riddance,’ Livy muttered, ‘to bad rubbish!’

  What had she hoped for? That the coin might become gold, as the book had boasted?

  There was a small popping sound and the flames leapt up, green and blue and a deep rosy pink and swallowed the book. ‘Ha!’ Livy turned away. ‘The flames can have you!’

  Livy flipped the coin and watched as it spun up into the air that stirred, like a sigh. The flames leapt in the fireplace. Livy saw the glint of gold on the surface of the coin and gasped as the penny seemed to hang in the air . . .

  It fell on to the workbench.

  Dull and brown, a mere penny that had never brought any luck to anyone.

  The next day, Celia, her face bright with excitement, ran towards Livy as she entered Temple College. But Livy didn’t feel like hearing the news that Celia was clearly eager to share. She didn’t want to be down here; her thoughts were still in the room in the White Tower and her failed experiment. Something had happened, she thought, when she had tossed the coin into the air. If only she could hold that image in her mind, she might see what had happened more clearly.

  And because of that, Livy had not climbed back down to her bedroom straight away last night, but had lingered on the roof. She had lain on the chill grey lead and stared up at the sky. She had a strange sensation that Mahalia was behind one of those twinkling blue stars, hiding, and any moment, if Livy just kept watching, did not look away for a second or even blink, Mahalia would step out, laughing, her dark eyes dancing with mischief.

  ‘Did you think I had gone?’ Livy had imagined her saying and felt a thrill as she remembered, so clearly that she had to catch her breath at the shock of it, Mahalia’s sing-song voice. ‘All along I’ve been just here, looking at you. I told you I’d always be your best friend. That’s why I gave you my lucky penny when you came to see me in hospital. It was to give you the luck I had no time for.’

  ‘All the teachers are in a state,’ Celia was saying now. Livy struggled to focus. ‘We all have to go to the Temple. Big announcement!’ Celia frowned. ‘You have really dark circles under your eyes, Livy. Did you get any sleep?’

  The plastic sheet that covered the empty window in the Temple had come loose at the top corner and was flapping like a bird’s wing. Livy remembered how, on her first morning, she had looked up at the image of the boy stepping into the sky.

  The teachers standing in front of them in the Temple all looked serious. Dr Smythe, stony-faced, was staring at the pupils, as if she could look inside each and every one. Livy felt herself flush as the woman’s eyes moved along Alex, Celia and then stopped at Livy. She narrowed her eyes, looking at Livy with an increased attention. Livy looked down, flustered. Why was Dr Smythe staring at her like that?

  Mr Bowen stood up and addressed the school.

  ‘Last night, the school was broken into . . .’

  Livy looked up, shocked. A murmur ran around the pupils.

  ‘Dr Smythe’s study was ransacked. A number of extremely important pieces of research were removed and an enormous amount of damage was done.’

  Celia nudged her in the ribs. ‘I told you it was going to be something big. They’ll have to get the police in.’

  Mr Bowen continued, ‘At the moment, we are not sure who the thief could be, although we have some clues already.’

  Dr Smythe tapped Mr Bowen on the arm and leant forward to say something.

  Mr Bowen nodded in agreement and again addressed the pupils. ‘If you see anything that you think might help us in our investigations, I would urge you to come and speak to me or Dr Smythe.’

  As they filed out of the Temple, Livy saw the two grey heads of Miss Jenkins and Miss Graves bent towards each other. ‘Her papers were thrown all over the floor.’ The woman’s face was flushed with excitement: here was gossip indeed.

  ‘And no sign of a forced entry!’ Miss Graves hissed, eyeing Livy and turning away. But Livy’s hearing was sharper these days. ‘Even though the door remained locked.’

  ‘Perhaps the thief came down the chimney!’

  ‘Or climbed in the window.’ The woman shivered. ‘But how could that be possible? It’s too high!’

  ‘You OK, Livy?’ Celia nudged her. ‘You look funny.’

  ‘The boy,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ Celia looked surprised and looked around. ‘Have you seen Joe?’

  Livy shook her head, and laughed over her embarrassment.

  There was only one person who was as confident as she was on the roof. Only one person who could have climbed down and got into Dr Smythe’s study through the window.

  What was he looking for?

  As they walked back into the courtyard, Livy looked up at the Sentinel. Why would the boy break into Dr Smythe’s study? It made no sense. But, more worrying for her racing thoughts, she could see that there was no way that he could have got on to that windowsill.

  Alex was thoughtful and subdued. ‘Someone must want to know what Dr Smythe is up to. With her fascination with Master Burgess and his work . . . Oh, this is getting deeper and deeper
. . .’

  Celia stared at him. ‘I think you have some explaining to do, Alex. I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Think about the stained-glass window, Celia,’ Alex started off. ‘Did you ever think it was a strange image to have in a school? And dangerous too. It could give someone really bad ideas about what to do on the top of a building.’

  As Alex spoke, a startling image dropped into Livy’s mind: a row of boys standing on the roof.

  ‘And then there’s that phrase,’ Alex continued, ‘tempus fugit.’

  ‘It’s Latin, Alex.’ Celia rolled her eyes.

  ‘Then there’s the missing boy. Where did he go? What happened to him?’ Alex’s words were tumbling over and over each other.

  But Celia wasn’t listening. Joe Molyns had just walked by.

  If Livy could have climbed up on to the roof and questioned the boy, she would have done so. But she had to wait until the evening. At home, Tom wanted ‘only Livy’ to read him his bedtime story and then wanted another and another. He wanted to talk endlessly about Count Zacha, until Livy told him, quite sharply, that it was time to sleep.

  As Livy jumped down on to the roof of the White Tower, she saw the boy, hardly more substantial than a shadow, sitting on his haunches, wrapped in the ragged black coat. His black hair fell across his brooding face.

  He didn’t move, didn’t seem aware that anyone had joined him in his solitary musing. He looked entirely alone as he knotted his thin white fingers together.

  ‘Hey!’ she called out.

  The boy turned his head, startled. Livy saw the gold flecks in his green eyes.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said, quietly. ‘For the longest time.’

  ‘Was it you?’ Livy stepped towards him.