Livy’s phone whirred in her pocket. She pulled it out discreetly. Mr Bowen often ended the lesson with a pile of phones on his desk that had been confiscated. She glanced at the screen. Alex! So annoying. ‘I’m in the archive room! I’m going back in time.’
‘Put your phone away,’ Celia said, aware of what Livy was doing even though her eyes were fixed on the board. ‘Mr Bowen’s looking.’
Livy quickly typed, ‘Did you see Tom?’
‘I heard him. I had to hide. But don’t you want to know what I found?’
Livy only wanted to know about Tom.
Another message. ‘I was right! There were seven scholars, not six as it says on the board.’
‘Can you go and check on Tom?’
‘In a minute. Don’t you want to know who the lost boy is?’
‘Not really!’
‘He was called Ralph Symons. Fifteen years old. And he didn’t die. He was sent to another place.’
Livy put her phone away. There were only moments until the end of school: she was eager for the day to be over and to get home and be with Tom.
She looked out of the window.
A lost boy sent to another place.
Livy squinted as the dusk gathered over the Sentinel. She was being foolish. Alex’s words had got to her and her imagination was playing tricks because Tom was safe, now, surely. Safe in the library with her father.
But Tom, her Tom with his messy curls and rounded forehead, was leaning over the parapet of the White Tower. He seemed to be looking for something in the clouds. Livy stood up and her sudden movement must have caught his eye because he turned to look towards the classroom.
And now she saw another figure. Dr Smythe was also standing on the roof just a few feet away. She was waving her arms, encouraging Tom to do something, but do what?
‘What are you doing?’ she heard Celia say, but Livy couldn’t speak. She was fixated on Tom’s little face as he smiled excitedly, and waved at her.
‘Sit down!’ Mr Bowen told her, but Livy didn’t move.
‘Tom,’ Livy whispered. ‘On the tower.’
Tom now turned his head as if he was listening to something. Dr Smythe! He stepped back, lost to her view.
‘There’s no one there, Livy.’ Celia was pulling at Livy’s blazer sleeve. ‘Everyone’s looking.’
‘Martha!’ Livy heard Mr Bowen snap. ‘Hand your phone over.’
‘But sir!’
‘I can see you taking pictures! Hand it over. And don’t think you’re getting it back until tomorrow.’
‘But sir!’
The lesson bell went. Chairs scraped and voices rose.
‘Livy?’ Mr Bowen had said her name. ‘Can I have a word?’
Livy couldn’t move. Her stomach was in knots. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
‘What’s the matter?’ Celia pulled at her arm, but Livy shook her off.
‘Headache,’ she gasped. ‘Sorry, sir. I have to go home and lie down.’ And she stumbled from the classroom.
Livy threw open her bedroom window, heaved herself out and scrambled up towards the roof. ‘Please don’t let it be Tom,’ she said to herself as she ran. She had been playing too many games, pretending to herself that she could hear Mahalia, speaking to her from her hiding place behind a star, seeing shadowy children on the roof, so perhaps that image of Tom up there, waving to her so happily, was just another image that her mind, going too far this time, had conjured up.
‘Please don’t let it be Tom,’ she said again, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She threw herself at the air, careless, desperate. ‘Please don’t let Dr Smythe do anything bad to him.’
‘Livy! Oh, thank goodness. Quick . . . it’s Tom!’ Dr Smythe was not standing on the roof of the White Tower, she was a few feet away on the roof above her study.
‘Stay away from him!’ Livy leapt to block the woman who tried to take a step forwards. She wobbled. Livy saw that she had no shoes on.
‘Livy!’ Tom jumped up and down.
‘Stay where you are, Tom.’ Livy gasped in surprise as Mr Hopkins stepped from behind the Sentinel’s wing. ‘Livy has come to help us. Dr Smythe won’t take you now, Tom. Livy won’t allow it.’
‘But . . . but . . . you’ve gone!’ Livy said to the man.
‘Oh, but I had to save the boy from Dr Smythe, Livy,’ Mr Hopkins said. ‘She wants him for a terrible experiment! Your father was no help, virtually handed the boy to her on a plate! Oh, I only just got here in time!’
‘Livy!’ Dr Smythe cried. Livy spun round to see the woman, tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘She might seem very convincing,’ Mr Hopkins said. ‘But inside that woman beats an evil heart, Livy.’
Dr Smythe seemed to be having trouble on the roof; casting her eyes to the ground, she swayed. ‘Oh, no, Livy,’ she whispered. ‘I feel as if the ground is going to swallow me.’ She sank on to her knees.
‘She wants Tom, Livy,’ Mr Hopkins hissed. ‘Quick! Push her! Or she’ll have him!’
Livy took a step towards Dr Smythe, who looked as if something were pressing her down. Her eyes were closed. She put her hands to the lead, clinging on as if she were on a life raft and the waves were about to drown her.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I did everything I could . . .’ The woman slumped forward. ‘I can’t move. If I move, I will fall, I’m sure of it . . . Ah . . . Vertigo.’
‘Such a drama queen.’ Mr Hopkins tutted. He had taken Tom by the hand.
‘Now, Tom,’ Livy heard Mr Hopkins’ voice, no longer frail and trembling but clear and confident. ‘Are you ready? Are you looking into the sky? Can you see Count Zacha?’
Livy couldn’t understand why Mr Hopkins was holding Tom so tightly by the hand that this bony knuckles were white.
‘Livy!’ Tom cried out joyfully. ‘Have you come to see Count Zacha too?’ He tugged on Mr Hopkins’ hand hard, as if he would run towards her, but he was held tight. Tom looked up in surprise at the thin old man who held him so firmly.
‘Don’t spoil things for the boy,’ Mr Hopkins hissed at Livy. ‘He’s very excited. It’s bad enough that you’ve turned up. I really hoped that you wouldn’t come. It’s so annoying when things don’t go entirely to plan.’
‘Can Livy come too?’ Tom looked up hopefully at Mr Hopkins.
‘I’m sorry, Tom, I don’t think that she can,’ Mr Hopkins said as he pulled his thin face into an exaggeratedly sad expression, like a clown. ‘Count Zacha doesn’t have room for two people in that very small Warrior Copter of his. Also, she’s not as brave as you. She’s a girl.’
‘Let go of him!’ Livy tried to lunge at Tom, but Mr Hopkins merely pulled him out of her reach.
‘I don’t need wings to fly, Livy,’ Tom said, proudly. ‘I am brave and my blood is as light as air!’
‘Indeed. All the heaviness will soon be altered,’ Mr Hopkins looked at Livy, his eyes glittering. ‘Livy knows all about that, Tom. She has spent many nights trying to alter her own blood.’
He spoke so calmly and Tom was so happy that Livy thought perhaps she was mistaken thinking that Tom could come to any harm. Perhaps they were just playing a game about Count Zacha.
But it was a strange sort of game.
‘Now, hold out your hands and close your eyes.’
Tom snapped his eyes shut and held out his hands.
‘And you shall have a big surprise.’
Mr Hopkins pulled a glass flask out of his coat pocket. It was Livy’s flask from the White Tower, the flask with the chipped top. The rim had a dark crust of her blood. And inside was her stupid, useless, powder of alteration – the powder that altered nothing! Mr Hopkins sprinkled the grey dust into Tom’s upturned palms. The wind caught the grainy powder – Livy smelt that intoxicating, familiar scent of burning metal – and blew it away from Tom. A grey flake landed on Livy’s hand: it stung like an insect bite.
‘Now. Rub it in your hair, Tom,’ Mr Hopkins said, oblivious t
o the fact that there was barely any powder on Tom’s hands. ‘Just like I told you, and then we will be ready for Count Zacha!’
Tom rubbed his hands through his hair.
‘Please, Mr Hopkins.’ Livy took a step towards Tom. ‘Let him go. He’s only little. I don’t know what sort of game you are playing with him, but he’s too young to understand.’
Mr Hopkins stared at Livy in surprise. ‘You don’t want Tom to meet Count Zacha?’ he asked, blinking. ‘After he’s spent every night for weeks staring out of his window waiting for him to arrive? Well, why didn’t you say that you wanted to disappoint him?’ The man bent down and stared into Tom’s serious face. Some of the powder in Tom’s hair had fallen on to his face and must have got into his eyes, because he started to blink back tears.
‘Livy thinks you don’t want to meet your friend,’ Mr Hopkins said seriously. ‘She thinks you would rather go home with her.’
Tom sniffed, looking into Mr Hopkins’ drawn, hollow face. He seemed mesmerized by the man’s voice.
‘Would you like that?’
Tom shook his head, slowly.
Mr Hopkins stood up. ‘He doesn’t want to come with you, I’m afraid.’
‘Tom?’ Livy whispered. ‘Come to me.’ She took another step towards Tom but he moved behind Mr Hopkins and watched her mournfully.
‘I want to see Count Zacha,’ Tom said. ‘I have been good – as good as gold – so he will come.’
‘We don’t have much time, Livy,’ Mr Hopkins narrowed his eyes. ‘Tempus fugit and all that. Although I can’t resist thanking you for helping me.’
‘Helping you?’ Livy felt as if she was on the edge of something, about to fall. ‘How could I have helped you?’
‘By working so hard to make a powder of alteration!’
Livy felt as if someone had hit her on the side of her head. She swayed slightly.
‘You think I didn’t know? But who do you think found out that you were related to Peter Burgess, the first headmaster of Temple College, if not me rummaging around in the school archives? And who do you think arranged for your father’s swift appointment to the job I had held for forty years if not me? Dr Smythe would never have found you!’
‘Livy – be careful . . . Oh! Why can’t I move? This fear of falling . . . I daren’t . . . I can’t . . . My head is spinning . . . I will fall . . .’ Dr Smythe’s voice, husky with fear, cut across Mr Hopkins.
‘You still there?’ the man cried out. ‘Calm down, dear! Move along! Nothing to see here!’ He sighed. ‘Women! Always meddling!’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Now. Where was I?Yes, of course, with Master Burgess, a true genius, whose work I have been in awe of and studied all the many years I have spent in the library of Temple College. But do you know? I’m sure this will surprise you, but however hard I tried, I could not match his talents! I failed to make a powder of alteration. But you . . . you . . . with the Burgess blood in your veins, succeeded where I had failed.’
‘But I didn’t make anything!’ Livy cried out, appalled at what she was hearing. ‘It was just some metal filings in a flask!’
‘Oh, you’re far too humble,’ Mr Hopkins chuckled. ‘Metal filings, yes, but they were carefully purified through an alchemical process. And your blood, Livy. Don’t forget your precious Burgess blood. Oh, I knew you’d do it, even though you lost those pages I slipped into the book about the seagull. You threw them off the tower, do you remember? Tut-tut.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘But no matter. I was able to find other books by Peter Burgess that helped you in your work. I have been watching you, Livy, so carefully since the day that you arrived, encouraging you.’
Livy remembered then . . . that feeling she was being watched, that dark figure scuttling down the street.
‘In fact, I watched you more closely than your foolish, negligent mother and father! But then, that’s modern parents for you, always worried about how much time their children are spending on their phones and never thinking that their daughter is climbing out on to the roof every night! Did you like the biscuits I left for you? The cordial? The books?’
‘That was you? I thought the room was Dr Smythe’s!’
‘She did get in. Poked her bony nose around. But, being a stupid scientist, she had no idea what she was looking at! There she was in the room in the White Tower that I have used as my private laboratory for years! With every important book on alchemy ever written! She thought no one could get in because she had the only key. But she didn’t think about you and your ability to climb over roofs. Or me and my underground passage from the library. People can be so blind and scientists are the worst! Do you know that I’ve been sleeping in the library ever since I was fired? I made a little bed out of my books. Remarkably comfortable. Your father’s biscuits sustain me. And no one sees what is happening! But then, that fool of a father of yours is just as blind. He’s in his little cubicle now, while you and Tom are on the roof . . . looking for all the books I’ve hidden.’
The man laughed a thin little laugh, more like a cough, and put his arm protectively around Tom. He bared his grey teeth in a semblance of a smile.
‘Almost time, Tom. Would you be so kind as to climb up now? I think I can hear Count Zacha approaching.’
Instead of climbing up on his own, Tom lifted up his arms and Mr Hopkins, surprisingly strong for someone so small and thin, swung him up and placed him lightly on the parapet.
‘Stop!’ Livy cried out. ‘Please!’
‘Oh, he’ll come to no harm,’ Mr Hopkins sniggered. ‘You saw the picture in the window in the Temple before it was destroyed: a boy who could step into the sky. Master Burgess put that picture in the window as a tribute to his great, final experiment. A triumphant gesture of a man who had finally found the secret of how to make a boy’s blood so light that it would float into the air and the boy would fly like an angel!’
He gave Tom a little push. The boy wobbled, but, his face startled, he managed to correct himself. Mr Hopkins hardly noticed.
‘No need for farewells, adieus, or à bientôts. Fly, little Tom. Quick quick! Chop chop. Tally ho!’ he cried. ‘Show Livy what you can do now that her powder of alteration has transformed you into an angel!’
Livy threw herself forwards. Why was Mr Hopkins laughing?
‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘Don’t listen to him! Just come to me, please!’
Tom turned his head. ‘Livy. I can fly!’ But she saw that he was shocked by her expression. Fear flickered across his soft features. ‘Livy?’ he whispered.
‘Taking too long!’ Mr Hopkins’ arm shot out. It was just a gentle push, no more than a tap on his shoulder, but Tom lost his balance. Livy heard his soft gasp of surprise as she scrambled up on to the parapet.
Livy jumped.
She had him by the hand!
She clutched Tom’s fingers tight. He wasn’t heavy.
They should be falling, both of them, towards the ground. But they hung in the air. It was very quiet, no sound of the traffic below; no sound, even, of the wind in the trees below. The air around them was soft, like a pillow, and she felt her body settle as if she had stepped on to a solid and invisible cloud. Time, like Livy, was suspended.
She looked around. She was just below the roofline. If she put her hand out, the hand that was not holding on to Tom’s wrist so tightly, she could easily pull herself back up. She tilted her head up and looked at the infinite sky, at the clouds, which seemed larger and more beautiful than ever before. Her hair spread out around her as if she was in the swimming pool. She breathed in and she could no longer tell where she stopped and the air began. She felt as if she was made from marshmallows and cherry blossom. So this was the feeling that she had been trying to resist for so long.
‘Livy,’ Tom whispered. ‘I can’t see Count Zacha. If he doesn’t come and carry me away soon, I will fall.’ A fat tear rolled down his flushed cheek.
And then Livy realized that she was still in the air. She looked at the ground and saw her feet hanging there. T
hey must fall soon . . . She flinched as she imagined hitting the ground, felt the fear rush in . . .
She tried to push Tom back on to the roof. But she was stuck. The air around them would not budge. And she began to feel the weight of Tom’s body, which up to then had been no heavier than a balloon. But now he was getting heavier and heavier and dragging her down, his little fingers slipping through her own. It was as if whatever mechanism controlled time and gravity was beginning to work, albeit not very smoothly, once more.
She forced herself to pull him up towards her. Her arms ached and she thought they would come out of their sockets. Tom squirmed.
‘Stay still,’ she cried. ‘If you move, I can’t help you.’
Slowly, agonizingly, she lifted Tom up on to the parapet just above her, and held on as he climbed back down on to the roof. She’d done it – he was safe. It was too much to think that she had saved Tom but that she might not be able to save herself.
She looked back up to see Mr Hopkins standing above her. He wasn’t looking at Tom any more.
‘Extraordinary,’ he breathed. ‘The boy did not fall. And even held up the girl! The powder must be powerful indeed.’
‘Please,’ Livy heard herself whimper. She was no longer full of air. That had all been squeezed out of her by a fear, a force darker and heavier than gravity. Her legs were heavy and getting heavier, pulling her down. Her hands were slipping as she tried to grip on to the dry stone of the parapet.
Mr Hopkins said nothing but took off his hat and threw it away from him. Then he threw another handful of grey powder over his bald head. He smiled. ‘So Tom has proved that it works!’ he cried. ‘The powder of alteration works!’ He seemed to become younger; the creases in his skin were now smooth and his face shone as if it had been polished. His eyes sparkled. His voice rang out like a bell.
‘I feel how I am being transformed,’ he cried. ‘I feel the Burgess powder refining me. The dross will be burnt away and my base flesh will become a new sort of gold. I can feel my blood growing brighter, filling with air. It is the transformation we all seek!’
The White Tower Page 14
