The Lost Twin
Page 19
It was late when Ariadne and I arrived back at the dorm. To my surprise, our room was occupied.
Penny and Nadia were sitting on my bed, and they had Scarlet’s diary.
“What … what are you doing here?” I asked, rubbing my bleary eyes. I heard Ariadne inhale sharply as she came in the door behind me.
“You didn’t come back,” said Nadia. “So I told Penny what you asked me to say. And we’ve just been reading this.” She waved the diary at me. “Is this all true?”
I nodded, cautiously. Neither of them looked angry or threatening. In fact, Penny had red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“So it was Miss Fox all along,” she said, her voice unusually quiet. “Do you know what happened to Violet?” A pause. “Or your sister?”
“No, but … we think Miss Fox might have taken one or both of them to an asylum. I’m going there tomorrow.” I realised there was an important detail that they were missing out on. “Oh, and, um, she might get arrested. She’s run away and the police are after her.”
“What?” exclaimed Nadia. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious,” said Ariadne, her eyes wide.
“But it’s not over,” Penny whispered. “Not until we find them.”
I felt my hatred for Penny beginning to fade away. I was just a girl who’d lost a twin, and she was just a girl who’d lost a friend.
I sat down next to Penny and Nadia on my bed, while Ariadne went and perched on hers. “If they’re alive, we’ll find them,” I said. “I promise.”
Penny handed me back the diary, and I cradled it in my hands, tracing the cracked leather and the scored letters. This was where it had all begun, and now I just prayed that we would have the ending I wanted.
“What are we going to do now?” asked Nadia, as Penny sniffled and wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I have an idea,” said Ariadne, sheepishly. She got down under her bed and pulled out a box. When she opened it, it was full of sweets.
“Ariadne!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get those?”
My friend just grinned. “Nearly-midnight feast, anyone?” she said.
And that was how Ariadne and I ended up eating pear drops and fudge with our one-time enemies until we felt sick.
And one sweet moment at a time, life got a little bit better.
he wind blew through the train station, scattering hats and newspapers and fallen leaves alike as it danced around us. I clung to my bag and my dress; Miss Finch grabbed a column to steady herself and hummed quietly.
The train was already waiting on the platform, the air heavy with steam. As the strong breeze pushed past us, the sun remained defiant and the sky was bright. We climbed the steps to the carriage and went to find our seats.
This was it. This was the day I would find out about my sister.
We sat down on plush red seats, either side of the window, and I hefted my bag up on to the luggage rack. Miss Finch tugged on the window and it fell down with a clunk. I leant my head out and saw the station guard blowing his whistle and waving the train on.
As we pulled off from the station, and the autumn countryside began rolling by, I sat back and lost myself in thought.
Mrs Knight had let me call Aunt Phoebe on the telephone – or more accurately, call Aunt Phoebe’s neighbour, Mr Phillips, as she didn’t have one herself. He ran over to get her while I sat twisting the cord around my fingers.
She seemed completely puzzled as to why I was calling her. Not wanting to trouble her too much, I simply explained that, incredibly, there was a chance that Scarlet was still alive. Then, so relieved at finally being able to speak to my aunt, I told her that my first term at Rookwood School hadn’t been a particularly happy one.
My aunt chastised herself for not coming to visit me, but she said she’d thought I was fine since I’d written her such a lovely letter. Sigh.
Then I gently explained that a teacher had been found guilty of criminal activity and that Scarlet might have been a victim but that I was going to find out for sure today. Aunt Phoebe gasped and then after a pause unexpectedly said, “That’s my Ivy. You’ll find out what’s happened, I’m sure of it. You’re a little fighter, deep down.”
I’d tried to telephone Father as well, but there was no answer. I wasn’t surprised. Father was like a wall of silence, and I often wondered if I’d ever break through.
Since Miss Finch had very little money, she could only pay for my train ticket. Penny had begged us to ask about Violet too, and I promised her that we would.
I’d thanked Ariadne for everything, and I’d never seen anyone beam so much.
“You’ll be back soon enough,” she said. “And you know I’ll always be your friend, whether there’s one or two of you.”
Then it was my turn to beam.
“Tickets, please.” The inspector had appeared in our compartment. “Where are you off to today then, ladies?”
“We’re looking for my lost twin,” I replied, as Miss Finch handed him our tickets.
“Well, ma’am, I hope you find her then,” he said, tipping his hat to me.
“I hope so too.”
The train gave a shrill whistle as it dove into a tunnel, and everything went black.
Rosemoor Asylum for Young Females.
The words printed on the sign in the photograph had burned into my brain, and now I was facing them. Someone at a later date had added a smaller wooden sign below that read Mental Hospital.
I stood in front of the tall iron gates, hands on my hips.
“Are you ready?” asked Miss Finch.
I took a deep breath, as if the air would fill me with courage. “Let’s go,” I said.
The asylum was surrounded by an eerie quietness. It was a tall, bricked Victorian building with high windows, some with bars on.
We had to ring a bell to get the attention of the gatekeeper, a middle-aged man who leant out of a window and beckoned us nearer. “Visiting a relative, ladies?”
“Yes,” called Miss Finch. “Well, we hope so.”
As he emerged from the gatehouse to let us in, he exclaimed to Miss Finch, “Ma’am, don’t I know you? Roberta, is it?”
“Rebecca.” Miss Finch’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I came here some time ago, when I was tracking down my mother.”
“I remember!” said the man. “Did you find her?”
“Yes,” replied Miss Finch. “Unfortunately.”
He grimaced. “I won’t ask about that one. Please follow the path.” He waved towards the front entrance of the asylum and wandered back to his gatehouse.
My body wanted to turn and run, but my mind told me it was now or never. Whether the truth was good or bad; it was my truth, and it was Scarlet’s truth. I had to find out.
The reception was small, with clinical green walls and that strange hospital smell. Miss Finch and I approached the front desk. There was a woman there, her blonde hair cut into a tight bob. She was furiously typing and sipping at a mug of coffee every few seconds.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Finch, leaning on the counter.
The receptionist completely ignored her.
Miss Finch raised her eyebrows and I shrugged. She tried again, a little louder. “Excuse me!”
Still the woman didn’t look up. “Welcometo-RosemoorhowcanIhelp?” she said, flatly.
“Um,” said Miss Finch. “We’re looking for someone who might be a patient here, a relative. They might have been incarcerated under false pretences.”
“Name?”
“Scarlet Grey,” I said. “Or maybe Violet Adams.”
Chink. The receptionist put down her coffee mug and pulled out a large book. She opened it at the Gs, and slammed it down on the desk. She traced a finger down column after column, and I felt cold fear rising in my heart. She’s not finding anything. I gripped the edges of the counter with nervous fingers. Then she flipped to the As and did the same.
“No one of those names her
e,” she said. “Sorry.”
I sagged. The room span. I thought I was going to throw up.
All this way for nothing. All of this for nothing. We must have been wrong, and Scarlet was dead, and I was alone.
“No!” I cried, the word leaping from my mouth. “No, no, please, she has to be here …”
There was a squawk and a splash – the receptionist had spilled coffee right down the front of her cardigan. But she wasn’t making any effort to clean it up. She didn’t appear to have even noticed it.
Because she was looking at my face like she’d seen a ghost.
“You,” she said, pointing at me with a long quivering fingernail. “You’re …”
Miss Finch looked just as bewildered as I felt.
The receptionist pulled herself together. “You’re a twin, aren’t you?”
I nodded, my eyes clouding with tears.
“Come with me,” she said, as she stood up, unhooked a section of the counter and lifted it up to let herself out. Then she quickly motioned at me to follow her.
My legs carried me through a green door and out into a corridor. I heard the soft tread of Miss Finch’s shoes as she followed behind me. I felt light-headed and hardly dared to guess what was happening.
The corridor led to a door and, once unlocked, the door led to the outside. The woman swiftly led us up a stone path and around the back of the building. “It’s faster this way,” she said, not looking around.
“You go on ahead,” panted Miss Finch. I turned, and saw that she was leaning heavily on her good leg. “I’ll catch you up.”
The receptionist strode on ahead, disappearing around a corner.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” said Miss Finch. “And you will be fine. You always are.”
I don’t know why, but I curtseyed. I’m not sure if it was nerves, or something else, but Miss Finch smiled encouragingly. “Go on,” she said.
I continued down the path. At the very back of the building, there was a courtyard. The sun spilled into it, illuminating box hedges and dying roses and autumn leaves, glinting off the water of a fountain at the centre. The fountain sat in a raised square pond, shallow and bare. But as I looked into it, I saw a flash of orange – a goldfish. Scarlet’s favourite.
The back of the asylum featured enormous floor-to-ceiling windows with French doors in the centre, and I supposed this was where the receptionist had gone.
As I headed for the doors, something stopped me dead in my tracks.
My reflection.
There it was, in the window. The same long dark hair, the same pale skin, the same tiny birthmark.
I stepped forward, and the reflection stepped forward. I held up my hand …
And the reflection didn’t move.
It stared at me.
She stared at me.
And then Scarlet’s hand moved too, and met mine against the cool glass.
This is the story of how I found my sister.
COMING SOON…
Acknowledgements
There are so many people that I would like to extend my thanks to that I cannot possibly fit them all in here. But I hope that if they all squish up a bit, there will be room for as many as possible. So without further ado, my thanks go to:
My wonderful editors, Lizzie Clifford and Lauren Buckland, and the team at HarperCollins for their hard work towards putting this book into your hands. My equally wonderful and brave agent Jenny Savill for taking a chance on me and my writing, and all at the Andrew Nurnberg Associates. The lovely creative writing students and teachers at Bath Spa University, particularly those on the MA Writing For Young People led by Julia Green – you made this possible, and you were excellent beta readers! A special mention to Janine Amos, whose lesson brought Scarlet and Ivy to life.
There are others who have helped this book on its journey in some way or another, providing love and support, or just being there to prevent writing-related meltdowns. To name but a few: my family and family-in-law, Ed, the Bousfields, Charlie, Dominic, Erin, Sarah, and all the local gang. Thanks also to those who follow me in cyberspace, and the gang at r/YA Writers who are always on hand with useful advice. And for providing limitless inspiration, I am forever indebted to Terry, Neil and Tuomas.
Finally, thank you for reading. Rookwood School will be keeping its doors open …
About the Author
SOPHIE CLEVERLY was born in Bath in 1989. She wrote her first story at the age of four, though it used no punctuation and was essentially one long sentence. Thankfully, things have improved somewhat since then, and she has earned a BA in Creative Writing and MA in Writing for Young People from Bath Spa University.
Now working as a full-time writer, Sophie lives with her partner in Wiltshire, where she has a house full of books and a garden full of crows. Scarlet and Ivy: The Lost Twin is Sophie’s debut novel, written after Ivy appeared in her head one day and demanded she told the twins’ story.
About the Publisher
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