by Karen Foxlee
“What are you doing here?” whispered Ophelia.
We’ve already told you, said the voices. You are safe with us. Please tell us your story.
But Ophelia didn’t feel safe with them. Not really. She remembered now what the boy had told her. Be careful not to tell them too much about yourself. She felt tiny things touching her. It was as if she were walking through a spiderweb. She wiped at her face and put her hands out before her. The ghost girls whispered and whispered and whispered.
“It’s very rude to whisper so,” said Ophelia, shivering in the cold, dim air. The white stuff was falling solidly now, exactly like snow.
The voices grew clearer and closer again.
We think you should stay here with us, they said quite loudly. Here is safe. Here is good. Nothing can harm you. There is no harm here. Would you like to play with us? We have much to tell you. Can’t you stay awhile? We can make you warm. We can make you happy. Are you listening?
“Thank you,” said Ophelia. “But I’m very busy. I have to get back as soon as possible. I have to go ice-skating.”
I have to go ice-skating. They mimicked her voice.
A thunderclap of laughter.
The ghost girls stopped being so polite. They touched her with their invisible hands, little fluttering touches. One brushed her face. One kissed her cheek. She felt an icy breath there. Something touched her back. Someone pulled her braid.
We think you are wrong, they said. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We think you should stay and play games. That boy can never be rescued. His charm will be broken, and he will be gone, and he will be dead and buried. The Queen will rule the world.
The voices circled her now. Someone very rough pushed her to the ground on her knees. Her glasses fell off—she felt for them in the dark in the leaves.
Leave her alone, came one voice from the invisible crowd. We shouldn’t have done that.
Ophelia pulled herself up, her glasses in her hand. She checked to see that she still had the key.
“Who are you?” she asked, but there was no reply.
“The one who said, ‘Leave her alone’?” she asked again.
Nothing.
A low whispering.
Careful, Kyra, said the voices.
We are Kyra, said the voice of Kyra, very softly.
Careful, whispered the voices together again.
She cannot harm us, said Kyra.
We are all for one and one for all, said the ghost girls.
Kyra did not move closer.
“Kyra?” said Ophelia. “How did you come here?”
We were a girl just like you, said Kyra. Then we were stolen and put in the Queen’s machine so she could be full of strength and live forever. All that was left of us was given to this dark place.
The agony, moaned the children together.
“The machine?” said Ophelia.
Oh, the agony, moaned the children even louder.
She took so much of us that we must always stay together or we fade, said Kyra. And we have to remind each other who we are or we fade, and we cannot go near the light or we fade. Our stories make us strong.
Our stories make us strong, recited the voices. Tell us your story.
And we cannot look at the light, said Kyra, or it will tear us apart.
There is no light, thought Ophelia, and she fancied turning back because she suddenly felt so cold and hungry and alone, even though she was surrounded by the voices. But the thought of walking back the way she had come, with these ghostly companions, was unbearable, and surely she was closer now to the end of the room than the beginning. She felt Kyra then, close beside her, breathing right into her ear, and the singed popcorny smell of her tickled her nose.
Tell us a little, said Kyra, but then she whispered, but not too much or we’ll gobble you up, and it will not be our fault.
Where is Kyra? asked the chorus of voices. Stand with us, sister.
And Kyra disappeared from Ophelia’s side again.
Tell us your story, demanded the ghost girls.
“Well, my name is Ophelia,” she said. “Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard and I was born in Wandsworth, but later we moved to Kensington. I have a sister called Alice. She’s very pretty. And a father; his name is Malcolm. And a mother, or I had a mother, but she died. Her name was Susan. But anyway, my father came here to put together an exhibition. It’s called Battle: The Greatest Exhibition of Swords in the History of the World. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. And he has to get it ready in only three days because something happened to the last sword expert—I’m not sure what. He had to leave or something. My father knows everything about swords. Absolutely everything.”
These are not the stories we wish to hear, whispered the voices, very close. Who was your mother? they asked in unison, stroking her hair. Tell us your story, they said, fiddling with her buttons. What did she sing to you at night? What did she say to you in the morning? Did she ever dance you on the top of her shoes?
Careful, whispered Kyra in her ear.
Stand with us, sister! shouted the voices, and Kyra was gone again.
“Why don’t you tell me your stories?” said Ophelia, heeding Kyra’s warning.
There was a brief silence before a cacophony of whispers.
Who are we, who are we, who are we? whispered the voices. We are Matilda. Our father was big as a mountain. We are Tess. We were apprenticed to the illuminator. We are Greer. Our mother had golden hair. All around her, Ophelia heard the memories recited. We loved to dance. We loved to sing. We loved to walk on the dew. We loved to leave our footprints in the snow. We are Kara. We are Sally. We are Mira. We had green eyes. Our father could hold us in the palm of his hand, so small were we. We could hold our breath underwater to the count of ten. We are Judith. We are Johanna. We are Carys.
Finally, close, We are Kyra. We lived in an apartment quite close to here. On the snowy streets, in the snowy city. Oh, but we had hair like fire.
Ophelia felt an arm loop inside of hers. The tiniest breath of a voice.
I will help you, Kyra said. There is not far to go now, but the way is treacherous.
Ophelia became aware of a light, a distant glimmer. Its appearance seemed to distress the ghost girls. They moaned and cried.
Do not look forward, they said. Look away, look away. The light will take you into the sky.
But Kyra stayed close by her side.
“Are you looking at it?” whispered Ophelia.
Of course not, said Kyra.
But as she moved toward the light, Ophelia noticed that it was only the outline of a light shining from behind a door. “It’s a door,” she said. “Nothing else. It’s just another room.”
But how the ghost children lamented and cried.
Turn away, they cried. Kyra, we must go. Turn back, turn back, do not look at the light.
We are going to help her, said Kyra. Then, as though she had to think of the right word, I am going to help her.
Which caused great torment. A great moaning and crying and wailing.
On the other side of the light, there are the snow leopards, said Kyra into Ophelia’s ear, and they will tear you to shreds without me.
“But what will happen to you?”
I am already dead, said Kyra.
They were close to the door now, and the ghost girls were shouting at the sheer calamity.
You will not leave us, they said. No one leaves us. We will miss you too much. You must remain. Kyra, we are all for one and one for all.
But Ophelia felt Kyra close by her side. She felt the other children, their running, their voices spinning in eddies. They weren’t bad, Ophelia knew. Just very, very lonely.
Before the door, she asked, “Why?”
I would like to leave the forest, said Kyra, just for a minute and run in the light without fear.
And all around her the ghosts recited their stories loudly to blot out her heresy. We are Joan. We are the youngest of twelve. We are Beattie. We li
ke to pretend we have wings. We are Nora. We lived in the little house beside the mill stream. We are Valda. Our mother made dresses for the Queen. Do not look at the light. Do not look at the light. Do not look at the light. Do not look at the light. Do not look at the light.
But Ophelia took a deep breath, and she felt Kyra do the same beside her, and she very calmly opened the door, and they stepped into the light-filled room.
It was a museum room, which made Ophelia extremely glad. A typical museum room, with a vast tiled floor and a seat in the middle for sitting on and admiring the paintings on the walls. These paintings were very large and mostly of a woman in a variety of white gowns and a variety of sparkling crowns. The woman looked vaguely familiar to Ophelia, with her brilliant blond hair and the cool smile on her face. She must have been someone famous. At each corner of the room, there was a white marble pillar, and atop each marble pillar, there was a stone snow leopard.
Ophelia knew they were snow leopards. Max Lowenstein had done a talk on them at the Children’s Science Society of Greater London one Tuesday night. He was only eleven but knew everything there was to know about cats. These cats were smaller than the other great cats. They had domed heads and smallish ears and long, thick tails.
“Kingdom Animalia, phylum Chordata, class Mammalia, order Carnivora, family Felidae, subfamily Pantherinae, genus Uncia,” said Ophelia. “But just statues. They’re only statues.”
Careful, said Kyra. All is not as it seems.
Ophelia spotted a box with a large keyhole on a small wooden table near another set of silver elevators.
“Where have you gone, Kyra?” she asked.
I am right here beside you, said Kyra. Yet her voice had grown very faint, as though she were a long way off. Look now, they’re waking.
One of the stone snow leopards stopped being stone. Ophelia watched it in horror. It rose on its large paws and arched its back languidly, as though it had all the time in the world.
It dropped to the floor from the pillar with a dull thud.
“Impossible,” whispered Ophelia. “They’re moving.”
I am right beside you, Kyra whispered back. Quickly, ask me who I am. They’ll not come near us if I stay strong.
“Who are you?” said Ophelia. “Tell me something. What do you remember?”
I remember where I lived, a small place with a little window that looked out at the palace, and each morning, the snow.
One by one the three remaining snow leopards dropped to the floor. They did not roar—they made a low hissing noise as they moved toward Ophelia. Their yellow eyes gleamed, but they crouched suddenly at the sound of Kyra’s voice. Ophelia backed slowly toward the table and the box.
“Tell me who you lived with.”
I remember a man, a big, tall man with a large red beard.
One of the snow leopards took the lead. It stayed low to the ground, stalking, with its tail swishing behind. Ophelia knew it was waiting for the ghost girl to grow weak.
“Was the man your father?”
Yes, said the ghost girl.
“Tell me about him.”
All four snow leopards crept forward, snarling. Ophelia could see their teeth, smell their breath. They hissed and chuffed and mewled. They sounded very hungry.
Don’t look at them, said the ghost girl. Only speak to me.
“What did you like about him?”
I liked his hands. My two little hands could fit inside his, and sometimes he spun me around and around in the air.
“What else did you like about him?”
I liked his laugh. He had a laugh as big as he was, and when he laughed, it shook the room.
The leopards were so close that Ophelia could see herself reflected in their eyes. Still, they did not move forward while the ghost girl clung by her side.
We were poor. I didn’t have fine clothes. Each morning I saw the Queen when she walked in her snow gardens, and each morning she looked up at me. She sent me a golden pear first, then a jewelry box, then she called for me.
Ophelia heard Kyra’s voice strengthen beside her. Her voice was loud and close. The leopards stopped again, hunched, waiting to pounce.
I liked to write my name. I liked to write it again and again on the same piece of paper. I loved to run.
“And your hair was red?”
It was red as a flame. I had a scar on my cheek from when I fell from a chair and a burn on my hand from the frying pan.
Ophelia touched the table with her fingers. She reached behind her back for the box. The leopards let out a hiss and a wail. They bared their teeth.
“What happened when the Queen called you?”
She said, “I have seen you each day and been sorely amazed by your quaint prettiness. Look at your hair and your rosy cheeks, so full of life, exactly like a blossom. Do you remember these things?” Flowers, now, my father had told me of them.
I shivered in front of her in my little rag dress. She said, “I would like you to come with me. I have a special machine that will make you warm.” And I followed her all the way up the steps, floors and floors and floors and floors, and all the courtiers and all the chambermaids came to watch her lead me.
Ophelia couldn’t bear to hear the story, but she knew she must listen or the leopards would have her. They scratched their claws along the marble floor and moved closer. Their tails lashed behind them.
They had smiles on their faces, you know, all those people. They knew exactly what would happen to me.
“What happened to you?”
The Queen put me in her machine. She said, “Kyra, there is nothing at all to fear.” And that was the end of me.
Ophelia had the box in front of her now. It was a box painted with a winter scene. Her hands shook. She fumbled with the key—the lid opened on stiff hinges. Inside was a small copper key, very old, discolored green.
Quickly, you must go now, said Kyra, her voice suddenly weaker.
The lead snow leopard leapt toward Ophelia.
“Tell me what you loved!” Ophelia shouted just in time.
I loved to run. I could run forever, all the way through the streets until the fields began.
The leopard swerved, tumbled, crouched again on all fours.
“Come with me,” Ophelia said, pressing the elevator button. She heard it rumbling away somewhere below.
But Kyra was fading.
“Tell me your name!” Ophelia shouted, stepping back into the elevator as the door opened.
My name was Kyra, Kyra said.
Ophelia saw her then, the outline of her. She saw her brilliant red hair. She burnt suddenly into existence in that museum gallery, the snow leopards poised behind her.
“Kyra!” she shouted as the elevator doors began to close.
You must go, Ophelia, Kyra said, her last words. She was unraveling. She burnt to life once more, and then there was nothing left of her.
The snow leopards leapt forward, the largest striking Ophelia across the sleeve as she fell backward. The snow leopard screeched as the doors shut on its powerful foreleg. It whined until it was free, and the doors closed completely. Ophelia scrambled into the far corner, pulled up her sleeve to see a thin line of blood. She put her head in her hands as the elevator began to descend.
5
In which Miss Kaminski finds Ophelia and is very cross
The elevator opened onto the long, narrow gallery of gloomy paintings of girls. It was very dark in that corridor; the sun must have set already, and all their quiet, lonely faces were in shadow. Ophelia thought of the ghost girl, and it made her so sad that she had to take her puffer from her pocket and squirt.
She pulled up her sleeve again to look at her wound, which was really only a scratch, but it made her feel terrible. What happened to scratches from magical snow leopards that changed from stone to real living, breathing creatures in the blink of an eye? Perhaps magical scratches were very bad. They might get infected, and she might need to go to the hospital. How would she e
xplain it? No one at all would believe her.
And did she believe it herself?
Could statues really turn into real living, breathing snow leopards? To prove they could, using the scientific method, she would need to have a sample of snow leopard statues. She couldn’t imagine explaining that one to the Children’s Science Society of Greater London. Max Lowenstein would look at her as though she were from Mars. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe she’d wake up soon. She pinched herself on her cheek to see.
Everything was too strange. It was giving her a terrible headache. She wished her mother were there. Her mother would know what to do. Her mother would say, “Now let’s sit down and put our thinking caps on. Exactly what kind of monsters and mythical creatures are we dealing with?”
Ophelia knew she’d be in trouble. Her father would be angry because she’d been gone so long and Alice would have been waiting forever with their ice skates. She took another puff and tried to slow her breathing.
She read the names as she walked because it calmed her. There were Tess Janson and Katie Patin and Matilda Cole, and she peered at their faces in the dim light. Paulette Claude, Johanna Payne, Judith Pickford, Millie Mayfield, Harriet Springer, Carys Sprock, Kyra Marinova, Sally Temple-Watts, and Amy Cruit.
Kyra Marinova.
Ophelia walked backward, heart hammering. It just couldn’t be.
Kyra Marinova.
She peered up at the face, the pale pretty face and the red ringlets and the quizzical expression. Two tears slid slowly down Ophelia’s cheeks. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter. Felt the keys in her pocket. She didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Ophelia ran then. She ran out of the gallery of painted girls, through the gilt rooms now filling up with night, along the great colonnade where the painted angels swam in the indigo gloom, past the paintings by the great masters, grown murky. All the guards had vacated their seats. They had packed up their knitting and zipped up their black handbags. The museum seemed completely empty.
But suddenly a whitish blur loomed out of the shadows.
