Полная версия
The Curse in the Candlelight
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2018
Published in this ebook edition in 2018
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Text copyright © Sophie Cleverly, 2018
Illustration copyright © Manuel Šumberac, 2018
Cover illustration © Kate Forrester
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Sophie Cleverly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008218317
Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008218270
Version: 2017-12-07
Praise for
“This is one of the best books I have ever read. It was exciting, funny, warm and mysterious.” Lily, aged 9
“The whole book was brilliant … after the first paragraph it was as though Ivy was my best friend.” Ciara, aged 10
“This book is full of excitement and adventure – a masterpiece!” Jennifer, aged 9
“This is a page-turning mystery adventure with puzzles that keep you guessing.” Felicity, aged 11
“A brilliant and exciting book.” Evie, aged 8
“The story shone with excitement, secrets and bonds of friendship … If I had to mark this book out of 10, I would give it 11!” Sidney, aged 11
For Theo and Willow, who are tiny and new
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Chapter One: Scarlet
Chapter Two: Ivy
Chapter Three: Scarlet
Chapter Four: Ivy
Chapter Five: Scarlet
Chapter Six: Ivy
Chapter Seven: Scarlet
Chapter Eight: Ivy
Chapter Nine: Scarlet
Chapter Ten: Ivy
Chapter Eleven: Scarlet
Chapter Twelve: Ivy
Chapter Thirteen: Scarlet
Chapter Fourteen: Ivy
Chapter Fifteen: Scarlet
Chapter Sixteen: Ivy
Chapter Seventeen: Scarlet
Chapter Eighteen: Ivy
Chapter Nineteen: Scarlet
Chapter Twenty: Ivy
Chapter Twenty-one: Scarlet
Chapter Twenty-two: Ivy
Chapter Twenty-three: Scarlet
Chapter Twenty-four: Ivy
Chapter Twenty-five: Scarlet
Chapter Twenty-six: Ivy
Chapter Twenty-seven: Scarlet
Chapter Twenty-eight: Ivy
Chapter Twenty-nine: Scarlet
Chapter Thirty: Ivy
Chapter Thirty-one: Scarlet
Chapter Thirty-two: Ivy
Chapter Thirty-three: Scarlet
Chapter Thirty-four: Ivy
Chapter Thirty-five: Scarlet
Chapter Thirty-six: Ivy
Chapter Thirty-seven: Scarlet
Chapter Thirty-eight: Ivy
Chapter Thirty-nine: Scarlet
Chapter Forty: Ivy
Acknowledgements
Have you read them all?
About the Author
Books by Sophie Cleverly
About the Publisher
Chapter One
SCARLET
I ran into what had once been our bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I flung myself down on the dusty sheets and beat the pillow with my fists, sending clouds billowing into the air.
It wasn’t long until I heard light footsteps gently treading the stairs, and the creak of someone pushing the door open. I knew it was my twin, Ivy.
“Scarlet,” she whispered, somewhere near my ear.
“No,” I said, my face still in the pillow.
“No what?” she asked.
I pushed myself up and stared at her, my arms folded. “No, I’m not going back in there. And no, I’m not going to apologise!”
She sat down on the bed beside me. “I wasn’t going to say that. I don’t blame you at all. I think she should apologise. But I know she never will.”
We hadn’t wanted to go to our father’s house that summer in the first place. We’d spent most of the holidays with our scatterbrained Aunt Phoebe, in her cosy cottage. It meant cleaning and tidying and cooking because our aunt could barely remember to do that for herself, let alone us as well, but we didn’t mind. Aunt Phoebe’s house was always filled with love.
Father’s house, on the other hand, was filled with the stepmother who hated us, and our three hideous stepbrothers. I couldn’t bear it. I missed Father sometimes – or maybe I just missed the way he had been. The rest of them were a nightmare. I hadn’t wanted to go back.
But in a rare moment of remembering that we existed, Father had turned up at Aunt Phoebe’s the day before our birthday, asking to bring us home. Aunt Phoebe had thought this was a “lovely surprise” and so here we were now. I would rather have caught the plague, to be quite honest.
Unfortunately, we hadn’t had a choice in the matter. We had waved goodbye to our aunt and sat bundled in the back of Father’s motor car, dreading what would lie ahead at the end of the journey.
Our stepmother, Edith, had greeted Father warmly, and given us a greeting colder than ice. That was typical. Ivy had tried to say hello to our stepbrothers, but they had just ignored her and carried on playing with their model trains.
Dinner hadn’t gone any better. Our stepmother had given us the smallest helpings of everything, and then called me greedy when I had asked if there was any more. Her boys got portions the size of mountains, and she gave them seconds. I glared at them one by one, but they were too busy stuffing their faces to notice.
We’d spent a chilly night in our old twin beds. I spent most of it staring through the crack in the curtains at the black night sky, hoping that if I stayed awake long enough it would delay the arrival of morning. But soon my eyes slipped shut, and I woke up to the weak, watery sun rising on our fourteenth birthday.
Ivy rolled over sleepily in her bed. “Happy birthday,” she mumbled to me.
“Happy birthday,” I said back, without much feeling. I peered over at her, through the dust spiralling in the light. She was smiling. “What?”
“Well …” She sat up and hugged her knees. “You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that.”
“Sorry,” I said to the ceiling. “I know I should be more grateful not to be ‘dead’, but I’m not. I still hate that I was left there.” The time I’d spent locked in an asylum while our nasty headmistress had told the world that I’d died was never far from my mind. “And I just have a bad feeling about this birthday too.”
The bad feeling was sitting in my stomach, weighing me down. I climbed out of bed, my bare feet heavy on the old wooden floorboards.
Ivy sighed. “It can’t possibly be worse than last year.”
I hoped she was right, but I still wasn’t convinced.
We got dressed, putting on matching dark blue dresses that were some of the few clothes we owned, and headed downstairs. It was early in the morning and the house still hadn’t warmed up, even though it was the last day of August.
“I suppose a birthday breakfast is too much to hope for,” Ivy whispered.
It was. We arrived in the chilly kitchen to find our stepmother lazing in a chair, a glass of something pale and unappetising in her hand.
“Oh,” she said when we walked in. “You’re up. Well, make yourselves useful, then. Get the fire swept and lit.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “I’m not your servant,” I muttered under my breath.
Ivy gave me a wary look.
Edith stood up and slammed her glass down on the empty table, sending the drink splashing from the sides. She must have heard me. “When you’re in my house,” she said, pointing a finger at us, “you live by my rules – understood?”
I was about to protest further, but that was when Father walked in. “Good morning,” he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other tugging on his tie. “Everything all right?”
It was like someone had flicked a light switch. The murderous expression evaporated from our stepmother’s face and was replaced with a calm, serene look. “Quite wonderful, dear. The girls had just volunteered to make a fire for us, hadn’t you, girls?”
I had a good mind to set fire to her pinafore just to spite her, but that definitely wouldn’t have gone down well with Father. Ivy obviously didn’t fancy getting into trouble either, because she went over to the fireplace without a word and began sweeping it out. I muttered a few choice words under my breath and went over to help her.
When we’d finished, Edith told Father that we’d also volunteered to make everyone breakfast. Father just yawned and smiled, his eyes staring somewhere into the past.
I couldn’t take much more of this. “You know it’s our birthday, don’t you?” I said. “After all, isn’t that why you brought us here?”
There was a cloud over his expression for a moment, and his eyes shut. Our mother, Ida, had died just after we were born. I could almost see her image painted on the back of his eyelids. Our birthday was a painful reminder.
But then his eyes opened again, as if nothing had happened. “Of course I know that, Scarlet. And you’re very kind to offer to make breakfast on your birthday.”
So we made breakfast while Edith just sat in her chair by the now-roaring fire and smirked. When the bacon and eggs were done, she jumped up and pushed us out of the way. “You’ve done enough now,” she said. “Go and sit down.”
Reluctantly, I let go of the frying pan and sat down at the table.
“BOYS!” Edith yelled. “BREAKFAST!”
There was a sound like a stampeding herd as our stepbrothers came pelting down the stairs and into the kitchen. All neatly dressed, I noticed, in clothes that were shiny and new, not covered in ash and cooking grease like ours.
I watched, open-mouthed, as Edith, once again, gave them the biggest helpings. She dished out plates that were nearly as full for herself and Father, and then for us …? Well, we were given the burnt scraps from the bottom of the dish. Father didn’t even seem to notice.
I was hungry, and even scraps of burnt bacon and scrambled egg were better than nothing, so I ate it. But I could still feel the anger burning in my stomach.
“Good boys,” Edith said, as they devoured their food. “You can go out to play now. Your sisters will wash up.”
One of them, Harry – the youngest – just started laughing. And that was when I snapped.
I stood up, my chair scraping the floor loudly. “Really? Do you want us to mop the floors and make the beds, too? Happy birthday to us!”
“Don’t talk to your stepmother that way,” Father said, tracing his fork around his empty plate without even looking at me.
Ivy grabbed my dress and tugged me back down to my seat. I knew how much she hated conflict, but I couldn’t put up with this for a moment longer. It was so unfair!
“You’re making a scene again, Scarlet,” Edith said, swirling the drink in her glass. She seemed to have refilled it.
“Oh, this isn’t a scene,” I muttered. I tied my dress in angry knots round my fingers. “You should see me make a scene.”
Ivy decided to take that moment to make a desperate attempt at limiting the damage. “Father,” she said. “Do we have any presents?”
“Oh, of course,” he replied. He stood up and brushed some invisible dirt from his trousers. “I’ll get them from my study while you wash up.”
I sat and seethed until Ivy dragged me and an armful of plates over to the sink. I just knew that our stepmother was smiling smugly behind our heads.
“Here you go,” Father said as he returned. He laid two small packages wrapped in brown paper on to the table. “Now, I’m afraid I have a lot of work that I need to be getting on with. I’ll see you in a few hours.” And with that, he wandered away again, whistling something that wasn’t even a tune, but that sounded absent-minded and sad. I’d always thought that Father and Aunt Phoebe couldn’t be more different, even though they were brother and sister, but now I was beginning to see the similarities. Neither of them seemed to be on quite the same planet as the rest of us.
“See you later, darling,” Edith called after him. She stood up and went to the doorway. “I’m going for a lie-down,” she said in our direction. “Sort yourselves out.”
I slammed a pile of soapy plates on to the sideboard, making Ivy jump, but Edith had already gone.
“Could they be any more unwelcoming if they tried?” I asked.
Ivy didn’t answer but just stared down into the dirty water. I could see a tiny tear in the corner of her eye, so I put my arm round her shoulder and led her over to the presents …
She quickly cheered up, and together we eagerly ripped off the paper. I reached into the box and … oh.
Socks.
I pulled them out. They were our school regulation ones – dark blue and made of fairly soft wool that was only slightly itchy to the touch. But still. Socks.
Ivy held up her pair in front of her face. “Oh. Rookwood socks,” she said, echoing my thoughts.
I put them back down, curled together like little fluffy rats.
“Well, it’s better than nothing,” she said.
A suspicion was starting to build inside me. I went out into the hallway and down towards Father’s office where I knocked on the door.
“Busy!” came the reply.
I ignored him and walked in anyway to find him sitting at his desk, scrawling on forms and doing calculations.
“Father,” I said. “Thank you for the … uh … lovely socks. I don’t suppose Aunt Phoebe gave you any presents for us from her, or from Aunt Sara, did she?” Our aunts were the best family we had, and I couldn’t quite believe that they’d forget our birthday.
Father didn’t look up. He shuffled a piece of paper from one pile to another, and chewed on his pipe. “Phoebe gave me something,” he muttered. “A few packages in shiny paper. But as to where I put them …” He laid down his pipe and stared around the roomas if it would answer his question. “Hmm. I could have sworn they were in here. Perhaps Edith tidied them away.”
My fists clenched. Of course she did.
“Never mind, Scarlet,” he said, standing up and ushering me back out into the hall. “We’ll find them another time. Why don’t you run along and play with your brothers?”
And with that, he shut the door in my face.
“I’d rather eat worms,” I told the door.
I spun round to find Ivy standing behind me. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “She’s taken them, hasn’t she.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ivy said, her eyes trailing to the floor.
The sight of her sad expression only stoked my fire even further. “Right,” I said. I turned on my heels and marched up the stairs. Ivy must have quickly realised what I was up to, and started running after me.
“Scarlet, we can’t …” she said.
But it was too late for that. I went straight across the landing to the master bedroom, and hammered on the door as loudly as I could. Of course, I didn’t wait for an answer. I just wrenched at the handle and pushed it open.
And there was our stepmother, lounging in the four-poster bed, munching on chocolates, and surrounded by shreds of shiny wrapping paper.
Chapter Two
IVY
“What are you doing in here?” our stepmother demanded. “Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning up?”
Scarlet stared at her for a moment, her face as scarlet as her name, speechless with anger. And then it all came pouring out in a raging torrent. “Who do you think you are? You can’t order us around like servants! You can’t treat us like dirt to be swept under the carpet! You … you can’t take our only birthday presents for yourself!”
Edith dragged herself off the bed and stalked over to Scarlet, the familiar grimace (and a smidge of cocoa) back on her face. “I’m your mother now, and I can do what I want, you insolent little brat!”
“YOU’RE NOT OUR MOTHER AND YOU NEVER WILL BE!” Scarlet shouted.
There was a breath, an instant of heavy silence. And then Edith swung out and slapped Scarlet round the face.
I gasped, and dragged my twin backwards. There was a mark across her cheek, a ghost of our stepmother’s hand.
“Girls?” Father’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Keep it down, will you! I’m trying to work.” There was the sound of the study door pulling shut again.
Edith just stood there, her chest heaving, her face flushed, wiry hair sticking up from its usual careful curls.
Scarlet broke away from me, tears flashing in her eyes, and ran across the landing. Even school had to be better than this.
I looked up at our stepmother, watching her expression turn triumphant. It made me feel sick. “She’s right,” I said quietly. “You won’t ever be our mother. Our mother was worth ten of you.”
And with that, I turned and went after my twin.
I put my arm round Scarlet and comforted her until she’d calmed down just enough to simply be angry, and then we stayed in our room for most of the day. I didn’t particularly want Scarlet and Edith anywhere near each other again, and Scarlet wasn’t exactly keen to face up to her either.
I wasn’t quite as disappointed as Scarlet about the awfulness of our birthday. It was never a particularly joyous occasion, so why would this year be any different? I thought that, deep down, Scarlet felt that the world ought to treat her better than it did. She could never understand why it didn’t happen. I, however, had much lower expectations.
Of course it goes without saying that Father didn’t come upstairs to see if we were all right. If our stepmother had told him anything about what had just happened, it would have been that Scarlet had attacked her for no reason. She always painted herself as the victim and Father always believed her.
As we wallowed in our misery, I finished reading my book. Then I unpacked and repacked my bag about three times until it was neater than neat. As horrible as Rookwood School could be, I found myself wanting to go back, which was certainly a surprise. I missed our friends – Ariadne and Rose – and the other girls too. Rookwood had improved a lot since its former headmistress and headmaster had been taken off in a police van – even with the grey porridge, the cold and the bullies, it could still be a good place sometimes.
Around lunchtime, there was a click from the doorway. Curious, I wandered over and tried the handle, only to find I couldn’t pull it open.
Scarlet sat up straight on her bed. “Did someone just lock us in?”
I nodded. “Looks like it.” Scarlet had always had a habit of kicking doors (and walls, and furniture) that I had never understood, but at that moment I was tempted to try it. Instead, I bent down and peered through the keyhole. I could see right through it – so she’d taken the key away again. No chance of pushing it out to free ourselves.
My twin put her head in her hands. “Could it be any worse?” she asked.
I heard the sound of the door unlocking just before dinner time. It opened to reveal Edith with her familiar scowl.
“Your father’s asking where you are,” she said, in a voice that implied she couldn’t be less interested and was hoping she could forget about us forever. “I said you were messing around up here. I suppose you’d better come down.”
Scarlet went over to the door and stared up at her defiantly, though I could see her hands were shaking. “You locked us in,” she said.
Edith put her nose in the air. “And? That’s beside the point. Get down there and see your father.”
I went over to stand beside Scarlet. For a moment I thought she was just going to do as she was told, but no – she was Scarlet. That wasn’t how she worked.
“He’s going to see through you one day,” she said quietly. “He’s going to realise how you treat us and –” she took a deep breath – “and what you did.”
Edith stepped closer, looming over Scarlet. “Did? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
I knew, and I knew she knew. We were almost certain that Edith had accepted a bribe from the old headmistress, Miss Fox, to pretend that Scarlet was dead. Scarlet had found out Miss Fox’s deepest secret, and went to terrible lengths to keep it.
Scarlet just glared at our stepmother, her arms folded tightly.
Edith glared back. “Fine. Be like that. But here’s a warning for you.” She leant forward, coming face to face with us. “You’re going back to that school soon, and this time you’re staying there for good. Your father isn’t going to rescue you and neither are your crazy aunts. You’re going to get an education and learn some respect, and you’re not going to bother us again.”
