Blue Moon (Book One in The Blue Crystal Trilogy) (22 page)

Now, I gazed ahead in the
direction of Hartswell Hall, wondering how to get in without anyone
seeing me. I was determined to find out what was going on at the
Blue Moon Ball. Once again, the phrase ‘like a moth to a flame’
kept going through my head and that’s how I felt, like a small,
vulnerable creature drawn to the light, not caring whether or not
it heralded destruction. Instinct had taken over from rationality,
like an ancient response deep within me, and I was simply doing
what I felt I must.

Slowly, I crept closer to the
hall, sometimes going on my hands and knees to feel where the edge
of the driveway met the grass verge. Occasionally, the blue crystal
swung forth, shining brightly in the dense mist, and I hastily
tucked it back beneath my sweater in case it drew attention to me.
At last I reached the courtyard, and narrowly missed being spotted,
as Aquila drove away from the hall, nearly catching me in the
Jaguar’s headlights. Pressing myself to the old stonework, I shrank
into the mist and remained out of sight.

Walking in through the main
entrance wasn’t an option, as I would most certainly have been
seen. I had to find another way. Slowly I edged round the side of
the hall, feeling the old stone walls beneath my fingers. I
continued round the building until I was at the rear of the hall,
the lawns and ha-ha falling away behind me. Now I was close to the
ballroom, where all the action would be taking place. My excitement
stirred as my fingers touched the framework of the large French
windows. There was no way the doors would be open, I reasoned, but
tried nonetheless. To my amazement, the door swung inwards. I
quickly pulled it back and slipped inside.

Holding my breath, I closed the
door behind me, thankful to leave the cloying mist outside.

Fortunately, long heavy velvet
drapes concealed me, enabling me to look into the ballroom without
being seen. I heard a band playing a slow jazz number and, over the
top of the music, the sound of people laughing and talking, and the
chink of glasses. I glanced at my watch. It was 11.30pm. Determined
to take a quick snapshot of the Blue Moon Ball, I took out my cell
phone, remembering to turn off the flash and set it to silent. No
point drawing attention to myself.

Peering through the curtains, I
looked into the room and gasped.

What I saw was all the more
shocking for being so unexpected. If I’d thought the ballroom would
be full of fashionable men and women, dancing, mingling and
enjoying themselves, while musicians played contemporary music, I
was wrong. Perhaps I’d seen too many period dramas, but the sight
in front of me was so far removed from this, it was almost
laughable. This was more like the communal lounge of an old folks’
home.

The room was candlelit and
atmospheric, with a fire burning brightly in the huge ornate
fireplace. The large purple sofas had been pulled back against the
far walls, and pretty chairs with blue backs and tables with
delicate blue coverings placed along the sides of the room. A small
group of elderly musicians were seated at the far end, playing a
low-key jazz number, but no one danced and the central area
remained empty. Sitting and standing around the edges of the room,
some on their own and others in small groups, talking quietly, were
around fifty people of greatly advanced age.

I stared, not comprehending
what I was seeing.

Where were the rich, glamorous
sophisticates who’d travelled from across the globe to be here? I’d
expected to see beautiful people on a par with the de Lucis family,
not a collection of stooped old folk, with wizened skin and
thinning hair, who’d left their best years firmly behind them.
True, the ladies were dressed for a ball, but mottled parchment
skin and hunched backs did nothing for the exquisite ballgowns I
saw before me, while the abundance of beautiful jewels hardly drew
my attention from their owners’ shrivelled faces and scrawny arms.
Talk about mutton dressed as lamb, I thought, these people had
serious style issues. Someone should have told them to dress their
age, not hang on with desperation to the last vestiges of a youth
that had well and truly disappeared.

A woman in a stunning emerald
green ballgown came to stand close to me, with emeralds and
diamonds at her throat and in her hair, but I could hardly bear to
look at the folds of creased, papery skin covered with lesions and
blemishes that the plunging back of her dress revealed. I took her
photo and shuddered with revulsion.

It was obvious why Theo hadn’t
wanted me around, I thought. This was just plain horrible. It
wasn’t a glamorous, star-studded event, it was a geriatric get
together. These people may be wealthy and famous, but their stars
had most definitely faded. It was not a pretty sight and I was
hugely disappointed. I didn’t recognise a single one. I took a
couple more photos just for the record, and had just decided to
creep back out of the French windows and beat a hasty retreat home,
when I heard a commotion at the ballroom’s double doors.

The band stopped playing and I
clearly heard Viyesha’s voice saying, “Friends, it is time. The
heavens have aligned, the moon is full, and it is time for us to
renew and re-energise. Please follow me… It’s time to be re-born…..
We hold eternity in our hands.”

I peered through the curtains
and saw an old woman in a royal blue gown cupping her hands in
front of her, with crossed thumbs, giving some kind of sign.

In unison, the guests echoed
her, “
We hold eternity in our hands
”, each cupping their
hands in a similar way.

I stared aghast. Surely it
couldn’t be Viyesha? The woman was ancient, with a stooped back,
snow-white hair and marked, mottled skin. She certainly resembled
Viyesha and was possibly her mother or grandmother even.

Then I remembered the clawed,
shrunken hand I’d seen last time I was at the hall and how Viyesha
had hastily concealed her hands beneath her sleeves. Could it be
possible this hunched, old creature was she?

I continued to watch from
behind the curtains as the old folk began to form a queue. As they
passed through the double doors, the ancient Viyesha-woman handed
out midnight-blue hooded cloaks, which they hung around their
shoulders, pulling the hoods up over their heads. On the back of
each cloak was a strange symbol: a circle, crossed by an infinity
sign. It was the same sign I’d seen hewn into the stonework at the
top of the Clock Tower.

Suddenly, the sound of
whispered chanting filled the air. The old folk seemed to be
saying, “Lunari… Lunari …. Lunari…” over and over, filling me with
a dread I couldn’t explain.

I waited until the last one had
exited the ballroom, then cautiously stepped out from behind the
curtains, looking nervously around the empty room and wondering
what to do next. Half empty glasses stood upon tables and the
band’s instruments were laid carefully on their seats. I felt the
blue crystal on my breastbone tingling and vibrating, and knew I
had to follow them.

As quickly as I could, I
crossed the ballroom and looked through the double doors. The
reception area was empty and I saw the last hooded figure
disappearing up the main central staircase. Still they chanted,
adding a demonic feel to an evening that was already weirder than
anything I could have imagined. I shivered, but never once
considered leaving, committed to seeing this through, whatever the
outcome.

Seeing a spare cloak lying on
the floor, I picked it up and put it on, admiring its deep, soft
velvet. I pulled the hood tightly around my face and breathed a
sigh of relief. Now, at least I blended in and wouldn’t be
noticed.

I crossed the reception area
stealthily, walking on tiptoes, and ascended the large carved
staircase, my heart beating against my ribs, my breathing fast and
shallow. In front of me, I saw the last person gliding along the
corridor to the left, the sound of chanting filling the air. I
crouched low on the stairs and peered over the top step. The old
folk were queuing on the landing and I gasped as I realised where
they were going. One by one, they filed up the old servants’
staircase.

‘Structurally unsound, my
foot!’ I muttered to myself, “I knew there was something up there
they didn’t want me to see.”

I waited as they climbed up the
stairway, then crept along the corridor, keeping as close to the
walls as I could, hiding in the shadows. I was so close to
uncovering their secret, it wouldn’t do to be discovered at this
stage.

When they’d all disappeared
into the upper reaches of the hall, I crept forward and followed
them. The old gas lamps had been cleaned and lit, I noticed,
casting a dim glow. The cobwebs had all been swept away and a
thick, dark blue carpet had been laid on the stairs. Good, that
made it easier to follow without being heard. Up I climbed, the air
feeling chill as I reached the upper landing. I looked around.

A long corridor stretched in
front of me, various doors leading off it. Towards the end of the
corridor, I saw the hooded figures shuffling forward, silent now
and queuing once again, and I quickly took another photo. I had to
know where they were going and where this corridor led. At regular
intervals, square pillars jutted out from the walls, acting as
plinths for decorative arches that spanned the corridor, and
creating dark recesses that were perfect for concealment.

Quickly, I moved to the first
pair of pillars, pressing myself into the recess and peering round.
No one had seen me, and the queue of stooped, elderly people was
getting noticeably smaller. I risked moving forward to the next
pair of pillars. Now, I was afforded a better view and strained to
see, through the dim light, where the old folk were going.

At first glance, it seemed that
the corridor reached a dead end, but as I crept forward, I realised
there was a small spiral stairway that could lead nowhere else but
up into the Clock Tower. A number of figures were congregated on
the corridor, awaiting their turn. A dim blue light shone down the
stairs and I realised that a door leading to the upper tower rooms
must have been opened.

As I watched, the blue light
became stronger and I was aware of people coming back down the
stairs. Panicking that I was about to be discovered, I looked
around for somewhere to hide. Seeing a doorway immediately
opposite, I darted across the passageway, opened the door and flung
myself inside, closing the door silently behind me. For a second I
stood, leaning against the doorframe, calming my breathing as I
realised what a near miss I’d just had. If I’d stayed on the
corridor a second longer, my cover would most certainly have been
blown.

I knew, now, where they were
going, but I still didn’t know their secret.

What was in the room at the top
of the Clock Tower? Why was a blue light shining out? And why were
the old people queuing to go up there? I had to find out what was
going on.

I took a brief look around the
room in which I stood. It was probably once a servant’s bedroom,
but there was nothing in it now, except for an old wardrobe on the
far wall covered in dusty cobwebs. I turned back to the door and
opened it slightly, peering through the gap. This gave me a perfect
view of stairs disappearing upwards and I could clearly see the
last few old folk queuing to go up, while others came down and
started to file back down the corridor. The sight that met my eyes
as they passed my doorway made my blood run cold. It was surely
impossible …

A procession of the most
beautiful beings walked slowly by, their heads held high, their
backs straight and their posture perfect, each one looking radiant,
glamorous and young, and each holding a blue cloak over their arm.
I realised one woman had been standing near me in the ballroom,
wearing the emerald green ballgown. Gone was her sagging, creased
flesh. It had been replaced by firm, well-toned, ivory skin with
the translucence of alabaster. Her chestnut hair gleamed, her eyes
sparkled and she dazzled with the radiance of a beautiful jewel.
Her lips were full and pink, her features perfectly formed and her
figure like a Vogue model. On her shoulder, etched into her skin
like a glowing blue, translucent tattoo, was the same circular
symbol crossed by an infinity sign. With a jolt, I realised she was
a well-known TV star, who had recently made a comeback, looking
younger and more glamorous than anyone would have thought
possible.

She paused and waited for the
man behind her to catch up, linking arms with him and laughing. Her
laugh was high-pitched and clear, with the resonance of tinkling
bells, and her teeth were dazzlingly white.

Her partner was equally
spellbinding and I gasped anew, as I recognised one of Hollywood’s
leading men. His skin, too, was ivory-toned and unlined, and he
glowed with the radiance of youth. His eyes were clear blue,
dancing and bright, his features chiselled and angular, and his
shoulders broad and muscular.

Quickly, without thinking of
the danger, I pulled out my phone and, placing it right up against
the gap in the door, took a picture. I simply had to have a
souvenir of this amazing evening.

More beautiful people followed.
I saw a well-known pop star, who by rights should have been in her
sixties, looking no more than twenty-five; a famous actress, with a
perfect, air-brushed face, immaculate teeth and hair, and the most
beautiful slender body; and a famous footballer, who had just made
the headlines for signing a multi-million pound deal.

Other people filed past,
laughing and chatting animatedly, each looking young, vibrant and
glamorous. The women were stunning in their haute couture
ballgowns, the men debonair and sophisticated in their black dinner
suits and dress shirts.