The Midnight Gate (17 page)

“What?”

“Could you help me get into the house? Mrs. Lazenby took my key.”

“Break into your house? Now?” Steve's voice betrayed that housebreaking was a step too far, even for him.

“Please. I can't go back to the Proctors yet. I need to … I just need to talk to them.”

“But if we get caught we'll—”

“It's my house.”

“Yes, but it's not mine.”

Belladonna tried her best big-eyed look, though it had never yet worked on anyone her own age.

“And you needn't look at me like that either.”

“Sorry.” She let her hair fall back down over her face.

“Oh, alright. Come on.”

Steve turned around and strode off down Lychgate Lane toward her house. Belladonna ran to catch up, suddenly elated at the thought of seeing her Mum and Dad.

“Thanks! I'll pay you back sometime, I promise.”

“Great,” said Steve grimly. “You can come and visit me in jail.”

The house looked the same as before, dark and quiet with all the curtains tightly drawn. Belladonna felt a pang of sorrow—it seemed blind and bereft, exuding emptiness.

“We'd better go around the back,” she whispered.

“No duh,” grunted Steve.

They slipped down the side path, into the back garden, and up to the back door. Steve tried the knob as if hoping someone might have forgotten to lock it. He sighed.

“I was thinking we could break a window,” suggested Belladonna. “The latches are at the bottom. Mum always said it was really unsafe.”

Steve nodded and they crept to the kitchen window. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around one hand.

“You're going to have to give me a bunk up.”

Belladonna made a basket with her hands and Steve stepped in and up to the window. He smashed his hand against it, then fell back down. The window hadn't broken, but there was a long crack across the center.

“What about a stone?”

Belladonna handed him a good-sized rock from the half-completed rock garden. Steve wrapped the jacket around it, and Belladonna gave him another bunk up to the window.

This time it shattered and although the actual break was relatively quiet, the sound of all the glass falling to the ground and into the sink sounded like a waterfall in the evening quiet of Lychgate Lane.

They froze and listened—silence.

Steve reached in, unlatched the window, and hoisted himself inside. Belladonna went to the back door and waited while he slid the bolts back and let her in.

“There's a strange smell in here.”

“Ew!” said Belladonna, wrinkling her nose. “Mrs. Lazenby didn't take the trash bins out. And the beef bourguignon is still on the stove! Yuck!”

“Quiet!” hissed Steve.

“Sorry.”

She made her way into the hall, peeking into the sitting room and peering up the stairs.

“Mum!” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “Dad! It's Belladonna!”

Silence.

She glanced at Steve, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to be absolutely anywhere else.

“Mum! Dad! Please!”

Silence.

“They're not here,” said Steve. “We'd better go before someone finds us.”

“Oh, my God! Look at my kitchen!”

“Mum!” Belladonna's face lit up like a lamp as she ran back to the kitchen.

Her mother was standing by the stove, fury writ large on her face.

“What on earth was the woman thinking? We're going to get vermin!”

“Calm down, Elspeth,” snapped Mr. Johnson. “There are more important things. Belladonna, how are you?”

“I'm alright. I'm fine.”

“No, she's not,” said Steve. “She's living in a building that doesn't exist with people who are probably trying to bring the Empress here from the Dark Spaces.”

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson looked from Steve to Belladonna.

“Is this true?”

Belladonna nodded.

“Tell us all about it.”

For the second time that night, Belladonna told her story, telling them everything that had happened since Mrs. Lazenby had taken her away. As she talked, her mother began cleaning the kitchen. Pots, pans, and dishes flew into the dishwasher, sponges and cloths wiped down all the surfaces, and the contents of the trash bin leapt out in their plastic bag and tied themselves tight.

“I'm so sorry, Belladonna,” said Mr. Johnson when she'd finished. “I don't know what to say.”

“I think we should go to the abbey and get the nine thingies,” suggested Steve. “I mean, Edmund said he had been waiting until the next Dark Times to give someone the parchment and he gave it to us—so that
must
mean that the Dark Times are coming
now
. We need to get to the abbey.”

“But we don't even know what the thingies are,” said Belladonna.

“Yes, but we sort of know where they are, and after we find the first one, we'll … well, we'll know more than we know now, won't we?”

“That's not a bad idea,” said Mr. Johnson. “Let's see those rhymes.”

Belladonna opened her exercise book and put it on the table.

“‘Find one with a heart whose time is through,'”
read her mother. “I think you're right there; that does sound like a ghost.”

“Yes, but what does
Yet constant holds with brightness true
mean?”

“I don't know.”

“It reminds me a bit of old stories,” said her Dad. “You know, the sort where the only person who can do a task is someone with a true heart. In the stories it usually ends up being some boy named Jack who's been a total waste of space up to that point.”

“That sounds like me,” grinned Steve.

“Nonsense,” smiled Mrs. Johnson.

“So a ghost with a true heart,” mused Belladonna.

“As to the nine things,” said her Dad, “we'll see what we can find out.”

“But I don't know if I'll be able to come here again.”

“That's alright. It's probably best if you don't. If we find out anything, we'll tell Elsie.”

“I don't know,” said Mrs. Johnson, slipping into full mother mode. “I don't like the idea of two children going all the way up to that abbey by themselves.”

“It's okay,” said Steve brightly. “We'll go by train.”

“But that's really expensive.”

“I'll get tickets, don't worry.”

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson seemed somewhat mollified, but Belladonna wasn't so sure.

“You're not going to steal them?”

“Well, firstly, we're supposedly saving the world, so I imagine a couple of half-inched train tickets would probably be okay. But, anyway, I'm not. I've got another idea.”

“Yes, but—”

Belladonna never got to finish her sentence. Steve had grabbed her and pulled her down to the floor.

“Hey!”

“Shh! There's someone out there!”

They crouched, hardly daring to breathe. Then they heard footsteps—heavy, booted footsteps.

“You're right! There's a broken window here.” The voice was gruff and vaguely familiar, but Belladonna couldn't quite place it.

Mr. Johnson put his head through the wall and had a look outside. When he came back in, his face was grim.

“It's the police. Two of them. Belladonna, you stay here, it's your house. Steve, you'd better hide upstairs.”

“But won't they search?”

“Not once they find Belladonna. Now off you go.”

Steve looked at Belladonna reluctantly.

“It's okay,” she whispered. “I'll be fine.”

Steve scurried away and up the stairs. Belladonna watched as the back door opened slowly.

“One other thing,” said her Dad. “I think you'd better stop drinking the hot chocolate.”

“The chocolate?”

“I'm pretty sure they've been drugging you.”

Belladonna was about to say something else, but the policemen were standing in the doorway and she recognized one of them.

“You!” said Constable Dodd.

She stood up slowly.

“See you soon,” said her mother, trying not very successfully to keep from crying.

“Chin up,” said her Dad. “Remember you're the Spellbinder.”

 

13

Plans

HER DAD
had been right. As soon as Constable Dodd and his partner found Belladonna, they stopped looking. Belladonna tried to explain that she was homesick, but neither officer was open to discussion. They led her out to their car and put her in the back seat, then Dodd called in to the station to report what they'd found.

Belladonna felt pleased. Perhaps they'd take her to prison. Maybe she'd never see the Proctors again.

The two officers got into the car.

“We're taking you home,” said Dodd.

“No! I mean, don't you have to … I don't know … arrest me or something?”

“I'd love to, but word is we take you back to the foster family.”

“But … no, please. I don't like them.… Couldn't you…”

“Where is it?” asked the second officer, ignoring Belladonna and pulling away from the curb.

“Shady Gardens,” said Dodd. “Top of Nether Street, apparently.”

“Nether Street? I thought that place was demolished years ago.”

“That's where they said she's staying,” shrugged Dodd.

A spark of hope ignited in Belladonna's heart. Would they realize that something was wrong? That the building
had
been knocked down?

It wasn't long before the car rolled through the arched entrance, though Constable Dodd's partner was still not happy.

“Honestly,” he said, “I could've sworn they leveled this place yonks ago.”

“Well, obviously, they didn't.”

They pulled up, marched Belladonna up the stairs to the Proctors, and rang the bell. The door was immediately flung open by a thunderous-looking Mr. Proctor, but he quickly rearranged his expression into one of concern when he saw the police. Mrs. Proctor quickly shoved him aside and smiled gratefully at the two men.

“We've been worried sick,” she cooed.

“Found her in her old house. Said she was homesick.”

“Of course she is, the poor dear.”

Mrs. Proctor reached out and pulled Belladonna into the house, hugging her close.

“This … I could've sworn this building was demolished.” The second policeman looked around, confused.

“Oh … um … you're thinking of the other one,” said Mrs. Proctor. “There used to be two buildings. Thank you so much for bringing Belladonna home.”

She reached out and shook the hands of both men and in that instant Belladonna saw all their concerns melt away.

“That's right,” said Constable Dodd. “There
did
used to be two buildings. Funny how your memory plays tricks. Well, thank you, ma'am, we'll be off, then.”

“Oh! You won't come in for a cup of tea?”

“No. Thank you, but we'd better get back to work.”

Mrs. Proctor beamed, the two policemen nodded, smiled, shot stern looks at Belladonna, and then were gone. The front door clicked closed and a few moments later, Belladonna heard their car start up and drive away. Her heart sank.

Mrs. Proctor let her go and spun her around by the shoulders to face them, almost incandescent with fury. What was she thinking? Why hadn't she called? Did she have any idea how worried they had been? And how on earth would they ever be able explain her disappearance to Mrs. Lazenby?

If it had happened the week before, Belladonna realized, she would probably have felt guilty, but now that she knew that the Proctors were … well, she didn't know exactly what they were, but they certainly weren't good, and that knowledge allowed her to stand impassive under the onslaught and to simply turn and go to her room when she was ordered to bed.

About an hour later, there was a light tap at the door and Mrs. Proctor poked her head in, the benign smile back on her face and a mug of hot chocolate in her hand.

“Hello, Belladonna,” she said softly. “I couldn't let you go to bed without your hot chocolate.”

She put the mug on the bedside table and sat on the side of the bed.

“I know it's difficult for you,” she said, her eyes large with concern, “but you have to understand it from our point of view. We're responsible for you and we really would be in terrible trouble if anything happened. And we do care about you, you know.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Belladonna replied, in what she hoped was the right apologetic tone.

“Good girl. Now sit up and drink your hot chocolate. Tomorrow's another day.”

Belladonna sat up and took the mug from the bedside table. Mrs. Proctor was watching her every move, so she pretended to drink, then blew on it, smiling.

“Hot.”

Mrs. Proctor watched while she pretended to drink some more, then got up and walked to the door.

“Good night, dear.”

“Good night.”

Belladonna listened as her footsteps receded down the stairs, then waited until she could hear the television and the low hum of conversation. She crept out of bed and opened the door. They were definitely in the sitting room. She quickly ran to the bathroom and poured the chocolate down the sink, then scurried back to her room and into bed.

It was hours before she heard her door being pushed open. She was lying in bed, curled up and pretending to sleep, but through her eyelashes she could see Mrs. Proctor's slippered feet walking across the floor to the bed.

“Arise, Spellbinder.” Her voice sounded different but familiar. It wasn't the voice of Mrs. Proctor, but it was a voice she had heard before. Belladonna kept her eyes closed and racked her brain, but she couldn't think who it was. Perhaps it was just that Mrs. Proctor had been creeping into her room and saying the same thing for nearly a week now.