VIII Read Online Free Page B

could do with redecorating, couldn’t it? But it’s a safe place, not a scary place. Now, go to sleep, Hal.”
    “Don’t leave me.”
    “Hal, don’t be silly.”
    “Is Compton here?”
    “Of course. He’s waiting outside – I’ll call him in. Now, settle down.”

V
    ♦  ♦  ♦  V   ♦  ♦  ♦
    Some hours later I open my eyes, very suddenly, to blackness. I feel I’ve been woken by something, but I don’t know what.
    I squirm towards the edge of the bed and pull back the curtain. I can just about make out the window, by a sliver of dim moonlight where its curtains are not quite shut. But the window is in the wrong place.
    For a moment, I panic. I have no idea where I am, or what kind of room the darkness hides. Then memory slides back in, like a cloth across a table: I’m not at home in Eltham Palace – I’m in the Tower.
    And one thing, at least, is the same as always: Compton is asleep, on his pallet, somewhere beyond the end of my bed. I can hear his steady breathing.
    The sliver of moonlight winks, then disappears; wind whistles through gaps in the casement. Then a noise comes, outside in the passage. A door unlatching, opening. Softfootsteps – and urgent whispers.
    I sit up, holding my breath. Very slowly, I peel back the bedclothes and swing my feet to the floor. Across the other side of the room, beneath the door, there’s a faint, flickering line of orange light from the passageway. Sliding my feet forward instead of lifting them, I head towards it, feeling for obstacles as I go. The rushes are prickly against my bare ankles. Suddenly a great gust of wind lashes the window. I stop, tense; but, though Compton stirs, he doesn’t wake.
    Reaching the door, my fingers search carefully for the handle. I apply the gentlest pressure possible, and open it a crack, just wide enough for one eye. It gives me a view of the passageway, looking in the direction of my mother’s bedchamber, which lies next to mine. Her chamber door is open, light spilling from the room, and a dark figure in a nightgown and shawl stands on the threshold, its back to me. This person – a woman – is looking along the passage. Beyond her, I see why: my mother is walking down it, holding a candle – a flickering spot of light in the darkness. As she walks, her free hand trails slowly against the wall. She is dressed for bed; her hair hangs loose down her back. Two of her servants are shuffling along with her, sideways like crabs, looking anxiously at her face, their arms half-open towards her as if hoping to shoo her back.
    Something is wrong, but when my mother speaks, it’s in a perfectly normal tone of voice. She says, “Keep turning left, isn’t that what they say? Always turn left, and eventually you come to the place.”
    Near to me, at my mother’s chamber door, a second, younger woman emerges to stand beside the first. “What’s wrong with Her Grace?” she whispers. She sounds as if she’s only just woken.
    The first woman hisses, “Sleepwalking.”
    “What’s she done?”
    “Done?”
    “People sleepwalk when they’ve got a guilty secret, don’t they? My cousin told me that.”
    “Then your cousin’s a fool,” the first woman snaps. “Her Grace, poor lady, is looking for her brothers.”
    Now my mother has stopped walking, and laid the side of her head against the wall. She says, “Don’t you hear it?”
    One of the ladies with her says, very gently, “Hear what, ma’am?”
    “A tapping. No, no – more like a scratching. Listen – there it comes again. They’re here. I must be quick.”
    “What does she mean?” says the second woman at the door. “Are her brothers hiding?”
    Her neighbour tuts. “I forget how young you are.” Then she whispers something in the younger woman’s ear.
    “Oh, Christ have mercy upon their souls!” The woman crosses herself. “And them only little children, too!” She clutches her companion’s arm. “Do you think their spirits are unquiet here?