Chapter Twenty-Seven
Something incredible is happening as I walk into my bedroom, now fully sober and wide awake.
The Blue Lady is standing by the window, looking down at the lawn. I see her as a faint figure of glowing light, translucent
but powerfully real. I can feel her sadness in the air and hear a quiet weeping that seems to come from all around me. I’m
not afraid, just suddenly weighed down by inescapable grief. She is pointing out of the window at something, while her face,
if that’s what it is, is turned towards me.
Crossing to the window, I know that’s what she wants me to do. As I reach the spot where she is almost standing, she slowly
dissipates around me, a silvery mist that gradually becomes thin air. The last thing I see is her desperately sad eyes fading
back into the portrait that hangs over the mantelpiece.
Gripped by the urgency of her warning, I look out of the window, half expecting to see that little child phantom still looking for her mama.
But there is nothing in the clear bright night, or at least that’s what I think at first. Then I see it, something moving in the rose garden.
Peering into the gaps amongst the rosebushes, trying to get a glimpse of what it is that’s moving down there.
Then it wanders out into full view and I see that it’s not a ghost. It’s a person, an alive one.
A girl, to be exact. And I’m pretty sure it’s the girl Megan, from Forrest’s workshop.
What is she doing all alone in the rose garden at midnight? Well, there’s only one way to find out.
By the time I reach her, Megan is sitting on a bench amongst the sleeping roses, their petals folded and tucked away for the
night. The sight of her there stops me short, she looks so little and alone. Her head weighs heavily in her hands; her shoulders
shudder as she cries quietly. Poor kid, what’s happened to her?
“Megan?” I say softly. She starts and looks up at me, face wet with tears.
“I’m not in trouble,” she says reflexively. “I mean I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just sitting here, not bothering anyone.”
“I know,” I reassure her, taking a couple of steps closer. “But you don’t seem to be very happy about being out here in the
middle of the night all on your own. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Megan gives a shuddering sigh and hangs her head.
“You’ll think I’m stupid,” she says, wiping at the streaks of mascara that track down her face.
“Just tell me and I’ll let you know about that after,” I say, sitting on the other end of the bench. “A problem shared is
a problem halved and all that. And I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a kid once too.”
Megan gives me a long hard look, as if to decide whether or not she can trust me. It’s a look I have given to many unfamiliar
adults in my life. I know it well. So I let her look, and I let her think. Eventually she seems to come to the conclusion
that I might be able to help her.
“Well, my dad is a long-distance courier, right?” she says with a sniff. “He was supposed to have the weekends off in August, but work called him in this morning with an urgent job, and he has to take it, because if you turn work down, they stop offering it, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know.” I nod.
“Which meant he wouldn’t be in when I got back after today. I mean that’s okay, I’m sixteen soon. I’m used to staying home
alone overnight. But today I suppose I was a bit pissed off with him. I wanted to tell him about my poem, you know? Because
it was really cool. I never knew I could write a poem. But we’re broke, so he has to work when he has to work.”
“I get it, still disappointing not to have anyone to tell when you’ve had a good day,” I say. “It’s almost worse than when
you’ve got no one to tell you’ve had a bad day.”
“Right? . . . And I know Dad would be really proud, but . . .” Her shoulders slumped. “I forgot my house key today so I can’t
get in the house. And I didn’t want to tell Dad, because he’d turn around and come home, never mind how much trouble it gets
him with work. And I don’t want him to lose his job because I forgot my key, right? Like Dad’d never blame me, but I’d know.”
Nodding, I empathise.
“I get it,” I say. “Sounds like your dad does a lot for you and you don’t want to let him down. So instead of telling him
you forgot your key, you decided to sleep over here in the garden.”
“Yeah,” Megan explains as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“I thought there are so many little cosy-looking fake houses in the garden and the stables, and I’m pretty sure the door to that big greenhouse with your weird lab in it is always open.
And anyway, it’s summer and really warm.
I thought it would be easy to find a place to crash, and no one would ever know.
” She wraps her bare arms around her torso. “Only it’s not that warm now.”
“No, it’s not, is it?”
“And the stables were locked, and the towers and the church were creepy and dark, and I went to greenhouse thing but . . .”
She leans a little closer to me and whispers. “Don’t tell anyone, but I was too scared of seeing a ghost. And then I came
here and thought, ‘Well that was a ridiculous plan, Megan, you silly mare.’”
“I see.” Megan’s plan seems completely on brand for a fifteen-year-old to me. There was one time when I was around her age
that I was so sick and tired of living with this bully kid that I packed a T-shirt and a can of Coke and caught a train to
London. I lasted precisely thirty-four terrifying minutes in the big city before I found a police officer and asked her to
take me home. Kids do questionable things.
Still, she is a minor, sleeping rough in a place where she is supposed to be safeguarded. I don’t think I’m overreacting when
I think that Forrest could easily get disqualified for this. After all, it’s his job to make sure they get on the coach home
at the end of the day. It is surprising to realise that I don’t want him to get disqualified. The thought of Forrest having
to leave, getting asked to leave, just when Artie has arrived, and when he has had such a positive effect on all the kids,
especially Megan, makes my stomach tie itself in knots.
“So, did Forrest just not notice that you didn’t get on the bus?” I ask.
“Oh, I got on the bus!” Megan says. “But at the end of the drive my mate Sophie said she was gonna throw up, so he let us off and only she got back on. The driver didn’t notice. He was having a smoke out the window.”
That’s good news for Forrest, though maybe not for the driver.
“Okay, so this is what we are going to do,” I tell Megan. “Tomorrow we are going to have to come clean and tell Forrest what
happened. Don’t worry, I’ll come with you. And apparently Forrest is a good guy. He’s definitely going to be more the kind
of ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ sort of reaction than any all-out fury. So you’re good.”
“Will he get into trouble because of me?” Megan asked, chewing on her lip.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” I say. “And as for right now, you are going to come back to my room with me and sleep
in my bed.”
“The same bed as you?” Megan asks with the kind of horror I’d expect if it was Freddy Krueger inviting her for a sleepover.
“Ew, no, gross,” I play along. “You can have my room. I’ll sleep over with my friend Rani across the hall. I want you to know
that Rani snores really loudly and that I am making a huge sacrifice for your safety and comfort.”
“Thanks,” Megan says, lowering her eyes.
“I’ll come and get you for breakfast in the morning and after that we will call your dad and find out which one of your neighbours
has a spare key.”
“Oh, I never thought about that,” Megan says, tapping her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“No, because you’re fifteen,” I tell her. “But even if they don’t, I’m sure we can arrange for you stay over here at the castle
until you dad gets back.”
“Really?” Megan looks at me with wide, tear-swollen eyes. “Thanks, Miss.”
“You can call me Ava,” I tell her.
“Is it all right if I call you Miss, because it’s dead weird to call an old person by their first name?”
“That works too,” I say, feeling suddenly much older than my years.
“Miss.” Megan looks worried. “Is your bedroom haunted?”
“Oh, not even slightly,” I lie. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry about that. The ghosts of Castle Beaumont are all very”—I
see her worried expression—“fictional. They are all very made up and not real, so you can sleep easy.”
“Oh good, I’m so tired,” she says, suddenly looking very young. I see myself at her age, never finding a safe place to rest
my head.
“Me too, kiddo,” I say. “Come on, there’s a four-poster bed with your name on it.”
“What, like literally?” she asks.
Like I said, fifteen-year-olds.