The Gorgons Gaze # 2 (Companions Quartet) (5 page)

“For once, I agree with you, Evelyn,” said Godiva. “It’s time she outgrew her animal problem. You are just encouraging her. Her parents have decided that Connie is to cut all ties with that madcap Society of yours and behave like a normal teenager with normal friends.”

“But she’s not normal, Godiva! Why can’t you face the truth for once in your life? You’ve run away from your own destiny but Connie can’t.

She’s extraordinarily gifted! She needs the Society and the Society needs her!”

“You’re talking nonsense again. You’re ruining what chance she has to live an ordinary life.”

“What good’s an ordinary life when you’re a…you’re Connie? Godiva, you are nothing but a narrow-minded bigot! You always sided with my father about the Society, no matter how much you knew it hurt me and Sybil. I’m not going to let you do the same to Connie!”

“What utter rubbish, Evelyn,” Godiva said, her voice now icy. “You forget it’s Gordon’s daughter we’re talking about, not yours, and he has given me permission to take all necessary steps to save Connie from you.” She turned to Connie. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.”

3
Rat

T
he taxi dropped the Lionhearts outside the gates of a large, square house on the Abbey Close in Chartmouth. Connie gazed up at the four stories to the slate roof outlined against the night sky. The building had the air of a fat, well-fed citizen who had always occupied this privileged spot in the old part of the town and was in no hurry to move.

“Here you are, Connie. This is Lionheart Lodge,” said Godiva. It was the first time Connie had heard her great-aunt approve of anything. “There’s more to your family than all that Society nonsense. The Lionhearts have a long, respectable history in this town. We were one of the leading mercantile families for centuries. Go in the abbey opposite and you’ll find our family names cover the walls. We even paid for the stained-glass window in the south transept.”

Connie made a muted expression of interest. Indeed, she would have liked to know more about this if she hadn’t been feeling so depressed about leaving Shaker Row.

Aunt Godiva took out a key and opened the gates.

“Did you phone Mrs. Wellborough, Hugh?” she asked.

“Of course. She said she’d have the place shipshape for us.”

“I don’t doubt it. I can see that her husband has kept the garden in check as instructed.” Godiva nodded at the immaculate lawn and well-behaved yew hedge. She bent closer and took out a ruler from her voluminous black handbag to measure the border. “Good, good. Nothing over six inches. Perfect.”

Amazed by this precision, Connie picked up her suitcase and followed Godiva up the path; Hugh wheeled the trunk behind. As her feet crunched on the gravel, Connie shivered. There was something wrong here—something sick. The garden felt as if it was trapped in a straitjacket.

Godiva paused on the front step, fumbling in the dark to find the right key. Hugh switched on a light, illuminating the door panels. They were decorated with a very familiar symbol.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Connie exclaimed. What was the sign for the universal doing on this front door?

“What’s that?” Hugh was now level with her. “You mean those? Lovely aren’t they? They’re part of our family
coat of arms—the star compass. Shows that you come from a long line of sailors like me, doesn’t it?” He rolled up his sleeve and displayed a dark blue tattoo in the same shape. “Had that done in Singapore in nineteen fifty-eight. The old man who did it nearly fell off his stool when I showed him what I wanted—asked me all sorts of peculiar questions.” Hugh rubbed his forearm thoughtfully. “In fact, of all my tattoos, it’s the one most people are interested in.”

“Do you know what it means?” Connie couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Of course. It means north, south, east, and west—surely you know the points of the compass at your age? Never Eat Shredded Wheat—that should help you remember.”

He didn’t know it was the Society’s symbol for the universal companion—or was he very good at pretending? Connie wondered.

Godiva opened the door and led the way into the hall, turning on more lights. Connie was immediately struck by the staircase: it had black wrought-iron banisters and white marble steps. The lobby floor was stone; the only furniture an alabaster vase with dried flowers standing on a metal table in front of a large mirror.

Connie carried the sense of sickness she had felt in the garden with her across the threshold. There was something very wrong with Lionheart Lodge—something missing.

“We start your lessons the day after tomorrow, Connie—” announced Godiva.

“But it’s summer!”

Aunt Godiva raised an eyebrow and continued, “So I suggest you spend tomorrow getting to know your new home.”

It wasn’t home, thought Connie sourly. She felt as if she had just been uprooted and re-potted in the wrong soil.

“Your bedroom is next to mine on the second floor. I’ll show it to you now so you can spruce yourself up before supper. You’ll want to change.”

Connie looked down at her jeans. “I will?”

“Of course. We’ll have no trousers in the dining room in this household. I suppose you possess a dress or skirt?”

“Um…”

Godiva gave an irritated tut. “You can borrow one of mine if you can’t find anything suitable. You are to act like a lady from now on, Connie; not a tomboy.”

“I’m not a tomboy.”

Godiva sniffed as if to say there was no room for two opinions on that subject and set off upstairs. She paused briefly outside a door, hand hovering but not touching the white-painted wood.

“This is my room. And this…,”—she took a few steps down the hall—“…is yours.”

Connie walked through the open door and put her suitcase
down. A narrow iron-framed bed stood against one wall, a metal table under the window, and a set of coat pegs hung over a big leather trunk, like the one which Uncle Hugh had struggled home. The room had a bleak, cell-like atmosphere. Only the faded wallpaper—pink roses climbing a trellis—made any attempt at softening the impression.

“You’re to hang your things on the hooks and put the rest of your belongings in the trunk,” said Godiva. She ran a finger over the surface of the table and gave a pleased smile when it came away with no dust.

“All right.”

“Don’t you say ‘all right’ to me in that sulky tone, young lady. You say ‘yes, Aunt Godiva.’”

“Yes, Aunt Godiva.”

“That’s better.” Godiva approached her great-niece and, using the finger that had just checked for dust, stroked her under the chin. “I know it will be hard at first, Connie, but you have to believe that it’s all for the best.” She must have read doubt in Connie’s eyes. “I wish you would trust me. I really do know what you’re going through because I went through it myself. First step to your recovery is to recognize that what you feel is unnatural—it’s like an illness. If you acknowledge that, then you’ll be well on the way to recovery. I’ll leave you now.”

The moment the door closed, Connie threw herself
down on the bed and let the tears that had been building inside her flood out. She’d tried so hard to be brave, not letting Evelyn see her distress as she packed away her things in her beloved attic bedroom in Shaker Row. Now Connie was alone, she gave in to her despair. She already hated her great-aunt. There was something funny about her—she obviously understood more about the Society than she admitted. It was almost as if she knew the truth.

Being taken away from the Society was bad enough, but what was really scaring Connie was the thought of how Kullervo would use her isolation to his advantage. She’d have no chance to learn how to defend herself. And then there was her new companion. When she’d agreed to be Argand’s companion, she hadn’t realized what difficulties lay just around the corner. For both of them to be complete, she’d need to see Argand regularly; if she didn’t, they would both suffer. Entering into a bond made them part of each other—that was what was so special about the relationship between companions. As a universal, she could have fleeting encounters with as many creatures as she wished, but to be bound to a particular companion was something else entirely. It was like the difference between friendship and marriage—she and Argand now belonged together and should not be parted.

There came a gentle tap at the door.

“Yes?” Connie wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

Hugh put his head around the door.

“I thought you might be a bit upset so I’ve brought you a present.” He held out a beautiful curved shell. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll miss a view of the sea when you’re here; but at least with this, you’ll be able to hear it.”

“Thank you, Uncle Hugh.”

“Don’t mention it, my dear.” He placed it on the quilt and left.

Col was in the paddock behind the cottage grooming his horse, Mags, when his grandmother found him. She leaned on the fence to regain her breath, still flustered by the news she had just heard from Evelyn. Col was whistling softly, oblivious to everything else when he was this near to the eight-year-old chestnut. Mrs. Clamworthy didn’t want to disturb them but this couldn’t wait.

“Col?”

He looked up, stopping mid-stroke, surprised to find her so close. “What’s the matter, Gran?”

“It’s Connie.”

“It’s not Kullervo, is it?” Col asked quickly. The name tasted foul in his mouth.

“No, dear. But it’s almost as bad.”

Col dropped the brush. “Tell me.”

“Connie’s been taken away from us—away from Evelyn, the Society, everything.” Mrs. Clamworthy seemed close to tears. Her hand was quivering as it rested
on the top of the fence.

“By who?”

“Her parents have sent in her great-aunt and uncle. Now that Godiva Lionheart’s got her claws into Connie, I dread to think what will happen.”

“Connie’s left without saying good-bye?” Col couldn’t believe it. Only yesterday they had been talking about summer vacation, making plans.

“She had no choice. They carted her off to Chartmouth to that house of theirs right after they arrived last night. None of us are allowed to see her.”

Mags nuzzled Col for some attention; he patted the horse distractedly.

“But they can’t do that! What about her training? What about Kullervo?”

“That’s exactly what we’re all thinking. Your father said they wanted nothing to do with him when he dropped Evelyn at home yesterday evening—Godiva is virulently opposed to anything or anyone to do with the Society.”

A new suspicion struck Col. “What was Dad doing with Evelyn, Gran?”

Mrs. Clamworthy blushed slightly. “That’s their business and none of yours. Now hurry up, I want you to take a message to Mack for me. He doesn’t know yet how it all ended last night.”

Mags turned off the road and picked up his hooves, carrying
his rider further into Mallins Wood. Even though they were the bearers of bad news, Col couldn’t help but feel his spirits lift a little. They both loved riding under the trees. They looked forward to galloping together through the many different parts of the wood: lofty green halls of beech; dark, mysterious tunnels of oak with acorns crunching underfoot; white-columned cloisters of silver birch on the sandy ground. Not only were the trees so diverse, but they changed so much with the seasons. One visit, Col and Mags would brush through the freshly minted greens of spring, next they were beneath the riotous leaves of summer, wading hock-deep in brazen autumn or spooked by skeletal winter.