‘Oh, yes. The legend of your disappearance.’ My aunt nodded. ‘Course, now I know what ’appened.’
‘I must confess, all this… slippage, between the years… it’s a very new idea to me. Please forgive me if I am slow to understand everything,’ he said. ‘There was a… legend of my disappearance?’
‘Oh, yes.’ My aunt nodded again. ‘You were quite the enigma. In St Nantes they used to warn kiddies not to go an’ play at Trevarron, or lovers to go there at night, cos Old Willie’d get ’em.’ She chuckled.
I sat down opposite her.
‘And what about Lady Hermione and Violet? You said that they’re in terrible danger?’ I asked, but my aunt shook her head.
‘I’ll get to that. But I want to talk to you about the travellin’ first.’ She looked shrewdly at us both, and then around us, at the gatehouse with its bare walls and basic wooden furniture.
‘I believe that the Penrose women ’ave the ability to time travel,’ Aunt Bill began, slowly. ‘I wrote to you in my letter that my own mother did. In fact, she never came back.’ My aunt fixed us both with a gimlet stare. ‘Still waitin’ for her to turn up at my door one day.’
‘That’s so strange.’ I ran my fingertips over the rough grain of the table we sat at, remembering the furniture that had been here before. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like. To have lost your mother, and to know that she’s still out there, somewhere. In time.’
‘’Tis a strange thing, indeed.’ My aunt nodded. ‘And if someone is in another time, are they alive or dead? Both, maybe, dependin’ on what time it is. That’s something I don’t know the answer to, anyway.’ She tapped her fingers on the table.
‘I believe that we come back to the same places, at different times. I don’t know why, but I’ve done it enough to know I have recurrin’ places, an’ so will you,’ my aunt continued. ‘You know already that Trevarron House an’ my cottage sits on the same ley line? Makes them power places. An’ there’s somethin’ about livin’ on those power lines, dunno. Makes us supercharged, or somethin’. Able to pass through time.’
‘Would that follow for the Trevarron family, then?’ I turned to William. ‘If you did it…’ I trailed off.
‘Would the other Trevarrons be able? Maybe, maid. ’Tis possible.’ Aunt Bill looked thoughtful. ‘I ’ave yet to meet a Trevarron inanother time, apart from William. But if he can, then it stands to reason, others could.’
‘Annie Willcock – she was a pellar who lived in your cottage in 1755 – she gave me a journal belonging to her ancestor, Evelyn.’
‘I’m aware of the Willcock family,’ Aunt Bill replied. ‘I’ve met some o’ them. What was the journal?’
‘It’s here.’ I reached into my pocket and set the journal on the table. ‘I keep it with me.’
I had offered it to Nancy, but she had demurred, saying that if it had been given to me then it should stay in my possession. But, she had taken a good look through it.
‘What a labour o’ love. I could’ve done with this many moons ago, let me tell you.’
‘She talks about the portal being more active during eclipses. See, the Latin.’ I pointed it out to Aunt Bill.
‘Something like, when the moon passes between the sun and the earth, the door opens.The doors are many, the paths are infinite. The way is for the few; tread carefully if you are gifted, for the lines of power lead to heaven and hell.’
‘I didn’t know you could read Latin.’ Aunt Bill was always a surprising person.
‘You don’t know a lot o’ things, missy.’ My aunt shot me an unreadable look.
‘In your letter, you said you just sensed when the time slip was going to happen. Is that still true? You just… winged it?’ I asked her.
‘Well, in the beginnin’, yes. After some time I got the hang o’ bein’ able to control things a bit more,’ Aunt Bill said. ‘Every time I’m away, I wonder whether I’ll make it back. I always ’ave, so far. But there’s always that worry. What if I get lost forever. Like my mother.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘’Ere. What’s this?’ Aunt Bill had been looking carefully at some of the back pages in Evelyn’s journal, and she held a page at the back up to her eyes.
‘What?’ I frowned.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that there’s nothin’ written on these pages?’ My aunt’s curious eyes flicked to mine. ‘Look. This whole section, blank. An’ here.’ She showed me a variety of blank pages that were at odds with the others where Evelyn had doodled, drawn and painted all kinds of diagrams and illustrations; some of the pages were like religious books handmade by monks and nuns, with illustrated letters and beautiful copperplate penmanship in vivid coloured inks.
I suppose that I had thought it was strange, but I hadn’t had time to think about the blank pages.
‘I just assumed Evelyn had a bit of a scattergun approach to the journal.’ I shrugged. ‘It was just something she made for herself. I dunno. She didn’t like those pages.’
‘No, I don’t think it’s that.’ Aunt Bill held up the page to the lamp and squinted at it. ‘Look. There are marks there.’ She beckoned to both of us; William crouched down to see the book that Aunt Bill held up to the oil lamp. ‘See? It’s writing.’
