The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot) Read online

  “Eight…eight…oh my god, please tell me you mean eight in the evening,” I moan.

  “Mila,” whines my sister. “Did you put it back?”

  Three hours sleep. I got three hours sleep. I go to push my sister off my stomach, but she’s shaking me and she’s quite strong for someone who is only ten years old.

  Then a thought strikes me. What if I’m weakened by the ring? What if I’ve aged and now looked old and decrepit like Nana Roth?

  “Get off me, Lilly.”

  I push her off; she falls backwards and lands on the floor with a thud and a yelp. There’s a mirror on my desk which I usually have facing the wall, but I turn it around and position it to gaze upon my reflection.

  I looked like shit: dark shadows under my eyes, brows that look like hairy caterpillars, and a few new spots on my chin, but I haven’t become as wrinkled as a peach stone, so that’s something, I guess.

  “Stop looking at yourself and tell me,” cries Lilly. “Have you put it back?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t think twice about lying. The word comes out of my mouth without even thinking.

  “You won’t tell on me, will you? Mum is in such a bad mood already this morning.”

  “Then stay out of her way,” I reply. “No one got any sleep last night.” I walk over to the chrome clock that’s no longer working and give it a shake. “Is it really quarter past eight?”

  “Twenty past eight now, probably,” replies Lilly. “Your clock isn’t working because the electricity has been cut off. Nothing’s working. The whole village is out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Josie’s mum came around to see if we had power. She’s still here, and so I wouldn’t go in the kitchen if I were you.”

  “Why?” My fingers slip into the robe I’m wearing. My silent witness is cold in my pocket. My breath of relief is heavy.

  “Because the Aga burns wood and that’s still working,” replies Lilly. “So everyone is in there. You know what you’re like in a crowd.”

  Little Miss-Scaredy Pants has her assuredness back now its daylight outside.

  “Does that mean there’s no hot water?”

  “Nope. So Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed still smell like horses, which is another reason mum is in a bad mood,” replies Lilly. She goes to leave and then doubles back with a wicked gleam on her face.

  “Rustin is here.”

  “So?”

  “Mila and Rustin sitting in a tree. K-I…”

  “Get out, or I’ll tell them you took the ring.”

  Oh, the power I now hold over my little sister. She clams up immediately and her eyes widen like small orbs.

  “You said you wouldn’t tell on me.”

  “I never did. But I won’t – as long as you don’t annoy me.”

  Lilly flees down the stairs. I shut the bedroom door again and take off my pyjamas and robe. The temperature in my bedroom is no guide to the temperature outside, but it’s March, and we live in North Wales.

  Dress for wet and cold is the uniform code here.

  Five minutes later, and I am standing in my red skinny jeans and a long black sweater. I love these jeans because they’re comfortable. I like the sweater because it makes my stomach and butt look smaller.

  It also hides my pockets.

  I slip on some boots and go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. Urgh, my hair is so greasy it’s no wonder I woke up with more spots. Our village is always getting utility services cut off. It’s something to do with the remote nature of the place. It doesn’t help that it’s also trapped firmly in the 20th century, and Avalon Cottage is one of the oldest dwellings.

  Rustin knows about the cottage, I ponder to myself, as I wipe the excess toothpaste from my face. I wonder what else he knows about ghosts and ancient objects.

  Lilly’s right. The kitchen is heaving with people: dad and Auntie Titch are sitting at the table discussing tables (jeez, grown-ups are boring); Uncle Bed is standing at the sink, eating a slice of toast and looking out over the back garden; and mum and her best friend, Ruth, are standing next to the Aga (Ruth has her butt pressed up against one of the doors.) Mum keeps throwing Auntie Titch dirty looks. She also seems to be cutting off Ruth’s every sentence, as if she’s trying to get rid of her.

  And Rustin is standing in the corner with his arms crossed. He looks thoroughly pissed off. He’s wearing a black leather biker jacket and navy cargo pants. He’s sees me and runs his fingers through his untidy, brown hair. It looks even messier now, but then as I haven’t had a shower and my long black hair looks like a slick of tar landed on my head, I can’t talk.

  “Hey, Mila.”

  “Mila,” calls Rustin’s mother in a sing-song voice. I half expect her to break out into a chorus of K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

  “Hey, Rustin.” I say nothing to Ruth, but I smile, with lips pressed firmly together. I still haven’t forgotten how she humiliated my sister and Josie at the swimming pool. My mother may have laughed too, but Ruth was pointing it out to complete strangers. She seems to get a kick out of bullying, and no one is immune. Not even her own kids.

  I don’t like mum’s friends. I think they’re a bad influence on her.

  Rustin rolls his eyes and jerks his head towards the grown-ups. He doesn’t want to be here in this kitchen anymore than I do.

  “Why don’t you two go and eat some toast out in the garden,” suggests Rustin’s mother.

  “Won’t you be leaving soon?” asks my mother, with the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window.

  “Are you kidding me?” exclaims Ruth. “Your place is the only one with any heat. Solar panels – what a crock of shit. You have the most ancient heating system in the village and you’re the only one with heat. I’m staying here until my butt is well done.”

  “She’ll be there for hours then,” mutters Rustin, as we take our toast and head out into the back garden. “The size of her ass.”

  “Don’t be mean.” I slap him on the arm, although I do laugh. Rustin’s mother is known as the village bitch, and he’s had sixteen years of “Rusty Balls” abuse, which I think entitles him to bite back occasionally.

  “Did you get into trouble last night?” asks Rustin.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I thought your dad was gonna give me a lecture in the car, but he was acting kinda weird.”

  “In what way?” I ask thickly. My mouth is full. I love cold toast, especially with half an inch of butter layered on it.

  “He kept asking me what we saw and heard outside the house. You’ve got a security system, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” A very sophisticated and expensive one. We’re pretty comfortable as dad inherited quite a bit of money when Grandad Roth was killed in the plane crash.

  “I dunno why he was so cagey then,” says Rustin. “He even stopped the car and had a look around.”

  “And I bet you shat your pants,” I say laughing.

  “You were just as scared as me,” replies Rustin indignantly. “There was something weird out there last night.”

  I go to mock him again, but something holds me back. Something that is pressing against my hip. There’s a faint throb against my skin, dulled by the thick fabric of my red jeans. It feels like a pulse.

  “Rustin, you said you researched Avalon Cottage and the village for a school assignment,” I say. “What did you find out?”

  “Loads of stuff. It’s kinda cool once you start looking. This village dates back to the time of Gwynedd, way back in the Middle Ages. It was set up as a settlement after the Romans buggered off,” replies Rustin. “The cemetery sits on the site of a druid temple. That’s where most of the ghosts are seen. It stayed in my head because the temple was built by someone called Rustinian the Artisan.”

  The cemetery is less than a mile away from the house. Kids dare each other and place bets with smokes to see who can get the furthest in on dark nights. You get extra cigarettes if you do it on foggy night
s. Marty Carter gives her own prize if the guys do it during storms.

  “Have you ever done the cemetery run on a storm night?” I ask Rustin casually.

  “Not a chance. I’m not that desperate…for a smoke.”

  He catches my eye and we both laugh. It must be hard for Rustin, living in his other best friend’s shadow – quite literally – all the time. Aidan is tall, dark and handsome. Rustin is small and blessed with the worst name in the history of time. But he’s cute and funny and amazingly talented at woodwork. He sees things in the trees that no one else sees, and I don’t mean ghosts. He’s sees the living in what everyone else sees as dead.

  My fingers are in my pockets, although I can’t remember dropping my toast to place them there. The ring slips between them like water.

  “Ghosts, Rustin. What do you know about ghosts?”

  “There’s the Grey Lady, she haunts the church,” he replies. “Don’t roll your eyes, Mila. You’re the one that asked.”

  “Every ghost story has a Grey Lady,” I reply sarcastically. “Next you’ll be telling me about a headless monk and a child ghost looking for its mummy.”

  “I didn’t come across any headless monks,” says Rustin, rising above my sarcasm with stoicism. “But there’s the ghost of a young knight who was apparently killed in a joust on the eve of his wedding. Sir David of Starston was his name. And the ghost of his fiancée, Lady Mary, she haunts the graveyard too. According to the records, she drowned herself in a lake.”

  Goosebumps erupt over my entire body as a shudder sends my body into jerking spasms. I pull my hands out of my pockets quickly. The ring is angry, and yet I don’t understand how I know that.

  “Are you okay, Mila? I didn’t think ghost stories scared you. Katie says you’re obsessed with ghosts.”

  I’ve bitten my tongue. Not deep enough to draw blood, but it hurts. My breathing is ragged and coming in short bursts. I look back to the house. The dormer windows on the first level are dark and show no signs of life inside. Ivy is already dominating the kitchen extension and the attic conversion that was built on top if it. There’s no pulsing blue light, but I know that’s because what was causing it last night is contained in my pocket.

  But there is movement at the kitchen window, and it’s there my eyes are drawn to.

  It’s Uncle Bed, and he’s watching us.

  Watching me.

  Chapter Seven

  Cadaver

  “Seriously, Mila – are you okay?”

  Rustin takes off his leather jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

  “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Do you wanna go back inside?” asks Rustin, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s concerned.

  I shake my head. “Can you do me a favour and laugh as if I’ve just told you the funniest joke ever.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my uncle is watching us and…no, don’t look.”

  But it’s too late. Rustin has already turned in the direction of the kitchen window.

  “Way to go to be obvious,” I hiss.

  Rustin turns back and laughs.

  And then he punches me on the arm.

  “Oh, you’re too funny, Mila,” he says in a loud voice, before fake laughing again.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Rustin lowers his head and turns his back to the house.

  “Doing what you said to do.”

  “Do me a favour,” I reply. “Don’t give up woodwork for drama – you suck.”

  “Hey, you’re the one acting weird. And anyway, it’s not just your uncle watching. Your dad and aunt are too.”

  “Start walking.”

  “Are you sure you trust me to put one foot in front of the other,” says Rustin sarcastically. Then he takes a couple of steps and does a theatrical clown-like stumble, complete with flailing windmill arms. At least he succeeds in making me laugh again.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Well, I can’t rely on just my name or impressive stature to get the girls.”

  “You get girls.”

  “I get the girls everyone else has already had,” replies Rustin. “And they’re the ones I don’t want.”

  The grass is ankle-length in this part of the garden. There are two enormous holly bushes which are still covered in red berries. At Christmas time, me and Lilly come out here with secateurs and scissors and cut off hundreds of sprigs which we decorate the house with. We call it our secret garden.

  Or I used to, before I became too old to believe in magic and secrets. Now I just believe in schoolwork and ghosts. Hardly a great trade off. Getting older sucks.

  “Did you know your grandad has commissioned me to make a bench for this garden?” says Rustin casually. He has his hands in his navy cargo pants, the hems of which are already soaking wet from the morning dew, clinging to the tips of the grass like teardrops.

  “No. That’s great,” I reply.

  “Yeah,” says Rustin, even more casually. “I’ll never be as smart as Ade, but I reckon I could make a living for myself once we get out of that dump.”

  I know he means school, although dump is a better description.

  “Rustin, you have serious talent. Trust me, my grandad doesn’t do favours for anyone. You got that commission because he thinks you’re good enough.”

  “So it wasn’t because I’m friends with you?”

  “I didn’t even know,” I exclaim, stopping next to a long-slatted gate that leads from the back garden into the woods. We’re out of sight now from the kitchen window, although whether we are out of mind is another matter entirely.

  “That makes me feel better,” replies Rustin. And the relief is obvious. He smiles, and I can’t fail to see how straight his teeth are. Why am I looking at his mouth? What if he notices I’m looking at his mouth?

  “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” he asks.

  Yep, he noticed.

  “You have very straight teeth. My dad has very straight teeth.”

  Could I get any weirder? I’m going back to my original statement – I think I’m losing my mind.

  “You’ve gone really pale, Mila,” says Rustin. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  The ring is like a second heartbeat in my pocket. If my mother has managed to get rid of Ruth by now, I know she, dad, Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed will be tearing the house apart, trying to find it.

  I think back to what Uncle Bed whispered to me last night.

  If you find it, do not put it on.

  “He knows I’ve got it.”

  “Mila, who’s he? And what does he know you’ve got? You’re starting to freak me out now.”

  I snap out of my reverie. I was staring so intently at the ground that amorphous black shapes are swimming across my blurred vision.

  “I need to show you something, Rustin. And you have to promise me, on your life, that you won’t tell anyone. Especially your mother,” I say, glancing behind me.

  “Okay,” replies Rustin, slowly and warily.

  I pull the ring out of my pocket and hold it tightly between my right thumb and forefinger. The blue swirls in the oval stone are darkening and churning, like a storm cloud.

  “Thanks for asking, but as I said last night, I’m too young to get married,” says Rustin. “Ask Ade, he’s into that sort of shit.”

  I pretend punch Rustin’s jaw, but I use the back of the hand holding the ring. A static charge snaps between us as my skin touches his face.

  “Ouch,” we both cry.

  Then I look down at the ring, and I can see the skin around my fingers starting to crinkle up again, just like they did last night. It’s like the effect on my fingertips when I’ve been in the bath for too long.

  “What the…” Rustin swears as he watches my hand. The shrivelling effect is travelling down my thumb and forefinger and is spreading out across my other fingers. The colour of my skin hasn’t changed, it’s still pale and tinged with blue from the cold,
and it doesn’t hurt either. If it did, then I wouldn’t be doing this.

  The lack of pain is what makes this dangerous and exciting. But I’m not dangerous or exciting. I’m normal. The pulse of the ring has connected with my own. It’s becoming part of me.

  “Drop it, Mila.”

  How far will it go? I have a reckless need to test myself. Last night my skin went back to normal within seconds of dropping the ring. Can I make my entire hand, my entire arm, shrivel up before it returns to normal?

  “Drop it, Mila. For Christ’s sake, drop the ring.”

  But it’s Rustin’s jacket I drop. It falls from my shoulders with a heavy thud. I pull up the sleeve of my black sweater. My entire hand now looks like a cadaver’s. Old and ancient, as if all of the liquid has been drained from it.

  Rustin snatches the ring from my shrivelled fingers and throws it into the long grass. I feel a gust of cold wind blow over me. It revives me, extinguishing the dangerous entity that had reared its scary head inside of me.

  I am normal. I am normal.

  “Rustin, your mother is leaving now.”

  I scream and quickly hide my shrivelled hand behind my back. Rustin makes a deep grunting sound as he spins around.

  Auntie Titch is standing by the holly bushes.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says with a smile.

  Automatically, like opposing poles, Rustin and I slam together. My right hand is still behind my back. Rustin is breathing in short bursts; I’m not breathing at all. If Auntie Titch sees the ring on the ground, I am in the deepest cesspit of Hell.

  “What are you hiding behind your back, Mila?” asks my aunt. She cocks her head to the side like a quizzical golden retriever. Her long blonde hair is blowing in the wind, but she makes no attempt to push it out of her face.

  “Nothing.”

  “Show me your hand, Mila.”

  “We weren’t doing anything,” insists Rustin.

  My mouth has run dry. My tongue is sticking to my gums. I daren’t show my hand in case it’s still like an Egyptian mummy’s. What was I thinking? Why was I so stupid? I had my chance to put the ring back in the wardrobe earlier. If my mother and father know I had it all this time…