Free Past Praying For by Aline Templeton Page A

with the lights of a Christmas tree.
    This was her playground, the world in which she moved for her mischief, her own special homage to her unholy deities of Misrule. And that mischief was breeding crueller mischief, as she watched from her strange hiding-place the people she knew best become twisted by distress, even fear. She had learned how to exploit vulnerability long ago, and if she had forgotten why she needed to do so, she recognized the deep, evil excitement that was growing now, demanding blacker devilment and wider powers.
    So tonight she had thinking work to do, and she slid back through the shadows like the ripple of a running wave. Seated at the table with more of the rough brandy, she plotted, her eyes bright and blank, as if their intelligence were unconnected to a spirit within. She must practise, experiment; she must be clever and elusive, until with her grand finale she could change her world dramatically and take control. She could feel the need strong within her, consuming her like the healing fire itself – but that was enough. Like other night creatures, she dare not risk even the first whisper of cock-crow.
    She put the typewriter back in its bag. There was a little book covered with blue suede in there too; she stroked it thoughtfully with her pink-gloved hands, but did not open it.
    As she came out of the cupboard, having restored the bag to its original place, she was getting sleepy, and back in the kitchen she hung up the coat, returned the boots and gloves to their proper place. She was tired now, very tired. The bed upstairs was warm and inviting, even if it led her back into the prison from which she could do no more than peer out at the world through the eyes of Dumbo, as she always called her.
    At least she could spy on Dumbo, even if she couldn’t always fight her way out. Dumbo, poor fool, could see nothing when Missy was in control, though even that lame-brain was beginning to sense the musky taint of wickedness in the air about her, and be afraid. Very much afraid.
    Smiling drowsily, Missy made her way quietly back upstairs.
    ***
    Laura Ferrars, yawning a yawn which almost dislocated her jaw, shuffled into the kitchen with her dressing gown unfastened and her feet shoved into an ancient pair of furry slippers. It was six o’clock; she would put the turkey in the oven and then go straight back to bed. She didn’t wake refreshed these days, after restless and dream-haunted nights.
    Melissa and Sara, thank heavens, were past the stage of 4 a.m. reveille on Christmas Day, and if Sara woke she would open her stocking quietly in her own room. The Wicked Witch of the North was a pussycat compared to Melissa untimely roused.
    With arms braced she lifted the prepared turkey from the kitchen table and slid it into the Aga. For a nasty moment she thought it hadn’t clearance, but no, it was all right.
    She was going to make a big effort today, she decided as she closed the door. After all, it was Christmas, and James and the girls couldn’t be expected to tiptoe round the corpse of her self-esteem speaking in hushed whispers indefinitely.
    She had not as a child been in the habit of expressing her feelings, and living with James certainly wouldn’t encourage anyone to parade them. ‘Thank goodness you’re level-headed, Laura,’ was his highest praise, usually after he had left her to cope with a teenage tear-tantrum from one of the girls.
    She was past mistress by now at suppressing her problems under a veneer of confidence when she felt shy, or calmness when panic threatened to engulf her. And it worked, in its way, though when articles in thoughtful magazines suggested that this was hardly wise, she could believe them. The injuries life inflicted on her never seemed to heal very well; they suppurated and left scars, but you can’t change your nature to order.
    So all she could do now was to cover this particular wound – deeper and wider and more crippling than any she had suffered