Free Immortal by Gillian Shields

poor wretches in London and Manchester and our other so-called “great” cities. I am determined to use our discoveries to alleviate such suffering, and I have made a very small beginning.
    There is a pear tree in the corner of the kitchen garden that is blighted, and the gardener had told me that he planned to cut it down next week. So when both Miss B. and Mama were resting after luncheon a few days ago, I locked the door of my room and closed the curtains and consulted the Book.
    First, I made an altar on my dressing table, draping it in white silk, lighting pure wax candles, and invoking the secret words of blessing. On the floor in front of the altar I drew a Circle all around me for protection and strength. Then I spoke the incantations, burning the oil and herbs as described in the Book. As I did so, I emptied my mind and concentrated until I seemed to see stars of fire and light all around me.
    When the mixture had cooled, I crept into the kitchen garden, making sure that no one saw me, and anointed the tree with it. Then I bound a single strand of my hair around one of the branches. When I placed my hand on the tree, I felt the life force within it answering my call. Today the canker on the stem is shriveling and the blight is fading from the leaves. And I know I can do more, much more. As some have been given the gift to sing or dance or paint in a way that I could never hope to imitate, so I too have been given a miraculous gift: to know and serve the Secret Fire and its great Creator. Oh, my words seem wild, yet I know what I have seen and done.
    I can snuff candles with a blink of my eye, and light the fire in my grate with the flick of my wrist and the strength of my thought. I can see through the shadows into the light, where a girl with bright hair and strange clothes walks by the lake, alone and lonely. I want to experience all this and more, and to understand every deep mystery that the Book contains. But S. troubles me. Already I feel that we are walking in different directions, and that makes me afraid for this great adventure. Yes, he troubles me, though it is hard to explain exactly why.
    It began the day after our first attempt to cast the Circle in the cave on the moor. He called at the Abbey after breakfast, as usual, but was sullen with me, even angry.
    “Why did the spirits answer you and not me?” he asked again and again, as though I had done this on purpose to spite him.
    “I do not know; perhaps you should try again….”
    “Yes, let us go back to the cave now, immediately.” He hurried me out of the house, and we rode recklessly over the hills. Once in the cave again, he repeated the ritual with a ferocious intensity, following the instructions with great care, omitting nothing of the strange rites. With all his strength and passion, he summoned the powers and called on the immortal fire. But again, the flames sprang to life in my hands, not his. He wouldn’t give up, however, and he called out every word of incantation that he could muster, until his eyes burned with despair. I could not bear to see him so abandoned and distressed, and I secretly wished that he would be granted what he desired.
    As the white flames flickered on my hands like laughing children, I seemed to be given a choice. It seemed as though I could allow S. to be included in the Mysteries or not. And I hesitated. All my life I have been in his shadow: younger, ignorant, a mere girl. For one fleeting moment I was tempted to keep this new power to myself.
    I could not do it. “Let it happen,” I breathed, “let it be as he would desire….”
    There was a fearful rumbling in the cave, like an earthquake, and I thought the walls must fall in on us. Dark coils of smoke, crackling with tongues of green fire, rose at his feet and wound themselves around his body until he was clothed in darkness. I reached out for him, but I was thrown down on the rocky floor. A silver light exploded in my mind. Then a long line of