Free Kingsholt by Susan Holliday Page A

He
needed
Dad.
    Aidan interrupted his thoughts. ‘Chloe needs you, Sam. And so do I. We must break the darkness and help her.’
    ‘She doesn’t have to stay around, she has a mind of her own,’ said Sam firmly.
    ‘She’s captured,’ repeated Aidan.
    ‘She doesn’t have to be captured,’ said Sam, adding aggressively, ‘besides, she looks awful and is awful.’ He looked straight at Aidan. ‘You
can’t
believe those stories,’ he said scornfully. ‘History’s one thing, but they’re another.’
    Aidan shrugged. ‘I believe sometimes, we’re given help toovercome evil through something as small and strange as a legend.’
    ‘But it might not be enough.’
    ‘It might not. But we have to act.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘You must use your good influence on Chloe. And I must build a chapel to God. These two things are intertwined.’
    ‘I don’t see how,’ said Sam, ‘but I’ll have a go. Chloe used to be nice and normal, you know. The truth is, her parents don’t give her any attention at all and I think that’s why she thinks Nimbus is great. He’s become her father.’
    ‘I didn’t know you went in for analysis, Sam,’ said Aidan with lifted eyebrows. ‘Anyway, all we can do is to have faith that she’ll become her old self again.’ He abruptly closed the Book of Kingsholt and put it beside Asser’s Life of King Alfred and Uncle George’s diaries. He looked tired.
    ‘I think it’s time to go.’ He strode out of the room.
    As Sam stood up a limp darkness drifted over the library, as if a mourning cloth had been spread out and everything had lost its shape and colour. Aidan was already clanking the keys and beckoning him through the door. Sam carefully avoided the mirror as he turned to go. But in his mind he could see the monk with a white, rough woollen cowl drawn over his pale head, and a long, brown quill in his right hand.

Chapter Nine
    Chloe stood by the hospital cage, next to Sam. A bird with an injured wing was hopping into a dish of water.
    ‘It’ll never survive,’ she said.
    ‘Yes it will. Aidan will make sure it does.’ Then after a while, ‘What’s the matter, Chloe? You’re so pale you look as if you’re going to be sick. I reckon it’s all those pills you must be taking. Look, why don’t we have some fun?’
    She smiled. ‘It’s not an in word round here.’
    ‘Telling me!’
    Chloe turned towards him, the words rushing out as if she was making a confession. ‘Leela tells me I’m a passerelle. It’s a word she made up. Sounds like a butterfly, doesn’t it? But it means sensitive to the past. Like our grandmother.’
    Sam studied her silently. Would that account for her pale face, her glazed eyes, her lack of substance, her forgetfulness? Was she in the grip of the black past Aidan had talked about, that hung over the stones and woods, the shrieking massacre that came up from the open pit and infected the bones of the valley? Don’t exaggerate, he told himself.
    ‘Should be mentioned on the family tree,’ he said lightly. ‘Chloe Penfold – passerelle.’
    ‘Shut-up,’ she said, pressing her hands against her head.
    ‘Only a joke,’ said Sam. ‘As a matter of fact, Aidan mentioned it to me. He said it’s in the family.’
    ‘You don’t understand,’ said Chloe petulantly, ‘he’s not to be trusted. He’s the enemy.’
    ‘Well, he’s my friend.’ Sam looked at Chloe. ‘Anyway, whose enemy?’
    ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
    Sam waved his hands. ‘Okay. All is well, passerelle. Now, like I said, why don’t we have some fun for a change.’
    ‘Like we used to,’ she said, in a half-mocking voice. ‘Exploring the loft. That was your favourite, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Why not?’ said Sam, ‘there’s no age barrier, is there?’ He put his arm round Chloe. ‘Come on, let’s go and see what there is to eat.’
    Chloe said she couldn’t eat lunch and went up to her room. She flung herself on the bed. If only it was like the old times. If