cover and the chest of drawers. This room is in serious need of some colour. I’ll have to put up some of my photos when I get back from school. School. My heart starts pounding again.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself. Sometimes, when my inner voice says something wise or comforting like this, I pretend it’s Mum speaking to me. I picture her looking down at me, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like Rapunzel’s. It’ll be fine.
I look at the school uniform laid out on the chair by the window. The tartan school uniform. How can it be fine when I have to wear tartan?!
‘Nessa, are you awake?’ Aunt Clara calls up the stairs. ‘Breakfast’s ready.’
Breakfast is a glass of green paint and a bowl of hamster bedding. Aunt Clara says that it’s ‘super juice’ and ‘gluten-free muesli’. I raise the glass to my lips and take the tiniest of sips. The juice tastes like pond water – or how I imagine pond water to taste, anyhow. I force myself to swallow it down. I’m getting really good at that.
‘That’ll be the spirulina,’ Aunt Clara says, looking at me across the table. She’s still wearing her dressing gown and her make-up-free face is gleaming with moisturiser. ‘It’s definitely an acquired taste.’
I thought I’d been able to hide my frown. Obviously not.
‘The what?’ I ask, not sure if I really want to know.
‘It’s powdered algae,’ Aunt Clara replies with a smile, like drinking powdered algae is something to be happy about. ‘It’s very good for you, but it does taste a little weird at first.’
‘Right.’ I want to cry. Why is she making me drink powdered algae? No wonder there was no one in her café yesterday if this is the kind of thing she has on the menu.
Aunt Clara puts down her glass and looks at me, concerned. ‘Are you OK? Would you like something else?’
My stomach starts churning with anxiety and fear and for a moment I feel like
I might pass out. I grip on to the table to try and take a deep breath.
‘No – I – it’s OK. I think I’d better go and get ready for school.’
I’d been hoping that by setting off early for Fairhollow High School I’d avoid seeing any other students but there are already a few tartan-clad clusters of them about. I keep my head down, like I’ve suddenly become fascinated by the paving slabs. I think of Ellie, all the way down in London, and I feel an aching pain in the pit of my stomach. I fumble in my blazer pocket for Mum’s locket and grip it tightly. I’d known that coming here was going to be tough, but I hadn’t realised how emotional it was going to make me feel. I take a deep breath of the cold air and slowly exhale. Even though I know Dad is right and supernatural stuff is super-stupid, I secretly hope that Mum is somehow with me as I carry on along the road.
When I get to the entrance to Fairhollow High I do a double take in shock. It looks more like a country estate than a school. Set back in beautiful grounds, the winding road up to it is lined by a thick wall of trees. There’s even a chapel. I stop for a moment to take it all in before following the signs to reception.
The inside of the school is just as old-fashioned and ornate as the outside, with oak panelling on the walls and dark polished floors as shiny as conkers. I make my way over to the reception desk, my heart pounding.
‘Hi, I’m Nessa Reid,’ I say to the woman sitting behind the desk. She has pale grey hair pinned up in a bun and she’s wearing gold-rimmed, half-moon glasses. She stares at me over the glasses for a second before a flicker of recognition crosses her face.
‘Ah, yes! Our new girl. Clara Hamilton’s niece.’ She looks me up and down as if she’s trying to decide what to make of me, then finally she smiles. ‘Now, what form did we put you in?’ She starts looking through a huge leather-bound book on the desk in front of her. ‘Ah, yes. Mr Matthews, Year Eight.’
Just as she says this, two girls and a boy come clattering through the front doors, laughing loudly. I can tell instantly from looking at them that they’re popular kids. One of the girls has white-blonde hair falling down to her shoulders in loose curls, the other has poker-straight brown hair fashionably pulled back into a ponytail. They both look as if they’ve just sashayed off a catwalk. They’re even managing to make their kilts look cool. The boy has one of those film-star faces, all chiselled cheekbones and gleaming teeth. I guess he must be the boyfriend of one of the girls – the blonde one’s, probably. The brown-haired girl looks way too haughty to have a boyfriend. She reminds me of the Evil Queen in Snow White. They all glance over at me curiously and I pretend to look for something in my bag.
‘Ah! Izzy, Vivien, Stephen!’ the receptionist calls. ‘Would you take Nessa here upstairs with you? She’s starting in your form today.’
There’s a moment’s silence. All I can hear is a pounding in my head.
‘Sure,’ the blonde girl finally replies. Her voice is crisp and polished. I look up from my bag. They’re all still staring at me. None of them are smiling.
‘Thank you, Izzy,’ the receptionist trills before turning back to her work.
I trudge over to them.
‘Hi, I’m Nessa,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, we got that,’ the girl with dark hair – she must be Vivien – says curtly. They start walking off down the corridor. I trail after them, feeling red-hot with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. They could at least be trying to make conversation. When we get to a stairwell at the end of the corridor the blonde girl Izzy looks back over her shoulder at me. I smile at her, but she turns away, and I feel a sudden chill run right through me. It’s really strange – like I’m shivering on the inside of my body.
I follow them up two flights of stairs and past a row of doors to the end of a corridor. They still don’t say anything to me, just open the door and go through. I check the sign on the door just to make sure they haven’t brought me to the wrong place for a prank, but the sign says Mr Matthews, 8MA.
As it’s still so early, there’s only a handful of other students in the form room when I go in. Mr Matthews is sat behind his desk marking a pile of books. He’s old and stick thin, with crazy wiry white hair springing from his head. I go and stand by his desk, but he’s so engrossed in his marking that he doesn’t notice me. I cough and he still doesn’t look up. My face starts to burn.
‘New girl, sir,’ Stephen shouts suddenly, causing Mr Matthews to jump. He looks at me at last and frowns.
‘New girl?’
I nod. ‘Yes, sir. Nessa Reid.’
Mr Matthews’s pale blue eyes light up. ‘Of course! Clara Hamilton’s niece.’ He stands up and promptly knocks his pile of books over. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he says as he tries to put it back together. ‘I used to know your mother, Celeste. I taught her, actually – many moons ago. You look so like her it’s uncanny.’ His smile fades and he shakes his head. ‘I was so sorry when I heard – you know – when she died.’
I nod and look away.
‘OK, we need to find someone to take care of you until you’ve found your feet,’ Mr Matthews says. ‘We don’t want you ending up going for lunch in
