She knows what she holds in her hands. One word, to anyone at all, and she could destroy me. She is torturing me, and she is enjoying it.

Eventually I choke out, "How did you know?"

"I step lightly." She smirks triumphantly. "It's a most useful trait."

I chew my bottom lip, bitter panic rising at the back of my throat.

"So ... who exactly was he?"

But Miss Moore is approaching us, and we fall silent, pretending to study the paintings.

"So, girls, any ideas?"

We gaze up, having apparently been lost in thought. Unfortunately, neither of us have any clue at all, and we sit smiling hopefully up at her.

"Girls?" she says, and her voice is stricter now, a warning.

"Um ... well, it's ... it's made of paint?" I venture, and I can feel Felicity exploding into stifled giggled next to me.

"Indeed, Miss Doyle, it would seem like this painting is made of paint. I would have thought that obvious from the name. Anything else?"

We say nothing until she tuts, rolls her eyes, and moves on. Felicity is now laughing louder, and I find myself joining her. For the moment, I revel in this deliciously wicked, blackmail-induced friendship. I realise that it is the first time I have laughed – really and truly laughed – since the death of my mother.

That evening, Felicity slips away from her friends and beckons me. Reluctantly, I follow her, and find myself walking along the edge of the forest.

"You know, there's a lake in there." She motions towards the trees, and I nod, unsmiling. It seems almost painful – I know why we're both here, and so does she. She's knows what she's doing, and she's enjoying it.

I remember watching a child in India. He had a glass jar and caught a butterfly inside it. Trapping it with his hand, he smiled in delight at his newfound power over the helpless insect. It fluttered desperately inside the jar until I could bear it no longer. I knocked it from his hands, and the glass shattered amongst the dust. There was a flash of peacock blue, and the butterfly lay dead, crushed under a glinting shard of glass.

That is how I feel. Like a butterfly caught, like a mockingbird caged. And Felicity is the child, drunk on power, addicted to the rush, trapping me with her silent stepping and cruel manipulation. And I wonder if I am to have the same fate as the butterfly.

Everything I touch seems to break.

"So ... who exactly was he?" she asks, smirking saucily.

"I'm going to tell you something, but, before I do, you have to promise not to tell anyone else." As soon as the words are out, I realise how futile they are.

"And why on earth do I have to promise that? I don't owe you anything." That mocking smile is back in place: she is sure she has me trapped. And, for the moment, I know that she is not wrong.

"Well, then, you don't find out." It's a desperate try; I myself can see the loophole. She could simply lie.

"Gemma, I wouldn't be playing any games if I were you. You are in enough trouble already."

And then I see it, a flash of colour, like a cloak slipping round the corner of an Indian street. My heart aches for home, but I know what has to be done.

"If you promise not to tell, then ... I'll take you with me."

"Where?" the confusion does not show on her face.

"It .. it will all become clear."

"She sighs. "God, this better be good. I promise." I can see, out of the corner of my eye, that she is looking to me, to see whether I react for her Satanic cursing, but I restrain myself and remain coolly composed.

"And you promise to believe me?"

She raises her eyebrows. "That's a bit more complicated."

"Promise!"

"Fine. I promise."

"Alright. Alright." I take a deep breath, and begin. "My mother is dead."

"She is?"

"Yes."
"Of what?"

I open my mouth, to instinctively say "cholera", but instead clench my fists and choke out the words, "She took her own life."

Felicity doesn't gasp, or pause, or stop walking, and this, surprisingly, makes me feel better than all of the kind words and sympathetic smiles and condescending glances that I have received since mother's death.

"Why?"

"She ... she ... she was being ... attacked by something – this shadow, this pool of darkness. It was ... swallowing her up. But she got free at the last second, and.." It is not necessary to continue. Felicity says nothing.

"I guess she knew what it was and knew that it was worse than death."

Felicity looks and me, and I cannot decipher the expression on her face.

"Anyway, I ended up here, and... I went for the walk ... and he surprised me. He said he knew something about my mother's death. He had to tell me something important. And then... I had a... it was like I had fainted. I saw my mother, and she was screaming something and pointing at something I couldn't see. We were in the middle of a storm, and then, suddenly, I was back. But then I heard what my mother was saying. Something about finding someone, and telling her that she – my mother – was sorry. He told me he would see me soon, and then left me. Nothing happened until, like you saw, I went upstairs after supper and he was there. He made me promise not to scream, and then he told me everything he knew. Well," I amend, thinking back, "Not everything. There was one thing he didn't tell me, saying that someone else was going to. It doesn't matter. Anyway, according to him, my mother and he belong to ... organisations, groups of some sort. My mother had made a mistake, long ago, and it's now my responsibility. But ... it was ... she made the mistake in another..." I stop, take a deep breath, and continue. "In another world."

Felicity stops now, and turns to me.

"I didn't hear the conversation – between you and that boy. All I saw was him sitting on top of you on the bed."

I blush crimson as I let the implications of this sink in. The door was directly at the foot of my bed, and so Felicity could not have seen the hand over my mouth, the knife at my neck, and the terror in my eyes. Instead, she saw me and him intertwined on the bed.

"It wasn't what it looked like. Not at all."

She smirks, but I know that she is only doing it to infuriate me. I swallow, and gaze back at the school, the smooth slate roof shining in the cold sunlight.

"Please say you believe me." I turn to her, and grab at her wrists. I can feel her pulse through her near translucent skin, and stare at her grey eyes nervously. "Please."

"I believe you. But you still haven't answered my original question. Who was he?"

"He originally belonged to that gypsy tribe – the one in the forest – but he lived in India, secretly protecting my mother. He says to call him Kartik."

Felicity is silent for a few moments, and then turns back to me, a wicked smile forming on her lips. She leans in to me, so close I can see the pulse flicker in her neck, and says, "Gemma, darling, I want to meet him."