mother . . .
And that, of course, is when I realized. Splashing to her side, I pulled her round to face me. âItâs that necklace , isnât it?â
âSorry?â
Peeling strands of wet hair from across her eyes, she stared.
âThat necklace youâre not wearing at the moment! Thatâs whatâs making youââ
âMaking me what?â
âYou know.â There was no other way of putting it. â Creepy . Youâve taken it off, and now youâre a different person. No-one would recognize you. Look at you! Youâreââ
But little hands were grabbing at her. She swung around to face a dozen shining wet faces, all yelling.
âImogen, come back!â
âSwing me again!â
âDonât go off now!â
Imogen turned back to me, distracted and torn. âThat canât be right,â she said. âDonât forget everything started years before I was given the necklace.â
âYes, maybe it did,â I said. âButââ
Then something made me stop â right there. Go carefully, I warned myself. If Imogenâs mother canât see that she once had a totally different sort of daughter â ablaze with life â then she must really have her mind set on this magic stuff. Melly, you might have to sort all this out yourself. Donât forget Professor Blackstaffe says in his book that âknowledge is powerâ. So maybe itâs best not to give too much away.
âOh, right !â I said. âStupid of me. Iâd forgotten youâd already had those visions earlier, when you were younger.â
She didnât notice anything suspicious. And anyway, the children were still clamouring. âImogen! Swing me!â
She picked up the nearest child and swung her round. Quickly, I copied her. âWho wants the next go? Queue up! Queue up!â
As I said, standing in circles shrieking with merriment is not my idea of a good time. But I did stick it for a good half hour, rather than have Imogen even remember what it was that Iâd just said before her little friends distracted her.
Or begin to suspect what it was I was thinking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
O f course she thought that wearing the necklace had nothing to do with it. Imogen wasnât a reader. If you donât read, you donât get all that practice in picking up clues, and making up pictures in your head of how things must have happened. Iâd suddenly imagined her exactly as sheâd described herself when she was little, standing by the Christmas tree, sparkling all over because her cousin was hooking every glittery thing that he could find onto her somewhere.
Every glittery thing . . .
Then, just a couple of years later, in the very same room, dancing a private princess dance for her mother. Sheâd have her tutu on, of course. And her pink ballet slippers. But to dress up to look the part, surely the first place sheâd have gone was the old jewellery box. With the help of some hairgrips, even the slinkiest of gold chains can be made to look like a tiara.
And then, last year, on her birthday, what was she given? (Because around then is when she said all this started in earnest.) The very day she took the desk beside me, sheâd said, âMy granny gave it to my mother, and now sheâs passed it on to me.â
I know my mother wouldnât pass on something like that, unless the day was very special.
What dayâs more special than your birthday?
â First, check your working ,â Mr Hooper says. So, in the changing rooms, I asked her casually,
âWhat should I ask for on my birthday?â
âMelly, your birthdayâs not for months .â
âI know,â I said. âBut I like thinking about it. What did you get last year?â
Her eyes shone with the memory. âA trip to London. We saw Copacabana !â
âBrilliant! What did you
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