The Way Between the Worlds by Alys Clare

relatives,’ he said. ‘We will pretend to be father and daughter, for I would prefer it if we were not recognized as our true selves.’ He studied me. ‘You have already shielded yourself quite well,’ he observed, ‘for your aura is dimmer than usual and not typically yours.’ I was unreasonably pleased at his praise. I was not yet sure what my aura was and had no idea what it normally looked like, but I was sure that to have altered it, even by a little, was quite an achievement. ‘But you can do much better,’ he went on, dashing my moment of self-congratulation. ‘Listen, watch and learn.’
    After a rather intense few moments, Hrype and I left the shady shelter of the alders and set off for the abbey gates. I kept shooting quick glances at him; I could hardly believe what I had just witnessed, and I wished with all my heart that I could look at myself, to see if I’d had the same success. He still had Hrype’s features, build and height – he must have! – and he still wore the same garments, but he was totally different. His face was twisted into an expression quite unlike anything it usually adopted, he had rearranged his long hair, and he had bent and somehow folded his body and his long limbs so that he seemed to scuttle across the ground like a hunchback. As for me, he had got me to draw my hair back tightly and rearrange my coif so that it covered my forehead as far as my eyebrows, then to place a dark fold of my cloak over it so that it looked a little like a nun’s headdress. Then he told me to imagine I had very short, bandy legs and a pain at the base of my spine. He made me concentrate so hard on this that quite soon I really did have a pain, and the only way I could alleviate it was to walk in a bow-legged waddle. I felt fat, although I knew there was no way I could be  . . .
    We were close to the muttering group outside the gates now. ‘Not long, daughter, until we find out,’ a thin, reedy voice with a hint of the complaining tyrant said, close by me. Whoever that old man was, I reflected, I bet he led his poor daughter quite a dance.
    After a moment, I realized that the old man was Hrype.
    He had a stick in his hand – where had that come from? Had he picked it up in the alder grove? – and now he was using it to force a way through to the gates. ‘Make way,’ he cried in his squeaky elderly man’s voice, ‘make way! My old legs have had a long walk today and will not support me much longer, and I would have tidings of my daughter from these wretched nuns before I collapse!’
    One or two people muttered in agreement, saying that it was cruel of the nuns to keep people waiting for the news they were so desperate to hear. ‘Here you are, Grandad,’ one burly woman said, ‘you come through here to the little side gate there – it’s that one they’ll open, I’ll warrant, when finally they make up their minds to tell us anything.’
    There were more mutterings. ‘Three days ago it happened, or so they say, and all we’ve heard are rumours! For shame!’ someone said.
    ‘Tell us what we have come to find out!’ someone else shouted.
    Hrype raised his stick and banged it on the wooden panels of the gate. Bang , bang , bang . I wanted to stop him, for it seemed folly to draw attention to ourselves after we’d gone to the trouble of altering our appearances. But then I understood: making us conspicuous was part of the disguise, for a man with something to hide would lurk in the background.
    Several other men had joined Hrype and were also thumping on the door, which was not that sturdy and was already beginning to show cracks in the panelling. Someone within must have realized, for abruptly there came the sounds of bolts being drawn back and a key turning in a lock. The door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered nun with a hatchet face and very piercing blue eyes. She wore the black veil of the fully professed, and the heavy bunch of keys clanking from a cord at her waist