Shining On by Lois Lowry Page A

see what the shape had been originally, or what it was meant to be. This was the cats' favorite place. There were always some here, chasing each other, or lying in wait for birds under the odd collection of strange, bulbous shapes.
    Jules liked the maze. It wasn't one of those where you couldn't see over the hedges. You didn't need to take a pack of sandwiches in case you got lost, but that didn't make it any less intriguing. The pattern looked simple, but it took a surprisingly long time to walk, and you only got to themiddle if you started at the path that led to the little grave-yard and the family chapel.
    One particular day, it took longer than usual for Jules to get to the center. The sun had disappeared, sinking below the level of the surrounding hills. Jules looked up, orienteering herself by the bulk of the house to the right and the church to the left, its squat tower just visible through a thick fringe of holly and yew. It felt as though she had traveled a long way.
    Down at ground level, eyes stared—every shade from deepest orange to pale yellow. The cats did not run away, as they normally did, but edged nearer, tightening the circle. They walked around, nose to tail, in the most disconcerting way, and then they were gone. Their place was taken by a ring of children with Jules standing in the middle. They began circling round her, moving faster and faster, faster than real children could ever go. Jules began turning with them,
Ring a ring a roses,
the tune started in her head, in-consequentially. Perhaps they had all died of plague. But no, wrong century. These were dressed in the clothes of a hundred years ago or so. Not now, that was for sure.
    All fall down!
    An older girl dragged them down, left and right, and then stepped over the prone bodies.
    “Hello, I'm Lavinia.” The girl looked at Jules. The children round her were rising. “This is Jessica, Heather, Fred and little Samuel.”
    The children all stared. The girls curtsied. The boys bowed.
    “That's the way we come.” The girl nodded in the direction of the little gate that led into the graveyard. “We're all in there. We come through the troy town.” She described the pattern with a thin finger. “That's the old name for the maze. It's been here a long time. Longer than the house. That's how we came back.”
    Jules tensed, ready to make a break for it. A hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The girl might be ghostly, ethereal, but she had a grip of steel.
    “You can't go yet!” Lavinia said. “We've been looking forward to
playing
with you. We so want for different company. But you have been rather standoffish.”
    “Thrice the brindled cat hath mew'd …”
the words came into Jules's head.
Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 1.
They were studying the play at school.
    A boy stepped out from behind one of the shapeless, bulbous bushes. He was about twelve or thirteen, with auburn hair a deep shade of amber, and slanted green eyes under brows like thick black bars.
    “Here comes Aloysius. He wants you to stay, too. We all do. Well, not
you
so much.” Her tone became more confiding. “There are
plenty
of children. What we need is a mummy to look after us.”
    She lisped her words between tiny teeth, widespaced and splayed. She'd be wearing an impressive set of braces if she lived now, Jules thought.
    “We
had
a mummy who used to live here,” the girl went on, “but she went away.”
    She must mean the old lady.
    “How?” Jules's mouth was so dry, she could hardly get the words out. “How did you get here?”
    “There was an accident. Out on the lake. When we were all children.” She frowned. “I
told
Aloysius the ice would crack!
She
wouldn't come out with us. Aloysius called her a scaredy-cat!” Lavinia sighed. “We were put in there.” She pointed to the lichenencrusted wall of the graveyard.
“She
grew up, but then she missed us. Her brothers and sisters, and cousin Aloysius. She was lonely, so she called us to her, through the troy