by Helen Harper
‘What the hell?’ I yelled, ready to blame whoever happened to be near me, whether it was white-faced Abigail or not.
‘Bitch.’ Brutus’s face appeared several feet above me from within the branches of the tree. Peering out from some tinsel, he blinked down at me – and I could swear the bugger grinned. The Cheshire Cat must have taken lessons from my damned feline familiar.
Without so much as a request for food, Brutus vanished back into the dark green needles, causing several more of the upper branches to shake dramatically.
If Brutus were a delicate creature like Princess Parma Periwinkle, who was Winter’s familiar, then it probably wouldn’t have been an issue. But he’s a hefty cat who likes his food so, as he picked up speed and more and more branches began to sway, I realised that the trunk of the huge tree was wobbling. It tilted alarmingly to one side and there was a series of alarmed shouts.
Brutus’s familiar voice could be heard above them all. ‘Timber, bitches!’ He leapt from on high, landing just to the side of a group of terrified looking red robes, and darted out of sight. At the same moment, it became clear that the tree was going to slam right down to the ground. Bloody cat. I could swear he also had a pretty snowflake decoration in his mouth as he ran off. He certainly was a special sodding snowflake.
I hissed under my breath and raised my hands, sketching out a stabilising rune in the nick of time. The tree creaked and heaved as if in complaint before finally, thankfully, righting itself. I breathed out. That was close. I might have a lot of leeway these days as far as the Order witches were concerned but if Brutus caused the destruction of their Christmas centrepiece I was fairly certain I’d lose a lot of goodwill. It didn’t bother me per se but I’d only been half kidding when I’d talked about Caesar’s wife to Maidmont. The last thing I wanted was for any of my actions to reflect badly on Winter. He never complained but I knew he had enough to deal with these days with his stresses from work. I didn’t want to add to his burdens if I could help it.
‘That was close.’ I turned to Abigail. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him and make sure he doesn’t do it again.’ I didn’t tell her that Brutus never listened to a damn word I said, and that he was contrary enough to climb the gigantic Christmas tree as often as he could if he thought it would annoy me. Right now, with her bottom lip still trembling, the young witch needed reassurance.
‘It's not the cat,’ Abigail said, her voice shaking. ‘He's fine. He's not the problem. It's...’ She seemed unable to finish her sentence.
Vaguely alarmed, I looked at her more closely. ‘What is it?’
From behind me there was a loud snort. Abigail didn't react and I knew without turning who had made the noise.
‘Well, it is obvious, isn't it?’ Grenfell bellowed in my ear. ‘Cutting down perfectly fine trees and then throwing glitter all over them did not exist in my day but even I am fully aware of what the problem is.’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘If you're so clever, why don't you tell me?’
Abigail gazed at me with wide, tremulous eyes. ‘Is this another test?’ she asked. ‘Because to be honest, Ivy, I don't think this is a very good time.’
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I wasn't talking to you.’
Her brow furrowed, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. ‘Then who...’ She hesitated ‘Oh. You're talking to a ghost.’ A flash of interest crossed her eyes despite her anxiety. ‘Is it someone famous?’
Grenville preened. ‘Why, yes.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘I am rather famous actually.’
‘Like,’ Abigail said, ‘John Lennon or someone like that?’
‘John Lennon!’ Grenville shrieked, his good humour vanishing. ‘Who in the blazes is John Lennon? Who cares about John Lennon? Could he do magic? Was he a magnificent witch like me?’
I sighed. ‘I rather think we’re getting away from the crux of the matter,’ I said. ‘Why don't we stop faffing around and one of you tell me exactly what the problem is?’
‘Work it out,’ Grenville snapped. ‘You're supposed to be some kind of genius. Work it out for yourself.’
Given the time and inclination, I was quite sure I could work it out for myself. However, when there were two people standing next to me who could tell me within the blink of an eye what the issue was, I had no idea why I should set my own brain cells to the matter.
Fortunately for all of us, Abigail was far more obliging than Grenville. ‘It's the Angel,’ she said. ‘It's missing.’
‘Huh?’ I responded stupidly.
‘From the top of the tree,’ she explained. ‘It's always been there. It's some kind of special antique. We collected all the decorations from Antiquities, including the Angel. We were all set to put it on last and make a bit of a big deal about it. The Angel is special, you see. She grants wishes and protects...’ Her bottom lip began to tremble again and her head dropped.
‘What the little witch is apparently unable to say,’ Grenville piped up, ‘is that the silver Angel, which your lot insist on putting on top of a tree but which deserves far better treatment, is not only lost but has several curses attached to it. And it’s also a protective emblem for the whole Order.’
I took a step back, fixating on one word. ‘Curses?’
Abigail's body shrank; it seemed that all her breath left her lungs all at once. ‘The ghost has told you,’ she said. She twisted her fingers round and round in her lap, pinching them so tightly that I was surprised she still had normal circulation. ‘I thought you'd have known about the Angel already. It's quite famous.’
‘This is my first Christmas with the Order,’ I answered testily. I was still finding it hard to move past the mention of curses. I was as superstitious as the next witch and any mention of anything that might bring bad luck terrified me.
Abigail coloured. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I forgot that you were...’
‘Kicked out for cheating and for assault,’ I finished for her. ‘It's all in the past now. Let's get back to what this Angel is supposed to do. Tell me about the curses.’ I did my best to sound business-like and professional. It was either that or turn round and run screaming for the hills.
Grenfell folded his arms and smiled as if he were enjoying all this tremendously. He turned his attention to Abigail and both of us waited for her to speak.
An over-eager witch who had been listening to our conversation sidled up. ‘I don't mean to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I couldn't help hearing what you were talking about. I've been told the curses will bring death and destruction upon the entire Order. That if the Angel is lost and not given pride of place at least once a year, we will all die in a fiery volcanic explosion.’
I gave him a long, hard look. Okaaaay. Yes, I believe in superstitions and curses. However, the idea that a volcano was going to appear out of nowhere in middle England was stretching even my credulity. We don't have volcanoes. We don't have earthquakes. We have lots of rain, some nasty wind which has the habit of sneaking down the back of your neck along with icy drips when you’re not paying attention, but no tsunamis or hurricanes or real attacks from Mother Nature. The natural occurrences we experience in this part of the world happen with whimpers rather than with screams.
I wasn't the only one who seemed to think that this new witch was being ridiculous. Another Neophyte, who to my eye looked as if she were about twelve years old, butted in. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It's not a fiery volcano that the loss of the Angel will incur. It’s the plague.’ Her eyes widened almost gleefully and she gestured to her bare skin. ‘First of all,’ she declared, ‘there will be pustules.’ She paused. ‘Pus-filled pustules.’
I frowned. ‘Aren’t pustules by their very nature filled with pus?’
She looked at me. ‘Uh, I don't know.’ Medical specifics were clearly not her forte. ‘But,’ she returned, moving on from my interruption, ‘the pus will be very green and very icky.’
I raised an eyebrow. When was pus not icky? Rather t
han interrupt again, however, I let her continue. When it doesn’t terrify me, I rather enjoy melodrama.
‘The affected will have all their hair fall out,’ she breathed, ‘and then all their teeth.’ She shuddered for extra effect. ‘And all their fingernails and toenails will drop off. Once that has happened their very bones will begin to disintegrate within their bodies. They will become like jellyfish, flopping around uselessly on the pavements of Britain.’
‘Utterly spineless?’ I asked. I hated the thought of losing my backbone – in more ways than one.
She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes! That's exactly what will happen.’
Her version didn't sound any more believable than the previous suggestion of volcanoes. What was apparent was that neither scenario was very pleasant. I looked askance at Abigail, who was now so pale she was giving Grenville a run for his money. Perhaps she would be more sensible. I crossed my fingers tightly.
‘The truth is,’ Abigail whispered, ‘nobody knows what will happen. We know that the Angel is vital for the well being of the Order. We know that it’s an object to be treated with reverence. We know that there is a curse attached to it should it ever be lost or broken. But we don't really know what will happen if it doesn't turn up.’
Grenville slowly unfolded his arms and swept his gaze across us. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘you are about to find out. You will suffer the consequences of losing the Angel of the Order. This is what happens when you mistreat such a valuable object and throw it on top of ugly trees.’ His voice rose with every sentence. ‘There will be fire and brimstone and plague and disaster and—’
I held up my palm. ‘I get the point, Grenville,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to go on about it.’
He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to make it clear that you understand what is about to happen. I think you should go back to Winter and tell him that you need to be released from these other silly duties immediately. There is no time to spare. If you're going to die in a brutal and agonising fashion, we need you to get back to releasing as many ghosts as possible before the pain overtakes you and you can’t perform.’
‘Gee,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your worry and concern.’ I stared at the tree. Why couldn’t the Order just keep the objects that had the potential to cause death and destruction locked away safely? It was hardly rocket science. ‘Find a star for the top of the tree instead,’ I said. ‘Maybe no one will notice the Angel is missing.’ Then I turned on my heel and started to march away.
‘Ivy!’ Abigail called out in alarm. ‘Where are you going?’
Timbuktu preferably, I thought. ‘To check the train timetables,’ I said aloud.
I ignored the worried murmur from the assembly of witches and wrapped my arms around myself. Grenville was right about one thing: I had to find Winter.
Chapter Four
Winter wasn't in his office when I went up to look for him but his secretary, an enthusiastic young Zealator who terrified me every time I saw her with her bubbly zest for life and the way she bustled around the piles of paperwork that always sat on her desk, told me that he was in a meeting on the third floor. What I should do, I decided, was to put some kind of GPS tracer on the man. That way, when I went looking for him I wouldn't have to trudge up several flights of stairs and then seconds later traipse down several more to locate him. Winter seem to think that the exercise did me good but the way my thighs ached told me otherwise. Pain is not my friend. Pain is not anyone's friend. In fact, anyone who tries to persuade you otherwise is several ice cubes and a slice of lemon short of a gin and tonic.
When I finally spotted Winter in one of the grander conference rooms, he was deep in discussion. I didn't think he realised what kind of picture he presented to the world. From the other side of the glass wall, I could see him sitting at the head of the conference table in a high-backed leather chair. In his lap, Princess Parma Periwinkle lay curled up and, even though Winter was beyond busy, he still managed to pause every so often to stroke her fur. Anyone else looking at that image would immediately think he was some kind of Bond villain – admittedly better looking than any other Bond villain that has ever existed, but a villain nonetheless.
Despite my concern over the missing Angel, I took a moment to watch him. He listened carefully, his head tilted to one side as someone at the end of the table spoke. He continued to listen when one of the Order assistants thrust a piece of paper in front of him and tapped at it to encourage him to sign. Then, a door at the far end of the conference room opened and somebody stuck their head in and began talking. Winter said something back, his expression intent. Now he was not only reading a piece of paper while listening to a colleague, but he was also talking to an underling.
Winter is the very definition of multi-tasking. Frankly, it surprises me that he wasn't doing all this from a treadmill. That way he'd have been able to get in his daily exercise at the same time as everything else. I keep trying to tell him that multi-tasking doesn’t exist and that current thinking suggests it is far better to focus on one job at a time. Mindfulness is the word of the day; scratch that, it is the word of the year – nay, the decade. Winter just accuses me of subverting current popular opinion and adapting it for my own uses. I don’t deny it. Of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that; if the facts don't serve me, I don't want to know them. Who would?
All the same, there was something rather wonderful about watching Winter at work. He was like a conductor in front of an orchestra, in full control of everything that he was doing. The man had no idea how sexy he was. Then he looked up, his sapphire eyes catching mine, and the world seem to stop. We gazed at each other, lost in a single moment of togetherness; it was as if the world had stopped spinning on its axis just for us. A moment later someone waved another piece of paper in front of Winter’s face and the spell was broken. It didn't matter; I knew that if I wanted it I would always have his full attention.
Giving him the chance to finish what he was doing, I hung back knowing that he wouldn't take too long about it with me waiting outside the glass-fronted conference room. In fact, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the floor, stretching out my arms behind my head as if I were lying on a beach on some tropical island instead of on a beige carpet in a nondescript bureaucratic hallway in Oxford. I might have looked foolish but it calmed me to rest, even if only for a few moments. I closed my eyes and centred myself just as the conference room door opened and Winter’s voice could be heard.
‘Ivy,’ he said, with a gruff growl that attacked my nervous system better than any destructive curse could. ‘What on earth are you doing? You can't tell me that you're too tired to walk home. I've told you before and I'll tell you again – I am not going to set an entire Order department to investigate the merit of flying broomsticks so you can zoom around from place to place. Plenty of witches have tried it before and plenty have failed.’
I pushed myself up to my elbows and regarded Winter calmly. ‘Just because others have tried and failed doesn't mean that failure is always going to be the end result.’ I arched an eyebrow. ‘Frankly, that sounds like a defeatist, lazy attitude.’
The corners of Winter’s mouth crept up. ‘Lazy?’ he asked. His eyes glittered.
I bit back the response I wanted to make. As much as I would have liked to encourage more banter to see how far we could push things in a public place, sadly this wasn't the time. I got to my feet, hearing my bones creak as I did so, and looked at Winter seriously.
‘We have a problem.’
‘I’ll say. I was hoping for a sexy elf costume, not a morbidly obese man with more facial hair than is hygienic.’
I grimaced. ‘Actually, this is a real problem entirely unrelated to the hell hole that is Santa’s grotto.’
Winter stilled. ‘Go on.’
I looked at him hopefully. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to pack a suitcase right now and run away with me until we are as far as we can possibly get from anything Order related?’
He didn’t respo
nd.
I sighed. ‘I thought so.’ I ran a hand through my tangled curls. ‘Some angel thing has gone missing. It was supposed to be on top of the main Christmas tree in the square out front but no one can find it. Apparently its loss will trigger at least one terrible curse.’ I raised a shoulder. ‘Effectively, we’re all doomed – but whether through green pustules or smoking volcanoes, I’m not sure.’
For a moment, Winter’s expression was nothing but pure bafflement. Then it seemed as if a light went on behind his eyes. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you talking about the Angel of the Order? Made out of pure silver?’ He made a shape with his hands. ‘About this high?’
I pursed my lips. ‘I have no idea,’ I told him. ‘I've never seen the thing. What I do know, Raphael Tobias Sexy-Arse Winter, is that at least one curse is attached to it. If the Angel really has gone missing, disaster will ensue.’ Cue dramatic music.
Winter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I had heard that,’ he admitted.
I jabbed him repeatedly in the chest with my finger. ‘See? See? You're not even the slightest bit superstitious and yet you believe this curse.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t say that I believed in the curse. I simply said I had heard of it.’ He frowned. ‘The Angel of the Order is a very valuable object. I hate to think that somebody would steal it.’
‘Maybe,’ I suggested, ‘we should send someone down to the sewers underneath the library to look for it.’ I was referring, of course, to where the sceptre had been hidden after it was supposedly stolen. On that occasion, as well as almost drowning in rotten sewage, I finally realised that Raphael Winter was not the idiot I'd taken him for. Order geek, yes. Highly desirable Order geek? Most definitely.
Winter allowed himself a small grin at the memory before sobering up. ‘I will send someone down to check it out just in case. I think it's most unlikely that Angel is there though, don't you?’ He looked at me. ‘I might not believe in curses, Ivy. I may not be superstitious. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t think the Angel has value. It has always been the centrepiece of each year's Christmas tree. Witches like tradition, and the Angel of the Order is all about tradition. It's not a good thing that it's gone missing, not good at all.’ He shook his head. My Winter was troubled. I wasn’t having that.