by Sharon Booth
I felt rather pole axed by his confession. I deserved better? Better than Blaise St Clair? The hero of Witch's Leap?
'You said that to Star about Benedict,' I pointed out. 'You told her she should never get involved with a Greenwood. That they weren't to be trusted. Yet Mrs Greenwood and Benedict are the kindest people we know, so I think you may be a bit biased, Castor.'
'If you say so,' he said, his eyebrows knitting together alarmingly.
'You can't deny you've been mean to Benedict's poor nan, and you kept telling Star to stay away from Benedict and—'
'Aye all right, you've made your point. Happen I were wrong on that front. Don't mean I'm wrong about you and Blaise. Now, drink your coffee and let me finish me hot chocolate in peace.'
Mother and I exchanged surprised glances, but neither of us pushed him any further. Truthfully, I think we were both starting to feel a little hungover and rather tired, and within a few minutes we kissed him goodnight and headed up to our respective bedrooms.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sirius and Blaise were walking the castle grounds with Mrs Lloyd the following morning, when I looked out of a window at the museum. I smiled to myself. Two St Clair men — ravens — tall, dark, handsome and commanding. Yet they were standing there, clearly being bossed about by the formidable Mrs Lloyd. Not that it surprised me. She was Jethro's neighbour, a member of the town council and on just about every committee in Castle Clair.
It was Mrs Lloyd who organised the Easter celebrations each year. Last year she'd persuaded me to take over the Easter trail and the Easter egg hunt at the castle. This year, having Sirius back in the fold at last, she'd wasted no time in making certain he agreed to take on the role. I knew he and Blaise were getting a variation of the lecture I'd received twelve months ago. One of them, anyway. As I recalled, there had been several. I wondered how Blaise was reacting to being ordered around by a mere woman.
There were three people in the museum already, wandering around the main room. I welcomed two more and processed their debit card payment, handed them two tickets and explained how they could get the most from their visit. They thanked me and headed into the first room and I turned around to get rid of the till receipt, which they hadn't wanted. I jumped in alarm as I realised Aveta was standing by the counter, looking around her with interest.
'You scared me to death,' I gasped. 'I wasn't expecting to see you today.'
'I'd have been here earlier, but I had some research to do.' She glanced at the doors and said, 'Have you got a moment?'
'Sounds ominous,' I said, trying to smile.
She didn't smile back. 'I have something to show you. After our little chat yesterday, I visited some members of the High Council. Amlodd will research the little puzzle about the familiars, by the way.'
'Thank you,' I said, feeling there was something else she was about to tell me and feeling sick with dread.
'But something else came up as Bob and I were chatting. He has quite an extensive collection of books, you see. He's a keen history buff and is particularly keen on the history of magic — well, he would be, wouldn't he? Anyway, the point is, I mentioned to him what you'd said about Mother Clipson, and about the prophecy. Well, he had a book about her on his bookshelf, close by, so we thought we'd have a quick look and see if there was anything we'd missed; anything that would give us a clue about the white bird. But, Celeste, something strange has happened.'
'Strange? In what way?'
'When did Mother Clipson die, Celeste?'
I frowned. 'As Bob surely told you, no one knows. We have no record of her death. She simply disappeared from history. I told you this last night, didn't I?'
'You did,' Aveta agreed. 'And that's why alarm bells rang. According to Bob's book, Mother Clipson died in 1680 at Castle Clair. She was eighty-one.'
'What?' I stared at her, astonished. 'But that can't be right! That information's missing. I've never found a single document that confirms her death.'
'I know. You told me.' Aveta bent down and lifted a bulging leather bag, which she dropped on the counter. 'Look at these, Celeste. These are just what I found this morning.'
I opened the bag and saw a stack of books, whose titles revealed they were all about either magic in general, magic in Yorkshire, or Mother Clipson in particular. I lifted the first one and opened it to scan the introduction. Almost immediately I read the words:
Mary, "Mother" Clipson was born in Glastonbury, Somerset, in 1599 and died in the North Yorkshire town of Castle Clair in 1680.
'What?'
Shaking, I removed another book from the bag. I recognised that book. I'd read it many times. There was definitely no mention of her death in that one. Except ...
Mary Clipson, known as Mother Clipson, 1599-1680.
'I don't understand!' I flicked frantically through the other books, but each one only confirmed what the first had said. Mary Clipson's death was recorded in history for all to see. How could we possibly have missed it?
I was icy cold, and I shivered with dread as I slowly lifted my gaze to Aveta.
She met my look with unflinching calm, which I thought was pretty impressive in the circumstances.
'Yes,' she said, 'it's started. Someone has gone back in time and we have already felt the first ripples from that event.' She jabbed a bony and rather crooked finger at the books. 'Mary Clipson's death was never recorded. For three and a half centuries we have had no information about what became of her. Now, suddenly, her passing is an historical fact. Something has changed. Someone,' she said heavily, 'has been meddling with time.'
'But — but we're still here,' I whispered.
'It's only just begun, Celeste,' she said. 'Who knows what else they have changed? What other damage they've done.'
'Have you told anyone else?' I asked, trembling.
'Bob and I called an emergency meeting of the High Council last night.' She managed a wry smile. 'We weren't very popular, I can tell you.'
'What did Zephyr say?' I was no fan of the council's leader, but he was sharp and sensible and seemed to know what was best to do in unusual circumstances.
'Zephyr is organising witches up and down the country to see if anyone knows any way of contacting the Guardians. It's strange they haven't contacted us already. We can only hope they're aware of this situation and are already at work. Zephyr is, of course, particularly alarmed. He has Aither to think of, after all.'
'Aither? Oh!' I realised what she meant and felt a wave of nausea. If someone was at work in 1669, changing events, then the very existence of our family was in jeopardy. We could vanish at any moment. History would rewrite itself and people would forget there'd ever been a Celeste St Clair, or any of my brothers, sisters or parents. Aither included.
'I'm scared, Aveta,' I murmured, feeling ashamed but unable to hold back my fear.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. 'Then that makes you, Celeste St Clair, a very wise witch indeed.'
****
It was agonising, waiting for the customers in the museum to leave. Somehow, I managed to nod and smile at them as they thanked me and left, but they'd barely closed the door before I ran over, turned the sign to "Closed" and dropped the latch. I was shaking so hard my fingers fumbled with the lock and I forced myself to go back behind the reception desk and sit down, taking deep breaths to calm myself down.
Now and then I pinched my arm to make sure I was still there. I even peered at myself once or twice in the glass cabinets, to check I still had a reflection. I could see myself, and I could feel pain when I pinched my arm, so I must still be alive. Mustn't I?
I tried to stop panicking. There was little point in doing so. Nothing I did would change what had happened, and I had to trust that the High Council, the mysterious Guardians, and a network of witches up and down the country, could do enough to save me and my family. If not ... well, I gave a mirthless laugh. It wouldn't matter. We wouldn't know about it, would we?
I kept glancing out of the wi
ndows, trying to catch sight of Sirius and Blaise. When I finally spotted them, they were still with Mrs Lloyd, so I could hardly rush over and tell them what had happened. Mother was the obvious choice, but I had a feeling that, when it came to the lives of her children, she'd not be her usual controlled self. No mother wants to hear that events may blink her children out of existence at any moment, and I couldn't put that on her. What I needed, I thought, was to talk to someone cool and logical and not likely to panic. I knew just the person.
I threw open the door of The Broom Closet and hurried toward the counter, stopping dead as I saw, not Star, but Mrs Greenwood. Of all people!
'What — I mean, why—?' I shook my head impatiently. 'Where's Star?'
As I said those words, for one awful, heart-stopping moment I thought she would say, 'Who's Star?'
Thankfully, she said, 'Oh, hello, Celeste. Are you all right, dear? You look ever so flushed. I hope you're not sickening like Star, although she was white as a sheet, bless her, not all pink like you.'
'White as a sheet?'
'Felt dreadful. I told her to go home. Mind, I'm not surprised. Between you and me, she'd eaten far too much chocolate fudge cake this morning. No wonder she feels so ill.'
'Star's ill?'
It couldn't be anything to do with what was happening in 1669, could it? There was, of course, a much more likely explanation, but who knew? This was all new to me. I didn't know what to expect. 'She asked you to take over the shop?'
'No, no. Benedict's coming over to mind it.'
'Benedict?'
'Don't sound so shocked. He'll be fine. Even Benedict can sell a few trinkets, and it's only for a day. He's got nothing better to do, since the Easter holidays have started, and Sky's having a pamper day at a spa near Harrogate, apparently, so she couldn't do it. Jethro paid for it as a treat, you know.'
'Did he?' Guilty conscience?
'Anyway, I said I'd mind the place until Benedict arrives. The girls can manage upstairs for a little while.'
I slumped against the counter. She sounded so normal, so typically Mrs Greenwood that, for the moment at least, I calmed down.
'Was it anything important?' she asked. 'You're not your usual self today, are you?' She glanced out of the window and smiled. 'I'm glad the weather's improved, just in time for the school holidays. I've seen lots of children making the most of the sunshine this morning. Isn't it lovely to see blue skies again? We seem to have had nothing but clouds and wind and rain for ages. I love this time of year — Easter. So full of hope. The promise of spring and new life.'
'Yeah,' I said wistfully. 'But what sort of new life, and for whom?'
'I'm sorry?'
'Oh, ignore me, Mrs Greenwood. I've had a horrible morning, that's all. You know how it is.'
'You need some sugar inside you,' she advised. 'I've no chocolate fudge cake left, but there's plenty of other cakes upstairs. There might even be some Yorkshire parkin spare, although you'll have to be quick. I've not got much left of that either now.'
'Popular stuff,' I said, smiling despite my worries.
'Very. Especially with some people. I've had to put aside a whole loaf of it this morning as a special favour.'
'Someone's an addict!'
She laughed. 'It's for Harriet,' she said. 'Obsessed with my Yorkshire parkin, she is.'
'Harriet?'
'Hector's mother. You know Hector, Benedict's friend?'
'Oh yes,' I mumbled. 'I know Hector.' The image of his smiling face and kind eyes flashed upon my mind, and I thought with a sudden pang, I may never see him again. If we can't stop this, I'll never speak to him, never touch him, never ... And he'll never know! He won't remember me. He won't miss me. It will be as if we never met.
'Celeste? Are you listening? You're miles away, dear.'
'Sorry, Mrs Greenwood. You were saying?'
'I was just saying what a lovely woman Harriet is. Don't you think?'
I blinked. 'No idea. I've never met her.'
'Oh, really? Well, she is. Odd, granted. Protective of Hector, you know. Too protective, perhaps. Wouldn't even let him go to the local school. Sometimes, it's like she's away with the fairies, but lovely just the same. You must have seen her. She works in the charity shop across the marketplace there.'
I spun round and looked out of the window at the shop she was referring to. 'Really? Hector's mum works there?'
'Volunteers. She never needed to work. Her husband — Hector's father — was a very wealthy man. A judge, as was his father before him. Left them a small fortune when he died, so she could have stayed home and lived the life of Riley, whoever Riley is. But no, she works four days a week in that shop for nothing. Heart of gold. Like her son. Hector is a lovely lad, and so fond of Benedict. He does voluntary work, too, you know. Offers free legal advice to those who can't afford it, bless him.'
'That's nice,' I said, barely listening. I was too busy trying to work out which of the women in the charity shop would be Hector's mum. 'Is Harriet the one with the dark hair and glasses?'
'Oh no. She looks nothing like her son, if that's what you're thinking. She's small, blonde; always wears pink lipstick, bless her. No, Hector's just like his dad. Handsome man, Joseph Swan.'
'I expect he was,' I said. 'I think I know who you mean — Harriet.' I could picture her behind the counter, smiling at me when I donated a bag full of books. 'Yes, pink lipstick. I remember—' My blood turned to ice, and I gripped the counter. 'What did you say?'
She frowned. 'I said lots of things, dear. Which bit do you mean?'
'Swan? Did you say Hector's surname is Swan?'
'That's right, lovey. Isn't it a lovely name?'
My knees seemed unable to support my weight any longer. 'Swan,' I murmured. 'A white bird.'
How could I have been so stupid?
****
There was no one at home when I got back to Castle Lodge. Vaguely, I remembered Mother mentioning something about her and Castor visiting a garden centre that day. Blaise had been a little put out, I recalled. He considered the garden his now and hadn't reacted well when he'd heard them discussing various plants and shrubs they intended to buy.
I rushed upstairs to my bedroom and threw open the wardrobe doors, rummaging around on the top shelf until I found my "posh" handbag. It had to be in there still, surely?
I snapped open the bag and thrust my hand inside, groping around until my fingers curled around a piece of card. I pulled it out and stared at it in disbelief. There it was, in black and white.
Need Help? Advice? Representation?
Hector Swan
Consultant Solicitor
[email protected]
Beneath the email address was a mobile number. I sank onto my bed. It had been right there in front of me the whole time. If I'd paid attention that night at The Two Brothers Inn. If I'd so much as bothered to glance at the wretched card! All this time, wondering who the white bird was, and here it was, as clear as day.
It was, I thought brokenly, like he'd been taunting me all along. Playing with my heart, luring me in. What a fool I'd been.
All those times when he'd just happened to "turn up". The gift of the books. Pretending to be a Jane Austen fan. The coincidence of him being at the cinema the same time as Blaise and me. The ravens! I shuddered. He'd been talking to the ravens — including the one that had been watching me. Aveta had said ravens could be evil, too. Had he set the raven on me? Oh, God!
It hurt. Beyond the terror, the pain was more savage. He'd used me. I'd honestly thought he cared about me, but it had all been some cruel game. And I'd fallen for it. I'd fallen for him. I couldn't deny it any longer. I felt bitterly ashamed of myself. Because of my blind obsession with Hector, I'd pushed Blaise away. I deserved everything I got, but the rest of my family didn't.
I heard the front door slam shut and footsteps on the stairs. The landing creaked, and Blaise strolled past my open door. The footsteps stopped, and he stepped back and peered in a
t me.
'Celeste! What are you doing home at this time?' He must have seen the stricken look on my face because he rushed in and sat beside me on the bed, wrapping his arms around me. 'Sweetheart, what is it? What's wrong?'
'Oh, Blaise,' I whispered, feeling overwhelmed with guilt and shame, 'I've been so stupid.'
'You? Never!' He lifted my chin and smiled down at me. 'You could never be stupid. Why aren't you at the museum? What's happened?'
'So much,' I said. 'Blaise, I'm scared.'
His smile vanished. 'Scared? What are you scared of?' He cupped my face in his hands and his black eyes surveyed me intently.
'Everything's unravelling,' I said. 'It's happening, Blaise. The prophecy. It's all unfolding.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The prophecy,' I said. 'The one I told you about. The one you said you didn't remember.'
'What about it?'
I closed my eyes and slowly recited the prophecy to him. 'Do you remember it at all?'
He frowned. 'I'm not sure. Vaguely, I think. But what's it got to do with now? You said it's unfolding. In what way?'
Briefly, I explained about the white bird, and how I'd discovered Hector's name was Swan.
'Don't you see?' I said. 'The white bird. It was him all along.'
He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. 'You said something had happened. What's happened apart from you finding out his name?'
'Mother Clipson,' I whispered, aware it was a sensitive subject for him. 'We never knew what happened to her. No records of her death existed. She vanished without a trace.'
His eyes narrowed, and he stared down at me. 'Are you saying that's no longer true?'
'The records have changed, Blaise. All the books now say Mary Clipson died in Castle Clair in 1680. She was eighty-one years old. But how could that information suddenly be available? There's only one explanation. Someone went back to 1669, as predicted, and meddled with the timeline.'
'No!' Blaise punched the wall, and I flinched. 'This can't be happening. It can't!'