by Laura Powell
‘Cora weren’t ever frightened of nothing. A right wild one, she was. Careless of everything and everybody. Just once, I wanted her to know how it felt. To be powerless and humiliated and afraid. I wanted her in those tanks, yes. But I never . . . I never wanted her to drown . . .’
‘But she did.’
‘Yes, she did.’ Angeline sniffed loudly. ‘God forgive me, she did. And I tried to make amends by raising her child. But Lily took Edie away from me; said I’d never been a mother myself, that she knew what was best for her precious twin’s girl. And it were only when Lil died and your ma was on her own again that she remembered Cooper Street, and her poor old Auntie Ange. Ha. A right comedown it must have been for her.
‘Still, I was so pleased. So happy. Everyone could see Edie was special. God only knew who her father was, but she had her mother’s talent, all right, and her own steadiness. The makings of a great witch. She’d give Cooper Street what it needed, what I deserved. Together we’d be unstoppable.’
‘So what happened? You shopped her to the Inquisition too?’
Angeline looked confused.
‘You can cut the crap, Auntie. I know Charlie didn’t kill her. She was seen five years ago. Alive.’
‘But how d’you –? Where –? It can’t be . . .’
‘It is,’ said Glory roughly. ‘Because we both know there was never a grave in Dunstan Woods, or a burial amulet. My mum really did leave. She’d had enough. Just like her note said. What did you do to her, to drive her away?’
The old woman smiled sourly. ‘Edie was more like Cora than I knew. The kind that always leaves, never looks back. I didn’t see it till it were too late.’
‘Shut up. You lied before and you’re lying now. You manipulated me so I’d turn snitch, become a traitor like you. The Morgans –’
‘The Morgans have made plenty of widows and orphans, girl. Don’t you forget it.’ Angeline’s bright black eyes stared into hers. ‘And I never lied about your inheritance. I want you to be a great witch, Glory. I want you to make this coven the biggest and the best there ever was. That’s why I taught you everything I know, that’s why I’ll fight for your rights till there’s no breath left in my body. I’ve put my love in you, and my hopes. I’ve made you my own.’
Glory looked around the room. The faded headlines. The three laughing girls. The shabby old woman before her.
‘I ain’t yours. I never have been, and I never will be.’
Angeline gave a small dry sob. Then she bared her yellowed teeth. ‘You think you can go crawling to the Morgans, I suppose. You reckon if you pout nicely enough, Troy’ll sweep you off your feet. Or maybe you’ll cosy up to the Inquisition instead, now you and the pyros are such pals?’
Glory got to her feet.
‘Goodbye, Auntie.’
‘Go on, then. Leave me, just like all the rest.’ She staggered upright. ‘Ungrateful little bitch.’ Her voice rose, hoarsely, to a shriek. ‘Get out and don’t ever come back. Because it’ll be too late then – too late –’
Glory shut the door. She breathed in the cool damp air. A wash of crimson flooded the sky behind the tower block.
Through the window of Patrick’s bedroom she could hear a bleep, bleep, bleep. Music pounded from Number Seven; next door, the bull terriers howled. On the steps of Number Eight, Nate smoked and lounged.
‘Hello, girlie,’ he said as she walked past him. ‘Troy’s been looking for you.’
She didn’t look round.
‘Where’re you going?’
‘I don’t know.’
I am Gloriana Starling Wilde. I am fifteen years old. I am a witch.
I can do anything.
She walked further, faster. She put back her head, and laughed. She spread out her arms. She began to run.
Author’s Note
A belief in witches is common to nearly all cultures throughout history. The Hebrew Bible, the New Testament and the Koran all warn against witchcraft and prescribe punishments for it. The Roman Catholic Inquisition sponsored witch-hunts on the grounds that witches entered into a pact with the Devil and bore his mark.
The age of widespread witch-hunts in Europe and North America lasted from about 1480 to 1700. It is estimated that between forty and sixty thousand people were killed. Contemporary witch-hunts still occur in sub-Saharan Africa, India and south Ghana.
There has never been a British Inquisition but Matthew Hopkins, self-styled ‘Witchfinder General’, was a real person. So was his colleague John Stearne. They and their fellow witchfinders used pricking, ducking and witch’s bridles on their victims.
My witches’ work is inspired by the African-American magical practices known as hoodoo and British folklore. There is an old tradition that bells warn of witches, and water and iron guard against them.
Acknowledgements
No Dark Arts were used in the writing of this book. I didn’t need to because of the following people: Emma Matthewson and Isabel Ford at Bloomsbury, Sarah Molloy at A M Heath, Sarah Lilly, Luke Staiano and Lucy Wilkins. Together, they have employed the zeal of an inquisitor, the cunning of a mobster and the creative pluck of a whole coven of witches. I would like to thank them all very much.
Brien O¯ Keeffe of the London Fire Brigade kindly advised me on the events in Chapter Thirty-Three. Although the final-version scenario is somewhat different to the one we discussed, I am very grateful for his help. Any errors are due to my ignorance alone.
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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in June 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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This electronic edition published in June 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Laura Powell 2012
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