by Helen Slavin
Crow Heart
The Witch Ways
Helen Slavin
About the Author
Helen Slavin grew up in Lancashire and now lives in the West Country. She has written for television and radio. When not writing she’s out in the lanes and byways looking for magic.
If you’d like to hear more from Helen, visit her website, www.helenslavin.com
Also By Helen Slavin
The Extra Large Medium
The Stopping Place
Cross My Heart
From a Distance
Little Lies
After the Andertons
To the Lake
Will You Know Me?
The Witch Ways Series
Crooked Daylight
Slow Poison
Borrowed Moonlight
The Witch Ways Whispers
The Ice King
Breaking Bones
Whyte Harte
The Hedgehog Child
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this work, other than those clearly in the public domain, are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Helen Slavin, 2021
All rights reserved
Series Design By: Books Covered
Cover Design By: Giuseppa Lo Coco-Ame
Cover Images © Deposit Photos
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Agora Books
Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Crow-Hearted Girl
1
The Glint in a Girl’s Eye
The road from Highfar had been a long and stony one for Thinne and his apprentice, Nuala Whitemain. Horses lamed, coach and cartwheels splintered and cracked until Thinne almost thought someone worked against them. It would not be surprising. He had stolen this girl away from Havoc Wood on the promise of teaching her dark things. The longer he spent in her company, the more he understood that he had not made a good bargain. Thinne had taught her well, but she had learned too quickly. She was not wild. She was measured, calculating. She outstripped him, and he was careful not to reveal that he was aware of this. He had to watch her, like prey. No, it was worse than that; he might be prey.
Polly was the landlady at The Gilded Boar, a stout woman not given to easy smiles. She was used to drunks and vagabonds, and little shook her, which was why it was so disconcerting to Thinne to see fear trembling through her as she spoke with him.
“You and the girl are to be out before nightfall.” She put her hands on her hips in an effort to hide the tremor. It did nothing for the quiver of her lips, so she pinched them together, her direct gaze holding his.
“I’ve booked and paid for…” As he spoke, she was already taking coin from her apron pocket. He did not take it. Polly placed it on the table before him.
“Before nightfall.” Polly drew in a breath for courage. “You are not to come here no more.”
Thinne was not popular, but he paid his bills. He had been a regular at the Boar, even back when her father ran it, and she was a small girl clearing tankards. Of all the inns and taverns he stopped off at along the many roads, this was his favourite by far. Polly minded her business and cooked good food. The rooms were scented with lavender and rosemary, and the linen had not been slept in by a previous guest.
“We have always got on, you and I. You run a good place.” He kept his eyes on hers, hoping that there was some bargain he could salvage. He tried to recall anything he had ever heard about her, if there was anything he could use against her, but Polly was wise and careful. He needed his rest. This was the only place he ever truly rested. He decided that this was the best hand to play. “You must know how I value my stays here.”
Polly shook her head.
“No more.” She was firm, but all of a sudden, her eyes could not land on his, so he kept staring, like waiting for a fish to hook. She might relent, realise what a poor bargain she was making in rejecting him. Her eyes peered once more into his own, struggling against the fear. “Not no more.” She rallied.
“Tell me.” Thinne was stern. Polly stood up straighter.
“I will show you.”
Thinne had never ventured through the small wooden doorway at the back of the parlour. This led to the private territory of Polly’s own quarters and the laundry and kitchen. Polly shut the door behind them and called up a small flight of stairs.
“Nimmy.”
Quick as a dog, the girl responded. Thinne needed only one glance at her face, the left eye clouded over.
“Step closer.” Thinne reached a slender hand to the girl’s face, his fingers touching her chin, angling her face this way, then that. Her heart was skittering in her chest, the other eye swivelling to not look at him.
“Look at me.” His fingertips pinched lightly at her chin to add to his command. The girl looked at him. Thinne’s heart dropped into his boots, but he kept his face calm.
“Your girl done this.” Polly’s voice was low and afraid.
“What bargain did you make?” Thinne asked the girl, hoping it might be something he could alter, possibly to his own advantage. It might be wise to show his power to Polly, hoard her fear for future leverage. Except at this moment, he was unsure of himself; his own fear, very often a cowed and shrunken thing, was snarling at him. The girl spoke, but her voice was a whisper like the wind, catching in the air, and the words whisked off before the ear could hear them. Thinne felt around for the spell of it; it was unlike anything he had ever taught Nuala Whitemain. He withdrew his shaking hand.
“Can you take it from her? She’s not right.” Polly was concerned for the girl’s welfare. In a few short moments, Thinne had come to understand why the woman in the ticket office at Dogday Station had crossed the tracks to avoid serving them. He recalled the odd demeanour of the girl at The Tin Rabbit a week or more since, and he was afraid.
“Yes,” Thinne lied. “Give me tonight.” He bargained.
“Only tonight.” Polly was unbending.
Night fell and he wore the darkness like a cloak; here was a skill he had kept from his devious apprentice and was grateful. He did not have to wait long in the shadows of the courtyard.
The serving girl walked across the yard and stood by the well. Her eyes were open but, he knew, unseeing. Nuala stepped from the shadows opposite, except, he saw with a start, that she too wore the darkness. The breath stopped in his chest. Had she seen him enter the yard?
She approached the girl and took something from her pocket as the girl, still upright but sleeping, lifted her hand. Thinne could not believe what he was seeing: Nuala’s careful pricking of the girl’s thumb, the polished pearl glint of a needle made from bone. Nuala stepped up onto the wall of the well and reached to hold the girl’s head in her hands. The girl’s jaw fell slack at her touch, and Thinne watched in horror as Nuala leaned down to whisper the summoning into the girl’s mouth.
He had not taught her this. All his errors and mistakes fanned out before him like the worst hand of cards as he cast off the darkness. Nuala, startled, let the girl go.
Thinne snatched at the girl’s soul as it left her body. She slumped, the essence of her t
hin and draggled, so that Thinne could see where Nuala had taken from her before, had asked this essence to run her errands. He did not dare to think what kind.
Nuala, enraged, flew at him, snatching at a wisp of soul even as Thinne wound it round his fist. He took breaths from Nuala’s lungs, pinched a beat from her heart.
“The apprentice owes the master.” His voice was guttural and rasping at her to keep her at bay, but the old trick no longer touched her. He felt the cold fingers of her magic flex themselves around his heart, the beats drumming out of him. His breath quickened; he felt his heart struggle against this arrhythmia. He had not taught her this, only chastised her with it. He saw where he had failed, that he had never broken her, that all her punishments had been lessons, teaching her the trick of them. It took all he had, borrowing some of the serving girl’s soul, to reach within his chest. Even as he fought, he saw where she watched him still, taking his knowledge even as they fought, twisting it to herself. Just when he was uncertain whether his heart or the magic would break first, she staggered back, her face white as her hair.
Thinne caught at her coat, tugged her from the ground.
“You will offer up your heart.” He commanded now. “You will pay what is owed.” His breath was cold as stone and scented with graveyard dirt; the shadows deepened around them. Nuala writhed, slipping the sleeves so all he held was her coat as she released a blow of magic strong enough to throw him back against the low wall of the well.
He watched her go, witnessed the ragged darkness of her footsteps and did not give chase. Let her run. The only place that would have her was Havoc. Let Granner and Hettie Way see what a monster they had made. He would bide his time. Perhaps when she was Queen of Havoc after all, and he would claim his debt. One day. When he was desperate.
Today he skulked away from The Gilded Boar, the serving girl’s soul not returned after all but ravelled into his pocket. He wore it ragged running errands, wringing all the power he could until, one sunset, his weary maid of all wicked work gave a sigh and sank into the boards of the cheapest room at The Tin Rabbit, a small heap of dust to be swept away by other servants, unawares.
2
Wet-Toad Trade
Hettie Way woke in a sweat. She felt heavy, drugged, as if someone had been catching her breath. She breathed in deep, tried to shake the sense of threat and dread. When that attempt failed, she jumped out of bed.
Violet Walters, the housekeeper at Hartfield Hall, had recently offered her a black waxed raincoat going to waste in the hall cupboard. The lining was tartan flannel with a jaunty looking fox on the label. It was soft and comforting while the crackled exterior not only kept the rain off but felt, to Hettie, like armour. She slid into its safety now, shoving her stockinged feet into her boots.
She moved through Cob Cottage in the dark, just a hint of starlight to guide her. The door clicked closed behind her with a sound as small as a dormouse’s breath. Hettie, in the raincoat, felt cloaked, and she pulled dappled shadow from the edge of the trees. Havoc prickled like static, and Hettie let it sting her so she could locate whoever, or whatever, had been catching her breath.
No prints visible, but the sting called her across the garden at the rear of the cottage and into the line of trees.
A path, she sensed it at once, marked the steps in their ragged darkness, which would be tattered and invisible to most. Hettie drew in the sting and headed off.
Any Traveller who ought to have safe passage would have come to Cob with a welcome and a wave, so she was on her guard. Hettie followed the trail, and at the bridleway that ran between Leap and Havoc, she halted. There was a scent to the path. It wafted and drifted; yew as the thinnest topnote, hemlock beneath, powerful yet mousey. Hettie ran a Gamekeeper’s eye over the bridleway and its track, noted the purposeful steps. This Visitor thought they were clever.
Hettie stepped back, pulled the shadows into her coat, and skirted the edge of the path under cover of Havoc. In a few hundred yards, she dropped down through the trees. Havoc was her wood; she knew where she was headed.
The young woman lay in wait at the very foot of Hare’s Ell. Hettie, hidden in the trees on the opposite Yarl Hill side of the valley, watched. The young woman’s hair was white as moonlight. Her gaze was intent upon the track in front of her, a spur from the bridleway. She was, clearly, watching for her prey, and Hettie Way wondered what kind of Visitor thought they could trap a Gamekeeper.
A dangerous one.
It was dawn before the white-haired woman abandoned her trap. She pulled up the valley, frustration and fury in every stamped step. Hettie watched where she headed towards town instead of back through Havoc.
The young woman trudged up the steep rise to the Woodcastle path, her breath catching. As she reached the top, she halted, breathed in deep, and panicked at the sharp wheeze she gave. She clutched at her chest, recognition crossed her face, and she looked around in alarm. Hettie, unseen, let the woman’s caught breaths fall all at once, so that the white-haired woman panted. She twisted about, furious, searching. Hettie, woven into the wood, could not be seen.
She followed the white-haired woman into town, saw the little gate just along Red Hat Lane, old Biddy’s cottage of course, ancient and abandoned. Hettie understood at once who this white-haired woman was: Nuala Whitemain, not seen in Havoc since she was a girl. Granner Way had warned her. Nuala Whitemain was an unwelcome Visitor, should she ever choose to come back. Hettie wondered what had driven her home, how desperate and dangerous she might be. As she left, Hettie tweaked the hedge, twisted at a twig so that, on her next excursion, the woman would feel the gate snag and heed a Gamekeeper’s warning.
In the heart of the greenhouse, in the walled garden at Hartfield, tomato plants perfumed the air with their sappy zing. Further down was a section of geraniums, so an afternoon spent in the greenhouse was always a sensory delight. If it rained, the drumming on the glass roof was perfect, the buckets, placed beneath the odd broken pane, providing the perfect harmonic.
Mrs Walters pinched out sideshoots as she and Hettie Way talked.
“Charms?” Hettie’s memory reeled backwards to Granner Way’s days and the path worn from town by women seeking “charms”.
“Not heard it from her lips, but that’s what the girls are calling them.” Mrs Walters’ nimble fingers pinched harder. “Not very charming, charms. Curses and poison, if you ask me.”
“Which girls?” Hettie asked. Mrs Walters rolled her eyes.
“Oh, the usual Sillys. Barbara Wills, Jean Smith, Betty Capstone, the Hays twins, and Christine from the bakery.” Mrs Walters paused to check if she’d missed anyone. Hettie considered. She, Mrs Massey, and Mrs Walters were united in their collective noun for these young women of the town, the Sillys. They were thoughtless young women, as biddable as a flock of sheep.
“Where is she selling from? The cottage?” It was not really done for young women to frequent the pubs unaccompanied. Anyone under the age of fifty seen in the public bar at The Fiddle would draw a great deal of attention and be considered “fast”. Mrs Walters halted.
“That’s the worrying thing, Hettie,” she said. “She meets them at The Sisters.”
It was almost a full moon, so Hettie had no doubt that the white-haired woman would have customers lined up. The Gamekeeper was, therefore, careful in her approach to the seven stones set at the foot of the hill.
The stones were not ancient. They’d been dug and dredged from the land at Hartfield no more than a couple of hundred years ago. The park had been landscaped, and these stones had been relocated here, to make something decoratively Gothic. Hettie understood about the charging of objects and so, however bare and bland a stone or pool might start out, it took only a few dedicated followers to press their hearts into it, to bring tribute and offering, and have the land absorb it. Cathedrals had been constructed on the same principle. Hettie kept her eye on these stones for that very reason.
She needed to discover what Nuala traded. It was on
e thing to offer charms for pennies, but Hettie had guessed at the white-haired woman’s history, and she was not here for small change. She had been apprenticed to Thinne, driver of hard bargains. She must be taking something in payment for her wares, and it troubled Hettie what that something might be. Was she here on her own account or as an emissary of Thinne? He knew he was not welcome, but it would not be beyond him to think of such a scheme to get back to Havoc, not now he had trained her up.
Hettie walked through the trees along a fox path, shielded by the black raincoat. It was proving a useful garment. Its everyday quality helped, she noted, with being unseen. Travellers and other Visitors, whether those uninvited or expected, sought out strength and glamour, a whiff of power. They did not look for raincoats. Granner Way, Hettie remembered, had a shawl knitted by Minnie Bannister after the safe delivery of her fifth child.
“It grounds me,” Granner often said. When Violet offered the raincoat, Hettie recognised that it had been sent to her for the same purpose.
The rising moon cast a cool light on the circle of stones. Hettie did not walk the perimeter; instead she folded herself into the shadow of a thread of birch trees, the moonlight reflected on the white paper bark proving its own use as cover. Thus, hidden in plain sight, Hettie waited.
Nuala Whitemain approached from the thin track up from the edge of Hartfield’s boundary. She was visible but stealthy, the white hair taking on a sheen of moonlight once again. Nuala walked the circle. Hettie, in her hiding place, felt the charge she put into each stone. The tallest, the Queen stone as it was called, had a long hollow in it worn by the weather. It was shoulder width, deep enough for a woman to hide in and so, as the first of the town girls approached for her charm, Nuala Whitemain stepped out of the stone so that it looked as if she appeared by magic.