Crow Heart (The Witch Ways Book 4)

by Helen Slavin

  Long after she had left, Anna sat at the table and wondered about that brief golden glimmer. It felt familiar, and yet she could not place it, and it added to her general sense of feeling unsafe and out of kilter.

  As she sat, she was aware of the Paper Prophets sitting in her trouser pocket. They were hard to ignore, in point of fact. They were a presence, a warmth, like a hand reaching out to tap at her shoulder for attention. She thought of the day, it seemed like a hundred years ago, when she had been up at Half-Built House with her mother and she had found them. No, that was wrong; they found her, waited for her in the chest of drawers that had belonged to her grandmother. They had not let anyone else in.

  She took the small deck out. The foxed corners felt like an animal’s pelt as her fingers tugged the elastic from them. She shuffled them. They felt eager, sorting themselves, and she dealt three cards: The Pike Amongst Weeds, The Castle, The Anatomical Heart. The sight of the heart made her own putter with panic, recalling as it did their last night with their mother. What was The Castle about again? She struggled, Mrs Massey’s bright and wise eyes staring at her, patient.

  The message was clear. It was her own eyesight, her interpretation of the message, that was not. The banked emotions of the last two years overshadowed the cards. Anna felt the soft furredness of the remaining deck. It paused. Anna looked around. She liked the space of The Orangery; she liked the sound of the place as well as the scent of hot glass and cool stone. There was a new energy here, a place where she was focused forward. She took in a deep breath.

  A message. About Winn and the glimmer? The Pike Amongst Weeds was connected to Havoc Wood, naturally. That was Winn; she had always been close to Grandma Hettie, and their families were linked by landscape, Leap catching at Havoc’s edges. The Castle. She only puzzled for a moment before Mrs Massey’s voice was clear in her head.

  “Fortress and home. Place of safety. But also secrets, keeping deep secrets.” A vault for secrets. It had not occurred to Anna that Winn had secrets, but she must; everybody did. She looked at the card. The ivy was growing richly over the Castle frontage. Here and there a wild clematis was winding through it, and that side of the Castle looked different, more stony. It reminded Anna of the cliff of stone at Frog Pond, and if you looked out of the corner of your eye, the white flowers of the clematis did look a bit like the waterfall that tipped over it after heavy rain. It was beautiful. Frog Pond printed itself into her mind.

  The Anatomical Heart pounded. Anna could already see where a severe-looking, middle-aged man stood in one of the vistas in the aorta. Was that Frog Pond, too? Father was the word that came into her head unbidden. It was too much.

  She looked at The Pike Amongst Weeds once again, to avoid having to look at The Anatomical Heart. The Pike Amongst Weeds, heavy with weed; the pike within, one eye turned to face her. There was something about its eye. A reflection. Anna peered down. Cob Cottage, two women, one holding her new baby. Not just any woman. Anna gasped as she recognised the younger version of her grandmother and who was this other woman? Anna watched her taking nervous hold of the baby. Could that be a young Winn? Yes. Her grandmother and Winn. Their mood light, celebratory. Birth. Life.

  “What? Twinkle?” the young Winn said. What on earth did that mean? Was that Winn’s baby? No. Of course not. No. Anna’s mind gave a pang. The baby was Vanessa, her own mother.

  At that thought she drew the cards into the pack and sealed them with the elastic.

  5

  School’s Out

  Witchcraft was capable of many things, and Emily Way considered some of the ones she had dabbled with of late. She had Bone Rested an ancient warrior, fought off the slow poison of Mrs Fyfe, and struggled with Borrower, one of Havoc’s most troublesome and ancient residents. None of these tasks had been so simple to achieve as her attempt at invisibility. Grandma Hettie, Emz thought, would have been proud. Or possibly astonished.

  Emz had taken the skill of vanishing to another level without breaking sweat. She had not retreated into a shadow. No one saw her move from the corner of their eye. She was not peripheral or ephemeral. She was just gone. Vanished. In the blink of an eye.

  It had begun with Logan Boyle, fresh from his own personal purgatory of unfounded accusations of rape, being unable to see her. His eyes had swept over her, blanked her out over three short days at school. She had run to Leap Woods to escape the empty gaze, but it hadn’t worked. Other events had completed the terrible vanishing spell. A Great Grey Horse had taken their mother and, reaching out to catch her fingers in its mane, the last of Emily Way had been stripped away.

  She had not physically left the school, but already, in these last days, she was no more than a smudge. A wight moving through the sixth-form centre like a draught that no one could source. She gathered her books and headed to English.

  Only here was she powerless. Mrs King-Winters clearly possessed Strength of her own, greeting the invisible Emz with a silent nod and smile that never failed to colour Emz in a little. She sat at the back of the classroom, temporarily visible, her old red sweater flaring and glowing with her existence. Her pen clicking, the paper rustling, the crack of her book’s spine.

  “Hey,” Mrs King-Winters said at the end of each lesson, her voice a sound, lassoing Emz back into the real world. “Good work.” She put the essay on the desk in front of Emz. “University standard.” Mrs King-Winters was not chatty. She did not need to be. The sparing conversation worked its rich magic, outlining the skeleton of Emily Way. “The Heathcliff Theory?” Mrs King-Winters’s cool grey-blue eyes glittered. “You could write a book.” That smile, its kindness etching a mouth and eyes onto the bare space of Emily Way’s skull.

  Today was the last day, and as she stood up, she realised she would not see Mrs King-Winters ever again. It was a further loss to add, compressed and black, to the coal seam of loss — a fault line compacted deep inside her. She found she could say nothing, and Mrs King-Winters recognised the fact and honoured it with her own silence. Instead, she was writing something at the top of the essay.

  “I’m always around,” she said. Emz reached her grandmother’s raincoat from the back of the chair. Tears blurred her vision, the old tartan flannel of the lining smudging red and blue and green, and the label by the inside pocket, silkier than usual, read “ragged starlight”, even though it didn’t usually. That was how life felt, as if when she looked outside herself, that was all she saw, a blackened sky prinked with shards of cold, bitter light. She blinked and the label carried its usual Merriman & Co logo, the embroidered fox, rusty and familiar.

  “You know, for those English Literature emergencies,” Mrs King-Winters said. Emz looked up, aware that Mrs King-Winters understood this was their goodbye moment. Emz nodded. “Don’t forget this.” Mrs King-Winters handed the essay to Emz, who put it into her bag. Only later, emptying out her belongings back in her room at Hartfield, would she see that what Mrs King-Winters had written at the top of the essay was her mobile phone number.

  The afternoon at Prickles was filled with school groups. They were beginning to attract some of the primary schools from the edge of Castlebury.

  “Everything is so pinched financially these days,” Winn wondered. “I’m surprised they can still afford field trips at all.” But she was, nevertheless, grateful for their patronage. Winn was anxious of late; the hum of it matched Emz’s own feelings and, as such, was oddly comforting.

  “We’re doing alright.” Emz was not really in a position to reassure. It was the only constant in her life at the moment, her work at Prickles. And at Hartfield. Yes. These were two good things. They were all alright.

  It was Seren Lake who had set it all in motion, popping into The Orangery.

  “What about the weddings?”

  “The weddings?” Winn had repeated the phrase as if it might be a dodgy tip for a racehorse.

  “Yeah. Why not? You’ve done them before.”

  Winn grimaced, not at all keen to recall the most recent nup
tials at Hartfield, marred as they had been by the magical shenanigans of Mrs Fyfe. Seren guessed her train of thought.

  “Forget the Hillman wedding.” Seren was practical. “That wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  “Mrs Fyfe,” Emz said, deadpan.

  Winn shuddered. “Ugh. Terrible woman.”

  Seren waved her hand as if batting at a fly.

  “Forget all that. I’m serious. That was a one off. You’ve done other weddings before, remember?”

  And suddenly Emz had remembered.

  “Anna’s wedding for a start.” She looked across at Winn.

  Seren smiled. “You could really make a go of it, you know.” Seren was encouraging, excited even, and Emz saw how Winn listened, that there was a fresh glint in her eyes.

  “Come on, Winn, this place is perfect.”

  “I’m not organised,” Winn admitted. “I’m too on the hoof. Everywhere needs plastering. Renovation. Conservation.” She waved at the interior of The Orangery, the walls newly plastered. Emz stood, paintbrush in hand, wearing her old sweatshirt and jeans, painting an eggshell finish onto the woodwork.

  “You’ve got this place off the ground.” Seren had looked around at the scrubbed stone floor, the cleaned windows, the hard work.

  “No, no, that’s entirely down to this lot…” Winn nodded to Emz. “This is all Anna and Emz and Charlie.”

  “It was your idea,” Emz reminded her, receiving a grin from Seren.

  “Exactly.” Seren was determined. Emz slicked her paintbrush on the side of the tin.

  “Oh… well, I suppose… but…” Winn blustered. Emz wanted to hear this conversation. It contained a plan, something real and grounded and not concerned with woods, with Ways.

  “You think I should pursue the weddings?” Winn was not backing out.

  “Yes.” Seren had nodded. “I think Woodcastle could be a go-to destination for weddings. It’s got that cutesy appeal.” Her brow furrowed. “Er… no, that’s not right, is it? What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Quirky? Folksy? Rustic?” The words rattled out of Winn. “Historic? … Castley?” She raised an eyebrow at the possibilities.

  “Weddings for the Weird,” Emz said at last. Winn’s other eyebrow raised to meet its sister. Seren laughed.

  “That’s it.”

  Winn pulled a chair out from the nearby stack and gestured to Seren to sit.

  “Something different. Something out of the ordinary.” Winn was warming to the ideas. “None of this beige-hotel, cookie-cutter celebration.”

  “Cookie cutter?” Emz was amazed that Winn knew such a phrase.

  “You’ve been doing your research.” Seren grinned.

  Winn shrugged. “A little. The roof on the east wing needs re-leading. Specialist job. Expensive.” She sat herself down on the long bench by the window. “What have you got in mind?”

  6

  Red Wrangle

  The market sprawled across Market Square and around the Moot Hall. There had been a recent resurgence in the artisan aspect of the market. The stalls peddling cotton knickers and polyester aprons and sports socks were being overrun by those selling handmade or upcycled goods. If you wanted an apron now, the chances are you could get one made out of someone else’s old dress. There was even a new stall selling vintage clothing, anything from cocktail gowns and ancient furs to donkey jackets and boilersuits. There were farmhouse cheeses, sourdough breads, free range pork from Two Hills Farm, a wine stall, another selling ironmongery, still another selling pottery. The monster packs of white sports socks with whatever red, blue, or black logo on looked ill-fitting and uncomfy beside the homespun and hand-knitted offerings at “Kirstie’s Knit Nest”. Payments for the plastic hardware, the ecologically unsound mop buckets and brushes, the firelighters and clingfilm, were with cash. At the other stalls there was the magical transaction of contactless. Cards waved like wands.

  It was a crisp morning, and so people had bothered to come out to make their purchases. There was an air of business and community about the place on market day, a mood sadly lacking the rest of the time. It lifted Roz Woodhill’s spirits. She’d bought a wedge of Hartfield Hard, the most delicious cheese ever, and just the presence of it in her small shopping basket made her feel better.

  She was looking forward to opening the new gallery. The space at the Plainsong Chapel was bright and fresh and comforting. It was no small pleasure to click on the kettle in the small side kitchen and make a pot of tea. She could look out through the window above the sink there and see the allotments in the near distance. If someone had told her a year ago that she would find pleasure in sitting in a chilly kitchen at the chapel at Woodcastle, she would have laughed in their face. A haughty laugh. She could hear it in her head. She recalled being that person, the confidence she had felt, like a glass slipper, that had shattered last October. She was uncertain what had happened to her between Apple Day and Halloween. She dreamt of the letterbox to Villiers House rattling, and it woke her with a cold sweat. Something had happened. Matt had been there to hold onto her. She had had a kind of breakdown, brought on by too much work and worry at the old gallery. A breakdown, that explained it. She was getting over it.

  Only Matt had noticed that she hadn’t really left Woodcastle since Halloween. He’d carried her home that night. They had not made it to the party. She’d been fine. She was better. Yes. Going to the market was becoming a pleasurable fixture in her week. They had plans to go into Castlebury at the weekend.

  “We can just drive over there…” Matt assured her, “…don’t need to get out of the car even. Just drive over. Maybe up to The Pinnacle. Pack a picnic.”

  She loved Matt more than anyone or anything in her life ever.

  Today she had a goal, one she had given herself. For the last few weeks, a van had set up in Market Square with fold-out chairs and offered coffee and cakes. Each time she had visited the market since, she had wanted to buy a coffee and have a piece of the hummingbird cake, but she had not been able to do so. This week was going to be different. She had cash and her card. Every payment eventuality was covered. Somewhere in her pocket, too, was her courage. She must visualise herself seated just at that table, steam rising, the coffee rich.

  She’d circled the market three times already and was on the point of heading home. She halted by the cheese stall and gathered her thoughts. Not so long ago, she would have thought that three circuits of the market had significance, that she had, in point of fact, cast a spell in so doing. She’d have thought it fortuitous or portentous. She would not have been frightened of her own shadow, as if, perhaps, that shadow did not belong to her. Three times. Perhaps that was important, that it was a spell of sorts; it was her old self reaching out to her, a helping hand.

  She stepped to the van, and the woman at the fold-out counter smiled at her.

  “What can I get you?”

  It was cold sitting on the small fold-out chair, but Roz Woodhill did not care. The coffee was rich and delicious. She felt free.

  She had drunk half her cup when the feeling altered, and she felt watched. She tried to dismiss the feeling, to reason it away. Her mistake was in not planning what she would do when the coffee was finished. She just had to make a plan, visualise what came next. She should get up and go to the bakery stall. She visualised the sourdough Matt loved, a crisp round loaf. The errand of it would cure her. As she rose from her seat, her hip caught the table, the coffee cup toppled and smashed — and with it, Roz’s heart.

  It was a rabbit running in her chest. She knew the sensation too well. She looked up at the friendly face of the coffee-van lady, who was assuring her there was no problem, but she couldn’t hear the words. The smile was grating against some other sensation, something more pressing and important. A rabbit in her ribcage, yes, warning her. Run. She looked up at the people passing by, and that was when she saw the woman with the white hair, standing by the second-hand book stall. The moment that Roz looked, the other woman seemed to v
anish, as people threaded and mingled between them. Roz turned. Her handbag strap caught at the chair back, and the contents splathered across the stone paving of the square. She scrabbled her belongings into her bag and walked away. No direction. Just walk. Hands shaking but keep walking. Her phone was smashed. Was it smashed? Or was that her mirror? Was that smashed? She walked and fumbled. The phone. In her hand. Fine. Whole. Phone Matt.

  Roz realised she was walking the wrong way, that this path would take her into the narrow confines of Shot Yard. She turned. The woman with the shock of white hair was standing right there, reaching out. Roz could not breathe. Inside her mind, a letterbox rattled endlessly.

  “You dropped this.” The woman offered something. “It fell out of your bag…” The woman’s voice was soft but not reassuring. It carried an echo of the letterbox beneath it. Roz saw the offering was her lipstick, retrieved from the ground. The letterbox rattled on inside her. She didn’t want to take it from this woman, but it was a possession. Something of hers that she ought not to let this woman keep. Roz snatched it from the woman’s hand. The woman backed away.

  Roz turned on her heel and headed back into the mill of the market. As she neared the Moot Hall, she saw the bin and her hand reached automatically, threw the lipstick into its depths.

  She did not see the woman with the white hair again. She kept watch for a long time, sitting at the coffee van, waiting for Matt to come along and pick her up, take her home, keep her safe.

  For a woman with a shock of white hair, Nuala Whitemain kept a very low profile. She moved amongst the crowd at the market with ease. People seemed to part to let her through. An interested observer might have noted that the people did not look at Nuala, not one passing glance. They were unaware that they turned away.