by Helen Slavin
“I promise I won’t be like Aunt Iz.” Roz smiled.
Anna shook her head. “I liked Aunt Iz,” Anna said. “She had a thirst for knowledge. She believed in things.”
Anna cleared the tray into the kitchen. She looked at Roz’s cup for a moment or two before she could find the courage. She recalled the odd message in the teacup the other day, what was it? Selfish beauty? Ruthless guile? Quite a list. She clicked at her phone; the picture she had taken showed only leaves, the magic not translating. This new information from Roz chewed at her. Might it tell her something extra about this white-haired woman? She reached for the cup. The words were printed quite clearly.
Don’t Do This
The cup fell from Anna’s hand to the stone floor. Shards and splinters of china scattered, like a jigsaw puzzle that would never be done.
29
Down the Rabbit Hole
The sound Nuala Whitemain could hear was a cheery whistling before the letterbox flipped and clattered. Her heart stalled. She was almost too wary to approach the door. No one should be able to breach her boundary. It was further evidence of how they worked against her. The bramble. The Gamekeepers. Thinne. It vexed her.
There was an envelope on the mat. Nuala did not receive mail of any kind, and this was addressed to Flowerpot Cottage, a residence she knew well. The garden was rammed with garish Busy Lizzies and a battalion of gnomes. The postman’s whistle insinuated itself, and she opened the door. He was almost at the gate. Ha. The Gamekeeper’s meddling had backfired, brought her more meaty prey.
“Hey.” If she caught him now… “Hey there… Hi.” …break the thigh bone first, keep him in the parlour for the metatarsals, the humerus, the livewire of spine, the promise of a ventricle. Her mouth watered at the possibilities. The Wrangle scorched.
“Hi. Hey.” She waved the mis-delivered letter, hurried down the path, but he was already through the gate. She was desperate enough to reach over the gate and grasp for his retreating postbag, the tail end of his high-vis vest. She reached, and as she did so, something black and furred leapt from the hedge to carve its claws across her forearm. She fell back as if winded. The cat, the one-eyed nemesis of a creature, slipped through the slats in the gate and the latch above clicked shut.
The postman whistled on his way, oblivious to any danger. A black thought rose in Nuala’s mind. No one, not one thing, ought to have been able to pass through that spell. If a cat and a postman didn’t even blink at the threshold then Thinne… The thought did not require finishing.
Nuala sat on the mossy path and tried to rationalise.
There was nothing to rationalise. She had visited the market woman, lit like a Havoc Beacon with someone’s old fingerprint. She ought to have been able to reach in and take the residual power, but no. Salt and iron had teamed with the Red Wrangle and foxed her. She was shaken by the power that kicked back at her.
She needed the remnants of that magic to bank herself against the upcoming confrontation with Thinne. The narrow escape at the allotments had borne witness to that. In her current state, she was easy prey for all.
The attack by the whitewash bramble at the florist had tainted her in some unknown way. Ever since the confrontation at the shop, she had found her power, that thin, diminished trickle left to her by Hettie Way, now leaked like a fractured pipe. Before, she had been able to beg and borrow from the broken bones of the Cordwainer cats, and it was enough. She could run her protection and charms for months and feel little effect. That was altered. It felt as though the bramble had left a thorn in her, unseen and undetectable, but leeching its poison. She considered the flailing branches. Where had it struck her? Was she marked where it had grasped at her?
The Red Wrangle burnt nightly, pain enough to wake her. If she could just reach for the red-haired girl, she had nothing to lose, everything to win.
She made a concerted effort to find a way to take the girl. This was a pursuit for power, power the girl did not use and that would save Nuala. The bramble spell, it was evident, protected the shop, but it did not follow the young woman. Outside of Mimosa, she was vulnerable. The issue was, so was Nuala. She had been lucky at the allotments. She could not rely on the Gamekeepers always being near to flush Thinne out.
There was nothing for it but vigilance; a hunter must stalk its quarry. Nuala felt afraid and exhilarated in almost equal measure. She relished the challenge. She had been lazy; now she must take action and observe the trips the young woman took with her deliveries in her little van. Gamekeepers did not patrol her delivery routes, and Thinne used the cover of darkness.
An opportunity arose at, of all localities, the Woodcastle end of the Knightstone bridge. Nuala felt there was restorative justice in the geography of this, as if the bridge sought to reimburse her for Hettie’s vengeful actions. Nuala had looked in vain for the green and gold delivery van until, at the last minute, she realised it was still being repaired, and the red-haired girl was in fact driving its neat white courtesy replacement. She pulled in at the corner of Elm Road and watched in her rear-view mirror as Aurora parked in the dark tree shade of the layby before the bridge. One or two cars passed bridgewards as Aurora opened the van doors and, checklist handy, took out a luxuriant bouquet. Her gaze shifted to the flight of steps set into the opposite side of the road. They led up, through a rockery, to a large house — Ramblers.
Nuala was quick to cross the road and dart up the footpath that led into the trees. This dense draggle of birch and oak offered shadowed cover and was the eastern edge of Leap Woods. Nuala cut off the footpath, past a tree festooned with dog-poo bags, and struck out into thicker cover. She was soon beneath thick cover only a few metres from the florist van. The trees gave out at the edge of the layby, a border marked by an information board and a bin. Aurora would stand just there, Nuala reasoned, so she must place herself just along here. She moved with stealth, making herself a shadow, at one with the trees. Ordinarily, such subterfuge would have taken no more than a spoonful of her strength; now, as the minutes ticked past and she drew the shadows into herself, she felt the energy weaken. She was clinging to the darkness, clawing at it. When it was almost too late, Aurora returned.
The van door opened. Aurora was unaware, her focus centred on the next delivery, her fingers tweaking at the arrangement and repositioning it in the van. Nuala stepped forward, pulling the shadow with her like a cloak. Yes. Here. Now. Strike.
Tugging the shadows, Nuala made to step from between the trees, her arm outstretched to grab at Aurora Foundling. The ground opened up a rabbit hole, just big enough to twist Nuala’s ankle. She stumbled, realised that she was no longer pulling at the shadows; they were rasping at her. Pain twisted itself around her ankle, around her wrist when the Wrangle seared and hissed. It seemed alive, the way it had when Hettie Way had first entangled her with it. It abraded her skin; pinprick points of blood seeped to the surface. She gave a thin cry as she tried to pull her foot free of the rabbit hole. With a sudden jerk, it released her. She fell back, her head grazing at the bark of a tree trunk. Through the trees, she saw the van indicator winking, and Aurora pulled out to cross the bridge. Nuala leaned back against the tree to gather herself. Her breath wheezed in her chest but the Red Wrangle calmed, the blood smeared but dry. She soothed at it with her other hand. There was a crack of twigs some way behind her. Nuala spun like a cornered animal.
A few hundred yards above her, through the trees, she could see Winn Hartley-Hartfield. Their gaze locked for a moment before Winn turned and disappeared into cover of the trees.
Fear clutched at Nuala. Whatever it was, the connection, the talisman that Winn possessed, Nuala knew better than to go up against it. In less straitened circumstances, she might have made a feint at Winn, though she knew from experience that she could not take Hettie’s magic. She had been shown that once before.
Curses and confound them all. Hettie’s death had broken nothing; rather, it had become her revenge. Nuala spat at the injustice.
; She must have the power from within Aurora Foundling, and she would have it, at any cost.
30
Wedding Jitters
The Hartfield Wedding Team, with Aurora as captain, were, to the bride and groom, nothing short of superheroes.
Currently, Seren’s workshop looked even more fairy tale than usual. It brimmed over with bridesmaids who giggled over shoes and fought over twisted foliage headdresses, made by Aurora and fit for elven queens. The chief means of communication in Seren’s shop was squeaking.
The Long Gallery at Hartfield was being prepped. Anna was up and down the stepladder with drapery, and Winn had marshalled a galaxy of fairy lights, as Emz was sorting out chairs from Hartfield’s vast collection. Aurora had once again wrought her magic on the central floral displays. The archway beneath which the bride and groom would exchange vows was fashioned from anything the walled garden and grounds could offer. To the casual observer, the dried seed heads and grasses might have seemed barren, but with Aurora’s skill, it was transformed into a fairy tale Gothic bower.
No one was certain when they had last slept, but they were very sure of which day it was and how many hours were counting down. Charlie had come straight from a patrol to be mustered into tying plum-velvet ribbon around chairbacks.
“All of them?” Charlie looked at the ranks of chairs.
Aurora tossed her hair. “No, some guests want to sit on plain chairs,” Aurora sneered and handed her the ribbons. “I’ve already cut the lengths. A simple knot… like this…” Aurora’s sleight of hand tied a perfect bow. “Now you.” She handed a ribbon. Charlie did her best, but Aurora snatched the ribbon from her.
“Stop. Go and wash your hands.” Aurora was outraged. “Look at the state of you.” She ushered Charlie towards the bathroom.
“I was Gamekeeping. It’s a wood,” Charlie yawned. “I might go and get a coffee before I tackle this.”
“No. Prioritise. Coffee last.” Aurora’s hair swept across her shoulders in a frothing fizz of righteousness. “I had a car accident two days ago, and I haven’t stopped since the tow truck drove off.”
Charlie was glad to escape to the bathroom.
In The Orangery, the pop-up was disguised with floor-length table linen taken from a selection in the linen presses of the house. Crockery, crystal, glassware, and flatware had been dug from drawers and canteens, and with a wash and a polish, the effect was simple luxury.
No one could recall when they had last eaten and so, on descending the stepladders with the last of the links of fairy lighting, Anna headed to the kitchen and cooked.
“Stay?” Aurora was blindsided, her face a twist of concern. “Why? We’ve finished for today, haven’t we? What else is there to do?” She consulted her tablet and its many lists. Her hands were red with having been in and out of flower water all day.
“Eat,” Emz said. “Anna has cooked for us.” Emz noticed the fronds of thistle in her hair, the feathers of fern, and, as she did, something glimmered briefly in the wild pre-Raphaelite tresses, and Emz’s memory made a bump start.
Aurora stared. “Cooked? For… us? You mean, you.”
It seemed Emz was speaking a foreign language. She stared at Aurora’s hair for a moment. The glimmer had passed. Emz felt odd, as if, should she look away, the hair might somehow look back at her. She had definitely not had enough sleep or food.
She took Aurora’s elbow. “Come on… it’s this way.”
It was a small and perfect feast in the old kitchen at Hartfield. Aurora took charge of the conversation, which revolved around the wedding.
“That reminds me, is the main gate open?” Aurora looked at Winn. “The fancy iron one? They want to come in that way with the carriage.”
Pretty much the entire business community of Woodcastle had been roped in and commandeered by Aurora Foundling. Marlow Whitburn was providing transport with her team of horses and historic brougham.
“I can’t believe we’ve pulled this together,” Anna said.
Charlie gave a snorting laugh. “We must have been mad to take it on,” she said.
Aurora stared at them both. “Take a challenge. Always,” she decreed with a sweep of her hair. As it narrowly skimmed over the cream cheese frosting on the last bit of carrot cake, a shifting light within it made Emz’s memory twitch again. “If we hadn’t done this,” Aurora continued, “just think… we’d have missed out on a big chance.”
“And the couple would have missed their wedding.” Charlie was dark tonight. Her thoughts were spun and twirled with the Ace of Hearts. It was, she thought, a consequence of too-close proximity to all this wedding frippery.
“Oh, yes. That too.” Aurora acknowledged the human element of the event.
Winn raised her glass. “Well, we have certainly gone at it all guns blazing.” They toasted. “It’s been mayhem.” Winn winked.
Despite the lateness of the hour, once the washing up was cleared and Aurora and Winn headed home, the Way sisters caught up on Havoc business. Anna was quick to recount her chat with Roz. Where the previous evening they had been confident of their watch on the tall thin man, the news from Roz had left them all thinking of the white-haired woman.
“Who is she?” Charlie asked. “And how did she get in? I don’t get it. There was one trail along the bridleway. One. And it belongs to the thin man.”
“Not a clue,” Emz said. “On both counts.”
“There must be a way she’s getting in and out. She must leave a trail somewhere,” Charlie reasoned.
“There’s the crackle,” Anna said. “That’s shown where she has been.”
“Yes. But that’s the residue of her magic. It hasn’t shown us how she’s come in from Havoc,” Emz said.
Charlie was frustrated. “I don’t understand it,” she admitted.
“I feel like we need to have eyes in the back of our heads,” Anna said, feeling the weight of the day start to press.
“Forewarned, as Grandma used to say,” Charlie conceded, and they headed out to embark on their patrols.
Emz struck out across the lawns at Hartfield to cut straight into Leap Woods. Her steps were more confident than she felt as she recalled her recent encounter on the bridleway, and it made an unhappy cocktail with the information about the white-haired woman. Still, she felt reassured that Charlie was treading the paths through Havoc and Anna was weaving her way around town. Her fear was a whetstone, making her sharpen her Strength, and, as she walked, she let it flex. At once she was partners with the wood. It watched with her.
Charlie walked straight up to the bridleway with Havoc peeling away to one side and Leap stretched out at the other. She let her Strength off its leash, bypassed doubt and fear, and, as a reward, watched all the paths light up for her. The Beacons were steady, winking only with the breeze or the brush of a tree branch. She still felt afraid, but it was matched by a sense that any monster hiding should feel equal fear. This was her wood, and there was nowhere to hide.
Anna Way was extra diligent in patrolling town. Mindful of their inability to find the white-haired woman’s route into Havoc, she looped out from Hartfield to swing by the cottage at the edge of Two Hills Farm where Kitty Boyle lived. Kitty’s little runabout was sitting in the driveway along with two others, and a third car was pulling in with more of her book-club friends. The windows of her cottage were bright and golden. Laughter pattered across the landscape towards Anna as Kitty opened the door to greet them.
Anna was methodical, taking the route from Two Hills that would bring her down to the allotments. It was a small feat to clamber over the gate, and at once she picked up a fragment of crackle along the track by the compost heaps. It was, as they had discussed, a sudden flare, signifying where the white-haired woman had done her magic. It was weak, already in shreds, but she was careful to track every trace of it and break it apart.
Anna moved down through town. The crackle did leave a trail of sorts. It was as if the woman dropped the magic as she was moving through town
. Anna felt the prickling poison of it. None of this must be left in town, of that she was certain; it was like picking up litter.
None of the splinters or scraps were distinct enough to hold a reflection. At her touch, they snapped and shattered. The crackle died to dust, but something from within them nagged at her. Her Strength held a tension like a warning. She pushed onward, pinching the life from each piece.
At the end of Red Hat Lane, her Strength began to hold out a low, intense note, as if her skull was a bell being tolled. It was not unpleasant, but it was scary. The extent of her Strength rang through her in a way she could not recall happening before. The crackled trail thickened a little at the boundary, more so than on her previous visit. When she reached for it here, it spiked and darted and felt alive. Anna paused to let her Strength even out, to listen to its message.
Anna faltered a step as the hairs on her neck rose. In the shadows by the hedge, something moved, and a deep yowl sounded out as if in warning. It was eerily human. Anna walked forward, almost tripping over the swaggering form of Velvet Joe. He chicaned in and out of her legs, so that Anna had to dance backwards to avoid tripping over. His deep buzzsaw purring shook her legs, and he turned his head upwards, his one eye seeking out her face so he could take her in. He gave another yowl, more everyday — conversational, even — revealing the pincushion row of needle teeth, before darting away up the lane.
Anna was unnerved. The lane seemed darker further ahead, the shadows heavier. Most people would turn on their heel and walk back. She was shaking, but a voice in the back of her head reminded her, “All this was Havoc once. The bones of it are Havoc’s bones, and you are the Gamekeeper.”
Could it be that simple? The white-haired woman was coming out of Havoc via Red Hat Lane? She must investigate. She released her Strength into the urban wild and moved with purpose.