Hi Lauren, we’ve arrived in Winter. The welcome party consists of half a dozen rats and—
I broke off. There was no signal. Well, I’d known this place would be isolated, Dad had called that ‘part of its charm’. But even so . . . Maybe I could get a signal upstairs.
The stairs creaked and protested every step, until I reached a landing, with a corridor stretching into darkness, lined with doors. The closest was ajar – and I put my hand on it and pushed.
For a minute I was dazzled by the moonlight flooding in. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I took in the high, vaulted ceiling, the stone window seat, and smelled the faint scent of the sea drifting through the open window.
Through the casement I could see the forest stretching out, mile after mile, and beyond a thumbnail moon cast a wavering silver path across the night-black sea. It was heart-breakingly lovely and, in that fleeting instant, I caught a glimmer of what had brought Dad to this place.
I stood, completely still, listening to the far off sound of the waves. Then a harsh, inhuman cry ripped through the room, and a dark shape detached from the shadows. I ducked, a flurry of black wings beat the air above my head, and I caught a glimpse of an obsidian beak and a cold, black eye as the creature hunched for a second on the sill. Then it spread its wings and was gone, into the night.
My heart was thudding ridiculously, and suddenly I didn’t want to be exploring this house alone in the dark. I wanted Dad, and warmth, and light. Almost as if on cue, there was a popping sound, a blinding flash, and the light-bulb in the corridor blazed. I screwed up my eyes, dazzled by the harsh brightness after straining into the darkness.
‘Hey-hey!’ Dad’s shout echoed up the stairs. ‘Turns out the leccy wasn’t off – it was just a fuse. Come on down and I’ll give you the grand tour.’
He was waiting in the hall, his face shining with excitement. I tried to rearrange my expression into something approximating his, but it clearly didn’t work, because he put an arm around me.
‘Sorry it’s a bit of a nightmare, sweetie. The place hasn’t been occupied for years and I should have realized they’d have turned everything off. Not the best homecoming, I must admit.’
Homecoming. The word had a horribly hollow sound. Yup, this place was home now. I’d better get used to it.
‘Come on.’ Dad gave me a squeeze. ‘Let me show you around.’
As Dad took me round, I tried to find positive things to say. It was pretty hard. Everything was falling apart – even the plugs and light switches were all ancient Bakelite and looked like they’d explode if you touched them.
‘Just look at those beams,’ he exclaimed in the living room. ‘Knocks our old Georgian house into a cocked hat, eh? See those marks?’ He pointed above our heads to scratches cut deeply into the corded black wood. They looked like slashes: deep, almost savage cuts that formed a series of Vs and Ws. ‘Witch marks, according to my book. Set there to protect the house from evil spirits and stuff.’ But I didn’t have time to look properly at the scarred wood, because Dad was hurrying me on to his next exhibit.
‘And how’s that for a fireplace? You could roast an ox in there! That’s an old bread oven, I think.’ He tapped a little wooden door in the inglenook beside the fire, blackened and warped with heat. ‘I’ll have to see about getting it open one of these days. But anyway, enough of me rattling on. What do you think? Isn’t it great?’
When I didn’t respond he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me to look at him, begging me with his eyes to like it, be happy, share his enthusiasm.
‘I like all the fireplaces,’ I said evasively.
‘Well you’ll like them even more when winter comes, unless I can get the central heating in pretty pronto. But is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘It’s a lot of work, Dad. How are we going to afford it?’ Even as I said it, I suddenly realized that I’d never really said those words before. I’d never had to. We hadn’t been rich, but Dad had always earned enough for what we needed.
Dad shrugged. ‘We got the place pretty cheap, considering. And I’ll do most of the work myself, which’ll cut down costs.’
‘Oh God!’ I said involuntarily in a horrified voice. Then I caught Dad’s eye and began to laugh. Dad can barely change a light-bulb, let alone conduct major house renovations. He looked offended for a minute but then began to laugh too.
‘I’ll get someone in to do the gas and electrics, at least, I promise you that.’ He put his arm around me. ‘I have a really good feeling about this place, Anna. I know it’s been a jolt for you, I do, but I honestly think we can make something of our lives here. I can do a bit of writing, grow veg – maybe I could even do B&B if money gets tight. This place just needs a little TLC to make it fantastic.’
A little TLC? I thought about the filth and the rats, and all the work we were going to have to do to make this place even liveable, let alone nice. And then I looked at Dad, and I thought of him back in London, sitting up night after night, his face grey with worry as he tried to make the sums add up, tried to find a way out for both of us.
‘I think,’ I said. Then I stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘I think . . . if anyone can do it, you can, Dad.’ I put my torch down on the mantelpiece and hugged him fiercely. Then I noticed something . . .
Also by Ruth Warburton
Witch Finder
THE WINTER TRILOGY
A Witch in Winter
A Witch in Love
A Witch Alone
To Ian, with all my love
Text Copyright © 2014 Ruth Warburton
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder Children’s Books
This ebook edition published in 2014
The right of Ruth Warburton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means with prior permission in writing from the publishers or in the case of reprographic production in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 444 91449 8
Hodder Children’s Books
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Table of Contents
Title Page
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Sneak Peek
Also by Ruth Warburton
Copyright
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