A Witch in Love

by Ruth Warburton

  The Winter team conferred for a minute and then Seth stepped forwards to take the penalty.

  The crowd held its collective breath as Seth walked out in front of the goal and bowed his wet, seal-slick head. Then he ran his hands through his hair in the characteristic gesture I loved and ran towards the ball, as if he were a matador charging down a bull. His foot connected with a smack that echoed round the silent pitch and then the crowd erupted with screams of joy as the ball slammed into the corner of the net and the ref’s whistle blew.

  The crowd’s celebrations were finally dying down, and I was shouldering my bag and ignoring Emmaline, when I felt a slippery, muscular arm snake round my neck and a hot, wet cheek press against mine.

  ‘Do I get a kiss for the winning goal?’

  ‘Seth!’ I swung round and flung my arms around him, mud and all. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Photo finish, eh?’

  ‘You did really well.’

  ‘Well, I’m off for a shower. Are you coming to the pub to celebrate?’

  I hesitated. Oil and water. Caradoc Truelove. Questions, answers, possibilities battering at my brain.

  ‘Would you … Would you mind if I didn’t? I’m just … I’m really tired. You won’t miss me with all the team there.’

  ‘Of course I’ll miss you.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘But don’t be silly – you go on home. Have a good night’s sleep. Shall I see you tomorrow instead?’

  ‘Actually … maybe not.’

  ‘Not? What d’you mean?’

  ‘I think … I think I might be going to London.’

  Truelove Books returned far too many hits and Caradoc Truelove in quotes returned none, so I tried Truelove Books Soho and Truelove Books London. There was nothing on the first two or three pages that looked remotely like a shop – almost all Amazon listings for authors called Something Truelove. None of them were Caradoc.

  OK, yell.com maybe. There were no results for Truelove Books but when I widened the search, Truelove & Fox popped up on screen. Their listing described them as Sellers and Dealers of Antiquarian Books and Curiosities. I clicked to show it on a map. Not Soho, but Cecil Court – a little alley off Charing Cross Road. Close enough. Could this be it? Well, it was possible that he’d taken on a partner, I supposed. The other possibility, it suddenly occurred to me, was that he’d retired, or died.

  I thought about ringing – for about two seconds. What could I say? ‘Er, hello, could I speak to someone who might have known my possibly crazy, possibly deceased mother slightly more than eighteen years ago, possibly under her maiden name which I don’t know? Oh, and did I mention the witchcraft?’

  No. There was only one way to do this.

  I wrote down the address of the bookshop and the times of the London trains tomorrow, and was just about to close down the computer when my email pinged. It was Em.

  Hey. Sorry I was a bitch. I guess we both struck a nerve with each other – but that doesn’t excuse me being a heinous tit.

  I heard what you said to Seth. London, I mean. I’ll understand if not, but if you want me to come, just say.

  Em. x

  I sat and stared at the screen for a long time. Then I pressed reply and wrote:

  Hey. Me too. Etc.

  Winter station, 10.05 tomorrow. No worries if you can’t make it.

  See you there. Or not.

  A x

  ‘We’re going the wrong way,’ Em said again. ‘Surely it should be off the top end of Charing Cross Road – we’re practically at the National Gallery.’

  ‘It’s this way; I’m telling you.’ I looked down again at the A–Z and up at Charing Cross Road. But I had to admit, it didn’t look promising. Then a small gap opened up between the towering buildings to our left and a little alleyway appeared between. It was full of narrow, Victorian shops, each stuffed full of books and maps. As we passed I examined the names painted on the discreet, understated signs and etched on the glass doors. Goldsboro Books … David Drummond … Marchpane’s … I wanted to stop at all of them, rummage through musty stacks and ruffle crisp new hardbacks. But Emmaline was pointing to the farthest corner, where the littlest shop of all displayed a modest grey sign which proclaimed, in white letters, Truelove & Fox.

  Suddenly my courage failed. If Em hadn’t been there I would have turned back, fled to the Underground. But she saw me waver.

  ‘Come on.’ Her voice was low. ‘Do you want to be always wondering?’

  No. No, I wanted to know.

  I pushed on the door and jumped as a small brass bell rang out in the silent, empty shop.

  ‘Hello?’ Emmaline called. There was no one behind the counter so we turned to look around. Dusty shelves rose up on every side, full from floor to ceiling with crumbling leather-bound books with gilt spines and marbled endpapers. Emmaline began walking along the shelves, her head tilted to one side to read the spines. I was more interested in the small glass case on the counter which displayed a small, heavy volume with a gilt lock.

  ‘The Grimoire of Honorius,’ I read from the ticket. ‘Seventeenth-century kid-bound edition.’

  ‘There’s a lot of occult stuff here,’ Emmaline said, ‘but it’s all well-known public stuff, if you know what I mean. I wonder—’

  ‘Can I help you, ladies?’

  We both jumped and turned to see that a man had come in silently from behind the counter and was surveying us over rimless glasses. He was tall and blond, with a neat goatee and a discreet gold stud in one ear. If he knew my mother eighteen years ago it must have been at primary school – there was no way this man was Caradoc Truelove.

  I coughed and wished I’d rehearsed this with Emmaline on the train instead of deciding to wing it.

  ‘Ah, yes. Er, can you tell me, we were looking for a Caradoc Truelove, who owned Truelove Books in Soho some years ago.’

  ‘Yes?’ said the man unhelpfully. Damn.

  ‘Well, we just wondered; Truelove & Fox – is there any connection?’

  ‘Yes.’ His face was blank and unreadable.

  ‘So, Mr Truelove – is he … ?’ Arse. This was harder than I’d thought. I couldn’t just blurt out, ‘Is he dead? ’

  I ground to a halt.

  ‘Is he available?’ Em put in, taking pity on my floundering. ‘We were hoping to meet him. We think he knew my friend’s mother.’

  ‘Really?’ Goatee-man looked slightly more interested. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘My name is Anna Winterson. My mother was Isla Winterson. She died when I was a small child but I think Mr Truelove knew her before that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of that name,’ Goatee-man said firmly.

  ‘Well, could we speak to Mr Truelove and ask him?’ Em asked. There was impatience in her voice now. I could see she was tired of all this pussy-footing around.

  Goatee-man thinned his lips.

  ‘Mr Truelove is semi-retired. He works with our special collection and only sees certain clients.’

  ‘Special meaning what?’ Em jerked her head at the Grimoire. ‘More special than that?’

  ‘If you like to put it that way, yes.’

  ‘We’re not outwith,’ Em stated baldly. I winced, as did the young man.

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ he said rather tersely. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t take your word on that.’

  ‘I see. Any particular hoops you want us to jump through?’ Em nodded at the counter and a pile of invoices burst into flame.

  ‘Stop that at once!’ yelped the young man, his face ashen.

  ‘Sure.’ Emmaline shrugged and the fire died away, leaving the invoices untouched. ‘Now, are you ready to let us see Mr Truelove?’

  The young man was pale as clay and he glanced nervously out of the window at the shops opposite, but he shook his head.

  ‘It’s policy not to open up the special collection to anyone. Customers who cannot find the door do not get entry.’

  ‘Find the door, eh?’ Emmaline’s eyes kindled and she began
looking around her, at the shelves, behind the counter. Goatee-man shook his head.

  ‘No, if she wants to see Caradoc –’ he jerked his head at me ‘– she needs to open the door.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said reflexively. Goatee-man only folded his arms, and a small spark of anger flared inside me.

  I took a deep breath. I’d come this far; I wasn’t going to be defeated by a bloody door. Here I was, surrounded by spells in every form, but all I could hear was Abe’s voice nagging inside my head. How much did I want this? How much did I want the truth about myself, my powers?

  I clenched my fists.

  ‘Open,’ I whispered. Then louder. ‘Open.’

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Open, please.’ I let my powers trickle out, terrified of what might happen, but pushing in spite of my fears. The shop door flew open and a gust of wind began to scatter the invoices all round the room.

  Goatee-man crossed his arms and his lips thinned.

  ‘OPEN!’ I shouted and I stamped my foot. A pile of books on the counter all flung open, the topmost ones crashing to the floor with a sound like muted thunder. The cash register jangled as the drawer shot out and the lock on the Grimoire of Honorious burst open, the cover flapping against the glass of the display case like a bird in a too-small cage.

  ‘Please avoid damaging the stock any further,’ Goatee-man said, furiously slamming shut the cash register, ‘or I will have to ask you to leave.’

  Oh God.

  ‘Caradoc Truelove,’ I said, and there was an edge in my voice that sounded like someone begging, ‘please, please, wherever you are, open up, let me in.’

  There was a creak.

  We all froze and Em and I watched in amazement as an inky crack opened up in the centre of the shop, like a door opening out of nothingness.

  Inside it was dark, but I could see something moving in the thin slice of shadow.

  ‘I am Caradoc Truelove.’ The voice was rich, croaky and American, like Louis Armstrong on his tenth cigar. ‘Who is asking for me?’

  The crack opened wider; a doorway yawned impossibly out of the thin air. Inside, a dimly lit staircase led down into the solid floor. And a man was climbing the stairs, stepping into the room. He looked from Em to me, and as his eyes met mine he seemed to stagger. Goatee-man reached out an arm but Caradoc ignored it and stepped forward, his eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘Oh my dear. My dear Isabella.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He was nothing like I’d imagined. I’m not sure what I’d pictured – but not the elderly gentleman standing before us. He was very old – much older than I’d expected – and very black, with a white beard and inky black eyes so dark his pupils and irises merged into one. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, a tweed jacket and a neckerchief of white silk, and as I stood, gaping, he fumbled with a silk handkerchief and then held out his hand to me. I shook it, feeling the papery old skin and the fragile veins beneath my fingers, and he blinked.

  ‘You surely do look like Isabella, my dear.’

  ‘Isabella?’ I said, confused. ‘My name is Anna.’ I suddenly wondered if Mr Truelove was older than he looked. Mr Truelove looked annoyed with himself and tutted.

  ‘I’m so sorry, one forgets as one gets older. Of course you would only know her by the name she used after marrying your father. Isla, isn’t that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I whispered. False date of birth, false name … what else had my mother done to throw dust over her tracks?

  ‘And you are Isabella’s daughter.’ His face creased into a sudden, charming grin that made him look twenty years younger. ‘Come downstairs and you can tell me all about yourself. Are you happy to mind the shop, Jonathan dear, while I entertain our guests?’

  ‘Of course, Caradoc.’ Goatee-man gave a thin smile and then shot an appraising look at Emmaline and me that made me slightly nervous. It was clear he didn’t quite trust us and didn’t like not knowing what was going on.

  Then Mr Truelove opened the inky-black crack in the centre of the room until it gaped, and beckoned us into the shadows.

  ‘This is our inner sanctum,’ Mr Truelove said as he led the way down rickety wooden steps. ‘It is where we house all our more curious tomes. Entry is by invitation only; browsers are not encouraged.’ He shot us both a look. ‘As you will have discovered.’

  As we reached the bottom of the steps I looked around, amazed to see a huge vaulted room stretching out metres in each direction. The shop above could not have been more than six or eight square metres – this basement was five, ten, twenty times larger than that: a shadowy cavern criss-crossed with stacks of shelves, each filled with hundreds upon thousands of books.

  They varied from the very old to the brand new, from huge things like family Bibles to slim stapled pamphlets, but they all had one thing in common – I did not recognize a single title or publisher’s name. Emmaline evidently did, and within moments she was walking along the shelves, reading titles and suppressing a moan of envy every few feet.

  ‘Oh! Mum would kill for a copy of this.’ She tapped a copy of a small hardback with a design of lavender on the spine. Caradoc adjusted his glasses and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Ah! Herbs for Help-meets. A classic. Is your mother interested in the subject?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well then, you must allow me …’ Caradoc pulled down the little tome and pressed it into Emmaline’s hands.

  ‘I really doubt I can afford it,’ Em said, but there was longing in her voice.

  ‘Please.’ Caradoc inclined his head courteously. ‘It is the bookseller’s raison d’etre to find the perfect owner for a book. I am lucky enough to have arrived at a position where profit need not always be a barrier to that satisfaction.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emmaline said, and she smiled at him – her rare disarming true smile. ‘So you’re … something of a specialist bookshop then?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Obviously our upper floor is open to all and we frequently welcome browsers and tourists – there’s quite a market for grimoires and spellbooks among the outwith; dear Jonathan’s province. But as you can see, this floor is quite separate; my own special domain, open only to the cognoscenti. Enough of all this, however.’ He drew up two stools to the impressive roll-top desk that stood in the corner of the room and flicked a switch on an electric kettle. ‘That’s not what you’re really here for, is it, Anna?’

  His liquid black eyes felt like they were reading my soul.

  ‘No. I’m here to find out about my mother.’

  ‘So what can I tell you?’

  I shut my eyes, pressing my hands into my closed lids until I saw stars. Then I drew a breath.

  ‘Everything. What happened … Why was she so afraid? Why did she have to leave?’

  ‘And what do you know?’

  ‘Nothing.’ My voice cracked at the truth of that statement.

  Caradoc Truelove looked at me very directly for a moment, his eyes fathomless. Then to my shock his voice spoke, quite quietly and distinctly in my head.

  Do you trust this girl you’re with – Emmaline? Do you trust her absolutely?

  His voice in my head was grave, with an urgent emphasis on absolutely, but I nodded.

  Are you quite sure? I can make an excuse, we can speak some other time. Are you sure you want me to continue?

  I nodded again, decisively. Emmaline had helped me every step of the way since I’d discovered my witchcraft; there was nothing I could hide from her. Caradoc returned my nod and spoke aloud.

  ‘Very well then.’ He poured water into a coffee pot and we all watched as steam blossomed and the good smell filled the air. ‘Let me tell you about Isla – or, as she was then, Isabella Rokewood.’

  A shiver ran through me at the sound of the name. I’d thought my mother was Isla Winterson; that name was all I’d had for so long – that name and an echo of her face in mine. Now even her name had proved a fragile illusion, splintering into shards under the wei
ght of the truth. It seemed like the more I tried to find out, the less I knew. Even the facts I thought I had were disintegrating in my hands. Would I have anything left at the end?

  Caradoc poured three cups and handed one to Emmaline and one to me. Then he drew a long draught of the scalding black brew and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Isabella was the only child of two of my very good friends, Henry and Elizabeth Rokewood. She was a charming child and a very accomplished sorceress, as you would expect for one of her lineage. She was also headstrong and beautiful, and became more so as she grew. Eventually she went up to Magdalen to read History and met your father, Tom. He was an outwith and your grandparents were against the match from the start. Not only did they naturally dislike the idea of bringing an outsider into their family, but there was the question of grandchildren. Isabella was the last of the Rokewoods – a very ancient family – and they were relying on her to continue the family line. As you know, our women can interbreed with outwith men – but it is a very uncertain business. A high number of pregnancies fail and the outcome – magically – is very uncertain for the child. Some of our greatest practitioners were sired by outwith fathers – but it’s not uncommon for the child to be born without magic, or to be born an uneasy hybrid, endowed with magic but unable to control it perhaps.’

  I flinched, but if Caradoc noticed, he didn’t show it.

  ‘You are trying to mix two distinct elements,’ he continued, ‘witch and outwith, and they resist always. The outcome is always uncertain and frequently surprising. And, too, there is the strain on the child, growing up in a family ripped in two halves, hiding their nature from their father for ever.’

  I cleared my throat, deliberately avoiding Emmaline’s eyes. ‘S-so what happened?’

  ‘Henry and Elizabeth put up with the relationship for a while, but when it became clear that Isabella intended to marry Tom, they put their foot down. They said they would never agree to the match and that Isabella had to choose between her community and her lover. If she chose Tom, their door would be closed to her for ever – they never wanted to see her or hear from her again.’