Mrs. Johnson smiled as she watched her daughter eat. Belladonna grinned back.
“This is amazing!” she said, wiping a trickle of glutinous ooze from the corner of her mouth.
“Even the carrots?” asked her mother.
Belladonna nodded enthusiastically and continued wolfing down what was, basically, a stew, but so much better than any stew she’d ever had before. She had almost finished before she noticed that her father was being unusually quiet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Something happened today, didn’t it? What were you going to tell me?”
“Nothing,” said Belladonna.
She had intended to tell him, but right now she just wanted to hold on to this—to dinner in the kitchen and everything normal and comfortable. She suddenly felt as though she were in a fairground on the roller coaster, and the car was just about to reach the top of the first climb. For some reason she knew that it was all about to start again and that the moment she actually began to talk about it, everything would rush out of control. And even though she was excited and eager to find out about Edmund de Braes’s parchment, right now, here, in the warm kitchen with her parents on a cold, windy evening, she wanted nothing more than a little bit of quiet and to pretend that they were just an ordinary family sitting together and having dinner.
Her father nodded and was about to say something else when her mother shut him up with a stern stare.
“Would you like some more?”
“Yes, please.”
Belladonna had seconds, then thirds, and then a piece of apple tart with ice cream. Through it all, her father smiled and made casual conversation, but she could tell that he was worried and was just waiting. Finally, as she finished the last bit of ice cream, he smiled, glanced at his wife for the almost imperceptible “go ahead” nod, and turned to Belladonna.
“Who did you see at the monastery? It wasn’t just the ghosts of monks, was it?”
“No. Wait … how do you know?”
“You’re our daughter, Belladonna,” said her mother softly. “We always know when something is bothering you.”
Belladonna looked from one to the other, not sure if she should say anything. After all, it wasn’t as if their response to the black feather had been even remotely helpful.
“We’ve been talking,” said her mother suddenly, “your father and I. And … well, there’s no denying that you are the Spellbinder … and there really isn’t any point in trying to protect you from all that.”
“All what?” asked Belladonna.
“The things that you need to know. Deirdre always says that knowledge is power.…”
“I think she picked that up at one of those business seminars she’s always going to,” said Mr. Johnson, grinning.
“That doesn’t mean that it isn’t right.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, it’s all too dangerous for you to take on alone. You need help and advice and—”
“And it’s pretty foolish of us to pretend that things like that feather are just from crows or ravens or whatever,” interrupted her father. “That’s not what you need now, is it?”
Belladonna shook her head slowly.
“It’s all very dangerous, and ignoring it isn’t going to make it less so. Did you throw the feather away?”
“No. I was going to but…”
“That’s alright. Why don’t you fetch it here.”
Belladonna smiled and went into the sitting room to get her backpack. She retrieved the feather, but as she stood up, she thought she saw a movement. Was it in the garden? Or was it the road? It was hard to see outside, the thin winter daylight had all but faded and the bright lights of the sitting room made it almost impossible to make anything out.
There was a car near the gate. That’s probably all it was, thought Belladonna. But she drew the curtains anyway and made her way back to the kitchen.
“Yes,” said her father, taking the feather and turning it over, “it’s a pretty good size, isn’t it?”
“Too big for a crow,” said her mother.
“Or a raven, really.”
“Steve and I were thinking that maybe … well, do you think it could be a Kere?”
“I’ve no idea,” said her father. “I’ve never seen one. We were … indisposed, if you recall, when…”
“They’re these women, well, not women, obviously, but they look like them. They have pale skin and their hair is dark blue and they have wings … huge black wings. The one at the House of Mists said that the Keres were bringers of Death and that no one commanded them except the Empress of the Dark Spaces. Then today,” said Belladonna, rushing forward with her story, suddenly eager that they should know everything, “today, when we were at the monastery, we met Edmund de Braes.”
Her parents both looked blank.
“He said he was the last Paladin.”
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson glanced at each other, clearly worried. Belladonna smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring I’m-not-bothered-by-this-at-all way and told them all about the last Paladin and how he said he’d been waiting for over six hundred years and how, now that she and Steve had come to the monastery and he had given them the parchment, his job was over.
“And where is the parchment?” asked her father.
“Steve has it.”
“So you don’t know what it’s for?”
“No.” Belladonna shook her head. “Edmund said we had to find something and then hide it again. He called it the Instrument of Life. Do you think it could be some kind of a map?”
Her parents glanced at her and then at each other. Mrs. Johnson seemed to blink back tears, then suddenly left the table and began sweeping dishes into the dishwasher with irritable waves of her elegant hands.
“This is too ridiculous!” she said finally, wafting the pans into the sink with a clang. “She’s twelve, for heaven’s sake! How can she be the Spellbinder? What can she possibly do? It’s too dangerous! You have to talk to her.”
“To me?” said Belladonna, suddenly confused.
“No,” said her mother, turning to her father, desperation in her eyes, “to HER. You have to go to the House of Ashes. You have to explain.…”
“I’m not sure I can,” said her father quietly. “I don’t think we’re allowed to.”
“Who?” asked Belladonna. “Who is ‘her’? And what’s the House of Ashes?”
The question brought a sudden halt to what was shaping up to be a full-blown argument between her parents, and Belladonna’s mind raced. Who could they mean? Mrs. Jay? She had certainly seemed to know all about the Land of the Dead, the Nomials, and the Empress of the Dark Spaces when she’d called them into her office last October. But if they meant Mrs. Jay, then why wouldn’t they be allowed to talk to her?
“Tell her,” said Mrs. Johnson, an unfamiliar tone of stern command in her voice.
Mr. Johnson nodded and turned to Belladonna, but before he could speak, there was a sharp rap on the front door, followed by an extended ring of the doorbell.
They fell silent for a moment and just stared at each other.
“Who could that be?” muttered her father. “What time is it?”
“It’s probably just your mother,” snapped Mrs. Johnson, “forgotten her key again. Go and let her in, Belladonna.”
Belladonna nodded and left the kitchen. Once she was in the hall, she could see the tops of two heads through the stained-glass fanlight on the door. It couldn’t be her grandmother. She’d never bring someone else and, anyway, she wasn’t tall enough to be seen in the fanlight.
She ran back as quietly as she could.
“It’s not Grandma,” she whispered. “It’s two people. Two tall people.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth before there was another sharp rap on the door.
“You’d better see what they want. It’s probably just salespeople.”
Belladonna nodded at her father, who tried to smile encouragingly, but the
anxious look on her mother’s face told her that she needed to be very careful. She wasn’t supposed to be living here. So far as anyone else was concerned, Belladonna lived with her grandmother on Yarrow Street. This house was supposed to be empty.
She walked slowly to the door, then glanced back. Her parents were huddled in the kitchen doorway watching. She reached up and opened the door about four inches. The first face she saw was that of a woman, tall and slightly overweight, wearing a gray skirt and a brown anorak.
“Are you Belladonna Johnson?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” said Belladonna suspiciously.
“Can we come in?”
“No,” said Belladonna, a knot developing in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Quite right,” said the woman, rummaging in her bag and producing a small identification card. “Here you go.”
Belladonna looked at the card. It had a photograph of the woman that looked like it had been taken quite a few years before, along with her name, Donna Lazenby. But that wasn’t what made Belladonna’s blood run cold.
It was the words written in bold black print at the top of the card: CHILD PROTECTION SERVICES.
“We’ve had a report that you’re living here alone,” said the woman, smiling.
“I’m not,” said Belladonna. “I live with my grandmother.”
“Is she here?” asked the woman, straining to see past Belladonna.
“Not … not at the moment.”
“Well, we’d like to come in and wait for her.”
“No! I mean, can’t she call you?”
“We can’t leave you here alone,” said the woman in tones that she clearly hoped were soothing. “Let us in, there’s a good girl.”
Belladonna hesitated, but before she could answer, the other figure stepped forward into the light. It was a policeman. He looked stern and was clearly not interested in wasting any more time on this than he absolutely had to.
“Open the door.”
“Don’t … um … don’t you need a warrant or something?”
“Not if we think a child might be in danger,” said the woman.
Belladonna glanced back at her parents.
“It’s alright,” said her father. “Let them in, then phone your grandmother. She’ll sort it out. And remember—you can’t see us.”
He smiled encouragingly. Belladonna tried to smile back and was just about to open the door when it was shoved sharply from the other side. She stumbled back and hit her head on the stair banister.
“Ow!”
“Constable Dodd!” said the woman, shocked. “That really wasn’t necessary. This is a child, not a bank robber!”
She helped Belladonna to her feet.
“That’s a lovely smell,” she said. “Has your grandmother been cooking?”
“No … um … I have.” Belladonna winced inside. That didn’t sound even vaguely like the truth. Why was she so rubbish at lying?
“Really? How clever! Now, I’m Mrs. Lazenby and this is Constable Dodd. My office received a call telling us that you were living alone.”
“But I’m not. My grandmother—”
“Yes, I am aware that your grandmother is your guardian,” said Mrs. Lazenby. “But this isn’t her address, is it? According to our records, she lives on Yarrow Street. This was your parents’ house, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what, dear?”
“But … that’s her work address.”
“Her work address? But I thought—”
“It was her house,” blurted Belladonna, thinking as fast as she could. “But after the … after the accident, she thought it would be nicer for me here, so … we live here, but she still has her business at the old house.”
“Well done, Belladonna!” whispered her mother.
“And what is her business?” asked Mrs. Lazenby.
“She’s a … that is … she holds séances and … things.”
“Really? And she can make a living at that, can she?”
Belladonna nodded.
“Do you think you could phone her, then, and get her over here?”
Belladonna tried to look confident as she crossed the hall and picked up the phone, but the knot in her stomach was getting bigger. She glanced back at her parents.
“Don’t worry,” said her mother. “Your grandmother will sort everything out.”
Belladonna started to dial.
Mrs. Lazenby smiled and turned to Constable Dodd.
“Have a look upstairs,” she said. “See if it looks like anyone else is living here.”
Dodd nodded and pounded up the stairs. Belladonna listened as her grandmother’s phone rang … and rang … and rang. Then there was the familiar click as her answering machine came on: “Hello, you have reached the home of Jessamine Johnson. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”
“Hello, Grandma, it’s Belladonna. I’m sorry to bother you when you’re probably … busy … but there’s a lady here from Child Protection Services and she wants to talk to you. I told her that you do live here with me and just work there at your old house but I don’t think she believes me. So … please call.”
She hung up and turned back to Mrs. Lazenby.
“She was busy.”
“Very good,” said Mrs. Lazenby, smirking a little. “And a quick message to make sure you get your stories straight.”
The policeman pounded down the stairs. “Looks like only one room being used.”
“Right. Let’s go and see Grandma, shall we?”
Belladonna tried to keep the tears from her eyes as she reached for her coat.
“Don’t cry, baby,” said her mother, looking like she was about to start crying herself.
“It’ll be alright,” urged her father. “Your grandmother will give them an earful and you’ll be back home before you know where you are.”
Belladonna tried to feel confident, but something felt wrong. She walked down the path and out of the gate, and as she got into the back seat of the police car next to Mrs. Lazenby, she couldn’t keep the panic out of her mind. What if they took her away? What if they wouldn’t let her come home? It was the only place she could see her parents. It was the only place they could be together.
She stared out of the window as the car sped through town, willing herself not to cry but unable to keep the tears away. When they stopped at the traffic light at the end of Yarrow Street, she wiped her eyes and looked up. There, on the street corner, sitting on his bike with his friends, was Steve. His jaw dropped when he saw her, and he started to move toward the car, but no sooner were his feet on the pedals than the light had turned and they were gone.
“Do you have a key?” asked Mrs. Lazenby as they pulled up in front of Grandma Johnson’s house.
“Yes,” murmured Belladonna, “but I usually ring the doorbell.”
Constable Dodd double-parked the car and they trooped up to the front door. Mrs. Lazenby rang the bell. No answer. She rang again.
“Sometimes it’s hard for her to hear if she has a client,” explained Belladonna.
Mrs. Lazenby rang again. No answer. She was about to try again when Constable Dodd reached between the two of them and grabbed the door knocker. He pulled it back, obviously intending to deliver a really loud crack, but the door just swung open. Belladonna gasped. Something was terribly wrong—her grandmother always locked the front door.
They stood on the step for a while, then Constable Dodd strode forward and led the way into the house.
“Hello?” he bellowed. “Anyone home?”
“Mrs. Johnson?” called Mrs. Lazenby in somewhat more friendly tones. “Mrs. Johnson? Hello?”
She pushed open the door to the séance room and glanced inside before making her way to the sitting room. The fire was on, but no one was there.
“Mrs. Lazenby,” called Constable Dodd, “come look at this.�
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Belladonna trailed after Mrs. Lazenby into the kitchen. There was a bacon sandwich on a plate on the counter next to the teapot. Constable Dodd felt the pot.
“It’s warm,” he said. “It’s weird. It’s like she was just here.”
“Yes, well, she isn’t here now, is she? Check upstairs, would you?”
Dodd nodded and strode out of the room.
“Do you have anyone else?” asked Mrs. Lazenby. “Any other relatives we could call?”
Belladonna shook her head. The only other relative she knew of was Aunt Deirdre, but she hadn’t been seen since she’d gone off after the Wild Hunt in October.
“Two bedrooms,” said Constable Dodd, striding back into the kitchen. “Looks like only one is lived in, though.”
Mrs. Lazenby looked at Belladonna sympathetically.
“She wasn’t living with you, was she? You were staying in your parents’ house alone.”
“No, I wasn’t!” Belladonna knew that no matter what happened, she had to stick to her story. Perhaps Grandma Johnson had gone to a friend’s or nipped out to the shops, maybe someone had broken in while she was out or maybe something worse. But no matter what the reason, Belladonna had to believe that she would come back, and when she did, they had to have a plausible story.
“It’s alright,” said Mrs. Lazenby gently. “Losing your parents is a terrible thing.”
“But—”
“Wanting to stay in the house that you shared with them is perfectly normal, it really is. But you can’t do that. You can’t stay there all alone. You do understand?”
“But my grandmother—”
“She isn’t here. And when she comes back, we’ll have to have some serious discussions with her.”
“Can I go home now?” asked Belladonna, knowing perfectly well what the answer would be but still clinging to one last desperate hope. “Perhaps she’s there. She could have got my message and tried to call back but we’d already left.”
Mrs. Lazenby shook her head and said exactly what Belladonna had known she was going to say:
“No. I’m sorry, Belladonna, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you into care.”
6
Shady Gardens
The Midnight Gate Page 5