Breaking Bones

by Helen Slavin

  “A tithe I take.”

  Every muscle in Nuala’s body screamed to move as the Red Wrangle spun and wove itself around her wrist. She felt all the power she had ever possessed, ever stolen, being wound out of her like thread onto a spool.

  It was three o’clock in the morning before Nuala Whitemain could be seen getting dragged out of the edge of Havoc Wood where the river ran through and cut it from Leap Woods. Hettie Way, Gamekeeper, had her by the hair, and Nuala’s feet dragged now, not through fight, but through weariness. Her left hand was useless, scarred with scarlet stripes by the Red Wrangle. The muscles, the cartilage and bone were fused into a semblance of a hand, a limb that might lift a cup or comb your hair but could do no more magic.

  At the river, Hettie dragged her further, through the mud and reeds, to where the stones sat in the rushing water.

  “Trespasser…” With an animal grunt, Hettie kicked at her. “I cast thee out.”

  Nuala felt Havoc Wood push against her, a deep and percussive rush of air and earth that tumbled her into the river.

  The stones were cold, but colder still was the water, plashing and scouring, draining the last lingering shadows of magic from the bones of all those she had ever broken out of her.

  Nuala felt Hettie Way’s eyes upon her as she slipped and scuffed across to the opposite side. Not stopping, not turning back, Nuala dragged herself into the cover of the trees at Leap Woods before she let the tears fall, silent and salted.

  7

  Pricking Thumbs

  The cottage crawled out of the stones at the end of Red Hat Lane. The stones had once been the boundary wall of a small manor house that had tried, and failed, to outdo the castle for grandeur and gravitas. Greene Manor only existed now on maps that were held between acid-free tissue paper in the slender plan chests at the library archive. It had been and gone in the blink of a century. Where once there had been a knot garden, now there were allotments, a ramble of sheds and vegetable patches, boxed in by the smaller houses that, over the years, had been built to house mill workers and townspeople, and which covered the footprint once occupied by Greene Manor.

  This cottage was not noticed by everyone in Woodcastle. Indeed the Savages, who lived right next door, barely knew of its existence behind the hedge of dense yew and the carefully overgrown garden. The gate was rusted shut to the passing postman, not that he ever had any mail to deliver. No parcels were left there, no fliers for pizza or curry. If anyone had cared to observe, they might have noted that even the foxes circumvented the place.

  Nuala sat in the kitchen at the back. The garden crowded in at the casement window, the leaded lights criss-crossing the frames, each segment of glass blurring and smearing the view from outside. A fire burned low in the woodburner, the cracking of the wood within in tempo with Nuala’s burning thoughts.

  Some of the yew hedging that hid Nuala’s cottage had once been the bones of the knot garden at Greene Manor. Her thoughts now were dark as the lanes and alleys of that place, and she followed them around and around. Nuala thought of the moon on a particular and distant night in that very same knot garden. The man’s heart still beat in her hand, and she kept it there, keeping him hovering at the edge of death, the heartbeat pounding out the magic, dark and rich and dangerous, until, done with the magic and finished with the man, Nuala tugged out the aorta.

  There was a debt to be repaid. It was a debt she had put off for some time, more than a hundred years. Now, thanks to Hettie Way, she had no powers to put off its payment any longer. She did not need to glance down at her wrist to feel the prickling red welt of the Red Wrangle that sat just beneath the skin. Anyone with sight enough would note it, and she had taken to wearing a set of fine knitted wrist warmers to hide the scarring. It did not do to let your enemies spot your weakness before the fight had even begun.

  The letterbox rattled a short tattoo.

  “Go away,” Nuala said under her breath, even as the shadow shifted, reflected in the distorted glass. A chair scraped away from the table. Nuala heard the breathing, the rustle of clothing, and turned.

  “What greeting is that for an old friend?” A tall thin man was sitting at the table, leaning back in the chair, right back onto the rear legs so that he teetered. His gaze held hers, his eyes a cold grey like an overcast day. “Or was it just another promise you’re planning to break?”

  Nuala held her breath. Partly from fear, partly from the heavy scent he brought of scat and spraint.

  “Ah, Sweet. Here we bide, and this time I shall take my toll.” His smile was wide and wicked. She kept the shake from her voice, held his gaze.

  “My promise holds. The toll must be taken. I know. I understand. I…”

  “You understand...” he leaned forward, shaking his head, his face a narrow skull bearing its expression of fake sympathy before he grinned, “…that come All Hallows, Sweet, you’re mine.” He drummed his hands cheerily on the table. Nuala noted, not for the first time, the rimed-in dirt around his nails, the patina of his hands making them look like a tanned hide.

  “I’ve been patient. Merciful.” Thinne eyed her. “I’ve held this debt a long while. This time you will honour it.” He slapped the table, the sound sharp, the table shuddering. The Red Wrangle scar seared again as Nuala’s heart rate soared. She was wild with what Hettie had taken from her, crippling her, making her weak. She ought to make her pay. Nuala’s mind reeled and then grasped at darkness.

  “What if I make you a better bargain?” Nuala asked. Thinne laughed, throwing his head back so she could see the rotten rows of his teeth.

  “No exchanges.”

  “What…” the darkest thought cast its shadow, “what if what I offer you is more?”

  “More than you?” Thinne looked intrigued. “Darker than you?”

  Nuala shook her head. “What if I offer you light?”

  Thinne was unblinking for several moments. Nuala held his gaze. He looked away, out beyond her at Rookery Point, his mind churning. Nuala was not certain he would be tempted.

  “I will need you, Thinne.” Nuala put the last shred of her power into her voice, winding him in. “I will need a storm.”

  There were several silent moments. This cottage knew better than to creak. The shadows deepened. His face stretched into something that might have been a smile.

  “You know how this begins.” Spitting into his palm, he offered his left hand, and, reaching a hand into his breeches pocket, offered a knife.

  * * *

  Halloween blew in, the wind cold and hard as a stone, batting itself against the walls of Cob Cottage, skidding around its sturdy curves with a scream of fury.

  All the colour, the gold and umber, red and amber, had been stripped from the landscape. The wind had blasted, ripping the leaves from the trees, and, once scattered on the floor, the rain had pounded them to a black pulp.

  Hettie Way waited at the stand of beech trees at the edge of Havoc. They were young, these trunks and boughs, and on this afternoon, under the iron grey of the sky, they creaked and flexed as if they might like to uproot themselves and run away.

  The Visitor was due at any moment, and Hettie had tidied the room at Cob Cottage and readied for a short stay. This Visitor was not a stranger. This was Hepzibah, who was often “on her way” and used Havoc Wood and Hettie Way’s hospitality at least three times in any year.

  The breeze cut cold against Hettie. She was not leaning into the tree, she was too restless. Instead, she paced a small circular path for herself between the beeches, intertwining her steps this way and that, her arms folded in front of her.

  “Hettie.” Hepzibah’s voice startled Hettie out of her thoughts. One look at Hepzibah’s face told Hettie that the uneasy feeling she had had was justified. There was no smile of greeting, no busy catching up. There was just Hepzibah’s quick steps through the trees, her hand reaching for Hettie’s arm.

  “I was warned not to stay. All the roads to Havoc are marked off. Everyone I’ve met this week ha
s been told to travel the Long Way.”

  Hettie’s heart buckled inside her, but she didn’t show it. “But I will stay. If you need help.” Her fingers squeezed at Hettie’s forearm. Hettie had known Hepzibah a long time and could see her fear. It was enough that she had come this far with this warning. Hettie shook her head.

  “No. I’ll take you over. We have time.” She took a step towards the lake path. Hepzibah hesitated, her face shivering with emotion, as she struggled with her tears.

  “I’m not going. Not tonight.” She took a step back on the route she had come. Hettie could see where she wanted to run and understood. It helped. This was one less person for Hettie to have to cope with.

  “Good. I don’t have to worry about you.” Hettie took another step onto the lake path. She might as well walk that way. She did not utter a farewell. She dare not.

  “I will see you again, Hettie Way,” Hepzibah, her voice cracking, shouted through the trees.

  As she walked down the hill through the trees, her feet jarring with every step, Hettie Way felt more alone than she had in her entire life.

  8

  Place of Safety

  Charlie Way was dressed up for Halloween. Aron had got them tickets to a party at Pandemonium in New Town in Castlebury. It was a club like no other in the whole city, taking up an entire Georgian townhouse on Montpellier Place. No one ever had access to all the rooms. There were tickets that allowed such freedom, but they were as elusive as the Golden Tickets offered by Willy Wonka. Aron had tried to source them a couple of such tickets. The rumour was they bore black writing printed on black paper, the other rumour was they were not tickets at all, they were a tattoo, indelible. Aron had failed. He’d been in a funk about it.

  So Charlie was dressing up for Halloween to lift his mood. She had tossed out the ideas of the slutty bunny or the cobweb cleavage witch. She thought about being a fairy. The fairy idea would probably please Aron, who was something of a “pink for girls, blue for boys” kind of young man, and she reasoned that she could tatty it up a little and bring something of her own style to the idea. Also, the whole notion of glittering wings appealed to something in her nature. Moth wings fluttered into her mind.

  She was struggling slightly with her life. She missed her sisters at the moment. It seemed that just recently they had not spent as much time together and it seemed increasingly difficult to find the time. On Sunday they had managed to congregate at her mother’s house; even Grandma Hettie had come up from the wood. Calum had cooked, and everyone had made a pet of Ethan, the poor baby passed around to be cooed at and jiggled about. Anna looked tired and fell asleep in the chair after lunch, so when Ethan began to cry it was Emz who changed his nappy and Charlie who took him outside into the garden.

  “This is your kingdom,” she’d said to him. “There’s your castle.” She pointed to the castle, distracting herself from the emotion that was washing over her. He was so little, so alive, every bit of him moving and reaching, and the noises he made, a little conversation between an aunt and her nephew. “And Great Grandma will let you run wild through Havoc Wood. You’ll be like Mowgli, mate. Yes, you will. Running with the foxes. Wrestling badgers.”

  She turned her cheek so that his little head rested against it, and she breathed in the soft scent of him.

  Her sister’s marriage was a good and happy thing, Charlie felt that completely, made better still by the birth of Ethan. But Charlie saw where other relationships were fracturing, and she was not certain, any longer, of her own space.

  Her mother had put a spanner in the works by moving house. Until her mother moved, Charlie had not realised that she held on to the memory of her room at “home”, at Way Towers. Charlie had had the attic room with the sloping roof, and she understood, now that she could no longer go there, how much she missed that odd triangle of space. She had a long past with Aron, had known him the longest time out of any of her friends, but she was unsure of how to make their future.

  * * *

  She had a disastrous shopping trip with Florence and Karma, two of her oldest friends and former school mates. They had all rolled into Castlebury last weekend and trawled the costume and charity shops. Florence had been determined on a nurse’s outfit, managing to find the skimpiest PVC creation ever.

  “How is that about Halloween?” Charlie grumbled. She had been in a bad mood the whole day. Florence grinned.

  “I’m going to take a little hacksaw in my fishnets…”

  Charlie gave up. Karma had chosen a French maid’s outfit, which deserved no comment whatsoever. Charlie chose nothing, so they headed off for a coffee, and, as soon as she could, Charlie made her excuses and left.

  She had decided to walk down from Old Town to the station, and she found herself wandering up onto Belvedere where there was a row of small shops. The buildings here were student accommodation, mostly, and run down, the stores a random selection of wine shop, takeaway and pizza parlour. There were two bars. At the end was a small patch of land known as Wisheart Wilds, and Charlie had always liked this vestigial bit of urban greenway. It had been wild and abandoned for as long as the Way sisters could remember, but now it had been invaded by a group of guerrilla gardeners. Where before there had only been bramble and nettle, now teasel and loosestrife shared the plot with towering sunflowers. There was a short flight of broken stone steps leading down. The thought of all of this cheered Charlie enormously.

  On the very corner, at the top of the stone steps, was an old abandoned butcher’s shop. Today Charlie saw that it had been taken over. A black and gilt sign read “Gone to Earth — for the vintage hunter”. The shop front had been painted a glossy black, and the window display was minimal — a single dummy with a skull for a head dressed in a pink fairy outfit. A raggedy tutu, pink Docs, a sparkly angora cardigan. Charlie pushed the door open. A small bell rang out.

  The smell in the shop was of old handbags and worn-out shoes. There were racks of tweed jackets and a glass case filled with an unsettling collection of WWII gas masks and costume jewellery.

  “Hello.” The young woman behind the counter looked up from her fight with the computerised till. “Can I help at all?”

  It was a moment’s work for the young woman to take the fairy outfit off the display dummy and hang the items in the changing room for Charlie to try. The tutu was scratchy and unpleasant, with a ribboned waistband that was sharp as a knife and an inch too small. There were moth holes in the cardigan, and the Docs were two sizes too big. Charlie took a deep breath. She needed something different, something more, for Aron and this whole Pandemonium thing. It felt as if her future depended on it, and she didn’t like that feeling. She reached for the curtain and whipped it back. As she did so she looked up onto the display. There was an ornate mirror, draped about with hats and glass bead necklaces. In its silver surface, Charlie saw the wings.

  They were black, layered with feathers that shone with an iridescence. They were looped onto an old leather harness that, in itself, smacked a little of S&M. Charlie was quite certain that Aron would like her to wear these wings, and only these wings, in one of the rumoured “private” rooms at Pandemonium.

  The black dress, with its tight-boned bodice and wide tulle skirt, had moth holes in it too, but this time, caught within the shadows of the black material, the moth holes made this garment. In the changing room, the assistant helped her with the wings.

  “It’s a buckle that fastens just… here.” The wings were clipped on. The dress fitted as if it had been made for her.

  There were some creaky black boots, just her size, in a basket by the door.

  * * *

  They had tickets to the Halloween party, but there was still a sifting process at the door. Aron had teamed a werewolf mask with his best suit, and, as the bouncer sifted them upstairs, Aron squeezed Charlie’s hand.

  “The wings did it. Genius.” He lifted the werewolf mask and kissed her. They had not been sent downstairs with the porn star nurses and drooling zo
mbies.

  The main room was vast, taking up the front of the house. It was painted in a dark colour and lit, tonight, by candles. Where at other Halloween parties you might hear the strains of “Monster Mash”, at Pandemonium there was live music already, a local Goth band.

  The bar was in a smaller side room along the corridor, and the doors to other rooms stood open to reveal card tables and a roulette wheel, a burlesque cabaret, a mini cinema where the ghosts and ghouls of an old black and white horror film haunted the space. There were magic tricks and illusions in still another room. Music clashed and twanged, people moved from room to room and drink to drink.

  In the gambling room, Charlie sipped her drink and watched as Aron put down the minimum stake.

  “How much is that?” Charlie asked. Aron always had a lot of cash, but this seemed even more than usual. It looked crisp and ironed.

  “Enough.” Aron barked the word through his werewolf mask, and Charlie understood both the meanings it carried. As Aron sat down at the gaming table, she wandered off. At the far end of the room was a small table, and a woman in a white gown was turning over Tarot cards.