by Mark Hayden
I made myself comfortable opposite her and said nothing. Vicky is twenty-four years old. Only two years older than Saffron. Younger than both Mina and Myfanwy. Her long face got even longer.
‘It was only January that you caught me and Desi out clubbing and wearing Illusions. I haven’t been on a date of any kind since I met you, d’you know that?’ She raised her hand to stop me objecting. ‘A booty call from Li Cheng does not count as a date.’ She lowered her hand and pushed her mug aside. ‘Any chance of a fresh pot?’
I put the kettle on and sat back down.
‘It’s not just the stab wound, though that’s bad enough. I can’t risk any vigorous exercise for at least a week, and that’s really frustrating. Mind you, I never thought I’d miss doing exercise, but it’s true. I just feel like I’ve missed out on something. Instead of having a weekend of romance and escape with Rick, I’m keeping score at a women’s cricket match, and that’s wrong.’
She subsided, and I took the chance to fill the pot, placing it in the middle of the table. Vicky picked up the stained, yellow, hand-knitted tea cosy with appliqué flowers. ‘Mary’s cosy,’ she said, pointing to the frayed yellow wool. ‘You bought it for your Mam, didn’t you, and she left it behind?’
‘I did. I was eight, and I spent some birthday money at the WI Sale of Work. It was a present to her.’
‘Had you done something wrong?’
‘I don’t think so. With hindsight, I reckon that woman was a Witch who enchanted it and made me buy it.’
‘You could be right. There’s a lot of that about. What was it your Mam said when she left it behind?’
‘She said, “I’ve treasured its misshapen ugliness for decades, but it really won’t do in San Vicente. I’ll leave it as a reminder of me.” She chooses her words carefully, does Mother.’
‘Aye, she does. That’s about how I feel – a misshapen ugly old tea cosy who’s kept around because they’re useful.’ She looked up, with a smile to show that she wasn’t too serious. ‘It’s not just me. Desi hasn’t been on a night out, either, and she used to be the real party animal. The shock of seeing you in Club Justine, and of you knowing what she was up to drove her back to the church big time. Poor lass.’
‘If that’s what she wants…’
Vicky shook her head. ‘I’m afraid she’ll be driven out of that church and end up doing something she’ll regret. Something’s come up.’
‘Oh?’
‘You remember Dr Nicola, me flatmate?’
‘I do. She must miss you.’
Vicky grimaced. ‘And half. It’s me own fault for coming here to recuperate. She’s moving out tomorrow. No warning, nothing. She’s paid up till the end of the month, but after that I won’t be able to afford the rent on me own, and besides, it’s time I bought somewhere. I’ve given notice to the landlord.’
I sat back, stunned. ‘You’re not moving out of London, are you?’
‘Why naah, man. You must be joking. I’m going back down with youse two next Friday, after your Cornish adventure. Desi and me are going house-hunting. She’s already started messaging me property details.’ She poured herself some tea and stood up. ‘I’m gonna get dressed, then you and I are taking Scout for his walk. I need the exercise.’
Scout was waiting by the door before she’d tightened her dressing gown.
We stuck our heads into Mrs Clarke’s Folly and left quickly when we saw Jules Bloxham laying into Erin like a sergeant major telling an officer cadet that she was a disgrace to the uniform (been there). Vicky had a different simile.
‘Takes me back to school, and not in a good way. We had one like that.’
‘A PE teacher?’
She shivered in the sunshine. ‘No. Geography. Why do you think I’m allergic to maps?’
We headed east, away from the railway line to avoid any steep hills, passing Clerkswell Manor as we did. You can’t see Elvenham from the road; my ancestor made sure of that. Clerkswell Manor (Grade II listed, Jacobean with later additions, if you’re interested) was built to be on show. The family that owned it ran the village for generation after generation until there were no more generations left and they died out.
We could see Stephen Bloxham and his children sorting something in the garage and hurried past. We took a footpath south and Vicky visibly relaxed as she realised that her lung wasn’t going to give her any pain, even with brisk walking. I risked a question.
‘Have you heard the stories about Raven, 1st Daughter of Ash at Homewood?’
Her eyebrows shot up. They’re well-shaped eyebrows because she’s been bored. Mina informs me that Vicky’s legs are also well waxed. I wouldn’t know. ‘Don’t tell me that Raven’s going to the conference,’ said Vicky.
‘I just found out from Rick.’
‘That’ll be fun for you.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. If you met her, could you tell if she really was a child of the gods? You knew who Sofía was straight away.’
She gave me that look, the one that says You don’t know nowt, man. I’ve seen it a lot since we first met. ‘Do you know how many natural Imprimatists there are like me?’ I shook my head. ‘About six in the UK and Ireland. There wasn’t one at all in Salomon’s House when I was an Aspirant. I had to go to Napier College in Edinburgh for a week every term for one-to-one tuition. That’s how I met Lady Kirsten. They’re all bonkers up there.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Aye. When I was staying with Rick, he introduced me to a few of the Daughters. Not Raven, obviously.’ She hesitated. She stayed with Rick because they were lovers for a while, and I think that during her stay, Vicky was searching online for wedding dress ideas. She was very disappointed.
She picked up her own thread and carried on. ‘One of the Daughters was a Prima, as we call ourselves, so we compared notes. She was really old, and she’d been there that night, when the raven delivered its little bundle. The Eldest Daughter asked her to look at the child, as you’d expect. Now, I’ve seen adults do this deliberately to hide things. Roly Quinn did it, and I bet that Lord Mowbray does, too, but I’ve never seen it in a child.’
I could see where this was heading. ‘Do what?’
‘Raven’s Imprint is hollow. Like a doughnut. All the core stuff is not there. It is, of course, but this Witch couldn’t see it. It was hollow then and it still is. Apparently Raven herself can’t see it. They tried to force her to look when she was a teenager. She broke the Witch’s nose who tried to make her do it.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
She stopped to lean on a gate and we admired a golden crop, right on the cusp of harvesting. ‘Is this one of Ben’s?’
‘I think so.’ Ben is not a farmer; he’s a cereal agronomist. ‘I also think that Myfanwy and he have been here together.’
‘Ooh! Frolicking in the wheat, eh?’
‘It’s barley, and she was trying to help him. I think. I hope she doesn’t tell Hannah that during the inspection visit.’
‘Hell, aye. That would be suicidal.’
‘It would, but you know what she’s like: no filter. Let’s go.’
‘Oh yeah, you’re doing tea tonight. What are we having?’
‘Salad.’
‘Noooo. Not again.’
‘We’ve all got a match tomorrow. Even you.’
‘First and last time, Uncle Conrad. First and last time.’
8 — By Sea
Saffron was waiting for us at Lamorne Point, overlooking the River Fal in deepest south Cornwall. I wound down our window and she shouted, ‘Where’ve you been?’ She was leaning against her Land Rover in a short blue floral dress and soft trainers. I mention this because it’s what Mina noticed first.
‘She’s not going to wear that to meet the Mowbrays, is she?’
‘She’s the daughter of Lady Hawkins. She can wear what she wants. She’ll have to change before we get the chopper up.’
Mina gave me a sly grin. ‘You’re not going to make her wear uniform,
are you?’
‘Of course.’ I saw the glee in her eye. ‘Combat uniform, not dress.’
‘Does she know?’
I shrugged and got out of the Volvo. Scout was bouncing around in the back, desperate to escape. ‘Stay! Not long, but stay,’ I told him.
I walked towards Saffron and pointed to the dog. ‘He’s why we’re later than I planned. Had to keep stopping for walkies.’
Mina had joined me. ‘Rubbish. You just wanted a smoke. How are you, Saffron?’
‘Good, thanks. I hear that I missed a bit of a party.’
Mina and I grinned at each other. We’d both left the field of play with a victory on Saturday, and there had been a bit of a shindig afterwards. Clerkswell Men were now only one win from promotion and the Coven have met the league requirements for entry and will now be playing competitively next season. Juliet Bloxham had handed in the papers herself this morning.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mina. ‘There was even dancing at one point. See?’
The girls huddled over Mina’s iPad and I went to get Scout. We were actually twenty minutes early, so I went for a walk around the Point.
I’d been here last Thursday. Briefly. The Mowbrays’ relief pilot had flown down with me to the Fal estuary to show me the Lamorne landing zone (or LZ in aviation jargon, which I’ll try to keep to a minimum). He knows that Pellacombe exists, across the river, but he just doesn’t think about it. Such is the power of a good Occulter, and Ethan Mowbray is supposed to be almost as good as Saffron’s mother. We’re meeting him later. When I’d touched down for practice, I’d taken in the overall layout of the area, but it’s a different feeling when you walk around and look properly.
Lamorne Point sticks out into the River Fal, about ten miles upstream from Falmouth, and is only accessible from a private road with big electric gates. That still makes it more accessible than Pellacombe itself. Only estate employees are allowed to drive up to the house; all others have to arrive by boat (or helicopter, but more on that later).
Safely in the middle of the Lamorne mini-peninsula is a graded LZ (with lights. Posh), and the H155 was sitting waiting for me. I ignored it for now, and walked towards the bluff over the river, past the ancient cottage on the edge which is home to the Ferrymistress and her family.
The top of the Point is flat which makes it a good place for the helipad and the car park. From here, the drop to the river is quite steep. You can take the well-surfaced, gently sloping path that curves round or you can take the short, steep steps. Scout is a great believer in short-cuts and was half way down before I could call him to heel. He bounded back up, as fast as his little legs could negotiate the big steps.
At the bottom of the steps, the path met the jetty. A golf buggy and trailer were waiting to collect luggage and passengers, attended by a teenage boy and his little sister. They’d seen Scout appear, then me. The boy waved a welcome and pointed across the river. He lifted his hand to show five fingers – five minutes. I gave him a thumbs-up and lit a cigarette. I rubbed Scout’s flank and said, ‘Go on, boy. Go say hello.’
He picked his way down, tail wagging, ready to seduce the children. I looked across the water to get my first proper glimpse of Pellacombe; the visible parts, anyway.
The river is tidal here, more sea than river, really, and about two hundred metres wide. On the opposite bank there was a substantial farmhouse made from blocks of Cornish granite. It was well up the bank, away from flooding, and with its own boathouse on the water. It was surrounded on three sides by mixed woodland and looked like the sort of place the local MP would live. This part of the river is pretty inaccessible, and any stray visitors would see the house, admire it, and move on.
When I’d got it fixed in my head, I went back to the cars. The girls had moved on from videos of drunken dancing to unloading the cases (slowly). They were currently looking at the helicopter.
‘It’s rather gaudy, isn’t it?’ said Saffron.
The H155 didn’t only have Mowbray blue upholstery: the outside was painted in the same colour. Here in the sun, I realised that it was the exact blue of the Cornish sky in summer. It also had the Mowbray boar’s head in grinning gold on the doors.
Mina gave Saffron a puzzled look. ‘Of course it’s gaudy. It is the private helicopter of a billionaire staff lord. It’s very essence is gaud, if that’s a thing. If Conrad ever buys a helicopter, it will be painted sapphire blue. Possibly with red trimmings.’
Saff thought that this was hilarious. ‘Yes, Rani.’
Rani. Princess. It’s their nickname for Mina, and I’ve even heard it shouted across the cricket field – Great catch, Rani. She quite likes it, but she wasn’t laughing about the colour of the chopper.
The whine of a buggy climbing the hill broke the moment and we turned to look. ‘That dog is incorrigible,’ said Mina.
Scout was in one of the front seats, having relegated the girl to the back. The boy, brown from living on the water and with sun-bleached hair was very polite, and asked if anyone wanted a lift. The girls shook their heads and picked up their hand luggage before setting off to walk down the slope.
‘Never mind, lad,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ He could have managed, I’m sure, but if Mina’s dress blew off the trailer into the river, someone would be in deep trouble. ‘It’s Michael, isn’t it? Leah Kershaw told me about your family and what you do.’
He nodded in acknowledgement of his name, then went round the other side of the trailer. Leah had said that he used to follow her around like a puppy. She wasn’t sure whether it was an adolescent crush or whether he really wanted to go in the helicopter. I told her it was both: teenage boys are quite capable of thinking about two things at the same time (so long as one of them involves attractive women).
We secured the cases and I gave Scout his marching orders. ‘You are not riding down again.’ Reluctantly, he disembarked and followed me down the steps.
Our ride across the river was on its way. A substantial, shallow-bottomed ferry boat was half way across. Overall, it was the length of three cars and yes, it was painted Mowbray blue. It was also much bigger than the boathouse on the other side, so where had it come from? The front half of the ferry was flat deck for cargo and had a ramp at the bow which could be lowered for a vehicle or pallet truck to get on board. The rear half was a passenger lounge with big glass windows.
In the centre was a wheelhouse, from where the Ferrymistress steered the boat carefully up to the jetty, cutting the engine at exactly the right moment to glide into the rubber fenders. An older girl, her firstborn, threw a rope to her brother on the jetty and he fastened it in seconds.
The girl on board must have been hot. Not a centimetre of skin was exposed to the sun, not even her hands. Leah Kershaw had told me that the girl had started her magickal education last year, and that the next Ferrymistress would be a Ferrymaster, her brother, Michael.
There was only one passenger in the lounge. Michael pulled down a plank and got ready to hand her off the boat. We were still on the dock, well away from the jetty and out of earshot.
‘My god, will you look at the state of her,’ said Saffron, gesturing at the newcomer.
‘A most unusual choice of outfit,’ said Mina.
Saffron shook her head. ‘Outfit? You mean costume. If that counts as an outfit, she’s a long way from home.’
Saffron was right, but only by accident. ‘Shh,’ I said, walking up to meet the passenger.
The woman was wearing a traditional Austrian dirndl: a royal blue dress and bodice teamed with a Mowbray blue apron. As she walked down the jetty, she moved as naturally in her outfit as Mina does in a kurta; this was her being her and wearing what she wanted to wear. She definitely hadn’t got dressed this morning with a view to impressing the likes of Saffron Hawkins.
She was young, only twenty-four, and wore her long straw-blonde hair in a single plait with a blue ribbon at the end that matched her dress. Another ribbon round her neck held a heavy enamel badge with
the Mowbray arms. This was Lena, fiancée to Ethan Mowbray and a Healer.
She had a strong face, big boned and with a jutting jaw so pronounced that it made smiling difficult. Very few would call her a beauty. Probably not even her mother. When she did smile, it went up her cheeks and creased her eyes, and then I knew why Ethan had asked her out.
She curtsied, just an inch, and said, ‘Welcome. I am Lena, Steward of Pellacombe. I hope you are having good journeys.’
Mina frowned as she made namaste: Lena’s voice was deep and her accent so strong that it almost smelt of edelweiss. I don’t think Mina actually understood a word she said.
I bowed and went to shake hands. I’d been preparing for this bit, and said to her in German, ‘Thank you, Fraulein Lena. It is an honour to be here and to accept Lord Mowbray’s hospitality.’
Lena gave me that smile again. ‘Do you really speak German?’ she asked in her mother tongue. I responded in kind:
‘Slowly. I’m afraid that neither of my companions do.’
‘And neither does anyone in Pellacombe. Not a single person.’
Saffron was now frowning, and Mina was giving me the Wait till I get you alone look. I switched back to English and completed the introductions.
Lena took three metal badges out of the concealed pocket in her dirndl. Close up, I could make out fine white embroidery on her apron – plants and trees, all no doubt significant to a Tyrolean Mage; there was no sign of the Mowbray boar. Lena may be Steward of Pellacombe, but when she marries, she and Ethan will be living in Kellysporth on the north Cornish coast, near Tintagel. It’s currently a house in mourning for Ethan’s father, the Earl of Tintagel.
She held the badges in her open hand, one red, one white and one blue. ‘You know of these?’
‘We do.’
Leah Kershaw hadn’t flown to Cheltenham, but she’d briefed me extensively by phone on the special arrangements for flying over and landing at Pellacombe. Not the helipad on Lamorne Point, but the one at the house itself, across the water. Before I could even see the place, I had to bond with it.
