by HANNA, H. Y.
He bent and lifted Pomona gently in his arms, then started walking towards his horse. Caitlyn followed him and watched as he placed Pomona gently onto the grey stallion, then reached out a hand to help her up.
“Are we all going to ride back on Arion? Can he manage all three of us?” she asked anxiously.
James smiled. “Arion is a Percheron.” When Caitlyn looked blank, he added, “They were war horses. They were bred for their strength and speed in battle. He can manage the three of us easily.”
Caitlyn nodded and allowed herself to be helped up into the saddle. She sat behind James this time, with her arms around his waist, leaving him free to handle the reins and hold on to Pomona, who slumped in front of him. As Arion snorted and wheeled, then began making his way back into the thick of the forest, Caitlyn turned her head and glanced over her shoulder.
A sense of déjà vu hit her. But this time, she smiled slightly as she knew where she had seen this scene before: in her vision, in the dark chocolate… the vision which had saved Pomona’s life.
The horse trotted deeper into the forest. And behind them, the empty expanse of grass on the knoll rippled, looking silver in the moonlight, whilst on the horizon beyond, the full moon hung like a glowing white sphere in an indigo sky thick with stars.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Caitlyn opened her bedroom window and gazed out into the gathering twilight. In the distance, a full moon was rising—still milky and transparent—but growing brighter and larger as it rose above the horizon. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, then she opened them again and gazed out at the darkening forest below.
It was hard to believe that only this time yesterday, she and James had been riding through those same woods, searching desperately for Pomona, wondering if they would be in time…
Thank goodness they had been. And James had been right: Pomona had been heavily sedated, but other than sleeping for nearly twenty hours and nursing a woozy head when she finally woke up late this afternoon, she had been fine. In fact, she had been ready to discharge herself immediately and head back to work on the chocolate shop makeover, but James had insisted that she be transferred to Huntingdon Manor, so that she could remain under the watchful eye of his housekeeper while she took it easy for a few days.
At least her cousin seemed to have taken the news of David Allan’s real identity in her stride. Pomona had paled slightly when Caitlyn told her what had really happened the night before, but she had rallied quickly, her shock turning to anger and indignation.
“What a jerk!” she had fumed. “Using me like that! I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a lizard! Pretending to be all shy and sweet when he was just a slimy reptile! I hope someone steps on him and squashes him flat!”
Caitlyn had laughed to herself. Maybe it was a good thing that Pomona fell in and out of love so easily, and her heart was rarely touched, despite all her flirting. At least her cousin wouldn’t have nightmares about finding out that her date was a murderer.
There was no doubt now that David Allan had been the one who killed Stan Matthews and Rob Wiggins. The police had already begun to suspect him, particularly as they’d noticed his car parked in odd places, at odd times, around the village. A search of his vehicle that morning had produced his briefcase, complete with a bottle of eye drops containing concentrated atropine sulphate solution, and the police had been delighted; it was further evidence that supported his conviction as the murderer.
Inspector Walsh had instigated a manhunt for the young salesman, but so far it seemed as if he had disappeared without a trace. Even contacting his company, Blackmort Enterprises, only produced the vague message that David Allan had taken indefinite leave. The police were sure they would track him down, but somehow Caitlyn didn’t share their confidence. She couldn’t help remembering that lizard she had seen, slithering away into the undergrowth…
***
An owl hooted suddenly nearby, startling Caitlyn out of her reverie. She blinked, then drew back from the window and pulled it shut. She heard voices downstairs and wondered who it was. Someone who had come to visit the Widow Mags? It was too late for customers—the chocolate shop was closed—so perhaps it was Bertha and Evie stopping by. Caitlyn hadn’t had a chance to speak to them properly since last night and she was keen to catch up on their news. She ran lightly down the spiral staircase and burst through the doorway behind the counter in the chocolate shop, nearly smacking into someone standing on the other side.
“Oh!” She backed away, flushing as she realised that it was James Fitzroy. “Sorry… I thought…”
“No, the fault is mine,” he said, smiling. “I shouldn’t have stood so close to the doorway.”
She stepped through the doorway again, rubbing her palms on her jeans, feeling suddenly shy. She had hardly seen James since their return from the woods last night. He had been closeted with the police while she had spent most of the night in the hospital, by Pomona’s bedside. The closeness they’d shared during that ride through the forest felt like a dream now.
James cleared his throat and said, “I’ve just come from a meeting with Inspector Walsh. The police are puzzled by something they found. It looks like a piece of parchment with some writing on it, although none of us can read it.” He glanced at the Widow Mags, who was sitting at her usual spot behind the counter, and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Someone suggested that I ask you about it, Mags, seeing as you’re the ‘resident witch’ in Tillyhenge—which I know is all nonsense, of course,” he added hastily. “But I thought, since I was passing this way, I’d pop in and see if you and Caitlyn had any ideas…?”
James caught her eye and smiled again, and, for a wild moment, Caitlyn wondered if he might have been using the parchment as a pretext to visit the chocolate shop. After all, he didn’t really need to “pass this way” to return to Huntingdon Manor and it seemed silly that he would bother to consult the Widow Mags if he didn’t really believe in her witch abilities… so was it just an excuse? To see her? Caitlyn blushed and hastily banished the thought from her mind, embarrassed at her own presumption. No, no, of course not. How could I think that James Fitzroy would be interested in me?
Hoping her thoughts hadn’t shown on her face, Caitlyn focused instead on the photograph that James had taken out of his breast pocket. He handed it to the Widow Mags whilst Caitlyn leaned over the old woman’s shoulder to look. The photo showed a piece of parchment, cracked and yellow, with several lines written in faded black ink.
Caitlyn squinted, trying to make sense of the thin, spidery handwriting. Then her eyes widened as some of the words sprang into awful clarity:
…eye of one newt…
…claws of nine bats…
…three feathers from a crow’s chest…
…velvet from the White Stag’s antlers…
…mixed well with ashes from burning cloves…
…held over ritual fire…
The Widow Mags inhaled sharply. “Where did you find this?” she asked.
James looked surprised at her tone. “It was found in David Allan’s car. Tucked into a hidden compartment. Do you know what it is?”
The old woman hesitated, then said at last, “It’s a spell.”
“A spell?” said James sceptically. He made a face. “Don’t tell me that Allan chap was into all that witchcraft nonsense as well?” Then he looked at the Widow Mags curiously. “How do you know it’s a spell? Can you read it?”
“Never mind that,” snapped the Widow Mags. “Just tell the police to destroy it! Do you hear me? It’s very important. They must destroy it!”
James looked doubtful. “The police aren’t going to destroy evidence in a murder investigation.”
“They must destroy it,” insisted the Widow Mags.
James sighed. “I’ll pass the message along to Inspector Walsh but it’s not up to me what the police decide to do.” He took the photograph and tucked it back into his breast pocket. “Thank you for that. It was very help
ful. Right…” He hesitated and looked around, his gaze sliding to Caitlyn once more. “Right. I suppose I’ll say goodnight now.” He paused, as if hoping someone would contradict him, but when the Widow Mags remained silent, he turned slowly to go. Then he turned suddenly back to Caitlyn. “Will you be coming over to the Manor to visit your cousin tomorrow?”
“Um… yes, I was planning to,” she said, her treacherous heart leaping again, wondering if he was hoping to see her.
“Make sure you use the side entrance in the east wing, which leads into the private quarters. Two thirds of the Manor have been opened to the public and the main entrance is used for tourists—I wouldn’t want you to be inadvertently charged a fee for a tour of the Manor,” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh… er… thanks,” said Caitlyn, trying to hide her disappointment.
“If you ever do want a tour, I’d be happy to give you one myself,” he added courteously. He smiled, making her heart give an unsteady flop, then he nodded goodbye to the Widow Mags and left the shop.
When he had gone and the door was firmly shut after him, Caitlyn turned back to the Widow Mags. “What was that spell?” she asked.
For a moment, she thought the old woman wasn’t going to answer her either. Then the Widow Mags said, her voice low, “It was black magic. A scrying spell.”
“Scrying?”
“A way of seeing the future. Of seeing visions and prophecies.”
“Isn’t that done all the time, like in crystal balls and things?” asked Caitlyn, thinking of her own experience with the cauldron of dark chocolate.
“Yes, but it is normally done using means that do no harm to others. This is different. It uses dark magic. It harnesses the power of other living creatures, particularly those with magical energy, and subjugates them to your will.”
“You mean… those things listed—”
“They had to be freshly killed.”
Caitlyn shuddered. Then she thought of something. “The spell… it mentioned the White Stag...”
“Yes.” The old woman nodded. “It is perhaps the most important ingredient. Deer antlers have been prized through the ages for their magical properties and, in particular, for their power of prophecy. And the antlers of the White Stag… a messenger from the Otherworld… a creature known to appear at times of great change and new beginnings… now that would give this spell the greatest potency.”
Caitlyn drew a breath in. “So Stan Matthews’s death was connected to the White Stag after all! But not in the mundane way that James thought—no, this has nothing to do with run-of-the-mill poachers or bribery by a big game hunter from South Africa. This was someone who wanted the White Stag for a different reason.”
“A much more sinister reason,” agreed the Widow Mags. “And David Allan must have thought that Stan Matthews could deliver the creature to him.”
“But then maybe he found out that Stan Matthews was just bluffing and killed him in anger or revenge. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the gamekeeper just pretended to know where the White Stag could be found, just so he could take the money,” Caitlyn mused. “Anyway, James told me that the White Stag doesn’t even exist.”
“Oh, Lord Fitzroy believes that, does he?” asked the old woman with the hint of a smile.
“Yes, he said that there are red deer which are born white, which are a sort of ‘white stag’—but there isn’t really a White Stag, as described in myths and legends,” Caitlyn explained.
The Widow Mags said nothing, just smiled again. Caitlyn started to ask something else but they were interrupted by a voice coming from the back door. A moment later, Bertha came from the rear of the cottage and stepped through the doorway behind the counter into the main shop area.
“There’s a strange old man loitering about outside the back of the cottage,” she complained. “Keeps muttering about looking for his lost teeth.”
“Oh, Viktor!” said Caitlyn, suddenly remembering that she hadn’t seen the old vampire since the night before.
“You know him?” said Bertha.
Caitlyn gave a helpless shrug. “He’s… he’s sort of a friend.” She hurried out to the cottage backyard and looked around for the old vampire. She owed him thanks for helping her—not in the way she had expected, perhaps, but ironically, he had helped her to “see” through the dark and find her cousin.
“Hmm… strange, he’s not here,” said Bertha, who had followed her out. “He was here a minute ago.”
“It’s all right,” said Caitlyn with a smile. “I’m sure I’ll see him around.” And she realised that she was actually looking forward to it. Somehow, she had grown very fond of the pompous old vampire.
“Does that mean you’re staying in Tillyhenge for a while?”
Caitlyn turned and looked at the older woman. “I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. Originally, I only planned to stay a couple of nights, until I got the answers to my questions…”
“Your questions?”
“About my past. About who I am.”
“You know the answer to that already,” said Bertha with a smile. “You’re a witch. You come from a long line of witches, skilled at casting spells and using magic—and with a particular affinity for chocolate.” She stepped forwards and took Caitlyn’s hand in both of hers. “I hope you will stay on in Tillyhenge, my dear. You need to claim your gift and learn to develop your powers. You need to become the witch you were meant to be. My mother would be able to guide you… she is a great teacher.”
Caitlyn swallowed. “But there’s more than that, isn’t there? I mean, what about my mother? My family? I need to know about them too.” She squeezed the older woman’s hand. “You both recognised my runestone the other day, didn’t you? It means something to you. Can’t you tell me, please?”
Bertha hesitated for a long time. Then, very slowly, she reached beneath the collar of her kaftan and pulled something out. Caitlyn gasped as she saw a familiar-looking runestone attached to a length of ribbon.
“You’ve got one too!” she cried. “How? Why?”
“These runestones have been in my family for generations. I was given mine as a little girl and my—”
“Bertha!”
Bertha started guiltily. They turned to see the Widow Mags standing in the back doorway of the cottage, her expression ominous.
“There are things that should stay in the past,” she said, her eyes fierce.
“But Mother—”
“NO.”
Bertha fell silent. The Widow Mags looked at them for a moment longer, then she turned and went back into the cottage. Bertha moved to follow, but Caitlyn caught her arm.
“Bertha—”
The older woman gave Caitlyn an apologetic look and shook her head. Then she gently disengaged her arm and said in a bright voice: “I’ve brought over a hot chocolate recipe for my mother to try. It’s one I discovered which mixes Irish whiskey and vanilla with pure raw cocoa, sugar, milk, and fresh cream. Sounds absolutely delicious. You must come in and taste it.”
Caitlyn sighed with frustration but nodded and said, “I’ll be in, in a minute.”
The back door swung shut behind Bertha, leaving Caitlyn alone at the edge of the cottage backyard. She was conscious of a sense of irritation and disappointment. She was sure Bertha and the Widow Mags knew something—something about her mother, something about her family. Why wouldn’t they tell her?
A rustle nearby interrupted her thoughts. It had come from the direction of the forest. Caitlyn left the garden and walked slowly towards the edge of the trees, peering up into the branches.
“Viktor? Viktor, is that you?”
Another rustle.
Then something pale moved between the trees, deeper in the woods.
Caitlyn frowned. She strained her eyes, trying to see into the darkness. Almost unconsciously, she took a few steps into the forest, then a few steps more. The pale glow kept moving just slightly ahead of her, almost as if it was beckoning her on. She quic
kened her steps, walking faster and faster, feeling like she would be able to see it if she could just get past the next tree, just scoot around the next bend…
Then she came suddenly into a small clearing deep in the forest.
Caitlyn caught her breath, her heart pounding.
The White Stag stood in the centre of the clearing. Long, slender legs, a sleek, graceful body, and a majestic head crowned by a magnificent set of white antlers… it was breath-taking, an otherworldly creature radiating beauty and magic. It looked at her with limpid dark eyes. The moonlight gleamed on its soft white coat, seeming to outline it in silver.
It took a step towards her and Caitlyn reached out a trembling hand. The White Stag lowered its head and touched her fingers with its nose. Caitlyn felt the velvety softness of its muzzle.
“You’re real!” she whispered.
The stag raised its head again and looked at her, its eyes wise and dark. Unbidden, the words came back to Caitlyn’s mind:
“…It’s believed to be a messenger from the Otherworld and they say it appears to those who are about to set off on a new journey. It’s supposed to signal a time of change and new beginnings…”
The magnificent creature looked at her a moment longer. Then it turned and slipped back into the shadows of the forest. A moment later, it was gone.
Caitlyn found that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly. She wondered if she had been dreaming. But no… she had seen it, felt it. The White Stag had been there. And it had brought her a message.
“I’m staying in Tillyhenge,” whispered Caitlyn, and was surprised that she had spoken out loud.
But now that she had said it, she smiled. She knew it was the right decision. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Yes, she would stay in Tillyhenge. There were still so many questions she needed answers to—questions about her mother, her family, her past—but she was sure that if she persisted, she would find the answers.
