‘Anna, is everything OK?’
‘Have you been talking to Mrs Finch?’
‘Yes, actually. And Mr Henderson. They’re both concerned.’
I didn’t say anything – I couldn’t think what to say. Ms Wright pulled up a chair.
‘Look, I know you’ve had a tough term, what with Seth leaving—’
‘You don’t understand.’ My throat was suddenly tight and sore and it was hard to speak.
‘I know it’s impossible to believe at your age, but I do, I really do. I may be pushing thirty, but I remember my first break up like it was yesterday and how completely agonising it was. I understand what you’re going through – but you can’t throw away all your hard work.’
Throw it away? I looked at her, my face stony, and she bit her lip.
‘OK, maybe throwing it away is a bit unfair – but you were set for As across the board a few months ago. Now, if you scrape Cs and Ds it’ll be solely on the marks from your earlier modules. Your last essay was a shambles and in class you look like you’re barely here. You’re going to end up in resits at this rate. Is that what you want – to lose out on university and spend a year packing fish and doing retakes?’
I sat in silence. There was nothing I could say. Nothing she’d believe, anyway. She looked at me, her eyes full of mute exasperation.
‘Is there something wrong at home? Or something else? Whatever it is, please talk to someone. Me if you like – or your dad. Or your GP, maybe. Whatever’s going on, it’s solveable, somehow. I promise it is. You don’t have to deal with it alone.’
I let my fingers close on the edge of the desk, my nails biting into the soft, frayed wood, and tried to tune out her attempt at understanding, her impossible, ignorant kindness. Since Seth left I’d had my magic under control – mainly – but I felt close to losing it now.
‘Anna,’ she said at last, her voice mixing sympathy with exasperation, ‘are you even listening? Do you realize how serious this is – what it means for your grades if you don’t pull things together? I just … I hate to see someone with your promise throwing it all away for the sake of some worthless bloke.’
Worthless. I put my hand to my eyes, closing them, closing out her concerned face and the incomprehension in her bright blue eyes. I pushed my fingers against my lids, pushing back the unfairness of it all, the rage that roared inside me, the howling loneliness.
There was silence, and I felt her waiting presence, waiting for me to say something. Then, with a creak of the chair, she stood and I heard her heels click away. The classroom door opened and swung closed again. And at last I was alone.
The magic boiled and roared and rose inside me, suffocating me. I swallowed, tried to breathe, tried not to lose it.
At last, when I could finally trust myself to speak, I got out my phone.
‘Again,’ I shouted, and a stunning spell hit me like a punch, sending me sprawling into the pine needles. But it didn’t matter, I was conscious and not bleeding from any important places. Being flat on my face didn’t matter. This had been by far our most successful session; I’d been matching Abe blow for blow ever since I’d opened fire with a blinding volley of illusions.
Now we were doing basic charm-and-defence work – let the other person hit you as hard as they could with a spell and try to repel it.
I scrambled to my feet, sweating and shaking.
‘Again!’
‘No.’ Abe shook his head, his chest heaving. ‘You’ve had enough.’
‘You mean, you’ve had enough.’
‘OK, if it makes you feel better, I’ve had enough.’
‘Fight me.’ I slapped him with a stinging blast of magic and he staggered, but shook his head again.
‘Stop it.’
‘Fight!’ I flung out again, smashing him sideways into the trunk of a pine tree. He gasped and sank to his knees, and when he stood there was blood on his cheek.
‘Stop it! I’m not going to fight you when you’re like this – you’re shaking with exhaustion.’
‘How can I improve if you never push me? Stop being so bloody gallant. Fight me properly – I have to know how to defend myself. Fight dirty!’
‘You’ve had enough.’
‘Don’t tell me when I’ve had enough!’ I shouted. Electrical sparks crackled across my skin and I pointed my finger at Abe. ‘Or are you just afraid?’
‘Try me,’ Abe snarled.
A stab of electricity crashed, white and blue, across the clearing, scorching the pine-needles beneath Abe’s feet – and then suddenly Abe was gone. In his place cowered my dad, crouched like a frightened child, his arms curled above his head. His clothes were scorched and burnt and there was smoke coming from his hair.
‘Anna!’ he cried, his voice cracked with terror and pain. ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?’
‘Dad!’
I ran across the clearing and fell to my knees in the soft forest debris, still hot and scorched from my blast. Dad trembled as I prised his arms away from his head, holding him, searching his face for injuries.
‘Oh, Dad! Are you hurt?’
His face was blank and stiff with uncomprehending fear and I flung my arms around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ I gasped. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘You should be,’ said a voice. I stiffened. Something was wrong. Instead of the familiar scents of woodsmoke, soap and cooking, Dad smelled of – Abe.
I lifted my face.
It was Abe. Abe’s body I was wrapped around. Abe’s face, two inches away, his expression twisted in a grim smile.
I leaped to my feet, a tide of blood flooding up from my heart.
‘Hey.’ He held up a hand, reading the fury in my eyes. ‘You asked me to play dirty. You want to be prepared? You can’t be prepared. I can’t put you through what they will – because I won’t inflict that on you. I can’t.’
‘You bastard.’
‘This is nothing. Nothing. Don’t fool yourself.’
‘Is that what you think? That I’m fooling myself that I can find my mum?’
‘No.’ His grim expression faded and he looked suddenly very tired. The blood on his cheek stood out, raw and livid. ‘I think you can probably do anything you set your mind to. I just think you may not be prepared for what you find.’
We sat down beneath a tree and Abe pulled out a bottle of water and took a long swig. He passed it to me, and I drank thirstily and then passed it back, and we sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the forest returning to tranquillity after our fight. A wood pigeon crooned somewhere deep in the woods, its woodwind coo a strange background to my tumbling, churning thoughts.
‘I’m starting to think I may never find her,’ I said, the words harsh in the soft, sunlit quiet. Abe turned to look at me, his eyes an unfathomable, unreadable black.
‘You’re giving up now? After all this?’
I knew what he meant. After all the deaths, the destruction, the horror upon horror – if I gave up now, all that would be for nothing. Seth would live his life in pain, chained to the sea and a crutch. And I would live my life in the dark for ever, always wondering.
‘I don’t know where to go, what to do next. I thought the riddle would tell me something – show me where to go next – but I can’t even find that.’
‘Where does the trail stop?’
‘After she returned to the Ealdwitan headquarters to steal the riddle. That was when I was six weeks old. After that, the trail goes cold. I have no idea where she went – she just disappeared. Maybe she did commit suicide.’
‘The more I hear about your mother,’ Abe said, ‘the more I’m convinced that the one thing she’d never have done is kill herself. Anyway, it seems to me that you do know where she went next – you’ve forgotten one thing.’
‘What?’
‘The charm under your step.’
‘It was in Russian,’ I said slowly. ‘But that doesn’t mean she w
ent to Russia, does it? Maybe she met a Russian witch in London.’
‘Not possible.’ Abe said shortly.
‘Why not?’
‘Jeez, you know you need to do a course in witch history so we can stop with the bloody lectures.’ He sighed and then said, ‘Look, the Russians used to be one of the most powerful witch-clans in the world – and one of the most ruthless. They did some dreadful things, practices we’ve completely outlawed here …’ He grimaced and then seemed to force himself on. ‘By the turn of the century their leader pretty much controlled everything – he had the tsar and tsarina in the palm of his hand and, through them, the whole of Russia. But they pushed too far. They brought down …’
‘Revolution,’ I said, suddenly understanding. Abe nodded.
‘The witches were sent to the salt mines along with the rest of the ruling elite. We heard rumours. Rumours that they were still there, that they’d been living and breeding and feeding off each other. But behind the Iron Curtain, no one knew.’
‘And when the Iron Curtain fell?’ I asked. Abe shrugged.
‘If they’re there, they’re biding their time. I’ve never met a Russian witch, never known anyone who has. The legends live on, of course. The things they used to do, the excisions, the transfusions, the puppet-armies … but they themselves are silent.’
‘OK …’ I said slowly. ‘So my mother went to Russia then. But perhaps she went before I was born. That’s equally possible, right?’
‘I don’t think so. Look, she didn’t show any paranoia, any worries until she was pregnant with you – right? Whether she stumbled on the prophecy while she was pregnant, or whether she knew about it before and only clicked to the meaning later, I don’t know. But it sounds like it was quite sudden. From your dad’s account, she spent nine months getting more and more desperate, trying route after route to protect herself and you – but that’s quite a narrow window for her to fly to Russia. I think your dad would have noticed if she’d left the country. No: I think it was quite late on that she decided she couldn’t protect you herself and she turned to the Others.’
‘The others?’
‘That’s what the Ealdwitan have always called them – the Other side. As if they were the only other witch-clan in the world that mattered. And for a long time they were – the Ealdwitan and the Others. The two most powerful witch-clans in the world.’
‘The Others …’ I whispered. Something jangled in the back of my head, like a chord with a strange, false note. ‘The other…side…’
My school bag was hanging from a branch and I stood up, scrabbling inside for my purse, suddenly feverish with urgency. The piece of paper was folded into quarters, tucked inside the space meant for notes and business cards. I pulled it out, trying not to tear the worn paper.
‘This is a note she left.’ I held it out to Abe. ‘The only note she left for me. Read it.’
‘Anna, are you sure—’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ I snapped. ‘This is important, read it!’
I watched as his eyes skimmed down the page, down to the poem.
‘Read it aloud,’ I said.
‘“Death is nothing at all”,’ Abe quoted. ‘“I have only slipped away into the next room. I am but waiting for you for an interval. Somewhere very near. Just around the corner. On the other side. All is well”.’
He frowned at the paper and then looked up at me, ‘Hang on, I’ve read that poem somewhere recently, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, it was on the back of the order of service at Bran’s funeral, a longer version. But one line was missing from Bran’s version: “On the other side”. The original version of the poem doesn’t contain those words. I thought she’d just misquoted. But now …’
‘Now, I’d say it’s pretty clear.’ Abe looked at the page, his black brows drawn into a scowl. There was something in his expression that made me shiver.
‘What? Why are you looking like that?’
‘Well, first of all, it looks like the Russian witches are back. And for a group that was once the most powerful witch-clan in the world, I don’t think they’ll be planning to sit at home making tea and cakes. Second, they gave your mother quite a lot. Some pretty strong charms, for a start. Shelter. Asylum from whoever was following her. Anonymity. The question is, what did she give them?’
We both looked at each other and I could see my own thoughts reflected in his black eyes. I could see again the dagger in Thaddeus Corax’s back. Hear the roar of waters as the Neckinger slipped its chains and threw off the enchantments of centuries. Feel the fear in the heart of the Ealdwitan.
Someone had betrayed them.
My mother had betrayed them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t try to. I sat with my duvet hunched round my shoulders, staring into the wooded dark and listening to the far-off crash and roar of the waves breaking against the cliffs.
I had answers now – to some of my questions at least. But one question was still gnawing at my insides.
Who could I trust?
My mother had given up everything – any hope of a happy life with her husband and child – to keep me safe. She’d turned traitor; betrayed her parents and her country to secure my safety. And I no longer knew what I should be running from.
I thought of Simon’s words, his idea that she’d always meant to arm me to defend myself. She’d limited her enchantments so that one day I could leave, one day I could fight. But fight who?
Words chased themselves around my head, twisting and coiling and twining into impossible contradictions. The words of my mother’s letter, the words of the riddle, the words of the charms. All wreathed in smoke and mirrors and slyness. I’d never met a witch who could answer a straight question with a straight answer – apart from Abe, perhaps.
A cool greyness tinged the sky over the east of the forest and I knew that dawn wasn’t far off – and with it Dad, and school, and everything mundane and lovely and comforting.
But none of it was for me.
There was no way back. There was never a way back, never a way to unlearn what you’d learnt, to un-be what you were.
I thought of Seth, setting sail halfway across the world to try to escape his demons, and I knew, achingly, how he felt. But when I left, I would be taking the demons with me. Because the demons were in me, and always would be, until I found the truth. And the truth lay in Russia, I was sure of that now. And my mother was in Russia. Dead or alive, she was there.
There was no way back. I could only keep going. Into the shadows.
The thought should have terrified me – but instead it gave me a strange peace. No more running. No more hiding and pretending. Whatever lay out there, waiting for me, I would face it. I would fight.
I couldn’t escape my destiny – but I could run to meet it. Instead of being backed into a corner, I could choose my own ending to all this – even if it was still an ending.
It was with a strange lightness in my heart that I lay down, pulling my duvet over myself. The grey light pooled on the floor beneath my window, cool and calm, as I closed my eyes and slept at last.
I told Emmaline first.
‘You’re mad.’ She put her knife and fork down with a clatter on the canteen table, her pale face suddenly spotted with pink, high on her cheekbones.
‘It’s the only way.’
‘But now? What about your exams? You’d throw all that away?’
I laughed – it was so comically close to my conversation with Ms Wright.
‘I’ve thrown all that away already, Em. I’m not going to pass at this rate – not with all this hanging over me. The exams are in – what – four weeks?’
‘Three,’ Em corrected automatically.
‘Can you really see me buckling down to a discussion of Greek vases while—’
I was interrupted by a sudden collective gasp of horror from the other side of the canteen.
‘Oh my God!’ I heard and ‘My aunt works there.�
�
Emmaline and I exchanged a look and then we got up and hurried across.
A group of people were crowded round a laptop, hands pressed to faces, eyes wide with shock. As I craned over the top of their heads I saw the screen was playing live news footage of central London – and it looked like a bomb had gone off. Behind the commentator’s urgent announcements there was the sound of wailing sirens and helicopters.
‘Turn up the sound,’ someone called and suddenly the canteen hubbub was drowned by the commentator’s booming voice.
‘… collapse of both Tower Bridge and Vauxhall Bridge, in a feared attack on the MI5 headquarters on the south bank of the Thames. All London Underground lines have been evacuated after reports of “a tide of gore” issuing from the deepest lines and the network is now closed while investigators try to ascertain the source. For people just tuning in, this is a report of the news that central London has been brought to a standstill by a series of devastating bridge collapses, following similar and still-unexplained events earlier this week in south London. A Whitehall source told the BBC that officials were treating the events as a potential terrorist attack, but environmental campaigners have pointed to evidence that last week’s collapses in south London appear to have been spontaneous. All roads leading to and from Tower Bridge and Vauxhall Bridge are at a stand-still, the remaining central London bridges are being closed as a precautionary measure, and police are urging people not to travel to central London unless their journey is urgent. Once again, this is the news that …’
Emmaline turned to me, her face blank and white.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know.’ I stared at her, wondering if my expression was as shocked and fearful as hers. ‘I only know I have to go to London. Before …’
‘Before you leave,’ Emmaline said. There was none of her usual acidity in her voice, only fear.
The bell went for classes and Emmaline busied herself packing up her bag, avoiding my gaze. When she finally looked up, I was astonished to see her eyelashes were wet.
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