A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3)

by Ruth Warburton

  ‘My dad’s buried there too, over by the far wall. His funeral – it wasn’t like this. It was winter, lashing rain. I remember being glad because the rain ran down my face and none of my mates could see I was crying.’

  A lump rose in my throat and I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Dad … Grandad …’ he said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me now, or himself. ‘Poor Mum. She’s got no one left to lose now – except me.’

  ‘Seth, don’t.’ I couldn’t help myself – I took his hand and he stopped, his face pale in the gloaming. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like …’ But I couldn’t finish. Like he was next, was what I meant. But I couldn’t say it. My mouth tasted of blood and the salt of tears on my lips.

  His fingers closed around mine and for a moment we just stood. Seth closed his eyes and I saw the salt-streaked paths where the tears had dried on his cheekbones. Then he turned, his hand still in mine, and slowly we walked the last few hundred metres to the quay, where the boats bobbed and the rigging sang a strange metallic song.

  At the jetty we stopped.

  ‘You should go,’ Seth said. ‘It’s getting late. Your dad’ll be wondering …’

  I nodded and drew a shaky breath.

  ‘Goodbye … I’m sorry about your shirt.’

  He looked down at the stains of blood and tears spread across his chest and shoulders.

  ‘It’s all right – I’ve had worse … I’m sorry about your lip.’

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ I echoed, with an attempt at a shaky laugh. ‘Seth, do you …’ I tried to swallow away the tightness in my throat. ‘Do you think we’ll ever stop hurting each other?’

  He looked away, past the boats and the harbour, out to sea and the unending, unfathomable dark. I couldn’t see his face. But I heard him swallow and when he spoke there was a catch in his voice.

  ‘No. I don’t think we ever will. We should have listened to Bran. Some things – some things just aren’t possible.’

  His fingers tightened around mine, just for a moment. His hand was cold and the skin felt rough; weathered and scarred. Then he let go and turned to walk away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Anna.’ The voice was insistent, sharp. ‘Anna!’

  And then suddenly Mrs Finch was standing in front of me, tapping at the page with her finger.

  ‘Anna Winterson, for heaven’s sakes. I’ve asked you three times to please read the next passage. What’s wrong with you recently?’

  ‘I – I’m sorry,’ I shook myself out of my stupor. ‘I’ve not been…’

  She bent down and put a hand over mine, her face softening.

  ‘Anna, are you OK?’ She lowered her voice and said quietly, ‘I know this has been a tough term for you, but—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snapped. The last thing I wanted was Mrs Finch’s pity. I’d had enough of people’s concern when Seth left the first time.

  Mrs Finch put up her hands and took a step back.

  ‘Very well! Look, if you want to discuss anything, stay behind. But now, could you please read the next passage?’ She sighed as she saw my blank expression. ‘The one beginning, “It is often suggested …”. And this time please try to pay attention.’

  I tried. And I tried at home too, ignoring Dad’s concerned expression after Seth left for the airport. I’d ignored his footsteps outside my room at night, checking to see if I was sleeping. I’d ignored his veiled hints about dropping an A-level, if everything was getting on top of me. I even did my best to ignore Emmaline and Maya’s worried looks. But I couldn’t ignore Abe. At least, I tried, but Abe made himself unignorable.

  ‘Knock knock,’ his voice startled me out of my evening Maths revision, so that I dropped my pen, then hit my head with indescribable force on my desk as I bent down to retrieve it. When he opened my bedroom door he found me curled with my forehead to my knees, clutching my skull.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing, woman? Is that some new yoga position designed to get blood to the brain?’

  ‘Shut up,’ I groaned and then sat up, rubbing my scalp. ‘Ow. Ow, ow, ow…’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What does it look like, you dick?’

  ‘Don’t take it out on me!’ His face was amused, but he came to sit beside me on the bed and put his hand gently over the bruise. I felt his magic prickle through my skin and the aching muted to something more bearable.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘A bit.’ I pulled away and sat up straighter. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to take a look at you.’ He eyed me as if judging what tack to take and then said bluntly, ‘Emmaline’s worried about you.’

  ‘Why? What business is it of hers?’ I was still snappish from the pain in my head.

  ‘That’s a nice thing to say of a friend!’ Abe pretended to look shocked, but I knew he wasn’t really. ‘You know why, anyway. Because you’re having some kind of minor breakdown, only you won’t admit it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘Really? Tell me what you got in your last piece of Maths coursework.’

  That was easy. I’d handed it in before Christmas.

  ‘An A,’ I said smugly. ‘Thanks for checking.’

  ‘And what did you get in your last practice paper?’ he said pointedly. My face fell. Emmaline really had been snooping.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Come on, what?’

  ‘I’ll get it together.’

  ‘How many hours did you sleep last night?’ he pressed.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Damn him.

  ‘OK,’ I said shortly. ‘I’m lying. I’ve been finding it hard to sleep. So what?’

  ‘Because you’re going quietly nuts! Anna, you’re doing too much. Searching for your mum, keeping up with school, trying to cram eighteen years of magical education into a few weekends – honestly, do you think you can keep up the pace? And now loverboy waltzes back, splits your lip, and screws you up all over again.’

  ‘Hey!’ I jumped up from my seat. ‘Leave Seth out of it. He’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Really? What were you thinking about last night, when you couldn’t sleep?’

  He stood too and we stared at each other. Abe’s eyes were black, angry, and his breath was coming fast. I didn’t know what to say. He was right – of course he was right. But …

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I said at last.

  ‘What I think? What do I think?’

  ‘Seth. The reason I’ve been worrying …’

  ‘Yes?’

  I felt sick. I had barely started to process what had happened with Bran, but maybe, maybe Abe could help …

  ‘Oh, Abe –’ suddenly it was a relief to say it, and the words came tumbling out ‘– I’ve been so worried. Seth’s leg – I’ve got a horrible feeling … I think it’s to do with my mother. She cursed Bran – cursed him to limp. And I think the curse … I think with Bran’s death … the curse – it’s passed to Seth.’ I stopped, staring into Abe’s dark, frowning eyes. ‘Is that even possible?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. He sat down on my bed again and chewed his lip. ‘It is possible. But what made you think of this?’

  I told him about Bran and what he’d shown me. I told him about Seth’s limp, about his pain and bitterness, so like Bran’s. And the way that the two incidents had slowly coalesced in my mind, into a cold, hard certainty.

  ‘She thought that Bran could protect her – I don’t know why. But she was very knowledgeable about prophecies; it was the subject of her dissertation. I think she found something that made her think Bran would help and so, when the Ealdwitan were on her trail, she turned to Bran. But she was wrong – he didn’t help. He turned her away.’

  ‘So she cursed him – and his descendants,’ Abe finished. I nodded.

  ‘You said Seth had screwed me up – a
nd it’s true, he did. But everything that happened was my fault. I started it and, although I’m hurt, I’m going to be OK. I’ll cope. But I screwed Seth up too and I’m afraid he’s not going to be OK.’

  I thought of Bran, bitter and twisted, marooned on his island. He had predicted that the move to Winter would kill him, that he could never live so far from the sea. And he’d been right.

  ‘If the curse has passed to Seth,’ I said slowly, ‘how would I go about undoing it?’

  ‘It depends,’ Abe said. ‘It depends if the witch who set the curse is still alive.’ He looked up at me, his black eyes very direct. ‘Is she?’

  I walked to school the next day more tired than ever, having spent a sleepless night running over everything in my head. Speaking to Abe should have made me feel better. It hadn’t.

  But I’d had three large cups of coffee and I was determined to keep it together today. I’d done my English homework, I’d prepared for the Classics test. Well, ish. And there were only a couple of weeks left until the end of term. After that it was the Easter holidays and then it was study leave until exams began. I could hold it together for two weeks. Couldn’t I?

  I was barely out of the trees when my mobile phone beeped. YOU HAVE ONE NEW VOICEMAIL MESSAGE said the text. I dialled in and listened as I walked.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice somehow managed to be both croaky and yet chocolate-smooth. It was Caradoc and he plainly hadn’t quite got the hang of answerphones. ‘Hello? Is this Miss Winterson? … What?’ By the sound of it, that was over his shoulder to someone else. Then a tut. ‘Oh, a recording. Very well. Um, message for Anna Winterson.’ He spoke very clearly, as if giving dictation to the hard of hearing. ‘Caradoc Truelove speaking. I have found the text we were discussing, but I don’t really want to give too many details over the phone. We don’t want this translation going the same way as the original. Would you come to the shop and we can talk in person? Please call me. Thank you. Goodbye. Is that it? Oh, I have to press this …’

  I rang back, my fingers shaking, but the shop answerphone picked up in Jonathan’s voice.

  ‘Hello, and welcome to Truelove and Fox. Our opening hours are ten a.m. to five p.m., Tuesday to Saturday, and by appointment only on Mondays and Sundays. If you are calling outside these hours please leave a message. Thank you.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, my words falling over each other. ‘Jonathan, I just got Caradoc’s message. I’m coming to London. I’ll be with you –’ I looked at my watch ‘– Elevenish. See you soon.’

  Looked like that Classics revision was going to be a wasted effort after all.

  The train was slow. The tube was slow. I ran from Leicester Square tube station through the slow crowds of slow people, slowly milling around. But at last I turned into Cecil Court and made my way across the stone flags, trying to calm my heaving chest. Truelove & Fox read the modest grey sign on the farthest shop and beneath, in smaller text, Antiquarian Book Sellers.

  The bell above the door jingled as I entered and I called, ‘Caradoc! Jonathan! It’s me, Anna.’

  No one answered.

  I stood for a moment at the counter, looking at the beautiful gilded grimoires in the locked display case, and then, feeling like an intruder, I stepped around the counter and put my head into the back room. There was no one there either, but a cup of black tea stood on the sideboard, curls of steam rising in the air.

  Odd. But at least it meant someone was here. They wouldn’t have gone out without locking up. Perhaps they were downstairs?

  Beneath the floor was a second room of books; a secret area for shadow books, known only to witches. It was accessed by a hidden door which I’d managed to find once – though whether I’d opened it by sheer willpower, or whether Caradoc had helped, I’d never known. I had no idea how to open it now. The floor was shining wood, without any obvious joins.

  ‘Caradoc?’ I called hopefully and then knelt on the floor, cupping my hands to the boards, ‘Caradoc, can you hear me? Can you open up?’

  And I heard – I don’t know what I heard. Something. A sound so faint it was hard to put my finger on. But suddenly my stomach was a tight knot and I knew I had to get into that cellar. I just had to.

  I backed against the wall and searched my memory for a spell.

  ‘Ætýne!’ I called, tentatively. A dark crack appeared in the middle of the shop, a sliver of blackness hanging in thin air, and a breath of air gusted out before the door blew shut again with a bang. My stomach clenched. The air smelled of … blood.

  ‘Ætýne!’ I shouted and the door flew open with a sound like a clap of thunder, leaving a gaping black rift in the centre of the shop, with stairs leading down into darkness. I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. The stench of blood was stronger than ever.

  ‘Caradoc!’ I called, trying not to let my voice shake, ‘Caradoc? Jonathan?’

  Silence. Broken only by my trembling breathing and the creak of the stair treads as I began to descend towards whatever was in that cellar.

  I could see almost nothing in the blackness, just something on the floor, glinting with a dull lustre. Then my groping hand found a switch on the wall and dim bulbs flickered out across the basement, one after the other, glinting off the pool of liquid at the foot of the stairs.

  Blood. I pressed my hand hard over my face, keeping out the butcher’s smell, pushing back the cry that wanted to erupt at the sight of the crimson pool. So much. Nobody could lose that much blood and live, surely?

  I followed the slick, liquid trail along the floor between the stacks of bookshelves. I was terrified at the thought of what lay at the end, but I couldn’t turn back.

  The tide lapped round the corner of a huge shelf-stack. I turned too – and a scream ripped from my mouth.

  There was blood – blood everywhere, sprayed on the books and the walls, even spattered on the light-fitting.

  And in the centre, Caradoc, lying as peacefully as a child asleep, with his throat slit from ear to ear.

  ‘Caradoc!’

  I fell to my knees in the sticky crimson pool and then – I couldn’t stop myself, I knew all about crime-scenes and forensics, but I couldn’t stop myself from putting my hand to his cheek. His throat had been slashed just above his cravat and the fabric was soaked through and through with blood, until it looked as if his whole chest was gaping open.

  ‘Caradoc … Oh my God, oh Caradoc …’

  And then I heard, quite distinctly, the sound of footsteps in the shop above.

  I didn’t think my body could produce any more adrenalin but, before I could think, I was on my feet, my heart hammering. Should I call out? Hide?

  Before I’d decided, a cry floated down the stairs.

  ‘Caradoc!’

  I stood, frozen. It came again.

  ‘Caradoc, I’ve got the milk. Will you drink yours up here or shall I bring it down?’

  ‘Jonathan!’ I scrambled to the cellar steps and began to claw my way up, my shoes and fingers slippery with Caradoc’s blood. ‘We need – the police – oh God – Caradoc – he’s—’

  There was a crash as the tea cup Jonathan was holding fell to the shop floor, shards of china and drops of tea flying across the little space.

  ‘Anna, what … ?’ He stood in the doorway, his face ashen, turning to blank horror as he took in my bloodstained clothes and hands. ‘Sweet Jesus, what—’

  ‘Call the police!’ I stumbled towards him, but he took an involuntary step back and I grabbed at the counter to steady myself instead. ‘We need an ambulance. It’s Caradoc, he’s—’

  ‘Let me see…’

  He ran to the cellar steps, but fell back as he saw the lake of gore.

  ‘Oh Christ! Oh help …’ He put a hand to his mouth as if pressing back vomit and then managed, ‘But what – what’s happened? Anna, what’s happened?’

  His face was white, with spots of red high on each cheekbone, and his eyes were wide and wild.

  ‘He’s dead,’ I choked out. For a second
everything seemed to swim and I gritted my teeth, trying to keep it together.

  ‘He’s dead?’ Jonathan seemed unable to process it. ‘But – how?’

  ‘His throat’s been cut.’ I felt bile rise in my own throat and my ears suddenly sang. I hardly heard Jonathan’s questions as I shook my head, trying to swallow down my own nausea. ‘Call the police,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘We can’t,’ Jonathan said angrily. ‘He’s in the forbidden part of the shop. We can’t have outwith police tramping around down there.’

  ‘Damn the outwith!’ I sobbed. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It still matters!’ Jonathan shouted back. His face was contorted with agony and he sank down slowly against a bookshelf, his hands over his face. ‘Oh God, Caradoc! Oh my darling …’

  ‘What can we do then?’

  ‘We’ll have to move him. Up here.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ He spoke very slowly, his teeth clenched. ‘It would be more than my life’s worth, and yours, to have outwith cops clumping around down there.’

  ‘But it won’t make any sense up here. The crime scene – there’ll be no blood. And how could anyone have done it up here without being seen?’ I gestured to the street.

  ‘We’ll have to persuade the police.’ His face was grim. ‘By one means or another. Now are you going to help me, or not?’

  Jonathan was sick as we wrestled Caradoc’s body up to the ground floor and sick again as I tried to lay his body as close to how I’d found him as possible. It was as I was putting his hand across his breast, just as it had been downstairs, that I noticed the tiny scrap of paper between his clenched fingers.

  I pulled it out and smoothed it. It was a corner, no more, printed in heavy black-lead type, of the sort used in Victorian novels. Beneath the bloodstains, it read:

  A Rydelle

  A childe shalle be born on the feaft of Kings

  A childe of the Rook tho

  And t

  ‘What is it?’ Jonathan asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.