A Hive of Secrets and Spells

by Ellen Jane

  “That’s all right,” Heather said. “It was a long shot. How is everything back home, anyway?”

  “All good here, love. I’ve been keeping your mail here along with the guests’, and Ethan’s kept your garden watered each morning. Don’t worry, he’s far better with a garden hose than he is with keys. Harder to lose a hose, since it’s attached to the tap and all.”

  “Is he remembering to turn the tap off, though?” Heather asked drily.

  There was a long pause.

  “You know what,” Annie said decisively, “I’ll pop over this afternoon and just have a quick check on everything.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your holiday, love. I’ve got to run now. I think I can hear someone yelling—more than they should be, anyway.”

  They hung up and Heather sat down on the bed behind her, staring at her phone screen as it faded to black. It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask Annie if she knew any way of retrieving lost voicemails, but she hadn’t been able to say the words, hadn’t been able to acknowledge out loud what she’d lost since it had happened. The only saving grace was that Sinéad had been so preoccupied with Cian and his news that she’d stopped asking about it.

  After a few minutes had passed in silence, she forced herself to stand up and head downstairs. She was no closer to locating any spells that would help, so she’d simply have to do this without magic.

  *

  Manicured green lawn extended into the distance, broken by a winding garden path and bordered by flowering hedges on all sides.

  Heather squinted into the distance. “Where’s the gate?”

  The gardener had assured them the gate opened into the private gardens on the north side, but unless the builders had constructed it out of the hedge, there was no sign of it.

  “I think it’s that brown bit off to the left,” Cian suggested, pointing toward where the path diverged at the end and disappeared into the hedges on the side. “But I don’t know for sure. I came through the side gate last time, and I kept my distance from the house.”

  He leaned into the wind, hands shoved far down into the pockets of his overcoat. He looked warmer than Heather, with his thick woollen scarf wrapped three times around his neck and his oversized coat. But his feet were still bare.

  Sinéad eyed him shrewdly. “Didn’t want to be seen?”

  “Would you?” Cian shot back.

  Sinéad grimaced. “I take your point.”

  They set off down the path, toward Sinéad’s parents’ cottage.

  “They didn’t see you at all?” Heather asked, looking over at Cian. “When you came last, I mean?”

  “Nope.” Cian shook his head, the bright orange bobble on his beanie jiggling enthusiastically. “Well, no, that’s not true. They saw me, but all they truly saw was the tatty overcoat and worn gloves attached to someone inspecting the geraniums, and they assumed I was with the gardeners.”

  He rolled his eyes and muttered “wealth,” with a pointed look at the two of them. Sinéad eyed him for a few seconds longer, obviously wary of a not-so-subtle jab, but said nothing.

  They were a strange pair, Cian with his heavy black eyeliner and threadbare clothing, and Sinéad with her grey poncho cape and button-up heeled boots. And then there was Heather—stuck on the side like an afterthought, wearing a khaki parka and wellies.

  “You haven’t been to the house since you got the letters?” Heather asked.

  Cian shook his head. “Haven’t snooped too close to the scene. I asked around down at the local shops, wondering if anyone had seen the Dunnes recently. Still hoping it would be a hoax, you know? But all I got was a whole lot of funny looks. I think one was from their gardener actually, though he’s hard to recognise under the whole beard thing he’s got going on.” Cian waved a hand around his face vaguely.

  Sinéad looked thoughtful but remained silent, and they cut across the lawn toward the path that led to where the gate should be. Their conversation fell silent as they drew close to the cottage, and soon the only noise came from the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the blistering wind roaring past their ears. Cian had been here once before to confirm, in his words, that the Dunnes were actually real and actually awful enough to have another kid when they’d already abandoned two. But it was the first time Sinéad and Heather would see anything from Sinéad’s early, forgotten life. Silence seemed appropriate.

  Sinéad hadn’t wanted to come at all. She made it obvious with every sigh she gave while getting ready, every blank stare she drifted into before Heather gently shook her out of it. Heather didn’t know if it was Cian’s story Sinéad didn’t trust or if she simply didn’t believe Mr and Mrs Dunne were their parents. Or, a quiet voice whispered to Heather, perhaps she didn’t care.

  But that wasn’t right. Regardless of the truth of their story, Mr and Mrs Dunne were in trouble, and Sinéad wouldn’t walk away without good cause.

  Sure enough, the gate turned out to be nestled deep in the hedge, barely visible from their angle. Cian ducked under the foliage and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “God, that’s better. No wind under here.” He jiggled the handle of the gate, wincing when it creaked and refused to budge. “Come on, ya b—” With a screech of metal, the latch lifted and the gate swung open.

  Entering the garden was like walking into a different world. The manicured lawn disappeared, replaced by flowers in every available space. Purples, whites, yellows—a cascade of colour burst into life around them. The hedges surrounded them on all sides, easily three metres high, keeping the wind away and cocooning them in sudden, almost eerie, silence. Birds hopped along the branches of a tall oak tree in front of the cottage, and even the bees happily buzzed from flower to flower in the absence of the blustering wind.

  The cottage itself reminded Heather of her home back in Old Wetchhaven. Trailing vines of ivy covered the walls, and it looked warm even from the outside. Heather imagined going in, putting on the kettle, and snuggling under a warm blanket on the sofa.

  “It’s nice,” Sinéad said.

  If Heather didn’t know her so well, she almost wouldn’t have noticed the catch in her voice.

  Cian led the way down the path, kicking at the gravel with his hands shoved in his pockets. Heather had no idea how his feet hadn’t frozen off.

  “Do you think they left the house unlocked?” Heather asked, weaving past Cian, between two lavender bushes, and approaching the closest window to peer inside.

  “Depends where the kidnappers took them from, I suppose,” Cian suggested, coming up beside Heather and shielding his eyes to look through the glass. “If they were kidnapped from home, I can’t imagine locking the door would be a high priority. But I can’t see any signs of a struggle. I’ll be honest, I sort of assumed there’d be police tape around the building or something. Surely we’re not the only ones who know they’re gone?”

  The window opened onto the living room, and at first glance, nothing appeared out of place. A few faded patches of colour marked the fabric of the couch and armchairs, but the cushions looked plump and the blankets cosy. Brightly coloured shawls were draped across the backs of most of the furniture, each one a mottled patchwork of pinks and blues and yellows. A few items of clothing lay strewn across the floor—shoes, one sock—but it didn’t appear sinister. It was the kind of mess that happens in houses that are lived in.

  It looked like an ordinary family home.

  Heather glanced at Sinéad, who had appeared on her right. Sinéad’s expression stayed very still, giving nothing away while her eyes roamed across the contents of the room. Before Heather could think of something to say, Sinéad abruptly turned and left.

  “Let’s try the front door,” she said without looking back at Heather and Cian. “Nothing seems out of place, but there’s always a chance something happened further inside.”

  Heather followed her to the tiny staircase leading to the front door, Cian trailing behind the two of them. The
closer they came to the house, the more reluctant Cian appeared to continue. But he didn’t protest, and, much like his sister, he appeared to be driven by a dogged determination despite his unhappiness.

  Sinéad turned the handle, and the door swung quietly open. She shared a look with Heather, and the three of them crept inside.

  The house had the smell of a place that hadn’t had its windows opened in several days. The air smelled faintly musty, and dust swirled in the light coming through the glass.

  “Do we call out?” Heather asked, poking her head into the dining room. “What if we’re wrong and someone’s here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cian said, his usual humour absent in exchange for a solemn quietude. “Listen. This place is dead silent.”

  They paused, listening for any sign of movement. The only sound came from the ticking of the grandfather clock halfway down the hall. After a few seconds of the eerie rhythm, Heather’s nerves were even more on edge than before.

  “I’ll check upstairs,” she said, crossing the hall quickly to get away from the ominous ticking.

  The stairs creaked as Heather climbed, the quiet murmurs of Sinéad and Cian’s conversation rising behind her even though they remained downstairs. The emptiness of the space ensured even those soft noises carried, making the house seem even lonelier.

  When Heather reached the upper landing, a trail of clothing led from the bathroom all the way down the hallway to a bedroom at the end. Heather supposed the person had been on their way to the shower and had stripped down along the corridor. She toed one of the piles as she passed by and revealed a grey t-shirt with a band logo emblazoned on the front. Heather assumed it belonged to the son.

  Birds called from outside the window, sounding as if they belonged to another world. Heather held her breath and peeked into each room as she made her way down the hall, but nothing strange leapt out at her. There was no sign of a struggle, no indication the place had been searched.

  She paused; something about that last thought bothered her. The place hadn’t been searched, and yet the letters demanded Cian return a stolen item. Even if the kidnapping hadn’t occurred in the house, surely the kidnappers would have searched there before contacting anyone?

  Heather doubled back to the study and stepped inside. Apart from small touches of workaday mess—shuffled papers, a few pens, an open reference book—the desk was neat. The drawers were all closed, their contents neatly stored away when Heather opened one to check. It didn’t make sense. A plaque with an engraving of a bee hung on the wall opposite the window, proclaiming: Keepers of the Final Message. Whatever that meant.

  She rifled through the papers on the desk. At the top of the stack sat a brief postcard from St Ives written by a man named John, but it only expressed regret that Mr Dunne had left their holiday early, leaving them a player short on poker nights. Nothing important.

  Heather moved the postcard aside and flicked through the rest of the papers. Nothing else was addressed to the Dunnes, and Heather determined she was looking at articles of interest clipped from newspapers rather than personal filing. She skimmed a few and then—once she realised what they said—read intently.

  Mr Smith’s daughter, Rose Smith, discovered him face down and floating in the family pool. He suffered multiple stab wounds from a short, sharp object, most likely a dagger. Police are conducting investigations and welcome any information from the public, particularly regarding the whereabouts of the murder weapon.

  Heather shuddered; what a grisly murder. She put the paper to the side and reached for the next one—an article from the same newsletter Heather had been reading yesterday, the Starford Gazette, except it was the previous edition.

  An anonymous tip-off has alerted police to crucial evidence regarding a series of high profile jewellery heists, dating back over a decade. Police are urging anyone who might have information to come forward.

  While both crimes were interesting, they didn’t appear related and had nothing to do with kidnapping. Heather assumed the Dunnes had an interest in current affairs, much like anyone else. That sort of gossip had a strange way of bringing families together.

  Heather put the papers back and moved to inspect the rest of the office. Apart from the articles, the only other thing that stood out was a bowl of souvenir pins sitting on the desk—the kind you buy as memorabilia from different towns and tourist locations. Heather plucked a pin of Windsor Castle from the top of the pile and examined it, but there was nothing strange about the collection aside from the sheer number of pins in the bowl. Unless the Dunnes liked to travel several times a year, they owned far too many pins for one family.

  She opened the window and leaned out to study the grounds below. From her vantage point, she saw clear to the back of the cottage garden and even over the hedges to the park they’d walked through. The distant trees and plants stretched toward the sun, picturesque and untouched, the same as in the garden below. There were no trampled bushes beneath the windows to suggest someone had climbed inside, no signs of a struggle by the toolshed, no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened here at all.

  Heather drew back inside but left the window open to air the room, needing a break from the stuffiness. Whatever had happened to the Dunnes, they’d likely been gone for several days. That or no one who lived here knew how to open a window.

  Despite having no luck with spells that morning, on their way to meet Cian, Heather had recalled the one spell she did have at Sinéad’s house: her jar of revealing powder. It had made its way into her purse after Halloween, when they used it to learn more about the mysterious footprint, and she hadn’t yet bothered to pack it away.

  She took out the jar now and sprinkled a little of the powder onto the desk. After a few seconds, it began to shimmer with a blue light. The powder became like a mirror, except it didn’t reflect Heather’s face. Instead, she watched as several coins appeared and faded into the wood beneath them. She peered down the side of the desk; a handful of coins glinted in the darkness.

  Well, she had designed the powder to reveal anything hidden away, and it had done exactly that. Just a shame it wasn’t anything useful. She reached over to close the window, ready to leave and join the others downstairs. Several bees buzzed in and around her, and she tried to shoo them out so they didn’t get locked inside.

  They swirled through the air, buzzing over the powder and kicking up some of it as they flew. For a second, it looked like the bees glowed blue, but it must have been a trick of the light. Nothing could hide on something as small as a bee.

  She swept the last one out and shut the window behind them. The rest of the rooms proved as useless as the study had been, and she hoped Sinéad and Cian were more successful.

  Heather found them in the living room, and from the looks on their faces, their search had proven as fruitless as her own.

  “I don’t get it,” Sinéad snapped. “The Dunnes aren’t here, but even though the kidnappers probably grabbed them from their house—since we found the door unlocked and all—there are no signs of a struggle anywhere.”

  Heather nodded. “And if the kidnappers are hunting for something the Dunnes stole, shouldn’t there be more chaos left behind? You’d think they’d have ransacked the place searching for it.”

  Cian snapped his fingers and pointed sharply at Heather. “You’re right. You’re damn right. So whatever it is they want, they must know it isn’t here.”

  Heather pulled a face. “Maybe. But wouldn’t they look, anyway?”

  Cian shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I’m afraid I don’t have the mind of a dastardly criminal.”

  Sinéad raised an eyebrow at him, looking him up and down from his tattered beanie to his bare feet, but said nothing.

  “Did you find a safe hidden somewhere?” Heather asked. “Perhaps they’re keeping it in a safe.”

  She was fast running out of ideas, and soon they’d have to inform the police what had happened. Lives were in danger, and if t
he unsettling calm in the house meant anything, it didn’t appear as though anyone even knew a crime had been committed.

  Sinéad shook her head. “No safe, but…” She paused. “That’s not a bad idea.” She strode back into the hallway.

  One by one, she began lifting paintings and checking behind them. Heather and Cian caught on, and soon they were all hunting methodically. Before long, they found it tucked behind a painting of fruit in the kitchen.

  “You’d think it would be in the study,” Heather said.

  “Precisely why it’s in the kitchen, no doubt.” Sinéad’s voice held a note of reluctant pride.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with it, though,” Cian pointed out, running his gloved hands along the lock. “The painting wasn’t even crooked.”

  Heather frowned. “Their safe isn’t hard to find, but these people didn’t even look? None of this makes sense.”

  “Can you get into the safe?” Sinéad asked Cian, whose eyes widened in shock.

  “Get into the safe? Are you kidding me? Why don’t you just slap some handcuffs on me and drop me off at the station on your way home? Cut out the middle man.” He laughed incredulously. “I’m not breaking into someone’s safe.”

  “But they’re family,” Sinéad said, only a hint of bitterness there. “Surely that makes it okay. Besides, you’ve already broken into their house.”

  Cian held up one finger. “No, I’ve entered an unlocked building in search of my darling parents. That’s perfectly defensible if someone calls me out. I don’t know what dodgy rulebook you’re playing by, sister, but count me out.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “These hands are felony-free, and I intend to keep them that way.”

  “We should call the police,” Heather insisted. “There’s nothing for us to go on here, and I’m not sure anyone has reported them missing yet.”

  Sinéad snorted. “They’ve got no friends, then? Typical.”

  Heather frowned. Sinéad seemed unusually cynical. Normally, her jabs held an underlying humour, even if the only person laughing was Sinéad. But the only emotion Heather could hear now was anger.