13 Treasures (3 page)

As always, Tanya’s eyes widened as she drank in the sight of the house. There was no question that it would have been an impressive view when it was first built in the late eighteenth century. It had close to twenty bedrooms—not including the old servants’ quarters—and almost as many parlors and sitting rooms, once decorated lavishly. Had it been properly maintained, it would probably still be beautiful.

Instead, thick ivy climbed the cracked walls, growing wilder with each year, even snaking over the windows like leafy shrouds. Most rooms were now either locked or in various states of dilapidation, and the vast, once splendid grounds spanning the house ran wild and unkempt. The forecourt at the front of the house was a frothing sea of weeds; the only things that graced the gardens were a few trees and a disused water fountain. It had not worked for as long as Tanya could remember.

After parking they waited at the door for Warwick. He strolled heavily across the gravel in the forecourt and up the steps to the grand front door, ushering them inside. Oberon remained outside, panting in the shade of the house.

The smell of the hallway was always the same, damp and musty, with an underlying hint of Florence’s perfume. Tanya grimaced at the sight of the peeling, faded wallpaper in disapproval, wondering for the hundredth time why her grandmother continued to live in such an enormous house when it was clearly too big for her to look after.

On both sides of the gloomy corridor were doors that Tanya knew from experience would be locked. Few rooms in the house were in use these days. Farther along, the hallway opened out into a lobby, where there were several more doors and the main set of stairs, which led up to a small landing and then branched off in two different directions to the first floor.

The second floor, which had served as the old servants’ quarters, was pretty much out of bounds to everyone except Amos. Tanya could remember having been up there only once for a dare, and had raced back down shrieking after Fabian pretended to have seen a ghost.

“This way,” said Warwick, speaking at last in his usual brusque manner.

On the first landing stood an old grandfather clock that never worked properly, despite being mended several times. Tanya had a pretty good insight into why: it had been full of fairies for years. This was another reason she hated the place—it was absolutely crawling with fairies. She followed Warwick up the stairs, leaving her mother below. The moment her back was turned a snide voice sounded from the depths of the clock.

“Look out for the little one. She’s tricketty.”

Tanya ignored it and climbed the final few stairs. At the top she froze. A trail of richly colored feathers led to a rickety dresser, on which sat a fat ginger cat with one eye and a mouthful of feathers.

“It’s stuffed,” said Warwick, sounding bored.

Tanya spotted a stuffed pheasant on the floor with its head and half its feathers missing, and felt a mixture of relief and revulsion.

“Spitfire! Go on, get out of it!” Warwick ordered.

Spitfire stared back with his unblinking eye and continued to chew insolently. Warwick stepped past him in exasperation and paused by the first door on the left.

“Your room.”

Tanya gave a mute nod. The room he had shown her to was the same one she always stayed in, so being escorted to it seemed rather pointless. She could think of only two reasons why Warwick would want to do this, either to make himself appear courteous, or because he did not trust her not to go snooping in other rooms. Going by what she knew of his general demeanor, she concluded that it was more likely to be the second reason.

Like most of the rooms in the house, Tanya’s was spacious but sparsely furnished. The carpet was threadbare, and the walls were covered in lavender paper that was peeling off in some places. In the corner there stood a small table and chair, and in the center a bed had been freshly made up, the crisp white pillowcases still retaining their creases from being pressed. A thin scarlet blanket lay folded at the foot.

On the wall opposite the bed was a cast-iron fire-place, next to which was a door to a small bathroom for her personal use. Unfortunately it also happened to be inhabited by a slimy, amphibian-like fairy with a penchant for all things shiny. Tanya had lost many a watch and several items of jewelry to the thieving creature, and, more than once, witnessed a bewildered Warwick retrieving all manner of glittering objects out of the sink pipe in the bathroom.

Above the fireplace hung a painting of Narcissus and Echo, the handsome youth gazing at his reflection in a woodland pool while the maiden looked on, unnoticed. Tanya had never quite decided whether she liked it or not.

She deposited her bag on the bed and emptied it. Unsurprisingly, after she had put everything away the room still looked as empty as ever. Tanya placed her slippers at the foot of the bed, vaguely recalling a time when Spitfire had left a rat’s tail in one of them. She concluded now that the chances of a repeat were unlikely. At sixteen, Spitfire was practically an antique in cat years. Apart from attacking the stuffed game in the corridors, the most he was capable of catching these days was a spider or two, or perhaps a housefly if he was lucky.

She walked over to the windowsill and trailed her finger along it, leaving a thin line in the ever-present layer of grime. The view from the window looked out over the gardens at the side of the house, in which she saw a few wild rosebushes and a couple of trees. Beyond the walls sat the church with its tiny graveyard, and in the distance, a vast expanse of woodland known as Hangman’s Wood.

She watched as her mother clambered into the car in the courtyard, ready to leave, and was glad she had chosen to avoid saying good-bye. At best it would have been upsetting, and at worst caused another argument.

Tanya walked back to the bed and slowly sank down on it. In the cracked mirror of the dressing table her reflection was split into two. Twin faces with brown eyes and dark hair stared back from an olive-skinned face. Tanya averted her eyes. She had never felt more alone.

Deep in the heart of Hangman’s Wood an old caravan stood alone, half hidden by the thick foliage and cool shade of the towering trees. It was painted a bright, daffodil yellow, yet despite its vibrant color the caravan largely went unnoticed, as this was a part of the woods where people seldom ventured.

Most would have found these surroundings unnerving; but for the old gypsy woman who inhabited the caravan, the forest gave her the solitude she craved. Here she spent her days living a simple life, evading the townsfolk and their stares: some curious, some hostile, and some afraid.

It had long been said that the gypsy woman possessed powers of witchery. Her extensive knowledge of the plants and herbs growing wildly in the forest meant that she was able to remedy many an ailment. For the most part she kept to herself, sharing her remedies only when invited—and then only for a price.

But there was something else the old gypsy woman had that was of interest to a number of the townsfolk, and it was something that could not be attributed to her plants, herbs, or anything else. It was her ability to see into the past, and into the future. Those who were not afraid enough to stay away came to ask her to tell them these things, and so she did, accepting their money for her trouble.

Sometimes, however—and more frequently these days—the power evaded her and she was unable to tell them anything. On other occasions she saw things that they would not want to know, and so kept her silence. She had no name for this power other than the second sight, as her mother and her grandmother before her had called it. In younger years it had come to her freely, often in dreams. Lately it lurked at the edge of her awareness, needing to be invoked.

She did not like to summon it unless she had to.

At this time the old woman was listening to the wild birdsong through the open window. Her coarse gray hair was plaited into a simple braid, away from a weathered and craggy face. Her eyes, despite her age, were a bright cornflower blue, alert and birdlike, and held a certain kindness.

The woman raised her gnarled hand to her temple, feeling a familiar ache that was gradually becoming stronger. She got up and shuffled into the kitchen area, her gaze wandering briefly to the shallow pool collecting in the sink thanks to a leaky tap. Murky, distorted shapes were beginning to swirl in the water.

She closed the window and pulled the drapes, leaving the caravan in near-darkness. In a small cupboard, she reached past numerous jars and bottles and removed a wooden bowl and several candles. After filling the bowl with water, she placed it on the table and lit the candlewicks with a trembling hand.

The old woman took a seat at the table and leaned in close, the lines etched in her face accentuated by the dancing light of the flames. The throbbing in her temple was escalating, sending jolts of pain through her skull. Quickly, she muttered an incantation and the pain ebbed away, leaving her still and quiet in her chair.

The temperature in the caravan dropped, and the flames of the candles glowed blue. Shivering, the old woman clasped her shawl more tightly about her frail shoulders and gazed into the wooden bowl. The water clouded and then cleared. Shapes loomed. Dark colors merged and then separated. Her fingers twitched unavoidably as tiny electric shocks prickled at her skin. Then came a series of hazy images, playing out like a soundless film.

A clock struck midnight. Through the window of a nursery, the moon illuminated a child sleeping in its crib and then vanished behind a single cloud. When the moon reappeared the crib was empty, holding nothing but a small bear with a tuft of stuffing protruding from a slash on its middle, and the pristine white bedclothes were now covered in tiny, muddy footprints. The old woman frowned, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Too soon the water cleared, and for a moment she thought the vision was over, but then a new image appeared.

The water depicted a girl of twelve or thirteen with chestnut-colored hair and dark, expressive eyes. The girl in the water looked sad. Sad that nobody understood and that nobody listened. But the water told that she was not alone. The water showed what was all around her. For the girl in the water could see things that others could not. The girl had a second sight—of this there was no question—but not as the old woman knew it.

The old woman was still rubbing warmth back into her hands long after it had returned to the caravan. The cold got into her bones too easily these days. As the afternoon sun streamed into the caravan with its reassuring glow she sat motionless in her chair, continuing to stare into the bowl before her, where the watery images had long since gone. All she was left with now were questions.

The woman finally arose from the table and absentmindedly began to put away the bowl and the candles, her aged hands trembling as she did so. She knew enough to realize that fate would ensure that the girl’s path and her own would cross—and soon.

It was with a heavy heart that Tanya trudged downstairs for lunch that afternoon. Her mother had left two hours ago, and the thought of being trapped at the manor with all of its cobwebs and locked doors for the next couple of weeks was too horrible for words.

Her grandmother had arrived back in her old Volvo station wagon laden with groceries. After a brief, stony welcome, Tanya helped fetch the bags from the car. Almost immediately she noticed the dead fairy on the windshield. Initially, she thought it was an oversized fly or bug, but a closer inspection confirmed that it was definitely a fairy, like none she had ever seen before.

It was tiny, the smallest she had ever come across, smaller even than her little finger. Its minute hands were pressed flat against the glass, and only one of its wings was intact. The other was smeared across the windshield.

Tanya gagged and turned away. She had never seen anything dead before, aside from a cat that had also been hit by a car, and other smaller creatures that Spitfire had killed. A fairy was different somehow.

Consequently, her appetite was ruined. Tanya stirred her soup, nauseated, unable to stop thinking about the broken, lifeless body on the car outside. Much as she detested fairies, she could not find it in herself to just leave it there like a squashed insect. She decided then and there to give it a decent burial as soon as she got the chance.

Lunch was served at the oak table in the kitchen, which had not been neglected like most of the other rooms. Its activity and warmth had attracted a cantankerous old brownie, more often than not asleep in the tea caddy, and a shy little hearthfay who busied herself keeping plates warm and ensuring that pots did not boil over. Tanya had never managed to get a proper look at her, for she moved like lightning, darting from one darkened corner to the next. All Tanya had ever glimpsed were long, spindly fingers, a dish-cloth dress, and a curtain of red-brown hair that she hid behind.