A Witch in Love (24 page)

‘This is not the sixteenth century,’ Seth said angrily.

‘No,’ I agreed. I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘Whoever burnt down my house is very much here and now and alive.’

We stood our ground, staring fiercely at each other. Then Seth swore and turned away, deliberately hitting his forehead against the rough stone wall of the cottage.

‘Shit. Shit shit
shit
.’ He stood with both hands flat against the wall, his head bowed, refusing to look at me. ‘That old bastard. It’s never easy, is it? It’s never simple. Why can’t we just be together?’ There was a furious bitterness in his voice that I didn’t quite understand. I could only bite my lip as he kicked viciously at the cottage wall, as if Bran could somehow feel his violence. Then he crumpled the badge in his fist, flung it to the floor and ground it under his heel. I heard the enamel crack.

‘What shall we do?’ he asked at last, his voice harsh. I shrugged.

‘I don’t know. What can we do? I don’t think Bran’s strong enough to raise the subject, do you?’

‘Ugh.’ Seth rubbed his swollen forehead. ‘I want to shop him to the police – but the stupid sod would probably have a heart attack just to spite us.’

‘Anyway, chances are he won’t be able to help us,’ I said. ‘He probably joined this group back in nineteen forty-something and hasn’t had any connection since.’ Seth said nothing, but the unspoken question hovered between us – then why had Bran kept the badge?

‘It’s getting dark,’ Seth said at last. ‘We’d better finish up here.’

I nodded and we began to pack up the clothes and papers into Seth’s rucksack. As I tightened up the straps I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Seth pick up the black hood and crushed badge and toss them into the pile of rubbish. He handled them as if they were poisonous, with the tips of his fingers.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘
O
K. Well. What are you going to do?’ Emmaline bit into a slice of soggy school pizza and stared at me accusingly. It seemed like every conversation these days was punctuated with someone asking what I was going to do. What to do about my grandmother. What to do about the Malleus. What to do about Bran. What to do about my leaky, imperfect power. How was I supposed to know? I was just seventeen. Eighteen. Whatever … I wanted someone to tell
me
what to do for a change.

‘I don’t know, Em. Happy? I have no idea. My grandmother is part of a secret organization who was trying to kill us last year. My boyfriend’s grandad was part of a secret organization who seems to be trying to persecute me right now. My mother was so worried about my very existence that she tried to stamp out my magic before it even came in, for reasons I’ve yet to identify. I’ve lost my coat and my walking boots and I can’t control my power. Apart from advocating compulsory euthanasia for the over-sixties, I really have no idea how to sort this out.’

‘Look – you need a break from all this. Come over this weekend – stay the night, talk to Mum about it.’

This weekend … A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach and I said shortly,

‘Can’t, unfortunately. It’s my birthday—’

‘
Allegedly
,’ Em interjected sarcastically.

‘Allegedly,’ I agreed. ‘Anyway, Elaine wants to have me and Dad over for dinner to celebrate. While Bran’s there. She hasn’t exactly spelled it out, but I think she figures he can’t kick up a fuss if she stages it as a big birthday-celebration-type thing.’

‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ Em asked sceptically. I shrugged. Truth to tell, I wasn’t entirely convinced myself – but Elaine wanted to do it and Seth wanted to do it and Dad wanted to do it. It seemed like Bran and I would have something in common at least. It looked like we were the only people who thought this was a bad idea.

I was about to say as much when a shadow fell over our table and Em and I both looked up. Mrs Redbird, the school secretary, was standing in front of us carrying a large cardboard box and wearing a thoroughly pissed-off expression.

‘Anna Winterson, do
not
make a habit of this. I’ve put up with it this time, but my office isn’t a parcel depot for your convenience.’

‘I’m s-sorry?’ I stammered.

‘Here.’ She dumped the box down on the table with a thump. ‘I told the courier – any further deliveries for pupils will be returned to sender. Consider yourself lucky.’

She stamped off, back to her office, and Em and I were left staring at the box in bewilderment. It was done up in brown paper and string and had a white address label on it bearing my name and
c/o Winter High, Harbour Road, Winter
.

I turned it over to see if there was a sender’s name. There was. It was from E. Rokewood. The return postcode was London W8 – Kensington.

‘It’s from my grandmother,’ I said.

‘Er, would that perchance be the same grandmother that tried to get us all killed?’ Em poked the string with one cautious finger, as though the box might explode.

‘Yup.’ I hefted the parcel. It was heavy, but not too heavy. It wasn’t ticking. No suspicious fluids were leaking out. ‘What do you think?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

With a feeling of mingled dread and curiosity I unthreaded the string and pulled away the paper wrappings. Inside was a cardboard box and a letter.

‘Box first,’ Em said bossily. ‘If it’s on a timer we need plenty of warning to decide which wire to cut.’

‘Oh shut up, do.’ I opened one flap and peered inside, and then had to laugh at myself as I realized I was holding my breath as if it really
was
a bomb inside. It was not a bomb. It was clothes. My clothes, to be exact. My coat – which had been dry-cleaned and pressed and looked smarter than at any time I’d owned it. My boots – cleaned and re-waterproofed. My jeans, my shirt, my socks – all beautifully laundered, ironed and folded with layers of tissue paper in between. I didn’t flatter myself that my grandmother had done all this – she didn’t look like she’d know one end of an iron from another. But it was, I supposed, kind of nice that she’d asked her secretary to sort it or something. But my clothes alone couldn’t account for the size of the box and, peering underneath, I saw there were more layers of paper and more clothes. I shook out the top garment and sighed. It was the beautiful cashmere sheath dress, as soft as a black kitten against my cheek. Emmaline gave a groan of sheer envy and began to dig.

‘Oh my God … Issey Miyake, Miu Miu, Alexander McQueen – what
is
this? Aid parcels for the poor relations?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Oh, oh, oh!’ She pressed a mass of deep-sapphire pleats to her breast. ‘Anna, I will die and go to heaven if you let me borrow this some time.’

‘I thought you weren’t into clothes?’ I said sourly.

‘Other clothes – no. These clothes – yes. If you can’t tell the difference you don’t deserve to wear them.’

I could tell the difference. At least, I could tell that eBaying this lot would probably pay for the repairs to the kitchen. At the very, very bottom was a small jeweller’s box. I opened it and blenched. It was a pair of earrings, pretty hanging things each with a dark-blue stone the colour of the evening sky. I had a horrible presentiment that whatever they were, they were the real thing. I snapped the box shut and closed my eyes, and then opened them again and hastily started stuffing clothes back inside before anyone else could gawp.

‘What are you doing?’ Em was practically hopping up and down in agony. ‘You’re crushing them! Oh! You evil wench! Stop it now – it’s a crime against couture.’

‘Shut up,’ I said briefly and yanked the string tight around the box. How the hell was I going to get this home? Then the bell rang and Emmaline was forced to go to her Philosophy class. I was luckier – I had a free, so I dragged myself and the bloody box off to the girls’ toilets and locked myself in to read the letter.

Dear Anna
, it began,
since I don’t know your address I am sending this to Winter High where, I think you said, you attend school
.

Since you ran away from our dinner last week I have done some investigating and have made a few discoveries of my own about your experience with our organization. I can now
quite
understand your shock and horror at discovering where you were – and can only say how desperately sorry I am that you were put through such an ordeal
.

But, my dear, please, please believe me – you are wrong to think that I had anything to do with those events. Maud Revere works for one of my fellow Chairs – it might be fairer to say, one of my
rival
Chairs. It was Thaddeus Corax who ordered the attack on Winter, advised by his agent Vivian Brereton, who, I understand, was working at your school
.

I was completely unaware of the events and, to do him justice, I do not believe that Corax knew of our relationship. Had he known who you were, I am morally certain that he would have approached the issue very, very differently. You must remember that I did not know myself, until a week ago, that your surname was Winterson, or even that you were in England. All Corax knew was that someone had begun some rather indiscreet displays of power in Winter and that that person seemed unamenable to approaches.

I do not attempt in any way to excuse his actions, which were, let me state clearly, indefensible, regardless of our relationship. Unfortunately he is of another generation entirely – as you will discover if you meet him one day – and there are times when he forgets that summary justice is no longer our right to dispense, even if we wished to do so. And, too, he was not present at the attack, and some of his agents on the ground exceeded their powers. But all this sounds like I am making excuses for him, which is not at all what I set out to do in this letter
.

Anna, please, please believe me when I say that I am distraught to think that Thaddeus Corax’s high-handed actions may have sabotaged my chance to know my granddaughter. When I received Caradoc’s call I felt as if I had been given a second chance, not only with you, but, by proxy, with your mother. To have that chance snatched away is too cruel – and I know, my dear, that cruelty is not part of your nature. I could see that from the first moment that we met
.

Please, don’t punish me in Corax’s stead. And don’t punish yourself. There is a great deal I can do for you – I can only guess how hard it must have been for you to have gone through the discovery of your nature without anyone to help you. You could do very great things, Anna – very great good. Perhaps I am naive in hoping that I can help you fulfil your destiny at this late stage, but I would like to do what I can.

And it is not only selfishness that prompts me to write to you – there is another, more practical, more political reason for my plea. It may be, if you will come to London and go over what happened last year, that Corax can be made to pay for his actions in Winter. I don’t pretend that this is a certainty, or that the word of one young girl against a senior Chair of our organization would topple him instantly, but it might be a chink in his armour – and sometimes it is that first chink that is hardest to achieve
.

So, dear Anna, for my sake, and for the sake of others who may come under Corax’s thumb, please do reconsider
.

Your very loving grandmother,

Elizabeth N. Rokewood

As I finished reading the letter, it seemed to twitch like a live thing in my hand, almost as if caught in a strong breeze, though there was no window open in the room. Then a corner of the paper began suddenly to glow and it burst into blue, heatless flames. Within seconds the page was just a handful of cold, grey ashes. I opened my hand and let them scatter to the floor.

Later that night, in my room, I tried to compose an email back.

Dear
 … Great. I was stuck at the second word. Dear what? Dear Granny? Dear Grandma? It seemed fake and cheesy to somehow claim a cosy relationship with this formidable woman I’d met only twice. Yet
Dear Mrs Rokewood
seemed like a deliberate snub and
Dear Elizabeth
was just impossible. In the end I deleted
Dear
and started again, ducking the issue completely.

Thank you for your letter, which arrived today, and for the clothes. I appreciate their return – though you didn’t have to include the borrowed clothes as well
.

I will think about what you said in your letter. Things are slightly difficult here at the moment
– understatement of the year –
but I appreciate your point about bringing Chair Corax to account
. Two appreciates. Oh well, this wasn’t an English essay. What to say next? Yes, I want a relationship? No, you cut my dad out of your life; you can’t play happy families now?