A Witch in Love (3 page)

Emmaline had obviously been thinking things over, because as soon as we were seated she said, ‘Do you think you’re taking the wrong tack?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Over these … leakages, or whatever you want to call them.’

I snorted. ‘Nice terminology! Shall I add incontinence pads to my Christmas list?’

Emmaline laughed.

‘You know what I mean. I wonder if it’s because you’re trying too hard
not
to do any magic. So the power is building and building and it has to come out somehow, and it’s escaping when you’re concentrating on other things – moments of emotional stress or whatever. Small distraction, like, say, Mr Waters batting his lovely eyelashes at you, equals small leak; massive distraction, like, say, an attempted mugging, equals massive leak.’

I thought about her theory as the wintry countryside flashed past: dark wet fields, leafless trees, pools of morning mist in the hollows. The telegraph poles reflected the noise of the train like a human pulse.

‘There could be something in that,’ I said at last. ‘So what’s your solution?’

‘Let it out, safely.’

‘But what about—’

Emmaline didn’t wait for me to finish, she didn’t need to.

‘Away from the outwith, so the Ealdwitan can’t object. You could do worse than take up Mum’s offer of lessons.’

She must have seen something in my face – dumb mutiny perhaps – because she leant forwards across the gap between the seats, suddenly serious, ‘Look, I know you’re doing some kind of normality kick, and I don’t want to piss on your snowball, but you’ve
got
to get this under control. It’s getting worse isn’t it?’ I nodded, tight-lipped. ‘And your stress levels are only going to go up between now and A levels. What if something
really
serious happens and you totally crack?’

I looked away from her beseeching dark eyes, out of the window. Lessons. Witchcraft. Was I really ready to let go of my old life so completely? Did I have a choice?

‘We could try,’ I said at last. It was more to get her off my back than because I was convinced by her argument.

‘OK. Good. Anyway, more importantly,’ Emmaline changed the subject determinedly, ‘what are we going to do in London?’

I made an effort to drag my mind back to pleasanter subjects.

‘Well, Selfridges and then maybe Bond Street, I thought. Dad gave me some money for clothes and I’ll probably find something there. And then Dad’s asked me to get some stuff from Fortnum’s for Christmas lunch, and I’m going to get him books, so we can nip to Hatchards. It’s a bookshop,’ I added in response to Em’s single raised brow. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I realize you’re revelling in your role of sultry urbanista, but please try not to rub in the fact that I’m just a lowly provincial. All those sound good – I’m going to get Sienna clothes so Selfridges works for me, and Abe and Simon will get books so Hatchets sounds fine.’

‘Hatchards,’ I corrected automatically.

‘Nobody likes a know-it-all, Anna. What are you getting Seth?’

‘Oh, he’s sorted. What about your mum?’

‘I don’t know … I thought something a bit different – an antique maybe. Is there anywhere, you know, kind of vintage, junk-shoppy?’

‘Not on Piccadilly,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Unless you want to spend a couple of grand. But we could go to Portobello Market. It’s right near where I used to live.’

We ended up wandering round Notting Hill, a mountain of shopping bags over each arm and hot bourek burning our hands in lieu of lunch.

‘There’s this bakery’ – I spoke round a mouthful of scalding feta – ‘that does these amazing little Portuguese custard tarts. It’s just down this road. Shall we head there and we can have coffee and a tart for pudding?’

‘You’re
so
lucky,’ Emmaline sighed, uncharacteristically soft with longing. ‘Growing up round here, all these amazing shops, the cinemas, the nightclubs …’

‘Not that I got much use out of the nightclubs at any rate,’ I said regretfully. ‘I left before they’d believe my false ID. Anyway, I’m not lucky any more; I’m just one of the lowly provincials too, remember?’

‘But you’ll go back, will you? For uni, I mean?’

‘I don’t know … maybe.’ Ms Wright had pushed me into applying for Oxford, but I still wasn’t sure – partly put off by the shady rumours of Ealdwitan involvement in some of the colleges, although I didn’t want to admit that to Emmaline. But Dad had been up at Magdalen and I knew he’d burst with pride if I followed his footsteps. And then of course there was Seth, who wasn’t likely to get into either Oxford or Cambridge with his results – and wouldn’t have wanted to anyway. He planned to study Marine Biology and was applying to Plymouth, Bangor and UHI up in the far north of Scotland. Either way, I was unlikely to see much of him unless I was prepared to go to a coastal institute.

I looked around for something to change the subject and stopped dead in the street. We’d been wandering almost aimlessly towards the Portuguese bakery and I’d barely noticed where my feet had taken me.

‘Emmaline – look! Look where we are!’

‘What?’ Emmaline looked up and down the road. ‘It looks just like all the other streets. Is it famous?’

‘It’s
my
street – my street where Dad and I used to live.’ I stopped outside number 31, gazing up at the long clean lines of the terraced house. ‘And this is our house. I’m home!’

‘This one?’ Emmaline jerked her thumb at the dark-green door. ‘This one right here was your house?’

I nodded.

‘That’s my room.’ I pointed to the second floor; the little window still had a CND sticker on it from my passionate Green Party phase.

‘Yuck.’ Emmaline shuddered involuntarily and backed away into the road.

‘What’s with you?’ I was suddenly deeply offended. This was the house where I was born, had grown up, where all my childhood memories were. I thought of me and Dad in the kitchen, baking my first fairy cakes, flat and burnt on top. I remembered climbing into his bed on Sunday mornings for hot milk and chocolate digestives, leaving chocolately handprints on his duvet and the
Sunday Times
. All the memories of my life before Winter, all bound up with this tall white house. It had been my home for more than seventeen years and, in some way, would always be home in a way that Winter never could. Every inch of me bristled at Emmaline’s reaction.

‘What on earth do you mean, yuck?’

‘Anna, this place is just lousy with magic. Can’t you feel it?’

With a great effort I took a step back from my nostalgia and looked at the house anew – as a witch.

She was right. A strange dead-feeling magical force was throbbing over the entire front of the house. I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed it before – the stench of magic was like a physical slap in the face. Once I
had
noticed it, I couldn’t suppress an echoing shudder of my own.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve no idea, but it’s coming from
there
.’ Emmaline pointed distastefully at the front step of the house.

‘Can’t we find out what it is?’ I asked.

‘I think there must be something buried under there – it’s too localized to be anything general. It must be a charm, I guess – no way of knowing without seeing it though.’

‘So what are you saying – we need to dig it up?’

Emmaline nodded.

‘But … but it’s solid stone! And we haven’t got so much as a spade!’

Emmaline rolled her eyes. ‘Not with a spade, you divot. Have you forgotten your powers?’

‘But … but
here
? In front of everyone?’

‘Who’s here?’ Emmaline pointed out. ‘Anyway I can shield us from any outwith who come past – it’s not hard to do a deflecting spell.’ She rapped on the door and listened for a moment. ‘No one in the house, so that’s good. Go on, you blast the step and I’ll keep us hidden.’

She looked up and down the road and, as if on cue, an old lady’s face peered curiously out of the window opposite. Emmaline pointed a finger at her imperiously; the lady’s face went blank, and she turned back to her front room, suddenly quite uninterested.

‘Go on!’ Emmaline urged. ‘This’ll be a good test of my theory about your magical incontinence. Let a bit out and we’ll see if you have any more leaks tonight.’

‘Em, please, I don’t want to.’

‘For God’s sake, why not?’

‘Do you have to ask? After what happened last year?’

‘Oh, come on! You haven’t heard from the Ealdwitan in months. I don’t believe it’s anything to do with them; this is about you trying to pretend you’re an outwith so you can be the perfect couple with Seth. Anyway, you didn’t have any qualms about blasting them to shards last summer, did you?’

‘That wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity.’

‘Well, try this for necessity,’ Em said. ‘I’m going to lift that step; if you value your continued liberty from the Ealdwitan then give me a shield.’ She pointed a finger at the step and raised an eyebrow.

‘I don’t know how!’

‘Oh, of course you do, it’s not hard. Just, you know, think blanketing thoughts. If anyone looks out, tell them that there’s nothing to worry about. Ready?’

I stiffened, ready to shield us from any passers-by – but nothing happened. I could feel my power throbbing with painful intensity in the core of my body, but I couldn’t access it. It was like being in the loo and desperately needing a pee, but hearing someone in the stall next door and being unable to let go.

Emmaline pointed her finger at the step and I yelped out, ‘Stop!’

‘What?’

‘I can’t do it!’ I said desperately. ‘I can’t get it out. My magic, it’s like it’s trapped.’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Em said shortly. ‘You’re just worried because of what happened last night. Don’t force it – just relax.’

I shook myself, took a few deep breaths, and tried to let the magic flow. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing! What was happening?

‘Anna, I’m warning you, I’m lifting that step in five … four … three …’

‘I can’t!’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong, but I just can’t. Someone’s going to see us.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, do I have to do everything around here?’ Emmaline snapped. Her shoulders tensed and I could see she was concentrating desperately on shielding, while still trying to maintain enough of her power to lift the step. There was a moment’s internal struggle, and then a crack, and the earth erupted in a small quiet volcano, rich soil bubbling up through the snapped stonework. Emmaline gave a great sigh of relief and we both hurried forwards to examine the earth. There, in the middle, was a stained oilskin packet, caked in dirt and tied up with red string. It stank of magic so strongly I could hardly bear to touch it, but with a great effort I snatched it up and shoved it in a shopping bag. Then, with a glance up and down the street, Emmaline crushed the earth back down and smoothed the stone step back in place, and the house and its porch looked just as it’d always done for all the years I’d lived there.

At the Portuguese bakery we ordered custard tarts and coffee, although I really didn’t need anything likely to make my hands shake any more, and then sat at a quiet table in the little back room. I was too preoccupied to drink. The packet felt like it was burning a hole in the plastic shopping bag.

‘What are we going to do with … 
it
?’ I asked at last in a low voice.

‘I don’t know.’ Emmaline bit her nail. ‘I wish we knew what it was. It feels … bad. I think we have to open it.’

‘What – here?’ I said incredulously. ‘But what if there’s some kind of dreadful magic that leaks out – kills someone maybe?’

‘I don’t
think
it’ll be anything harmful to the outwith – I mean, it’s been under your step for a while, by the looks of things, and all your neighbours seem to be OK. If there’s any danger I’d say it’d be to you or me. But what choices have we got – dump it here or take it home, basically, right?’

‘We can’t dump it here,’ I said instantly. Emmaline nodded grimly.

‘And I’m not letting you carry it back to Winter without checking it out. Besides, don’t you want to know what’s been hiding under your step all these years? Don’t you want to see?’

I did. I did want to see. I lifted the bag on to the table and fished inside.

In spite of her encouragement Emmaline fell back at the reek of magic. So did I. The small packet throbbed with a bizarre numbing sensation that I’d never encountered before. I could hardly bring myself to bend closer, but I forced myself to pick at the knot of red string, and then peeled back the crusted oilskin, my eyes watering all the time.

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Emmaline was leaning as far back in her chair as she could go, her face averted from the parcel. ‘Get it over with. Just look and then get it back in the bag.’

Through my watery eyes I could see scraps of something – some kind of parchment. There seemed to be two pieces, and as I unfolded the first I saw writing on it – small spidery letters draggling across the page. But the characters swam in front of my eyes and I couldn’t make out the words – in fact, they barely looked like letters at all.