The Sword of Straw (19 page)

“I have the tokens,” she said.

An ethereal hand extended from the mirror and touched the hair clip and the rugger shirt, hovering over the bandage.

“What is
this
?”

“It was the best I could do,” Hazel said impatiently. The anger at her humiliation in front of her classmates was still with her. “Jonas had it on a cut. It’s got his blood on it—his DNA.”

“Blood is good,” Lilliat said, her upper lip lifting, giving her an almost hungry expression. “Blood is the ichor of life. But I prefer it in a liquid form.”

“The ick factor,” Hazel muttered.

In the mirror, another face appeared below that of the spirit—Jonas, looking at Hazel with the faint bewilderment he had shown when Hazel offered him a fresh Band-Aid. “This is the one?” Lilliat asked. “The boy you love?”

Suddenly, Hazel wasn’t sure. Jonas seemed a figure of fantasy, neither attractive, nor desirable, nor inscrutable and mysterious—a passion she clung to because it gave purpose to her life, it gave her a dream to chase, an illusion of depth and feeling. But even if it was a fantasy, she needed it too much to let go of it now.

She said: “Yes. That’s Jonas.”

“And this”—his reflection faded, to be replaced by Ellen Carver, her features pouty with prettiness and spite—“this is the girl you want to destroy?”

“Not
destroy
…I just want her out of his life. I mean, I don’t want him to care for her anymore.”

“It is done,” Lilliat said, smiling.

The surface of the mirror shimmered into nothing—there was just a hole in the air, a space in the very fabric of being. Spirit and reflection disappeared into a whirling, sucking darkness—voices from every corner of the room murmured words in an ancient language, half heard and less than half understood. The hair clip and the bandage flared with a swift blue flame, crisped, and vanished. Tiny pulses of power shivered across the floor, crackling the hairs on Hazel’s skin. For a minute she
felt
like a witch, standing at the core of something unknown and unknowable, sensing the alien magic throb in her fingertips, beat in her blood. In that minute, it was the magic that mattered—the scorn of her classmates was less than the chatter of birds, and all her love for Jonas was gone in a breath. She glimpsed the person she might become, great among the Gifted, immortal among mortals, twisting the threads of her life into the design of her choosing, controlling family, friends, Nathan…

The idea of Nathan came as if Lilliat had summoned his presence from the token, pushing it into her thought. Hazel shrank away, flinching from guilt or doubt, and the power fizzled into nothing, and she was herself again, inadequate and alone. In the mirror, the void iced over, and Lilliat was there once more.

“You are afraid,” she said. “You’re afraid of your own power.”

“Will the spell work?” Hazel demanded.

“Maybe.”

“You promised! If it doesn’t—”

“What can you do?” The silver laugh mocked her. “Don’t dare to doubt it. Your fear—your faltering—will undermine it. Believe it—want it—
need
it—with your whole body, your whole heart. Give yourself to the magic and it will work for you, and the world is yours.”

“I don’t want the world,” Hazel said. “Jonas is enough for me.”

“Nothing is ever enough,” said Lilliat. “Now for the final token.” From the mirror her arms reached out, mist-faint and snow-pale.

Hazel snatched the rugger shirt away, clutching it to her chest. “Not yet! When I have Jonas—when the spell works…”

“The spell is complete,” Lilliat said. “The price must be paid.” Her hair grew and darkened, overflowing the mirror, streaming through the air like a flood of black water. Her eyes widened, opening onto deeps of midnight. There was no mirror now, no room, only her figure stooping amid the shadows of her endless hair. Hazel screamed—words she had read in her great-grandmother’s notes, though she scarcely knew what they portended.
“Envarré! Néfia!
Go! Go now!”

“You rejected the power,” said the spirit who had called herself Lilliat. “You cannot call on it now. You have neither the strength nor the knowledge. The bargain is made—fulfill your part.” Her hair swirled into a storm, spinning, tugging, while Hazel cowered at its heart. The rugger shirt was wrenched from her grasp. Then the darkness shrank back into the mirror—there was a splintering noise, and the last wisp of shadow slipped through a crack in the glass. Only the voice of the phantom lingered, whispering, promising. “Do not regret. You will need me again, very soon. Call, and I will come to you. Call me…I will come…I will come…”

The whisper faded. There was a breath of air that felt chill and smelt faintly salty…then only the warm stuffiness of Hazel’s bedroom. She sat on the floor, trembling and hugging her knees. Staring and staring at the broken mirror.

It was a long time before she moved.

I
NEVITABLY, THE
kidnapping led to a
rapprochement
between Nathan and his mother. The barriers were not dissolved but accepted, of necessity on her part; hostilities were over. At Ffylde, Nathan did his best to gloss over the whole incident, saying as little as possible even to Ned Gable. Damon reputedly came in to finish his exams but wasn’t seen on the premises at all, leading to rumors he had been expelled. Stories began to circulate about his poker debts, becoming increasingly improbable, pushing them into six figures. Everyone waited hopefully for dramatic developments, but nothing happened. In Eade, Bartlemy dropped into the bookshop and asked Annie to accompany him to the Hackforths. “They know you. Under the circumstances, I don’t think they will refuse to talk to us.”

Annie thought of Selena’s face, worn out from the long struggle against her daughter’s illness, her son’s delinquency. “Must we?” she said, and then, answering her own question: “Of course we must. After all, what Damon did wasn’t really his fault—was it?”

“Not entirely.”

And, on a note of hope: “Could you—could you help the girl—Melly-Anne? You know so much about medicines…”

“Help—maybe. Cure—no. I cannot perform miracles.”

“Isn’t that what magic is for—miracles?”

“I wish it were,” Bartlemy said, a little sadly. “But magic cannot change the world, only twist it. The Gift, at its most potent, is about power—not the power to do good, but power for its own sake. The mightiest wizard may bend the universe around him, but he cannot stop the sparrow’s fall, nor turn a few grains of dust back into a man. Magic is mere force, like electricity. Miracles are beyond explanation.”

“Have you ever seen one?” Annie asked.

“I’ve seen many. The beauty of the sunset—the strength of the human heart—these are the true miracles. What scientific or magical explanation is there for our pleasure in nature’s loveliness—for mercy, kindness, selfless love? We have analyzed our world down to the smallest particle, but the answers only pose more questions. As for creation, forensics may tell us how the crime was committed, but not who did it, or to what end. Magic can weave a spell powerful enough to open a door between worlds, but it cannot make those worlds anew, nor restore what has been lost. Keep faith—have hope—and be comforted. Life is full of miracles, though they don’t come to order.”

They drove to the Hackforth home in Annie’s car, arriving just before teatime.

“We should’ve called,” Annie said. “They might be out.”

“They won’t be out,” Bartlemy said with the air of one who knew. “I preferred to take them by surprise.”

Selena greeted them, looking wearier than ever. “Of course,” she said. “I suppose…I’ve been expecting you. Is this your lawyer?”

“My
lawyer
?” Annie looked blank.

“Giles thought—Giles said you would take legal action. I can’t blame you. Damon told us what he did.”

“I’m a friend,” Bartlemy said. “I stand to Nathan in the relationship of an uncle. My name is Goodman, Bartlemy Goodman. Your son may have mentioned me.”

“Yes, he…he said something…”

“May we come in?”

They went in. The dogs rushed forward, welcoming Annie like a long-lost friend, mobbing Bartlemy, who calmed them with a word. They followed him past the kitchen into the drawing room, where a gray-faced Giles sat on a gray-covered sofa. He got up, looking guarded; hands were shaken.

“I’m prepared to pay compensation,” Giles said, rushing into speech. “If we could just keep the matter out of the courts—”

“We don’t want compensation,” Annie said. “Honestly. I never even thought of it. We just want to talk.”

Hackforth didn’t look particularly reassured.

“If I might have a word with you alone,” Bartlemy said, flicking a glance at Annie, who suppressed her curiosity with reluctance.

“We’ll get some tea,” she said.

In the end she steered Selena into the garden, wandering between color-coordinated banks of flowers, admiring the roses, the shaved lawn, the dubious sculpture in the water feature. “Barty’s really good with homeopathic medicines,” Annie said at last. “He might have something that would help Melly-Anne. Not—not exactly a magic potion, but—it’s all natural stuff, it can’t hurt to try it.”

“It’s nice of you to think of her,” Selena said with automatic courtesy. “After Damon…” She couldn’t bring herself to be more specific.

“Barty says—it wasn’t his fault,” Annie said with difficulty. “He thinks Damon was controlled—influenced—by someone. I expect that’s what he’s discussing with your husband.”

“You mean, one of his friends? We’ve never really known who he…hangs out with.”

Annie thought of Ram and Ginger. According to Nathan, they had been controlled by Damon, not vice versa. She said: “Possibly.”

Later the men joined them for tea. Giles, Annie was pleased to see, appeared less tense, less anxious, almost relaxed. It was Bartlemy in whose manner she detected a faint—a very faint—undercurrent of something she couldn’t define—worry, uncertainty, fear. But Bartlemy was never worried or afraid. On the way home she asked him what was wrong, but his response was noncommittal.

“You’ve found out something,” she accused. “Something about who was really behind the burglaries, and manipulating Damon. Nathan thinks it was Giles himself, but…”

“
Attempted
burglaries,” Bartlemy corrected her. “Anyway, I only had a suspicion confirmed.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing. For now.”

A
RRIVING AT
school on Monday, Hazel found her worst nightmares coming true. Ellen Carver and her entourage were gathered in a little group, talking in gleeful whispers, watching her sideways, sniggering. The snigger spread through the class like a ripple as the whisper passed from mouth to ear, unhindered by lessons or the presence of teaching staff. The teachers were divorced from the teenage world, existing on an aloof plane while the real life of the school seethed and festered underneath. If they noticed Hazel was quiet that meant little; she was always quiet, a loner with few close friends who made scant contribution in class. Inside the armor of her silence she thought she died a hundred times that day, stabbed by the giggles, the nudges, the sly remarks, the derisive glances. Those who had been her mates backed off, joining the enemy or simply avoiding her, unwilling to be identified with the pariah. She curled up inside herself like a hedgehog, all prickle, showing no reaction, pulling her hair so far over her face that the gym mistress told her rather sharply to tie it back. Whether Jonas Tyler had heard the story she didn’t know—she saw him only at a distance, and he didn’t appear to see her—but her faith in the magic was gone. The spell was mere words—words and dreams—the reality was private folly, public shame. She had been stupid, credulous, childish, and now she was paying the price.

It was all Lilliat’s fault.

She was leaving school around two, playing truant from her last lesson, when she ran into Jonas. He said “Hi,” taking her off guard. She hadn’t expected a normal greeting from anyone. She grunted in reply—she couldn’t manage
hello
.

They stood for a minute in mutual embarrassment, looking at each other. At least, Jonas looked; Hazel could see little through her hair.

“Thanks for the bandage yesterday,” he went on with youthful tactlessness. “I’m sorry the others seem to think…Well, thanks anyway.”

Hazel gave a shrug that emerged as a twitch. Why on earth was he thanking her for a
Band-Aid,
for God’s sake? Perhaps he was mocking her.

She expected him to go away, but he hesitated, shifting his feet.

“They’re giving you a bad time, aren’t they?”

“I’m all right.” Hazel was gruff.

“Girls can be so bitchy. I don’t mean you—you’re not like that—but even Ellen…”

“I thought she was your girlfriend?”

Jonas fidgeted more than ever. “Um…sort of. Only—I don’t like bitches. Of course, she’s very pretty—lots of blokes want to go out with her—but she’s a bit of a tease. She comes on really sexy and then…” He stalled, fumbled, restarted. “Look, I like you a lot. Honestly. I wish…I wish we could talk sometime.”

What’s happening here?
Hazel thought.
He’s almost asking me out.

This time it was surprise that paralyzed her vocal cords.
The spell must have worked.
Wow.

“The thing is, all my mates would laugh. Maybe we could meet somewhere…secret. Get to know each other a bit better. Without anyone finding out…”

Wow?

“Romeo and Juliet?” Hazel said. “That sounds pretty silly to me.”

“They just had family problems, didn’t they?” he commented vaguely. “We’ve got the whole school to contend with.”

“I don’t know…” This wasn’t working out the way she’d fantasized at all.

“I really do like you.” He reached out, touched her. She found herself shrinking away. “I bet you’re not a tease. I bet if you liked someone…”

Hazel gazed into his face and saw the mystery evaporate. He was just a rather shy boy who wanted to get laid. And he thought she was so hooked on him she’d be a pushover. Whether the spell had actually worked or not she never knew. In that instant of disillusion, she felt it didn’t really matter.