The Garden Of Magic 3x2u6c

Iris Harper has lived in Pendleford for decades, the local witch is mistrusted by the townsfolk, but that doesn’t stop some coming to her begging for potions, spells and quick-fixes. As time has marched on suddenly Iris is aware that her days are beginning to fade. Her sumptuous garden is turning against her, the sweet scent of rot potent and now a young girl has come begging for a solution at her door.

Yet, the problem she brings causes Iris to a man from long ago – the man she loved, the man she could never trust…

Praise for SARAH PAINTER’s Pendleford series

‘Sarah Painter is a talented new writer, and her debut is a charming, romantic and intriguing story, with a little touch of magic. It had me enchanted.’ – Clodagh Murphy on The Language of Spells

‘I would recommend this book as it is a real mix: it’s a love story and a thriller with a dash of magic thrown in for good measure.’ – Laura’s Book Review on The Secrets of Ghosts

‘The plot had great twists and turns and when I thought I had the story figured out, the story would go in a different direction and surprise me. I didn’t want to put it down and the further I got into the book, the harder it was to stop reading … A wonderful debut novel and I’m looking forward to reading the next one.’ – Novel Kicks on The Language of Spells

‘I thoroughly enjoyed The Secrets of Ghosts. It was just as magical and just as enjoyable as The Language of Spells and I am soooooo glad Sarah Painter decided to go back to Pendleford. … I really do love magical fiction and I think Sarah Painter is one of the best at giving you a realistic look at magic and all that comes with it.’ – Chick Lit Reviews on The Secrets of Ghosts

‘I really loved this book – and it is not often I say this, really. An amazing debut, I was sucked in so much I could hardly put it down and finished it in about a day I think. I also couldn’t stop talking about it! That is its charm and the skill of the writer, you can’t quite put your finger on what it is … I hope to read more in the future by this author.’ – Beloved Eleanor on The Language of Spells

‘This really was a fantastic debut novel … The language was also simple but elegant and meant that the story flowed seamlessly. I honestly could not put it down.’ – Laura’s Little Book Blog on The Language of Spells

‘Utterly enchanting.’ – The Madwoman in the Attic on The Secrets of Ghosts

Also by Sarah Painter

The Language of Spells

The Secrets of Ghosts

The Garden of Magic

Sarah Painter

Copyright

HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Sarah Painter 2015

Sarah Painter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, ed,

decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9781474044882

Version date: 2018-10-30

Before writing books, SARAH PAINTER worked as a freelance journalist and editor, while juggling amateur child-wrangling (aka motherhood) with her demanding Internet-appreciation schedule (aka procrastination).

Born in Wales to a Scot and an Englishman (very nearly a ‘three men walked into a bar’ joke), she now lives in Scotland with her husband, two children and a grey tabby called Zelda Kitzgerald. She loves the work of Joss Whedon, reading in bed, salt and vinegar crisps, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.

Sarah podcasts at www.worriedwriter.com and writes about craft, books and writing at www.sarah-painter.com.

Thank you to Victoria and Sally at HQ Digital for their editorial wizardry and to Agent Fabulous (AKA Sallyanne Sweeney) for her continued and advice. This story wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for all the lovely reader messages asking for more from Iris Harper. I really enjoyed revisiting Pendleford and I hope you do, too! Finally, a massive thank you to my friends and family for putting up with my writerly nonsense.

For my readers, with love and gratitude.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Iris Harper was feeling old. She was eighty-two so this wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was still irritating. Iris had always thought that ‘where there was a will there was a way’ and her will was formidable. She prided herself on her command of her body and felt personally affronted that it was letting her down after years of excellent service.

There was somebody knocking on her back door and it had taken an inordinate amount of time for Iris to get up from the easy chair in her bedroom and down the stairs. Yet another gift of advanced age; she now moved like an old woman.

Iris was surprised to find the man still waiting by the time she got to the door. Her regulars often just let themselves in after a cursory rap on the wood. It was Martin Angel from Bradford Farm, though, and he’d been raised right by real country folk. The kind who knew that you always paid your witch, no matter how much she politely declined; the kind who knew that you could walk into your neighbour’s house and call out ‘hullo, there’ by way of greeting, but that you’d better stay on the step if you were courting a girl, visiting nobility or wanted a favour from Iris Harper.

‘Mr Angel,’ Iris said, trying to stand a little straighter. ‘Are the lambs all right?’

He ducked his head in a nod. After a moment’s hesitation, he said: ‘It’s me. I’ve got a problem, Mrs Harper.’

Iris was not now and never had been married, but Mr Angel was a traditional

sort of man and would no more have been able to call her ‘Ms’ than use her first name. After all, they’d only known each other for fifty years.

Fifty years. And I can feel every single one of them, Iris thought. She switched the kettle on and put tea into the pot. Then she filled a glass of water and popped a couple of capsules from their foil beds and swallowed them gratefully. Another side effect of age was that, although Martin Angel was a fifty-year-old widower, a large part of her still saw him as the little boy who used to pick strawberries in her garden while she helped his mother with her woman’s troubles.

‘Would you do the honours today?’ Iris said, sitting down in her usual place.

Martin busied himself with pouring water into the teapot and carrying it to the table. He’d drunk enough cups of the stuff in Iris’s kitchen to find his way around without having to ask and Iris allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment. Her back was more sore than usual, but with the knowledge that opiates would soon be dulling the pain, it was easier to push the feeling away. When she felt more in control, she opened her eyes and regarded Martin. Behind the sun-brown complexion there was a greyness. A tightness around the eyes that seemed to be permanently squinting, from years of driving a tractor in the midday sun.

‘I didn’t know you took those,’ he said, nodding at the packet of painkillers. ‘Thought you’d be using one of your herbal potions.’

‘What do you think these are made from?’ She smiled a little, to take the sting out. ‘Besides, you didn’t come here to talk about tablets. What can I do for you?’

Martin looked down at his mug. They always did. That was what the tea was for, it was a place to look when you couldn’t find the words.

The silence stretched out and Iris let it. Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, she thought about what she had to do that day and whether it would all be possible with her back playing silly buggers. There were plenty of people she could ask for help, of course, but she didn’t like to do so. There was the look of the thing, for one… What kind of hedgewitch needed, well, anything?

‘It’s my Jean,’ Martin said, finally, the words crawling out of his mouth.

Jean was Martin’s wife and she had ed two years ago. Breast cancer. They had been childhood sweethearts and had a good marriage of thirty years.

‘I just miss her,’ he said. ‘So very much.’ He looked at Iris, then, and the pain radiated from him like a physical presence. ‘I thought it would be easier, now, but it just keeps coming.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Iris said.

‘Can you help me? Please?’

Iris was shaking her head before the sentence was out. ‘I can’t. If I took away your grief I’d be taking away your Jean and you don’t want that. Not really.’

Martin’s face hardened. ‘Maybe I do. Maybe that would be better.’

Iris sighed a little inside. This was the problem with her gift. She had learned to be a good hedgewitch, who could make decent herbal remedies and dispense advice and be a help rather than a hindrance at a difficult birth, human or otherwise, but her real power lay in giving people what they needed. And that was so rarely what they thought they wanted. ‘Martin Angel,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t mean that.’

The hardness disappeared as quickly as it had come. His mouth opened to apologise, but his eyes were full and Iris knew that if he tried to speak, he would choke.

‘There’s something I can give you.’ She moved to stand, forgetting her back for a moment until it complained. She thought she’d stopped herself from wincing before it showed, but Martin was frowning.

‘You’re hurt?’

‘Just old,’ Iris said.

Martin, thankfully, did not say anything jolly silly like ‘You’re not old’. Instead he rose from the table and said, ‘What can I do?’

Iris stretched, testing herself. It wasn’t so bad now that she was upright. ‘You can pull some weeds in the vegetable patch for me while I mix you up a little

remedy. Something that will help.

Martin’s face cleared. It would do him good to feel useful, Iris decided. A connection to the community and a little kindness for someone else could be a wonderful balm. And, besides, she was in no state to pull weeds and the old charms didn’t seem to be keeping them at bay the way they used to.

Ignoring that depressing thought, Iris shooed Martin into the garden and fetched a little blue bottle labelled Valerian from her dresser. She kept a few odds and ends to hand, although her work room was in the garden, stocked to the rafters with supplies and equipment, gathered over a lifetime practising the craft. She knew that there were several jobs that needed her attention, such as the old library drawers she used to store her remedies. Many of them were erroneously labelled, the drawer marked coltsfoot filled with wood anenome and so on, but she hadn’t got around to renaming them. She ought to do that before her successor took over. That thought led to a list of things to worry about, so Iris pushed it away and concentrated on making some steeped chamomile tea. She boiled the tea on the stove to reduce it and then cooled it in the fridge, before using it to top up the bottle of valerian.

When Martin stepped back in from the garden, there was an expression of peace already on his face. He knew Iris gave people what they needed and, because he trusted her, that whatever she gave him would work. Iris knew that it was a circular argument, but it didn’t make it any less true. She’d made the tea with firm intention, just to be on the safe side. The belt and braces approach to magic.

Iris sent him away with the blue bottle and instructions to take three drops in his cocoa before bed, every night for a week. The man was exhausted and what he truly needed was some dream-free sleep. Iris knew no better sleep aid than one mixed from Valerian and chamomile. Especially if it was taken with some whisky as a hot toddy.

As Iris moved around the kitchen, fixing herself some soup for lunch, she wondered whether Martin had been right. Was the joy of his marriage enough to make up for the pain he now felt? The pain he would have to bear, if his parents were anything to go by, for another forty years of life. Was it truly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Iris had been in love once, but it was so long ago that it felt as if it had happened to a different person. She had been just a girl at the time, so in a way that was true. Her gift for giving people what they needed had saved her from a very bad marriage but, at the time, it hadn’t felt entirely as if she’d been saved. It was too long ago; she couldn’t recall the feelings of love, only that she’d had them. A dried-out memory, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.

***

Across town, Bex Adams was crouching next to the peach toilet bowl in her employer’s en-suite attempting to coax a nervous pee-er. ‘Come on, sweetheart, do your wee. It’s okay.’ This was not how my life was supposed turn out. She squashed the disloyal thought, feeling guilty. She was lucky to have this job. Lucky to have any job.

Mrs Farrier’s middle child, the three-year-old blonde moppet, Carly, shook her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was shaking with the effort of holding herself suspended over the toilet seat.

‘It’s okay, just relax. Relax, sweetie.’ Bex could hear the strain in her own voice and wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised when Carly cracked open one eye and shook her head furiously.

‘How about a deal? If you do a wee on the loo, we can play Incy Wincy Spider.’

Carly was shaking her head before the sentence was out of Bex’s mouth. Carly was nobody’s fool. She tried again: ‘We can play the game and have ice cream.’

Nothing.

‘In a cone.’

More head shaking.

Bex pulled out all the stops. ‘With toffee sauce.’ Carly still wasn’t peeing, but she wasn’t shaking her head, either. A frown of concentration appeared across her soft baby features. Finally, she opened both eyes and looked at Bex with such an expression of anguish that it stabbed Bex straight through the heart. God only knew how she would manage if she ever had kids of her own.

‘I can’t,’ Carly whispered. ‘Need my nappy.’

Looking at the tense little girl, Bex had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Okay, forget about the wee. Just sit for a moment. Have a rest.’

She shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around Carly, giving her a cuddle.

‘Good try, honey. Well done. You’re such a big, brave girl.’ She felt Carly’s exhausted arms relax and the child’s body settling, very lightly, on the seat. She kissed the top of her head and held the position for a moment, her knees sore on the hard tile of the bathroom floor. ‘I know,’ Bex said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Let’s play blowing bubbles.’ She pulled back slightly and made sure Carly was watching. Then she mimed unscrewing the lid on a bottle of bubble mixture, dipping the wand and holding it out.

Carly’s eyes widened in understanding and she grinned. Bex blew through the imaginary wand and mimed watching the bubbles float around the bathroom.

‘My turn!’ Carly said.

‘Okay.’ Bex repeated the mime and, as Carly blew with all her might into the imaginary wand, her cheeks puffing out with the effort, Bex heard the welcome sound of liquid hitting the water in the bowl.

A crash from downstairs launched Bex from the bathroom. Her legs had cramped from being crouched on the floor for so long, so she half hobbled down the stairs calling to her older charge, Tarquin. ‘Are you okay?’

Silence.

No screams of pain. That was good. She rounded the corner from the living room to the family-size kitchen diner. Her ironing basket, which had previously been piled neatly with freshly pressed clothes, was upside down on top of the island. The clothes were heaped on the tiled floor, a pair of Mr Farrier’s navy chinos was draped over the extractor fan and a bed sheet was stretched between

the stools from the breakfast bar. Bex frowned at the mess, looking for the cause of the noise. It had been a crashing, a breaking –

The phone rang shrilly and she snatched it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Rebecca.’ The cold tones of Mrs Farrier stopped Bex in her tracks. ‘I just wanted to check that you had ed to get extra chicken for tonight.’

Bex wanted to say ‘Of course I bloody have’, as she hadn’t – not once – forgotten an instruction from Mrs Farrier or, as far as she was aware, let her down in any way, shape or form. It didn’t stop Mrs Farrier from treating her like an incompetent skivvy, however. Instead she followed her own personal mantra of ‘kill them with kindness’ and made her voice especially warm and bright: ‘It’s all in hand.’

‘Good.’ The tone was incrementally warmer and Bex chalked it up as a success. She was bloody likeable. She would wear down Mrs Farrier, break through that chilly exterior. Eventually.

Mrs Farrier ran through the rest of the day’s tasks, as if they weren’t already written on the daily sheet attached to the fridge, and she hadn’t already gone through them verbally the night before. Bex took the opportunity to sidle past the clothing mountain and peer into the utility room. It was empty.

Bex stalked into the big larder cupboard, throwing open the door to surprise the pint-sized fugitive. It was empty. ‘You can run, but you cannot escape,’ she muttered.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry, Mrs Farrier. If that’s everything, I’d better –’

‘Don’t forget Mr Farrier’s cufflinks. He wants the gold ones for tonight.’

‘Right-o,’ Bex said. She had spotted a pair of Converse boots sticking out from behind the open kitchen door. ‘Have a good day!’

Bex ended the call and crept forward, planting hands on ankles and yelling ‘Tarquin!’ The boy’s legs convulsed as if electrocuted and the rest of him appeared, looking somewhat pinker than usual.

‘Gotcha.’

Bex had corralled the laundry back to the basket, given Tarquin a firm talking to, and removed most of the pen marks from the wall. There were still a couple of red lines, though, and Mrs Farrier was going to hit the roof. Bex knew it wouldn’t be Tarquin who bore the brunt. The kids were still sweet, the rebellions small and appropriately childlike, but it couldn’t last for ever. Tarc was twelve next birthday and already the same height as her. Things couldn’t go on with this lack of control. It wasn’t in anyone’s best interests, as Bex knew better than anyone. Her mum and dad had been too busy falling out of love to take a firm line with Bex when she had been Tarquin’s age, and look how that had turned out.

She knew she ought to speak to the Farriers about Tarc, but that would involve a sit-down meeting with both Mr and Mrs Farrier and Bex preferred to avoid Mr Farrier as much as possible. Especially after –

‘Ex?’ Carly was in the doorway, naked from the waist down. ‘Had an accident.’

Bex shoved her worries to one side. ‘No worries, kiddo. Let’s get you some new clothes.’

Later, Bex put the laundry away in the bedrooms and went to locate Mr Farrier’s cufflinks. He didn’t usually wear shirts which needed them, but she assumed they would live in the stone dish on top of the chest of drawers in the dressing room. That was where he kept his fancy gold watch and rings, and a silver money-clip that the children had given him last Father’s Day. It was engraved with ‘The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature’, which, apparently, was from an opera or something. Bex was cheerfully ignorant of such things, but Mrs Farrier had explained at great length when instructing Bex to get the clip from the jeweller’s. Bex had to it it had given her a little thrill; she had never met people who didn’t buy a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug from the card shop and be done with it.

There was a pair of cufflinks in the dish, but they were tarnished silver, engraved with his initials. They really liked engraving things in the Farrier household. She checked on top of his bedside table and in the wardrobe. She didn’t want to start going through drawers, as that felt like a breach of privacy, but she checked in all the places she put laundry away. That was one of her jobs, after all, one she’d been doing for months.

The panic didn’t really set in until she had checked the wooden dish that sat on the console table in the hallway. Bex realised that she had been subconsciously counting on Mr Farrier having taken them off after his last fancy dinner and dropping them there on his way into the house. Now, she was stuck.

She checked the pockets of his suits, finding only an old receipt in one and a few coins, which she placed carefully on top of the dressing table. The panic was full now, making her heart race. What were the chances that Mrs Farrier would accept that the gold cufflinks had gone missing? Weighed against that, what were the chances she would blame Bex for the disappearance? She blamed her for everything else, after all.

She began on the children’s tea, slicing bread and cutting carrot sticks, while trying to push away the very worst thought; what if Mrs Farrier thought she had taken them? Her mobile rang and she answered quickly, grateful for the distraction.

‘I need a favour.’

‘Hi, Nicola,’ Bex said. I’m at work so I can’t talk for long.’ Bex had known Nicola since primary school and knew that, given free rein, she would ramble without pause for an hour or more.

‘I’m in Waitrose,’ Nicola said. ‘The nibbles here are amazing. They’ve got balsamic vinegar cashews. Have you tried them? I shouldn’t get them, I’ll just eat them all.’ A packet rustled. ‘Sod it, I’m getting them.’

Bex resumed chopping cucumber and waited for Nicola to get to the point. The

background noise of the supermarket went suddenly muted. Bex could picture Nicola tucking the phone under her chin as she reached for a bag of cashews. Nicola prided herself on multi-tasking and she often called while shopping or driving or, once, while learning archery.

‘I’ve got some for you, too.’ Nicola was back. ‘Seriously, they look so good. My mouth is full-on watering.’

‘Nic, I’m working –’

‘Yeah, right. Sorry. I was wondering if you were going to the pub tonight?’

There was only one real pub in Pendleford. The others were tourist traps or bistros with tiny bar areas. The Red Lion had music every Wednesday, provided by Bex’s best friend, Jon. ‘I don’t think so,’ Bex said. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Oh, go on. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘I saw you Sunday,’ Bex said, mildly insulted that Nicola had forgotten.

‘I want to meet Jon.’

Bex gripped the handle of the vegetable knife. ‘Jon?’ Her stomach flipped at the sound of his name spoken aloud.

‘Yeah. I know he’s your friend, but you must have noticed the hotness.’

‘We’re just friends,’ Bex said automatically. She began dicing one of the carrot sticks.

‘I know,’ Nicola said, sounding impatient. ‘That’s why I’m asking you to introduce us.’

‘Sure,’ Bex forced out. And I’ll just stab myself with this vegetable knife while I’m about it. ‘No worries.’

Today just got better and better.

***

After Martin’s visit, Iris had taken a bath in the claw-footed tub, hoping to ease the dull ache in her back. Now, however, she was having difficulty getting back onto dry land. When she’d stood up, the room had swayed treacherously, and she felt light-headed. Her sense told her that she’d stood up too quickly, had lain in water that was perhaps a touch too hot for too long, but her animal instinct screamed ‘danger’. Weakness!

Iris steadied herself with both hands on the side of the tub and concentrated on breathing deeply until her vision cleared and her head stopped swimming. That

was when the real problems started. Her back decided to spasm, running an electric pain across her pelvis and down her legs. Muscles clenched unhelpfully, trapping nerves and causing the excruciating feeling she was experiencing. In between panting breaths, Iris reminded herself that there was nothing seriously wrong. That, while it may feel as though her vertebrae had dislocated, she would be fine. Just as soon as she could get out of the damn tub.

For the first time in about an ice age, Iris wished that she didn’t live alone. A month or so after her eightieth birthday, she had been visited by a cheery man from the council who wondered whether she would like to the meals on wheels scheme, or go to the seniors’ bingo on the special bus on a Friday morning. He had been new to the area and hadn’t heard of Iris. She imagined he had come in for some gentle leg-pulling when his colleagues realised he’d visited the witch and offered her leaflets. If Iris hadn’t been concentrating on not ing out from the pain in her back, she’d have snorted at the memory. He’d left a panic button thingy-ma-jig, though, which would’ve come in handy right about now. Iris had her pride, but she wasn’t an idiot. You had to play the cards you were dealt, after all.

The button, however, was downstairs on the hall table. She was supposed to wear it around her neck on the cord supplied, like one of those children’s purses, but she never had. Not that she’d have been wearing it in the bath, Iris reasoned. No, she had no reason to feel silly or humiliated as a result of this predicament.

Logical though this thought was, it didn’t help. It didn’t help her out of the bath, either. That took half an hour of minute movements, followed by an undignified, hunched-back crab-walk before she had a towel wrapped around her body and the cork tiles of the bathroom beneath her feet.

If only she had been a fairytale witch, Iris thought, as she edged her way across the landing. Then she could’ve waved her hands and removed her pain. She could have killed a lamb at full moon, eating its still-twitching heart to stay

young. She could have captured small children with her gingerbread cottage and put them to work. If she’d been a storybook witch, she wouldn’t be creeping sideways, bent-double, to get the extra-strength painkillers in her bedside drawer.

Just as she had made it to the bedroom and into her dressing gown, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the back door. She slipped the tablets into her pocket and began the slow, painful descent, for the second time that day. That was another problem with being a real witch as opposed to a made-up one. When someone came knocking you had to answer. Damn and blast the rules.

Chapter Two

Bex Adams had been raised to be independent, and then, as if to seal the deal, her parents had divorced just before her seventeenth birthday, and her mother had moved to London and into her boyfriend’s flat. Bex’s dad had bought a little two-bedroomed house on the new estate off the Bath Road, which Bex thought should’ve been more properly marketed as ‘one-and-half bedrooms, if all your furniture is made by pixies’. When friends complained about their parents turning their old bedrooms into craft rooms or gyms, Bex snorted. Her childhood bedroom had gone for ever and the replacement set-up was cramped and tinged with sadness. Her dad did his best to make her feel welcome and she knew she was lucky to have a home with family-rate cheap rent, but he was out all hours trying to find a life and the place felt unloved and temporary.

Bex both valued her independence and felt it was something of a burden. There were times when it would have been nice to lay her head on a comforting shoulder and have someone else sort things out for her. Like now. A comforting shoulder right about now would be perfect, but she knew from past experience that she wasn’t the leaning type.

Jon was finishing up his set. Bex knew this because he always played the same bluesy number last, his eyes closed as he put his heart into the music. He always looked so vulnerable in that moment. A sharp contrast to his usual, guarded expression. Bex knew that was what she’d fallen in love with. However clichéd it was to be attracted to a musician, she couldn’t help herself. The very first night she’d seen him play, she had watched his sure hands moving on the fret board and heard the catch in his voice as he sang, and she’d been hopelessly lost.

He finished the song and opened his eyes, looking around the room as if surfacing from a dream. Bex made her way to the bar to get him a post-set pint, stopping to chat with Mel who was working tonight. There was no point rushing

back to her table, as Jon would be a while yet. It didn’t matter that the Red Lion wasn’t exactly a jumping gig venue; there would still be at least one fan who went up to talk to Jon, maybe to offer a telephone number or talk about guitars. That was one downside with the music crowd, Bex thought; they could talk about guitars for hours. Nicola was going to find that out if she went out with Jon. Bex squashed that painful thought and carried the drinks back.

Despite her excitement on the phone earlier, Nicola had arrived late and, apart from giving Bex the promised bag of cashews, hadn’t been the best company. Bex tried again to start a conversation, but Nicola didn’t react. She was too busy gazing raptly at Jon as he put his guitar away in its moulded case and unplugged his amp. The mic was a new one and had cost Jon two weeks’ wages. It came with an aluminium case, its own little bed of high-density foam. Any girlfriend of Jon had to realise super-quick that they weren’t going to have expensive gifts or meals out; every spare penny went on his musical equipment. Which was fair enough. That’s what happened when you had a ion, a calling. Bex ired his dedication.

‘Did you like the set?’ Bex said, trying again to make conversation.

Nicola turned to her, eyes shining. ‘It was amazing. Why didn’t you tell me he was so good?’

‘I’m pretty sure I did,’ Bex said.

‘I’m going to freshen up,’ Nicola said, fussing with her hair. ‘You sure he’ll come over here?’

‘I’m sure,’ Bex said. ‘I’ve got his beer.’

Nicola headed to the bathroom and Bex fiddled with her phone while she waited.

‘Bexter,’ Jon said, folding his long legs under the table and looking so pleased to see her that Bex could pretend, just for a moment, that her feelings were mirrored. He grabbed his pint gratefully and took a long pull. ‘You are an angel of mercy.’

‘It’s your round next,’ Bex replied.

He put his glass down, half empty already. ‘Who’s your friend? She looked like she was really into it.’

‘Nicola,’ Bex said, keeping her tone neutral. ‘She likes you.’

‘Well,’ Jon said, smirking a little. ‘She’s only human.’

Bex hit his arm.

‘Hey! Watch the money. If I can’t play, you’ll owe me big time.’

‘I thought you played for pints.’

‘And tips,’ Jon said, shaking his head. ‘Don’t forget the tips.’

Jon was smiling, his eyes crinkled with happiness. It was a perfect moment, spoiled all too quickly when Nicola knocked into their table. She’d obviously taken a little too much Dutch courage and fell into the spare seat messily. ‘You were great,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘Really, really good.’ She slouched across the table, displaying an impressive cleavage, which Jon looked at. Of course he did. It was hard to miss, but still.

Bex drained her pint and stood up. Nicola was talking a mile-a-minute to Jon about something – it was impossible to say what – and he was drooling into her bosom. Later for all that. She’d done her duty as a friend and introduced them; it didn’t mean she had to stay and watch the show. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

‘Where are you going?’ Jon dragged his gaze from Nicola’s chest.

‘Home,’ Bex said.

‘I’ll come with,’ Jon said, knocking back the remains of his beer and getting to his feet.

‘No need,’ Bex said, mortified that he might have thought she was hinting. ‘You stay.’

‘Nah,’ Jon was already shrugging on his leather jacket. ‘I’m done in.’

‘Are you sure?’ Nicola was gazing up at Jon with shiny eyes. ‘It’s not late. I’m sure there’s plenty of stuff we could do –’

Bex stopped her eyes from rolling with an act of will. Nicola was her friend. She shouldn’t be mean.

Jon picked up his guitar case. ‘I’m sure.’

Outside the spring weather was holding and the night was mild. The town was quiet, and Bex could hear the river, and a lonely nightingale calling, its chirrups and peeps echoing off the stone of the town bridge. It was easy to see the place as timeless, the ancient cottages with their tiny windows and lopsided walls, the cobbled streets and the countless feet that had polished them. A car appeared on the road and whooshed past and the spell was broken.

‘Why don’t we go to mine for a bit?’ Jon said, shifting his grip on his case. ‘If you’re not too tired?’

‘Sure,’ Bex said, ignoring the leaping in her heart. That was part of the pain and pleasure of being Jon’s friend. He wanted to spend time with her. She knew he liked her. More than that, he cared for her, looked out for her. If only that were enough. It hadn’t been enough when they’d met last year and it wasn’t enough now, but she wasn’t sensible enough to stay away from him. No matter how much it hurt, she couldn’t give it up. Give him up.

‘I’ll carry that.’ Bex went to take the small amp and their fingers brushed. Her pulse kicked up from the and she felt her cheeks flush. Something had to change or she was going to drop down of a heart attack. This much stuttering and racing and jumping couldn’t be healthy. Bex couldn’t believe Jon hadn’t noticed yet, hadn’t seen her heart leaping out of her chest like in a cartoon.

Jon lived in a shared house on Priory Lane. It had a sagging roof and a failed damp course along the back wall, but it was timber-beamed and pretty. On the outside, at least. Inside, the charm had been somewhat overlaid with music equipment courtesy of Jon, rugby kit courtesy of his housemate, Ben, and bicycles courtesy of both of them. Bex squeezed past the clutter in the narrow hall and into the tiny living room. There was a stone hearth with a wood burner, the effect slightly ruined by a clothes horse draped in shorts and t-shirts and jogging bottoms, steaming gently.

They slipped into their well-oiled routine. Bex closed the curtains and fetched the DVD while Jon made tea; then they sat on the sagging sofa to laugh through Life of Brian for what was probably the fiftieth time.

It was late and, despite the nearness of Jon and the funniness of the film, Bex felt her eyelids get heavy. She told herself that she wasn’t going to fall asleep in Jon’s house; that she was going to get up and go home like a sensible adult. It was insane to keep staying over on Jon’s sofa, no matter how welcome he made her feel. She was being pathetic and she ought to get up and walk home. One more minute and that was exactly what she was going to do.

Bex woke up lying on the sofa, alone. The television was switched off and there was a thick yellow blanket slung across her body. She pulled it over her shoulders and went back to sleep.

In the morning, Bex woke early. A shaft of light pierced a gap in the curtains, shining onto the Life of Brian DVD case on the floor like a message from God. The house was completely quiet and her neck felt stiff and sore from the sofa cushions. She tiptoed past Jon’s bedroom and opened and closed the front door as quietly as she could.

Outside, the sun was just up and the air was cool. It was pleasantly refreshing and Bex felt all the promise of a new day. There were advantages to waking up with a crick in her neck from Jon’s sofa; she was up early enough to swing home and wash her face and change her clothes before work.

On the way to the Farriers’ she gave herself the well-worn talk; this had to stop. She had to move on. She had to see less of Jon. She had to stop going to watch him play. She definitely had to stop watching films with him and falling asleep on his sofa. In short, she had to stop torturing herself with his friendship.

Bex speeded up her steps to add verve to the pep talk. She sailed through the quiet morning streets of Pendleford, and arrived at the Farriers’ slightly out of breath, but filled with renewed purpose. As always, she was five minutes early for her shift at the house. Bex prided herself on being good at her job and part of her personal criteria for that was being early for work every single morning. She didn’t want her employers to ever worry that she was going to be late; didn’t want to add stress to their busy morning routine.

Bex picked up several pairs of shoes that had spread across the hall floor during the night and put them back neatly on the rack. She called out a cheery ‘hello’, channelling Mary Poppins for all she was worth.

Mrs Farrier was usually in the hall by this time, waiting to rush out of the front door the moment Bex appeared. This morning, Bex found her in the kitchen,

holding a mug in one hand and her BlackBerry in the other. Bex’s first thought was that she must be unwell, but Mrs Farrier was in her dark work suit, her glossy hair neatly blow-dried and a briefcase resting on the central island.

‘We need to talk,’ Mrs Farrier said. She sounded serious, but Mrs Farrier always sounded serious.

‘Okay.’ Bex hooked her tapestry rucksack on the rack behind the door, next to the pinboard that held, amongst other things, the Farrier children’s busy schedule. Today was piano lesson for Carly and fencing for Tarquin. Never a fun day as Carly invariably spent her lesson in tears and Tarquin had to be dragged both into – and away from – his.

Mrs Farrier hadn’t started speaking, which was very odd; she was usually in such a hurry, shouting clipped instructions and questions she rarely gave Bex time to answer. Bex turned away from the schedule and loaded a capsule into the Krups coffee machine. Caffeine – that was the ticket. The ominous silence continued. Perhaps Tarquin had complained about her again. He had got into a habit of blaming as many different people as possible for anything he thought he could get away with, but Mrs Farrier, to her credit, generally saw right through him. ‘Would you like an espresso?’ Bex asked, getting cups down from the dishwasher.

The silence continued and Bex looked across to see if Mrs Farrier had heard her question. She was frowning slightly.

‘My husband’s cufflinks are missing.’

The cufflinks. She hadn’t been able to find them and then Tarquin had stood his ground over screen time and she’d completely forgotten that she was supposed to locate them. Arse.

‘Yes, I know,’ Bex said. ‘Sorry. I did look for them, but then Tarquin was messing with the laundry and –’

‘This is very awkward,’ Mrs Farrier said, and Bex realised, with a sudden chill, that she really did look uncomfortable. ‘Alistair, uh, Mr Farrier, is sure that he left them on top of the chest in his dressing room.’

Bex shook her head. ‘I looked, but they weren’t there. I checked on the floor and underneath, in case they’d been brushed off –’

‘He’s sure,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘Which puts us in a difficult position. You know how happy we’ve been to have you helping us and we appreciate everything you’ve done, but –’ The sentence remained unfinished and Mrs Farrier gazed fixedly at a spot somewhere behind Bex’s head.

The chill that Bex had felt run down her spine became a bath of ice water, dumped unceremoniously over her head. ‘You’re firing me?’

‘We’ll give you a week’s pay, but in the circumstances I’d appreciate it if you didn’t embarrass us by asking for a reference.’

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Bex was mortified when her voice cracked

a little.

‘Theft is a serious business, Bex,’ Mrs Farrier said, finally looking into her face. ‘You should count yourself lucky that we’re not calling the police.’

‘I didn’t take his cufflinks,’ Bex managed through a thick throat. The word ‘theft’ seemed to reverberate through the air, setting off tremors through Bex’s entire being. ‘I would never –’ She didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t use that phrase in all conscience.

‘Mr Farrier wanted to call them, actually,’ Mrs Farrier continued, ‘but I said that I was sure his cufflinks would be back in the house by the time he got home from work this evening and there would be no need.’ She gave Bex a significant look.

‘Ex!’ A small shout was a short warning before a shape barrelled into the back of Bex’s legs, wrapping arms around her and almost bringing them both down onto the tile.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Bex said, trying not to look as if her world had just caved in.

‘I did a wee in the loo!’

Bex didn’t know if Carly was talking about yesterday’s triumph or a new event, but she said, ‘Well done!’ in a voice that sounded false even to herself.

‘Why is your face funny?’ Carly said, squinting up at her.

‘I have to go to work.’ Mrs Farrier picked up her keys and her case. She pulled a face that was sad and uncomfortable and impatient all at once.

‘Have you told her?’ Bex indicated the top of Carly’s head with a downward jerk of her chin.

‘Not yet,’ Mrs Farrier said, heading for the hallway. ‘We’ll probably do it on the weekend.’

Bex detached Carly from her front and followed, interpreting Mrs Farrier’s words as she moved. No room for messy scenes. No goodbye and no warning.

Mrs Farrier was already opening the front door. She clearly couldn’t wait to get out.

‘This discussion is not finished,’ Bex said, surprising herself.

Mrs Farrier paused, evidently a little surprised, too. ‘I’m going to be late.’ She bent down and kissed her daughter goodbye. ‘Be a good girl for Bex.’

Once the children were at school and nursery, Bex had a few hours of relative freedom. She was meant to spend these tidying, sorting laundry and cooking nutritious after-school snacks, but instead she put on her coat and walked out of

the town centre towards End House.

Bex knew about Iris Harper – everybody in town did – but had always dismissed the rumours as silly superstition. The way Bex saw it, either the creepy old woman had special powers, which made her, according to every fairy tale Bex had ever read, highly dangerous. Or she didn’t, which made her your usual meddlesome old woman with a side-order of battiness thrown in.

As Bex picked her way across Iris Harper’s overgrown garden she didn’t let herself dwell on what she was doing; knew that she would lose her nerve if she looked at it head on. All Bex knew was that she was desperate. Her mistake had caused so much damage; it had broken up a relationship, lost her friends, and almost ruined her chances of getting work. She’d come clean with the childcare agency and the woman who interviewed her had agreed to bend the rules and take her on, to give her a second chance. If the Farriers called the police or refused her a reference, that chance would be well and truly blown.

Nestled amongst the wild flowers and bushes of rosemary and lavender were ripe red peppers and fat purple aubergines, both of which were utterly impossible outside of a greenhouse at this time of the year. Bex had always been a practical and focused kind of person, not easily derailed. Dutifully, she ignored the impossible vegetables and concentrated on the job in hand; to find the wicked old witch who lived in the broken-down cottage and obtain a magical potion that would sort out her life. She snorted out loud at the unlikely nature of this scenario and then almost fell over with surprise when a voice, very close to her ear, said, ‘And who might you be, traipsing through my garden without so much as a good morning?’

The woman must’ve stepped out from behind the hawthorn tree to the side of the path. Bex swallowed. She was not in a fairy tale and the woman was not about to turn her into a frog. No matter how terrifying she appeared. ‘I’m Bex. Bex Adams. I’m looking for Iris Harper.’

‘You’re Janet Adams’s girl. Silbury Road?’ The woman was old. Frail-looking, too, in that brittle way the ancient sometimes had. It seemed that old women went one of two ways; you could either become comfortably chubby and rosycheeked or you could wither away until you resembled a stick.

‘They sold that house,’ Bex said, trying to hide her surprise. ‘Ages ago.’

Iris’s mouth turned up at one side. ‘Ages ago? You’re barely grown, girl, haven’t had time for “ages”.’

Well, there was nothing to say to that. Not unless you had a snappy comeback like ‘I’ve got a rare disease. I’m actually sixty-five.’

‘Not unless you’re like that Benjamin Button fellow,’ Iris continued, giving the unpleasant impression she could read minds. ‘You’d better come in. I’m finished out here anyway.’

In the kitchen, Iris Harper boiled a kettle on the stove and made tea. She poured out thick brown liquid from a cracked earthenware teapot into a stained mug which said ‘Stonehenge Discovery Centre’ on the side in sickly green writing.

Bex thought she’d controlled her expression very well, but when she raised her eyes she saw Iris watching her with quiet amusement. ‘If I gave folk pretty china and a slice of cake, they’d never leave me alone. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here, as it is.’

The kitchen was painted yellow and the cabinets must’ve been added sometime in the nineteen-fifties or sixties. The Formica worktop was heavily scarred from years of knife cuts and hot pans.

‘So. What brings you to my door?’ Iris raised her mug, regarding Bex steadily over the rim.

‘I’m in trouble.’ Bex stared at the brown surface of her drink and tried to formulate the words. The only sound was a clock ticking.

Then there was a knock on the door and Iris motioned to Bex. ‘Be a dear and get that.’ A man was at the back door, somewhere between the age of seventy and a hundred.

‘Hang on, Fred,’ Iris said. She rose from the table, slowly, with a flash of something on her face. ‘I’ll just get it.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ the man said. ‘So soon. I thought it would last a bit longer, but I dropped it and –’

‘Not a problem,’ Iris said. ‘I’d invite you in, but –’

‘I’m not stopping.’

Bex watched the woman slide open a drawer in the dresser that stood next to the back door. She ed the man a screw-top jar and he went away. So it was true; she was a witch. Or a herbalist, at least.

Bex’s mother had liked a bit of that, natural remedies and so on. She’d poured a foul-smelling concoction from a brown bottle into Bex’s ear whenever she had an infection, no matter how many times Bex asked for the banana-flavoured syrup her friends were all given.

‘So, what do you require, Rebecca Adams?’

‘Bex,’ Bex said. She straightened her spine, as if that would help the words to rise up a little easier. ‘I’ve been accused of something I didn’t do and I heard that you sometimes helped –’

‘I always help,’ Iris said.

‘Yes, well. That’s good, then, because –’

‘What didn’t you do?’ Iris had so many wrinkles around her eyes that it was difficult to tell whether she was giving a sceptical look or an amused one.

‘Steal a pair of cufflinks.’

Iris sat back a little. ‘That sounds like a police matter. The new plod is very

good. He’ll see you right.’

‘I thought you said you always helped.’ Bex didn’t know what she’d expected.

‘I’m pointing you in the right direction. That’s helpful.’

‘That’s not what I need,’ Bex began, but Iris broke in. ‘Yes, it is. Trust me.’

Bex was so ashamed of her mistake that she never usually mentioned it, let alone to a near-stranger. She hated the way their faces changed when they realised she wasn’t a decent person, but with Iris it wasn’t too bad. She had the impression the old boot didn’t like her much, anyway, and she had an unshockable quality. ‘They might not believe me.’

‘Belief doesn’t come into it,’ Iris said. ‘The police work on evidence.’

‘I have a record. I got caught shoplifting when I was sixteen.’

Iris blinked. ‘Childish high jinks. They won’t worry about that.’

‘I wasn’t a child,’ Bex said. ‘And the make-up I took was pretty expensive. It wasn’t just a few sweeties from the pick and mix.’ It had been so stupid. A moment of madness, people called it, but Bex felt she had been going mad for months beforehand. She had been so unhappy, so worried about her parents and their constant rowing, and so sick of worrying, too. She’d wanted something else

to fill her mind, something so extreme it would transport her to another reality, if only for a few minutes. It had worked. The new reality had involved sitting in the police station, terrified and ashamed, and being interviewed by the disapproving forces for the public good. Not to mention the trouble she’d been in once her dad had taken her home. The worst thing was how embarrassed he’d been. She’d mortified both of her parents, adding the shame and stress of having a criminal for a daughter to their already-fraught relationship. The arguments had happened before, but after she was arrested, they got much worse. Her mum blamed her dad for coddling her and her dad said that her mum was too lax. They both agreed that staying together wasn’t in anyone’s best interests. Bex had proved that. She hadn’t meant to prove anything of the sort, but people could surprise you. Deep down, Bex had hoped that if she was a massive screw-up, her parents would rally together. They would see how much they were hurting her, their child, and they would start acting like grown-ups. Together.

Instead, her mum decided she preferred a party life with a string of younger boyfriends to dealing with a thieving daughter and a tricky marriage. Her dad, who had probably thought his days of being publicly humiliated were over, let Bex know that she had really put the cherry on top of the crap-sandwich that was his life. ‘People around here think worse of us because we don’t have a Range Rover and my parents worked in the paper mill, and you just proved them all right.’

‘Perhaps they won’t call the police,’ Iris said. ‘When they calm down I’m sure they’ll reconsider. I take it you looked for the missing cufflinks?’

‘Yes’ Bex said, exasperated, ‘of course.’

‘Still,’ Iris waved a hand as if shooing away a cat. ‘You’ll be fine. Tell the truth and it’s their word against yours.’

‘Their word is pretty strong.’

‘Well then,’ Iris said. ‘Perhaps you’d better look again. Perhaps they fell down behind something. Or maybe they fell into your bag.’

Bex sat back. ‘You’re very rude.’

Iris shrugged. ‘Just going on the evidence. Most people don’t change and you told me you’re a thief.’

‘Once. I stole one time. And I never would again.’

‘You learned your lesson?’

‘If you want to put it like that.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Iris said. After a moment she said, ‘I believe you.’

Bex tried not to feel pleased. ‘I didn’t come here for your blessing or something.’

‘I could vouch for you,’ Iris said. ‘My word means a lot in this town.’

‘More than Mr Farrier’s?’

The atmosphere changed. If Bex had been a fanciful person, she’d have said the air in the room drained of warmth. Her practical head told her that a cloud must’ve ed in front of the sun at just that moment.

When she spoke, Iris’s voice was like the crackle of dry grass. ‘James Farrier?’

Bex shook her head. ‘Alistair.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ Bex said. ‘He’s my boss. What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t know there were Farriers in Pendleford, that’s all. It surprised me.’ Iris looked away.

‘Well, you can’t know everyone,’ Bex said, ‘especially the way the town is growing. I bet it’s changed a lot since you were –’ She’d been going to say ‘young’, but Iris was staring into space with a vacant expression. It was like she’d stepped out of the room for a moment, but had forgotten to take her body with her.

‘I’ll get out of your hair,’ Bex said, standing up.

Iris looked up, then, her eyes refocused. ‘How long have you worked for them. The Farriers?’

‘Six months or so,’ Bex said, ‘since they moved here.’

Iris tilted her head as if she was considering something, but when she spoke it was just a goodbye.

Chapter Three

Iris leaned over her journal, making careful notes on Martin Angel and Fred Byres. Her back was still sore, though in a slightly more distant and more manageable way, but her eyelids were drooping. She felt weary through and through and her head was too heavy for her shoulders.

What was most worrying was the state of her vegetable garden. The peppers and aubergines looked nice enough, but the last one she’d tried had collapsed to nothing when she’d baked it, leaving a terrible flavour which had ruined her aubergine parmigiana. And then there were the snails. Iris glared balefully at the slimy trail visible on the kitchen floor. Low creatures like that would never have dared come into her home before. Never. She made a note, the pen scratching comfortingly across the paper. Telling her journal about the snails felt like a burden lifting. A problem shared, as the saying went. Of course, she’d never been sure about that phrase. Was a problem shared always a problem halved? Not to mention the fact that she was sharing with an inanimate object, something highly unlikely to be of practical use against the encroaching snail army. She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. The pain in her lower back wasn’t getting any better and she had to let half of her mind see to that. Time was, when she could have split her mind into three or four useful parts, each handling something different, with no trouble whatsoever. Now, with half of her battling the band of pain which was tightening slowly around her middle and sending outposts of electric agony down her hips and legs, the rest of her brain felt foggy and uncooperative.

Sometime later, Iris jerked awake. Her heavy head was resting on the open pages of her journal and the ink was smudged in a pool of water. Her eyes had been watering again. Another side effect of age. Having never been one for crying it was particularly galling to be let down in this manner, with her tear ducts leaking away at every breath of wind, particle of dust or, as now, while resting. Iris swiped at her face and carried the ruined notebook upstairs. She left it open on the radiator in the bedroom to dry before lowering herself cautiously into bed. In

her mind’s eye, she ran up the stairs and flung herself upon the mattress, but the reality took far longer. Plenty of time to reflect on the strange girl, Bex Adams, and the flurry of emotion her visit had awakened.

You are too old for this nonsense, Iris told herself, but the young Iris, the girl who still lived in her heart and head, ignored that and went on thinking, ing, anyway. James Farrier. Iris hadn’t thought his name in many years. She had been seventeen years old when she’d fallen in love for the first and only time in her life. At eighteen, she’d very nearly married that same love, but her affliction (as her mother called it) had changed everything.

It was better, of course. Not only did she know that James Farrier was not the kind-hearted man he had appeared as he courted her, but being a Harper in this small town was a responsibility more easily borne alone. Yes, it would be pleasant, especially now in her dwindling years, to have another pair of hands around the place, but people told secrets more easily to a woman alone. Iris wrote things down, of course, but anyone who knew about her journals trusted that they were in safe hands. If there were a husband in the picture, people might start to worry what was being discussed over the breakfast table, what secrets were swapped in the marital bed. In short, being married would have made Iris more flesh and blood and that would have made people uneasy. Everyone knew that nothing corrupted more quickly.

When Iris called off the wedding, her parents assumed that James had discovered Iris’s affliction and had, as any reasonable man would, changed his mind. ‘It’s the curse,’ her mother had wept. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. If only I could have spared you this.’ It didn’t matter how many times Iris protested that it had been her decision, that her affliction was a gift which had opened her eyes to the true character of her groom-in-waiting.

It didn’t help, of course, that her mother’s gift was getting stronger and more difficult to bear. Every time someone threw something of emotional value away,

it reappeared like the proverbial bad penny. No wonder she couldn’t see it as anything other than a curse.

Iris’s abiding memory of her mother was of her holding a white handkerchief in front of her mouth to disguise whatever item was emerging. Sometimes she’d cough violently, the watch or ring or coin lodged in her throat for a frightening moment, and sometimes you’d just see a minute change of expression before the handkerchief was raised and whatever had appeared was swiftly relocated to a pocket. The physical repulsion paled in comparison to the humiliation. Iris’s mother was a proper lady and this messy and unnatural behaviour was mortifying.

When Iris’s gift showed itself and she began to feel wicked compulsions, such as the intense need to give away her best dress, she wasn’t entirely surprised. While part of her was relieved that she wasn’t gagging on fob watches and cast-away love notes, she wished it was something she could keep to herself. Iris couldn’t hide her compulsions behind a lacy handkerchief. She would feel the need to give somebody an item as an itch in her mind and that feeling would spread over her skin, driving her to distraction, until she fulfilled her task.

She’d loved James Farrier, though. No matter what the truth of him turned out to be, her body and soul called out for him and it took many years for the longing to fade. She’d witnessed him committing an act of breathtaking cruelty, one which her rational self could not deny or excuse. It didn’t stop her irrational weakness from trying, though. ‘It really had just been a game gone wrong,’ her irrational soul said. ‘He didn’t mean it.’ Worse yet, ‘He’d never do it again. He learned his lesson.’

Iris liked to pretend that she would’ve kept an eye on the Farrier family, that she would’ve ensured that James Farrier was never cruel to anyone else, that his behaviour didn’t escalate. The truth was, however, that Iris had been a wreck.

In the months after the broken engagement, she’d barely been able to function. She delivered items that were needed when her gift demanded it, but all else – hobbies, friends, joy, or even cleanliness, were too much for her. Iris barely left the house. Her appetite disappeared and her sleep was disturbed.

The grief was overlaid by guilt. Her mother was mortified by the public termination of the match and by Iris’s gift of giving. ‘Can’t you control it a little better, dear? Maybe if you just tried …’

It was so unfair. Of all people, her mother should have understood that the gift was an affliction, beyond Iris’s control and nothing she had ever asked for or wished into being. She retreated further inside herself until her parents grew worried that she was seriously sick.

Finally, her father came up with a solution. Iris would move to the nearby town of Pendleford. He bought a cottage on the very edge, where it would be quiet for her to recover. ‘A safe bolthole for you to lick your wounds,’ he said, explaining it.

‘It doesn’t sound very proper,’ Iris’s mother said. ‘A lady alone.’ Her objections lacked conviction, however, and Iris knew that she was secretly relieved. Her mother welcomed Iris’s move, hoping that it would still the wagging tongues.

‘You’ll be able to help the people of Pendleford,’ her father had said, a small sad smile around his lips. ‘You’ve helped around here quite enough.’

So, aged twenty-one, Iris caused a minor scandal by moving into End House, Pendleford, alone. She refused her mother’s offer of a maid and set about cultivating an air of untouchable mystery.

Iris squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on relaxing every part of her body, hoping to chase away the memories with simple meditation. She began with her toes, tensing and relaxing the muscles, but by the time she’d hit her calves, James Farrier was looming over her, a lock of hair falling across his forehead and his eyes boring into hers with that intensity. The look that spoke to the quietest, most secret parts of Iris, the parts that had wanted to be wanted, to be loved and desired. James Farrier had treated her like a queen, but then she had discovered he was a monster wearing the mask of a man. The promise of that mask had been so hard to turn away.

Chapter Four

Bex picked up Carly from nursery and gave her lunch. She played games and read books and acted as if it was a normal day for the kid’s sake, and when Tarquin arrived off the school bus, she gave him a snack and monitored his screen time. He was supposed to do his homework before anything else, but Bex had worked out a deal whereby he could have half his screen time first and the rest after. Mrs Farrier didn’t know the details of this – or any of the other – deals which Bex had worked out while learning to handle Tarquin. Good luck to her replacement, Bex thought, and then felt a little guilty.

She ironed the school uniforms and made the dinner and bathed Carly, being conscientiously kind and normal. Every part of her screamed with anger at the injustice. She felt betrayed, but she refused to let even a tiny part of that spill over into the children’s lives. It wasn’t their fault.

As she sculpted a shampoo-bubble quiff for Carly and ed in a make-believe game in which the wind-up shark was having a fight with the red Teletubby over who got to pilot Carly’s sponge around the tub, Bex rehearsed arguments in her mind. It wasn’t fair to be dismissed without a reference when there was no evidence. They couldn’t just assume she was guilty; that wasn’t how people were supposed to behave. And what about the children? What about their security, continuity of care?

By the time Mr and Mrs Farrier came home, Bex had worked up a good head of self-righteous steam and was ready for the off.

She found the couple in the kitchen, large glasses of red wine on the counter with a bowl of olives between. It was such a normal post-work tableau that Bex

wondered if they’d changed their minds. Perhaps they had realised their mistake and were going to apologise. Surely they wouldn’t be having drinks and nibbles with a dismissal. It wasn’t supper theatre.

Mrs Farrier asked Bex about the children and whether Tarquin had finished his homework. He was up in his room, playing on a games console, so Bex chose to say ‘yes’. If the conversation went well, she’d pop up and check that was true before leaving for the night. If it didn’t … Well, in that case, Tarquin’s academic progress would no longer be any of her business.

Mrs Farrier didn’t seem to be paying proper attention. ‘That’s good,’ she said, and took a healthy gulp from her glass. ‘You’ve been very good all round, Bex. I’m sorry to lose you.’

Bex opened her mouth to argue when Mr Farrier walked in, loosening his tie. ‘That’s Carly off,’ he said, as if he’d spent hours on her bedtime routine rather than just five minutes giving her a kiss goodnight.

‘Ah,’ he said, spotting Bex. ‘Good. Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

‘Did you find the cufflinks?’ Mrs Farrier said, sounding anxious.

‘No,’ Bex said. ‘I told you that I’d already looked. Are you sure they got lost at home? Perhaps you left them out somewhere. Or in a hotel.’ The words hung in the air and Bex realised, too late, that they could be taken as some kind of accusation regarding Mr Farrier’s extra-curricular activities. ‘When you were on holiday, maybe?’ She added, for damage limitation.

Unfortunately, Mrs Farrier had gone rather pink. Everyone in town knew that Mr Farrier was unfaithful to his wife. Bex was pretty sure Mrs Farrier knew it, too, but it wasn’t polite to suggest it to the couple’s faces. She certainly hadn’t meant to do so. Not when she was trying so hard to keep her damn job.

Mr Farrier was smiling nastily. ‘That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It would be convenient for you if I thought that. But no. I’m afraid I’m certain I left the cufflinks here and I’m certain, therefore, that they have been stolen.’

Bex wanted to ask why ‘lost’ meant ‘stolen’, but she knew the answer: because he said so. Because he wanted to teach her a lesson. Because he wanted her out of his house and in the quickest, most unpleasant way possible. Looking at Mr Farrier’s smug expression confirmed a suspicion Bex had been nursing; if she’d kissed him back when he’d cornered her in the utility room, none of this would be happening.

‘Bex,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t find them today? Maybe they slipped down behind a chest of drawers …’ She trailed off.

‘I checked everywhere I could think of yesterday,’ Bex said. ‘I didn’t see the point of looking again.’

‘Oh, well,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking relieved. ‘Have another look around tomorrow and we’ll see –’

‘No, dear,’ Mr Farrier said. ‘I don’t want a thief under our roof any longer than strictly necessary.’

Bex felt as if she’d been slapped. Thief.

Farrier was looking at her with something close to pleasure. ‘Consider yourself finished here. I will give you a week’s pay in lieu of notice.’

Mrs Farrier’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Bex knew how she felt.

‘I’ll call the agency in the morning and they’ll send round a temporary replacement,’ he was saying, as if this was a normal occurrence. Perhaps, for them, it was. How many nannies had Carly known in her short life? How many had Farrier driven away with his lecherous ways? Bex had only stayed because she knew how lucky she was to get a job with her record. She was on a strict probationary period with the agency. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to let the owner, Emily, down, not to mention Carly and Tarquin.

‘I haven’t said goodbye to Carly,’ Bex said. She looked at Mrs Farrier, the woman she had been cooking for and exchanging childcare messages with for over six months.

Mrs Farrier swallowed, not meeting her gaze. ‘I’ll tell her that you had to go

unexpectedly.’

‘Can I leave her a note?’

‘She can’t read,’ Mr Farrier said in a nasty tone.

‘I’ll draw her a picture,’ Bex said, not looking at him.

Mr Farrier snorted.

‘That would be nice,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking about as uncomfortable as Bex had ever seen another human being look. She almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

After a disturbed night of sleep, Bex was still smarting from her encounter with her employers. She felt physically bruised, as if the Farriers had been using fists, not words. The image of Carly’s little face kept leaping into the front of her mind and Bex had to blink hard to stop herself from crying. She was not going to blub over a stupid job. She would get another one. She didn’t need the reference. They were horrible, small-minded people and she was better off out of it all. Perhaps she could change jobs. She wouldn’t need a reference for nannying if she went back to waitressing. Or she could go back to college, do a course in something. Maybe this would be the making of her. In five years’ time, as she was being interviewed by the paper as an amazing success story, she would say, ‘I nannied for a while, but I always knew I was destined for something greater.’

Bex showered and got dressed. She wanted, predictably enough, to phone Jon

and tell him all about it. Of course, then she’d have to explain why she was so afraid of the police being involved and he’d look at her differently. Plus, she ed her resolve of that morning. She had to move away from Jon, stop relying on his companionship.

Instead, she scrubbed her hair until her scalp tingled and used half a bottle of her favourite almond shower gel, then she stomped into the kitchen to find something to gnaw upon, something to relieve her feelings. She banged the fridge shut after a disappointing perusal and tried the cupboards. Living with her dad was okay, but as he ate everything even slightly treat-like and went shopping on a strictly once-a-fortnight basis, there were never any decent snacks left. Eating cereal by the handful while leaning against the worktop wasn’t the best coping strategy in the world, but it was better than crying on Jon’s shoulder. Saturating his shoulder would only lead to an increase in wanting, and Bex was pretty sure her system couldn’t deal with any more of that without imploding.

Her skin felt too tight and she couldn’t concentrate. The cereal was dry and she filled a glass with cold water to wash it down. What she needed was something sweet and mouth-filling. Chocolate.

Her phone rang, interrupting an elaborate fantasy she’d been constructing involving a family-size bar of Galaxy.

‘Oh, hey.’ It was Jon. Bex’s hunger disappeared and her stomach tightened with a different kind of longing.

‘I thought you’d be at work. I was just going to leave a message on your machine.’

‘I just got fired.’ Bex hadn’t meant to say it so baldly.

‘No way!’ He sounded genuinely shocked. ‘I thought you liked that place.’

‘I do,’ Bex sniffed. She wasn’t going to cry.

‘Let’s do something,’ Jon said. ‘I’ll take your mind off it.’

‘Don’t you have practice?’ Bex kicked herself. Now he’d know she’d memorised his routine. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Nah, new singer just cancelled.’

‘Oh, hell. Sorry.’ Jon’s band had been trying to get a singer after their original line-up went kablooey. They hadn’t had much luck. Either the person was talented but flaky or they were a bad fit artistically speaking.

‘You want to go for a drink?’

‘It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?’ Bex said, smiling despite herself. Jon could be endearingly flaky at times.

‘Oh, yeah. Maybe. What time is it, anyway?’

‘I might just go for a walk along the canal.’

‘I’ll come with,’ Jon said.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Bex said, but he was talking over her, telling her to meet him by the green.

It had warmed up into a beautiful day, more like summer than spring. The green that ran from the pub down to the canal was full of teenagers lounging on the grass. Jon was waiting in their usual spot, his face turned up to the sun and his eyes shut.

Bex enjoyed the opportunity to watch him without him seeing her, but she said ‘hello’ when she was a few steps away so as not to startle him.

‘We can build up an appetite and then go for something to eat.’

Bex pulled a face. ‘I don’t think I should spend any money. Not until I get a new job.’

‘My treat,’ Jon said, but she shook her head.

‘You’re broke, too.’

They walked along for a while before Jon said: ‘You’ll get a new job. You’re

really good.’

He had no way of knowing what she was like at work, of course, but she appreciated his show of .

After a mile or so of peaceful walking, the water lapping gently against the sides of the canal and the brightly painted boats, Bex felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. The path opened up with a gated trail leading up to the main road and a patch of grass and flowerbeds next to a small gravel car park. There was an ice cream van and Jon bounded up to its window. ‘All hail the magnificent van of iced treats.’

‘You what?’ the man inside said, frowning at them both.

‘Cornetto, please,’ Bex said, trying to look normal and non-threatening. ‘Strawberry.’

‘And a 99, oh King of Whipped Cream. Or cream substitute, whatever that stuff is made of. King of Cream Substitute doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it?’

‘Are you being funny?’ The man looked like he’d reached the end of his tether some time during the nineteen-eighties.

‘He thinks so,’ Bex said. ‘Sorry.’ She ed across some money, waving away Jon’s offer to pay. She smiled at the still-frowning ice cream vendor. ‘He’s trying to cheer me up.’

‘Good luck with that one, love,’ he said as they walked away.

They sat on top of the picnic bench and Jon dug into his ice cream with impressive gusto. It was gone in a couple of bites. Bex wondered what it would be like to make love with a man like that, whether he’d consume the moment as quickly, as voraciously. Great. Now her head was on fire. She looked away, hoping Jon hadn’t noticed.

He finished the last bit of his cone and wiped his hands on his jeans. Which made Bex look at his thighs. Gah. Why had she ever thought this cosy little stroll could possibly be a good idea? Suddenly, the reason she had vowed to stay away from Jon came back with a thud; she was incapable of rational thought in his presence. She turned into a drooling, sex-obsessed idiot. And the need she felt when she was apart from him became utterly unbearable. Of course, the thought of walking away from the warmth of their friendship was like a knife to the gut.

‘Uh-oh,’ Jon said. ‘You’re thinking again. You need another ice cream.’ He jumped off the bench.

‘I haven’t finished this one.’ Bex held it up as evidence.

Jon stopped in front of her, his face almost level with hers, and Bex looked away to avoid gazing into his eyes, terrified that he would see the longing that lurked inside.

‘You going to tell me what happened?’

Bex concentrated on her ice cream. ‘They accused me of stealing.’

‘That’s outrageous.’ Jon was waving his arms around, emphasising his words. ‘Egregious.’

‘I know, but …’ Bex shrugged. ‘There’s not much I can do.’

‘But it’s unfair. They can’t do that, can they?’

Bex shrugged. ‘It’s their word against mine.’

‘I know what you should do,’ Jon said, his face lighting up. ‘You should go and see Iris Harper.’

That blinking woman again. It was as if she’d cast a spell over the whole town.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yeah,’ he was nodding now. ‘She’s really good. She’ll sort this out.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Like that.’

Bex pulled a face meant to convey deep scepticism. ‘She makes, like, face creams and stuff. From plants. My mum used to use her earache mixture on me. It was bloody disgusting.’ Bex didn’t want to it that she’d already approached Iris and been turned down as a client.

‘Well, maybe. But she does other stuff, too. You know Bob?’

Bex shook her head. ‘I don’t think so’

‘Yeah, you do. At the pub. Owns it.’ Jon sat back on the bench next to Bex, his leg almost touching hers. ‘Well, he told me that she sorted out a problem with his lease or something. Or a public permit. Something legal, anyway.’

Bex had reached the solid chunk of chocolate at the bottom of the Cornetto. ‘That doesn’t sound likely.’

‘She did, I swear. Bob thinks she’s a superhero.’

An image of Iris Harper with a long flowing cape and spandex suit popped, unbidden and unwanted, into her mind.

‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’ Jon dipped his head to look into her eyes. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘That’s okay,’ Bex said, eating the chocolate and slipping off the bench. ‘I need

to think about it.’

She put the rubbish in the bin and then headed to the canal path, which turned towards Pendleford. It was time to stop running away from the problem. She stopped when she realised Jon hadn’t followed. He was still sitting on the bench, ten paces away and frowning slightly.

‘You coming?’

‘I wish you’d learn to accept help sometimes.’

Yeah, well, Bex thought. I wish you’d rip my clothes off and ravish me right here on the lawn. Guess we’re both out of luck.

Back at home, Bex spent an hour phoning around the agencies for a new position. They all said the same thing – without a reference they wouldn’t put her on their books. Bex knew, from experience, that private clients who weren’t using an agency would be just as cagey. The only people who didn’t bother with references for their childcare provider were not the kind of people she wanted to work for. Catch 22.

She could start again, of course. Erase the last year of work history and pretend she had just taken a break after her college course. But it was a tough job market and there was a part of her that felt soured by the whole experience. How could they treat her so badly? She’d been part of their family and she hadn’t done anything wrong. What would stop another family from doing the same? Bex’s eyes felt hot and she blinked away the feeling.

If anyone had been in the wrong, it was Alistair Farrier, but she’d given him the benefit of the doubt, given him a second chance. Bex knew how easy it was to make a mistake, to do something stupid which you instantly regretted. When she’d turned her face away from Mr Farrier’s with a firm ‘none of that’, channelling her strict nanny alter-ego with all her being, his face had flushed bright red with embarrassment. She’d patted his arm and told him to think nothing of it, letting him know that she wouldn’t think – or say – anything about it, either. Bex had been given a second chance and she felt it was the least she could do to extend the same courtesy to others.

Much as it went against the grain, Bex decided that it would be better to ask Iris for help one more time. She had definitely reacted to the name Farrier, and Bex felt there was more to it than simply recognising the name. If Iris knew the family, she might be able to step in on Bex’s behalf. Besides, Jon seemed to think highly of the old bat, and that was more than enough of a recommendation for Bex.

At End House, she waited at the front door for a long time. She didn’t want to get caught in Iris’s garden again and she thought the polite, knocking-on-thefront-door method would be the best way to melt her heart of stone.

After ten minutes, however, Bex gave up and walked through the lavender bushes to the back door. She caught sight of Iris’s face at the window and waved before knocking on the peeling paint of the back door.

‘I heard you round the front,’ Iris said as soon as she opened the door. ‘Couldn’t get that far, though. My back has gone.’

‘Aren’t you a healer?’ The words popped out before Bex could censor herself.

‘Sort of,’ Iris said crossly. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Of course,’ Bex said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

‘Less of your cheek, child.’

Evidently she’d failed.

Iris was moving towards the table, very slowly. She lowered herself carefully into a chair and Bex felt guilty for having got her out of it. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘I’d offer you a cup of tea,’ Iris said, ignoring her. ‘But I just had one.’

Bex glanced around the kitchen. There was no used mug on the table, the counter or hiding in the sink. She touched the kettle. It was cold.

When she turned back, Iris was watching her with more interest than Bex had seen her exhibit before.

‘Did you want to something?’ Iris said, her head tilted. ‘Or is this bob-a-job

week?’

‘What?’ Bex didn’t know why teens were always getting it in the neck for being incomprehensible; it was old people who spoke a different language.

‘Never mind,’ Iris said. Her face was paler than the day before and there was a layer of sweat on her forehead.

‘You’re in pain,’ Bex said. ‘Let me get you something.’

‘I’ve taken all the drugs I’m allowed,’ Iris said, grimacing. ‘Just need to let them work.’

‘What about a hot water bottle?’ Bex thought about how soothing that was when she had period cramps.

Iris started to shake her head then paused. ‘All right, then. If you insist. It’s on my bed. Third door on your left at the top of the stairs.’

Bex walked out of the kitchen to the sound of Iris telling her not to touch anything else. Bex was used to being in other people’s houses; she’d had cleaning and babysitting jobs before she’d started nannying, and she took the responsibility that the position conferred very seriously. She didn’t glance around any more than was necessary to locate the old pink hot water bottle, but she couldn’t help noticing that the whole place needed a good scrub. Iris seemed like the old school kind of woman, the type who would’ve counted cleanliness as

next to godliness, but perhaps it was all getting a bit much for her in her old age. At the entrance to the kitchen, Bex almost stood in something that looked suspiciously like animal droppings.

‘Do you have family nearby?’ Bex said, filling the kettle.

‘Don’t you use that tone with me,’ Iris said.

‘What tone?’

‘The social worker tone. I’m not a pity case.’

‘I didn’t say you were.’ Bex filled a glass with water from the tap and put it in front of Iris.

‘I don’t like plain water,’ Iris said.

‘You don’t have to like it. It’s to take your next lot of tablets. So you don’t have to get up. Unless you’d prefer me to help you upstairs to bed.’

‘No!’

‘Or to the sofa, perhaps. You don’t look very comfortable there.’

‘I’m perfectly all right, young lady.’

‘Hey, I’m getting older,’ Bex said, hand on one hip. ‘That’s a good sign, right?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Young lady. Older than “child”. That means you’re warming to me.’

Iris smiled without any humour. ‘You are a very irritating child.’

‘Fine,’ Bex said, giving up. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’ She went to find the telephone so that she could put it next to Iris. There was one in the hallway, but it was the old-fashioned dial type with an honest-to-god cord. A cord which didn’t stretch more than a metre. There was a beige-and-red community-nurse-issued panic button sitting on the phone table, so Bex took that instead.

‘I don’t suppose you have a mobile,’ she said, setting the button in front of Iris. ‘But you can use this if you get into bother. You ought to wear it around your neck, you know.’

‘I’m not a fool,’ Iris said.

‘Right. I’m going.’ At the door she hesitated. The woman was a crusty old bag of

wrinkled rudeness, but she was also a vulnerable member of the community. Bex had been brought up to believe that you looked out for people like that. No matter how annoying they were. ‘Is there someone I can call to check on you later? A family member?’

Iris shook her head, not able to hide the wince of pain the movement brought on.

‘Children?’

Iris lifted her chin and didn’t answer.

Bex was going to ask about nieces and nephews, cousins, anyone, but it struck her that perhaps Iris was truly alone. It was a chilling thought and it softened her towards the woman. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll call in later.’

‘You don’t need to do that,’ Iris said. ‘I’m never alone for long.’

‘That’s good,’ Bex said, trying to sound upbeat.

‘Someone will be along wanting help or a refill of their love potion.’ She smiled properly for the first time. ‘You’re never alone when you hold the keys to the town’s erections.’

Bex decided that she’d misheard the old lady. There was no way she’d just heard an octagenarian say ‘erections’.

***

Before her visitor, Iris had been happily dozing in her chair. When the door closed behind Rebecca, she allowed her eyes to drift closed again. She’d never had children of her own, but End House had been a family home once. When her sister had died, Iris had taken in her daughter, Gloria. For a while it had gone well, but as Gloria grew older, she’d grown angrier right alongside. Iris could still hear the sound of Gloria stamping along the landing, slamming doors and clattering down the stairs. Iris, the first to it she wasn’t especially maternal, had been adrift. She had never been a teenager, either, as they hadn’t been invented when she was a girl. You were a child and then you were a young lady and that was that. Even if her mother hadn’t been spitting out diamond engagement rings at the breakfast table, there wouldn’t have been any room for nonsense.

Gloria, however, was all about nonsense. Boys and smoking and cheek and, worst of all, a total disregard for the old ways. She was a talented fortune teller, could read people’s future in just about anything she focused on, but she took it all too lightly. Didn’t have the gravitas necessary. Of course she didn’t, Iris chided herself now. She’d been sixteen. But it was too late to say those things to Gloria, too late to mend that particular bridge.

Iris felt herself nodding off, the pain in her back pleasantly receding to the background. At once, she was a young woman again. Still in her fifties and feeling strong. Gloria was on one of her rare visits with her girls and Iris was making skin softener and gout medicine. Gwen, the younger of Gloria’s girls, was hanging by the door of her work room. She’d been picking daisies in the garden and she offered a bunch to Iris. ‘Make yourself useful and collect me some chamomiles and marigolds,’ Iris said, holding up sample flowers. ‘I need a good handful more of both.’

The girl disappeared.

Iris continued pounding with her mortar and pestle and, after a few minutes, Gwen returned, staggering under the weight of an armful of greenery. Ten out of ten for effort, at any rate. Iris sifted through the plants, pointing out the stray weeds which had been picked by mistake and showing Gwen how to strip the petals from the flower heads and slice the stems, opening them down the middle with a fingernail and getting her to tear them into little pieces and put them in the mortar. She preferred a good sharp knife for that job, but things were strained enough with Gloria as it was without Iris arming her seven-year-old.

Gwen’s head bent over her task and she watched carefully as Iris showed her how to pound the mixture with the pestle and then stir in the melted beeswax and almond oil to make a cream. Iris approved of the careful, thorough way she combined the mixture, her hand made tinier still against the large mixing bowl and wooden spoon. She tilted the bowl while Iris scooped the mixture into a clean jar and poured a layer of oil on the top to keep it fresh. ‘This is good for dry or sore skin,’ Iris said, sticking a label onto the jar, ‘but you must never ever eat it. Poisonous.’

Gwen’s serious little face grew more solemn. ‘Poison kills people,’ she said.

‘Yes, it can. Or it makes you very, very poorly.’

Gwen stayed quiet, digesting this, so Iris continued. ‘But there are lots of things that are good for you in a little dose, or when you’ve got a particular thing wrong with you, that are very, very bad in other circumstances. Nothing in life is straightforward good or bad, healthy or poisonous.’

Gwen nodded. ‘I was sick last week.’

‘Were you?’ Iris had turned back to her plants. She had several batches to make and Gloria had said she’d pick the girls up in an hour. It must’ve been over that, by now.

‘Everything had to go into the washing machine,’ Gwen said. ‘Even Winnie-thePooh.’

‘Oh, well,’ Iris said.

‘His fur isn’t fluffy any more and one of his arms is empty.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The stuffing moved,’ Gloria said from the doorway. ‘In the machine. I’m sorry, sweetie.’ She dropped a kiss onto Gwen’s head. ‘I told you I was very sorry about that.’

Gwen looked solemn. ‘You didn’t know it would happen to Pooh bear.’

‘No,’ Gloria said, more impatient now. She wanted to be gone. ‘Get your things together, give Auntie Iris a kiss goodbye.’

Gwen did as she was told and Iris was surprised to realise that she was disappointed the child was leaving.

Gloria lifted her chin. ‘Thanks for having them.’

‘It was a pleasure,’ Iris said. She wanted to ask Gloria if she was still with that man, the one who had the forehead of a Neanderthal, and whether she’d gone ahead and started charging cash for telling lies instead of fortunes, but she didn’t want to spoil the peace. Didn’t want to scare her away for good. She only wanted to ask because she cared, but caring was like nutmeg. Too much of it could kill you.

Chapter Five

Bex was finding it difficult to keep busy. She’d tidied up the kitchen and even thought about cooking, but her dad was away for the night and she couldn’t quite summon the energy. At this time of the day, she would usually be feeding Carly and Tarquin their tea, making fruit faces to entice Carly into eating. Banana slices for the eyes, half a grape for a nose and an apple-slice mouth.

Bex decided she would pay Iris Harper a quick visit. Just to check on the old girl.

She wasn’t doing it because Jon had suggested it, Bex decided. She was doing it to be a good citizen. Iris had been in pain earlier and she was an old woman alone. She would do a good deed and it would take her mind off things at the same time. And, a small voice added, perhaps Iris would be so impressed by her kindness, she’d agree to help her after all.

The garden at End House, which had looked overgrown but lush with exotic produce earlier, was drooping and forlorn. There were thick brambles where Bex could’ve sworn she’d seen a bed of bright marigolds in amongst the pea plants. Doubting her own sanity, Bex looked closer and, sure enough, there were the pea canes buried within the thicket. Leaves choked and dying and the occasional green pod. There was no way all of that could’ve grown overnight. It wasn’t possible. Perhaps she’d been mistaken and was thinking of a different part of the garden. She turned around, scanning the garden and the path and the position of the house. No, she was definitely in the same place.

To the left of the peas, there had been peppers and aubergines. Bex had clocked that they ought not to be growing outside in spring, in England, and sure enough

they were no longer thriving. Bex felt a stab of guilt, as if she’d caused them to fail by thinking that way, and she stepped forward, parting the overgrown foliage to get a closer look. The plants weren’t just drooping, though, they were black and swollen, flies buzzing around the burst fruit in a way that looked almost obscene. Bex felt sick and, with this feeling, came the total certainty that something was very wrong.

Bex knocked loudly, but didn’t wait for an answer, pushing open the door and calling out. ‘Hello. It’s me, Bex.’

The first thing she saw was Iris’s chair, tipped over. Halfway through the open door of the kitchen, there was a shape on the floor. It was Iris and she wasn’t moving. The room was freezing, far colder than outside, but the part of Bex’s brain that was ing her breath fogging in the air was buried under the more pressing demands of running through her first-aid training. She checked for breathing and for a pulse, surprised when she found both. The woman was frozen to the touch and her skin waxy and yellow.

‘Iris, can you hear me?’ Bex’s voice echoed strangely in the room, far louder and harsher than she expected.

The panic was there, too, but Bex shoved it away. She put Iris into the recovery position, horrified at how light she felt. She couldn’t stop thinking about brittle bones, and was terrified of hurting Iris further.

‘Gwen?’ Iris’s voice was quiet but clear.

‘It’s Bex,’ Bex said. ‘I’m going to call for an ambulance.’

Iris’s eyes snapped open. ‘No!’ She began to push herself up to a sitting position.

‘Stay still,’ Bex said, relieved and alarmed all at once. ‘You might have broken something.’

‘I think I’d know if I had,’ Iris said. ‘Ouch.’ She rubbed her arm. The colour was coming back into her face. She was looking less dead with every moment.

‘Look, I need to call someone. Get you checked out properly. You’re not in your right mind.’

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Iris said. ‘I just had a little fall. I’m fine.’

Bex gave her a long, steady look. The one that she used on Carly when she was having a meltdown over putting her shoes on.

Iris looked away. ‘I’ll be fine in a bit, anyway. Just need a drink.’

‘I don’t know if you should –’

‘Please,’ Iris said. ‘I’m very thirsty.’

Bex filled a glass with water and gave it to Iris on the floor, then she went to the hallway, ignoring Iris’s calls of protest.

The phone in the hallway was the old-fashioned kind with a clunky, heavy handset and dial.

‘Call my doctor, not the ambulance,’ Iris yelled, her voice surprisingly strong.

Bex hesitated. It no longer felt like a blue-light emergency, but Iris was so stubborn Bex wouldn’t have been surprised if she had broken something and was just keeping quiet. On the other hand, Bex’s own grandmother had gone into hospital, caught an infection and never come home.

Doctor Hathaway’s number was on the note block next to the phone. She rang it and hoped she wasn’t doing the wrong thing.

‘Iris Harper?’ the doctor said, when Bex had hastily and breathily explained. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘Should I call nine-nine-nine? She was unconscious when I arrived. I don’t know how long she’s been lying on the floor.’

‘Not if Iris doesn’t want you to. I’ll be five minutes.’

The doctor was as good as her word, but even in that short time, Iris continued to

recover. Bex was feeling increasingly stupid, and the terror she’d felt was ebbing from her body, leaving her shaky.

‘I’m sorry about the fuss,’ Iris said to Hathaway. She glared at Bex. ‘She panicked. And she won’t let me get up. It’s cold down here.’

Bex had covered Iris with a blanket and put a pillow under her head, but Iris was still managing to imply that Bex had violated the Human Rights Act.

‘She did exactly the right thing,’ Hathaway said, gently checking Iris over. ‘You are severely dehydrated. When did you last take a drink?’

‘Ten minutes ago,’ Iris said.

‘And before that?’

Iris looked away. ‘I had tea this morning.’

Bex looked on the counter. There was a full mug of cold tea on the side, the milk, which had separated slightly, giving it an unpleasant, scummy look.

‘You made it, but I don’t think you drank it.’

Iris narrowed her eyes and Bex cut in before she could say something she might regret. ‘I’m just saying.’

The doctor was taking Iris’s blood pressure and she gave them both a warning look. After a moment of silence, she put away the meter. ‘You need to be hydrated. Easiest would be an overnight at the Royal United.’

‘No hospital.’ Iris pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.

‘Up to bed, then?’

‘Yes,’ Iris said, already trying to stand up. Between them, the doctor and Bex got Iris upstairs and into her room. ‘I don’t need to get changed, just my shoes off.’

They helped Iris into bed, although this mainly involved Iris shooing them away and telling them ‘not to fuss’. The doctor gave instructions for mixing up an electrolyte-replacing drink. ‘You need an IV, really,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘I promise to take tiny sips at regular intervals for the next twelve hours,’ Iris said.

‘You can’t promise that. You’ll fall asleep,’ Bex said, then ducked out of the bedroom in case Iris decided to throw something at her. She went downstairs to mix the drink and, as she left the room, she heard the doctor say: ‘Fine. Have it your way.’

Bex mixed the powder into some water and stirred it until the grains had dissolved, then she took it back upstairs. She ed the glass to Iris who sipped some and looked at them both defiantly. ‘You can go now. I’m perfectly fine.’

‘I’ll check in on you in the morning,’ Hathaway said, closing the bedroom door.

They walked downstairs, silent by tacit agreement. Bex didn’t want Iris to overhear. ‘You can’t leave her. Shouldn’t we call an ambulance, anyway?’

‘She’ll be all right. I’ve seen her in a worse state than this.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Bex said. ‘Aren’t there community nurses and stuff?’

The doctor shook her head. ‘Iris won’t take help.’

‘She’s too stubborn for her own good.’

Hathaway smiled. ‘I think she’s doing so well because she’s stubborn. Can you stay around for bit, though? Make sure she drinks the rest of that glass and make her up another one?’

How did this happen? One day out of work and she was volunteering as outreach for the elderly. Her mother was right; she was a sucker.

‘I can stay for an hour,’ Bex said.

‘Great.’ Hathaway was packing things away into her bag. ‘She likes you, I can tell.’

***

When Iris woke it was early morning. Light was coming through the gap in the curtains and the air was filled with rampant birdsong. Iris loved hearing them, especially in the spring when their enthusiasm was tinged with a manic energy. She got up slowly, waiting for the ache in her back to reignite to yesterday’s level of unpleasantness.

After she’d managed to wash and dress and get downstairs without incident, she felt a lift of triumph. Which was quickly squashed by what she saw through her living room door. The girl, Rebecca Adams, was asleep on her sofa. ‘I’m not running a hostel,’ she said, loudly, and enjoyed the sight of the girl sitting straight up as if she’d been electrocuted.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said. She rubbed her eyes. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’

‘Neither is squatting. What are you doing here?’

‘Don’t you ? Last night?’

‘I perfectly well,’ Iris said, wishing she didn’t. Humiliation. That’s what old age brought. Continual low-grade humiliation with occasional spikes of acute embarrassment. ‘I don’t recall asking you to stay.’

‘Doctor Hathaway did.’ The girl stood up and stretched. A loud cracking sound came from her shoulders. ‘And you were in no state to be left alone.’

‘Nonsense,’ Iris said. ‘You are making a fuss about nothing.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘You should call someone. Seriously.’

Iris made a shooing motion with her hands. She didn’t need help from anybody. It would ruin her reputation, for starters.

‘Who’s Gwen?’

Iris frowned. ‘My great-niece. Do you know her?’

‘No,’ Bex shook her head. ‘You said her name when I came in last night, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Iris looked away. ‘Her mother, Gloria, lived with me for a while.’

‘Right.’

‘We never became close,’ Iris said, ‘but she used to bring her girls round to see me. Ruby and Gwen.’

‘That was nice,’ Bex said.

‘Ruby was nothing special, but Gwen was very talented.’ Iris said.

‘Wow, poor Ruby,’ Bex said, her hand on the door handle. ‘You can be very harsh, you know.’

The child knew nothing. ‘I’m just being honest. It’s generally for the best.’

Having managed to shoo Rebecca from the house, Iris tried to get back to normal. The girl’s words haunted her, though. Had she grown mean in her old age? She hadn’t been once, she knew. Once she’d been a kind person. A person worth loving.

James Farrier had been everything that Iris hadn’t even known she’d wanted. He’d looked at her as if she were truly precious and it had warmed her right through to her bones. The wedding date had been set and Iris was counting down the days until she became Mrs Farrier. She’d told James about her affliction and he’d called her a silly goose, said that it was just like her to give people things, that he loved her generous nature. Iris had meant to correct him, to explain more fully that it had nothing to do with generosity, but the words had died in her

throat. She wanted him so much. She wanted to be happy.

The women in the Harper family often had a gift. Iris’s mother spat out discarded jewellery at the breakfast table, Gloria had an uncanny knack for fortune telling and her daughter Gwen found lost things. Iris, like a distant relative of mother’s, had The Giving. Not all of the time, but more often than was convenient, a horrible itching feeling would creep across her body and, with it, a terrible compulsion to give a certain thing to a certain person. When it started, at aged fourteen, Iris often had no idea what she was doing or why she was giving certain things, but her knowledge grew quickly. Soon she knew far more than was ladylike.

‘Giving things to people is nice,’ her mother had said, holding a white lacy handkerchief in front of her mouth. ‘I just wish you could be a little more discreet about it.’ She coughed and moved the handkerchief to her pocket, hiding whatever item had appeared.

The problem was, Iris didn’t give people conventional gifts; she gave them what they needed. If it had been a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates, perhaps all would be well. Instead, Iris was forced to take baby clothes to a woman who did not wish to be pregnant or a purging potion to someone who had been poisoned. Once, she had felt compelled to give an iron nail to a man, with absolutely no idea why. He was as mystified as she was. Three days later, he killed a man in a bar fight, jamming that iron nail into his attacker’s neck.

It was the day before her wedding and the winter solstice when Iris had woken with the pricking sensation that heralded a Giving. She knew that she had to take something warm to Roberta, her future sister-in-law. Already warm from the imagined embarrassment of arriving at the Farriers’ house with a blanket, wary of looking unbalanced and strange in front of her new family, Iris tramped through the snow and ice to deliver her gift. There was no possibility of not doing so, Iris already knew. Over the previous three years, she had tried every

way to resist, to ignore her affliction, but the pricking and itching soon turned to burning pain, her mind clouded with the need to deliver the gift. That was something Iris had discovered; how need could very quickly overcome your senses, making a fog of reality and stopping your rational thought processes as surely as a sleeping draught.

When she’d arrived, she’d seen Roberta instantly, huddled on the snowy ground to the right of the front door. She was insensible from the cold and, even as Iris pulled the blanket around her shoulders and hugged the girl close, trying to impart her own warmth, she thought that she was too late, that Roberta had perished.

At that moment, her beloved had thrown open the door. He had not noticed that Iris was there, not immediately, and was already speaking. Iris heard him tell Roberta that he hoped she had learned her lesson and, in that instant, Iris grasped that he had locked her out of the house to punish her. Whatever slight Roberta had been guilty of (and Iris found it hard to imagine such a thing, Roberta was so quiet and cowed), she had been dealt a cruel punishment. The sort of punishment that could only be devised by a cold and disturbed mind.

Iris could never hear the word revelation without a twinge of pain. Her revelation that day had been swift as a knife. James Farrier, the man she loved and had promised to with in matrimony, was a monster. Or, if not a monster yet, had all the makings of one. Iris had seen enough of human nature in her short life to know one thing: no matter how powerful your magic, you could not change the essential nature of a person.

She’d broken the engagement, horrifying her parents and, it seemed, the entire town. And then she’d buried herself in her calling. If she was a witch then she would be one straight from a storybook. Alone. Austere. Powerful. And, while she had no urge to grow warts or become ugly, she welcomed the notion that girlish prettiness was no longer of consequence. If it was no longer the most

important thing about her – her port to marriage and children – then it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t have it, or that it would decay over time.

She’d never truly intended to become mean, though. Or ‘harsh’, as the child, Rebecca, had said. Iris wiped at her eyes. Damn things were watering again.

Chapter Six

Bex was working on her CV when her phone buzzed. It was a text from Jon.

Film night?

She pressed the call button to speak to him. ‘Didn’t we do that on Tuesday?’

‘You think we’re in a rut?’ Bex could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I’m still taking your mind off your troubles.’

It was a bad idea, Bex knew, but her mouth overruled her brain. ‘What time?’

All the way to Jon’s house, Bex rationalised her bad decision. They were friends. More than that; Jon was her best friend. It wasn’t late, which meant his housemate, Ben, would be around and he could sit in-between them on the sofa. Make it seem less like a date.

Bex knew that spending the evening with Jon was flying in the face of operation ‘get over him and get a new life’, but she shoved that knowledge down and paused in front of a shop window to take her hair out of its ponytail and brush it over her shoulders. In defiance of the sensible voice which was telling her, quite insistently, that she ought to turn around and go home, Bex added a slick of tinted lip balm to her lips before knocking on Jon’s door.

‘I’ve been cooking,’ Jon said. He had a checked tea towel slung over one shoulder. ‘It’s supposed to be a nice surprise, but I’m not sure –’ He broke off, his mouth twisting. ‘Put it this way. I hope you’ve already eaten.’

‘I’ve eaten,’ Bex said. Four bowls of cereal and half a loaf of bread.

‘That’s a relief,’ Jon said. ‘I’ll just go and dispose of the evidence.’ He disappeared back into the kitchen and Bex heard the sound of a plate being scraped into the bin.

‘When’s Ben back?’ His mountain bike had been missing from the hall.

‘Oh, he’s staying out tonight,’ Jon called back.

Bex ignored the treacherous flair of excitement and ed Jon in the kitchen. ‘He’s missing film night, again? You did invite him, right?’

‘He’s busy,’ Jon said, opening the fridge and getting two beers. ‘You know Ben.’

Not really, Bex thought. Jon’s housemate was more elusive than the yeti. ‘Does he hate me, or something?’

Jon had a funny look on his face when he said ‘No, of course not’, which made Bex think the real answer was ‘Yes, he finds you deeply irritating. Soon, I will have to choose between you and you will come off worse; after all, I live with

Ben.’ It was a lot to get from one funny look, but Bex was highly trained at deconstructing and decoding Jon’s every move, word, smile and gesture.

‘I’ve got the perfect thing to take your mind off things,’ Jon said, clinking his bottle against hers. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ Bex said, trailing back to the living room.

‘I got this.’ He held up a DVD case and Bex let out an involuntary squeak of excitement. It was Walk the Line. They’d both been looking forward to seeing it after missing it in the cinema and Bex had watched Reese Witherspoon pick up her Oscar for her performance with great delight.

Too late, as she watched the love story between June Carter and Johnny Cash unfold, Bex realised that this was possibly the worst film he could have picked. At the time of the evening when they were usually cheerfully singing along with Eric Idle to ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’, they were instead treated to the sight of Joaquin Phoenix staring at Reese Witherspoon with sparkling, soulful eyes while they sang together. Reese/June was smiling back at Joaquin/Johnny with a naked love that her professional smile couldn’t quite disguise.

Bex looked away from the couple on the screen and focused on her feet. She had taken her trainers off and she looked at her stripey sock-clad feet, concentrating on swallowing down the sudden pain in her stomach.

Joaquin Phoenix stopped singing abruptly and Bex looked up to find him frozen on the screen. Jon was watching her, his hand on the remote. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ Bex forced a smile. ‘Fine.’

‘It’s not working for you, is it?’

‘I’d better go,’ Bex said. ‘I’m knackered. And I’m not fun to be around.’

‘It was meant to distract you,’ Jon said, indicating the television.

‘That’s all right.’ Bex stood up and stepped into her trainers, forcing her feet into them as quickly as possible. ‘I’m just in a terrible mood. It’s a waste of a good film.’

‘Another time, then?’ Jon looked subdued.

Bex wanted to tell him what was wrong, but she couldn’t, because he was what was wrong. And what could he say?

‘Sorry to spoil your evening. You could call Nicola.’ Bex wanted to hit herself in the head as soon as the words were out. Why give him ideas?

‘Maybe,’ Jon said. He didn’t meet her gaze. ‘She was very enthusiastic.’

‘She’s a blast,’ Bex said.

‘You think I should call her?’

Bex walked into the hallway without answering. She did not want to discuss Jon’s love life. Why had she brought it up? Why was she so bloody masochistic? ‘Night, then,’ she said, not looking over her shoulder, not stopping.

‘Bex …’ His hand was on her arm. She looked down at it. His beautiful big hand, enveloping her arm. Those knuckles she had spent hours staring at; fingers she was pretty sure she could pick out of a line-up.

‘You don’t have to go,’ Jon said. ‘We could talk.’

God, she must look even worse than she felt. She forced another smile, her whole face feeling weird and numb. ‘See you tomorrow, yeah?’

Chapter Seven

At End House, Iris Harper’s evening was not going according to plan. She had hoped to do some cooking while listening to a play on the radio. But there was something about the girl, Rebecca, that stopped her from relaxing. Her image kept elbowing its way to the front of Iris’s mind. Rebecca had said something she had not intended to say. Not out loud, of course, but Iris had heard it nonetheless. It was a truth so naked and painful that it shone from her being. Iris had spent so many years listening to people and their problems that she heard things they didn’t say louder than the things they did. Rebecca had been wronged by Alistair Farrier and she felt too weak to do anything about it. Iris knew she wasn’t a weak person – she’d shown a quick wit and a sense of responsibility that Iris liked and ired – but Rebecca was scared. Iris realised that she had been staring at an empty saucepan and missed the first ten minutes of the play. She could feel Rebecca’s fear and it made sense to Iris that she would be scared of Alistair Farrier; like father like son.

Iris went out to her work room, which was set at the bottom of the garden. The whitewashed building had a single-glazed window and an ill-fitting door and Iris pulled on the thick cardigan she kept on a hook on the back wall. She never used to feel the cold, used to be so absorbed in her work that nothing short of a bomb could’ve disturbed her. Of course, Iris thought ruefully, she used to be young.

She pulled a mixing bowl from the stack on the table. She didn’t quite it to herself what she was doing, letting her hands work on autopilot. Bundles of herbs hung from a wooden rack suspended from the ceiling and Iris untied a bunch of verbena. It was almost fully dried and very brittle. She crumbled it into her heavy mortar and pounded it into a fine powder. Iris needed dried lemon peel but, for a disorientating moment, couldn’t lay her hands upon it. She knew it would be in one of the jars which lined the shelves above her work bench, or in the set of small wooden drawers which sat on the table, but she couldn’t which. Her mind had always been so reliable and it was terrifying to feel uncertain. For a single awful second, Iris looked around her beloved work

room and felt herself in a strange and alien land. And then the memory leapt to the front of her mind. It was in the jar with the brownish paper label, peeling slightly and on the far right. There was a group of dried fruit peels, in fact, including lime, pomegranate and orange.

Iris held the jar of lemon, looking at her own, familiar handwriting on the label, and felt the world shift back into place. She chopped a small amount of peel and placed half into a burner. Setting light to it with a long kitchen match, Iris stated her intention: that people would speak the truth, out loud and in full and in the English language. It wasn’t very pithy, as incantations went, but Iris had learned the hard way; you had to get specific with these things.

The smell of burning lemon peel wasn’t the worst smell that the work room had ever encountered, but Iris opened the window anyway. The scent of lavender and grass and peashoots flooded inside and the chirrups and peeps of the birds were suddenly much louder. The sky, which had been palest blue a moment before, was deepening before Iris’s eyes, providing a dramatic contrast with the sculpted white clouds.

She ground the burned lemon with the mortar and pestle, focusing on her intention and the recipients of the spell. The Farriers. Specifically Mr Farrier. It would affect anybody who drank the potion, of course, but you could influence the relative strength with intention. At least, Iris hoped so. She wanted him to be helpless with truth, wanted him flooded and uncontrolled. She wanted his secrets to spill onto the floor from his lips and for everybody to see him for the man he really was, see any and all evil which lurked inside.

Iris had missed her chance to expose the monster James Farrier kept hidden from society and she felt she had been given a second chance. Those gold cufflinks, spat out by her own mother years ago, had given her the chance to make amends. Somewhere, far at the back of her mind, there was a lone voice which pointed out that Alistair Farrier was not the same man, that there could be no second

chances as James Farrier was no longer a part of the physical world. The voice pointed out, not entirely unreasonably, that James Farrier only existed now in the memories of those he loved or hurt, but Iris didn’t pay it any attention. Sometimes, you had to take what you could get.

Iris avoided looking at her garden as she walked back to the house, carrying the mixing bowl with the small amount of precious powder. She didn’t want to see the curling blackberry vines or stinging nettles, the knotweed which had sprung up overnight to choke her vegetables and flowers. Iris needed to feel strong, so she ignored the signs of weakness. Her garden was the closest thing she had to a relationship and her companion sensed that she was failing. Her powers, her body, her mind; they were all breaking down. She was coming to the end and her garden knew it.

But you’re not at the end. Not yet.

Still enough energy for tonight. With a spring moon low in the sky and the birds singing out and the sap running through the world.

Iris fetched a bottle of her good elderflower wine from the pantry. It was a swingtop with a ceramic stopper and she popped the lid and took a slug straight from the bottle. It was delicious so she had another nip and then added the powder to the bottle, tipping it carefully with the aid of a small plastic funnel, and fixing the stopper. She swirled the liquid in the bottle until the powder disappeared and put the bottle and a few plastic cups into a bag. The less you had to ask people to provide, the better, and Iris was always well prepared. If she hadn’t been a witch, she’d have made a marvellous girl scout.

***

Bex was still standing on the street outside Jon’s house, unable to walk away. She took a deep breath. Maybe she should just tell him how she felt? She could knock on the door and, when he opened it, say: ‘I want to be more than friends and it’s killing me.’

No.

Bex’s insides had gone liquid at the thought. Besides, it would only cause heartache and embarrassment. Bex wasn’t a fool and she’d had boyfriends in the past. You could tell when there was a spark, when someone was attracted to you. If Jon felt the same way, he’d have shown some sign by now. Bex imagined Jon’s expression if she declared her feelings; horror, quickly followed by deep discomfort. Pity.

‘Are you going to stand there all night?’

The voice seemed to be right next to Bex’s ear and she jumped, looking around the previously deserted road.

Iris Harper was standing a few feet away, leaning on a stick. She had a bulky bag slung across her body and her coat was buttoned up to the neck, even though it was a warm night.

‘You startled me.’

‘You’re a very nervous person,’ Iris said. ‘I’ve got a good tonic for that.’

‘Were you looking for me?’ Frankly, Bex was amazed to see Iris up and about after yesterday. She was a tough old bird, that was for sure.

‘I thought we could visit your erstwhile employers. Together.’

‘I don’t think it will help,’ Bex said. ‘Thanks, though.’

Iris smiled. ‘Humour a tough old bird.’

Bex fell into step with Iris. ‘It won’t do any good,’ she said. ‘They won’t listen.’

‘You’re too young to be so defeatist,’ Iris said. ‘Block Despair for as long as possible. If you let it in, you invite its friends, Apathy, Anger and Ague.’

Bex stomped on the urge to tell Iris not to speak to her like a fortune cookie. ‘Mr Farrier has really got it in for me.’

‘And why is that?’

Bex shook her head. ‘No reason. I don’t know.’

‘Lying is a very bad habit, you know,’ Iris said. ‘Especially to me.’

‘It’s not important,’ Bex said. She felt stupid for protecting the man who was accusing her of theft, but she knew what it was like to have your bad behaviour aired in public. She still felt the slap of shame whenever she thought about that horrible time. Only Nicola had stood by her, ing her through her day in court and not listening when their other friends called Bex a pikey and a loser, whispering and laughing behind her back. Bex was in the right here, she knew, but she didn’t feel qualified to dispense judgement. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d given up that right on the day she’d decided to take something that wasn’t hers, stressing out her parents so badly that she’d hammered the final nail in their divorce.

‘I wouldn’t be helping you if you didn’t deserve it, you know,’ Iris said. She was looking at Bex as if she could see right into her heart.

‘What are you going to do?’ Bex managed to say around the lump that had appeared in her throat.

Iris gave her a wide smile, showing her grey-ish teeth. ‘We’re going to drink my famous elderflower wine and become the very best of friends.’

Bex wanted to tell her that it was going to take a lot more than a social drink, but it was too late; Iris was already ringing the Farriers’ doorbell.

Mrs Farrier opened the door, her expression guarded. ‘Who are you?’ Mrs

Farrier was looking past Bex.

‘Iris Harper.’ Iris stepped forward and held her hand out. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Bex felt like a terrible person for enjoying the way the colour drained from Mrs Farrier’s face, but she couldn’t help it. Being unceremoniously fired had a detrimental effect on your empathy.

‘I see you’ve heard of me. That’s good,’ Iris said. ‘We need to talk. The grownups, at any rate.’ She stepped smartly past Mrs Farrier and into the hallway.

‘It’s late,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘The children are in bed.’

‘Sorry,’ Bex said, reflexively, but Iris was saying, in a much louder voice: ‘Perfect. Is it this way?’

She took off down the hall at an impressively fast pace and Mrs Farrier had no choice but to follow. Bex closed the front door and trailed after them.

Mr Farrier was in the formal living room, the one the children weren’t allowed to play in, sitting on the cream brocade sofa with the television remote in one hand. He clicked a button and the widescreen mounted above the gas fireplace went black.

He was staring at Iris as if he couldn’t believe such a creature existed. His lip

was actually curled and Bex felt a rush of protectiveness towards the older woman.

‘You can’t just walk into my home,’ Farrier was saying.

‘You’d be amazed at what I can do,’ Iris said. She smiled, as if to soften the words, but it had the opposite effect. More like a shark than a dolphin.

Iris turned to Mrs Farrier. ‘Well, dear. You may not know this, but it’s customary to offer people refreshment.’

Mrs Farrier had started to sit down on the sofa next to her husband, but she jumped up as if electrocuted.

Mr Farrier raised his voice. ‘You will not speak to my wife in that tone.’

‘We’ve popped round for a nice chat about Rebecca’s future; there’s nothing to be concerned about. But, if you prefer, we could have a more intimate conversation,’ Iris said. ‘The sort which invites confidences. Secrets.’

Mr Farrier flushed red. ‘You witch. I’ve heard about you. You’re nothing but a –’

‘Dear me.’ Iris shook her head. ‘The lack of manners in this household is truly shocking. Rebecca, I hope you’ve been providing a better example to the younger of the family. There’s still time for them to learn.’

Bex didn’t know whether to smile or not, but she opted for something halfway.

‘Don’t smirk, child,’ Iris said. ‘It makes you look sly.’

‘She is sly,’ Mr Farrier said, seizing on the word. ‘She’s a thief. And we are completely within our rights to terminate her employment.’

‘Well, since you’ve raised the subject,’ Iris said, settling down into the armchair, ‘we may as well get on.’ She looked forlornly at the coffee table. ‘Especially since it doesn’t appear we’re going to be given anything to drink this evening.’

Mrs Farrier rose again, only for Mr Farrier to pull on her arm sharply, dragging her back down to a sitting position.

‘As I understand it, you have dismissed Rebecca and are refusing her a good reference, upon which her future employment depends.’

‘She stole from us. It’s only because my wife is so soft-hearted that we haven’t called the police.’ He fixed Bex with a stare. ‘There’s plenty of time for us to press charges, though, and this little adventure isn’t doing you any favours.’

‘And what is Rebecca supposed to have stolen?’

‘Cufflinks,’ Mr Farrier said, stiffly. ‘Gold. Very valuable.’

‘Perhaps Bex could recompense us for the value,’ Mrs Farrier said brightly. ‘Then we could take it as an honest mistake and write the reference –’

‘Sentimental value,’ Mr Farrier broke in, throwing a sharp look at his wife.

‘Oh, yes,’ Iris said. ‘They belonged to your father, James, I believe.’

‘How did you know that?’ Mr Farrier gawped at Iris. ‘How on earth –’

‘Because you threw them away,’ Iris said. ‘About twenty years ago, in fact.’

He opened his mouth and, for moment, no sound came out. Then he rallied with: ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because they reminded you too much of him, I would imagine,’ Iris said. ‘He wasn’t a good man. I’m sorry for that.’

Farrier had gone red and he was blinking furiously. ‘I don’t know … How –’

‘I knew him a long time ago,’ Iris said. ‘He wasn’t very nice then, and I think he only got worse. He was that sort. Mean through to the core. Nasty in his bones.’

She fixed him with a glare that made Bex shrivel inside. She hated to think how it would feel to have the full beam. ‘Your father was bad deep down in his blood and I wonder, now, whether he ed that on to you? It was very wrong of you to blame Rebecca. Wrong to dismiss her. Wrong to accuse her.’

‘Alistair?’ Mrs Farrier was gazing at her husband as if she’d never seen him before. ‘What is she talking about?’

‘Get out of my house,’ Farrier said, but his voice was weak.

‘Not yet,’ Iris said, opening her bag and pulling out a glass bottle filled with pale liquid and a stack of clear plastic wine glasses. ‘Rebecca, would you do the honours?’

Bex obeyed automatically, setting the glasses out onto the table and fiddling with the stopper that was like the opening on a Grolsch bottle.

‘Don’t worry about putting the kettle on,’ Iris said to Mrs Farrier. ‘We brought you a gift. A toast to friendship and to better times and to sorting this out in a civilised manner.’ She looked at Mr Farrier. ‘A discreet manner. Bex has no intention of causing trouble for you or your family. She is very fond of you all, although I am at a loss to know why.’

‘Most of you,’ Bex said, for the sake of honesty.

Iris nodded. ‘So. We’re going to have some of my famous elderflower wine, and we’re going to have a conversation and come to a mutually beneficial agreement.’

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking a little dazed. ‘This is all very odd. People said this town was odd, but I didn’t really listen.’

Bex poured a small measure of the pale yellow liquid into each glass.

‘I’m not drinking that,’ Mr Farrier said.

‘It’s a gift,’ Iris said.

Mrs Farrier put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Alistair, please.’

‘One drink and we’ll leave,’ Iris said, putting a glass into his hand.

Mr Farrier’s frown deepened. ‘How did you know my father?’

‘We were engaged. A very long time ago.’ Iris smiled at the sudden stunned silence. ‘Needless to say, it didn’t work out.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Mrs Farrier looked bewildered.

‘I wasn’t always eighty-two, you know,’ Iris said, sharply.

‘That wasn’t what I meant –’

Iris raised her plastic glass. ‘A little elderflower makes everything better. It’s summer captured in a glass.’

As if hypnotised by British politeness, everyone lifted their glasses and drank. The wine was delicious. Fresh and floral with a dry undertone.

‘I’m not taking part in this,’ Mr Farrier said, lowering his glass after one sip. ‘I don’t care who you are or what you’re dragging up from the past. It’s ancient history.’

‘It isn’t though, is it?’ Iris said. ‘I think he is still influencing you. The fact that you pretended to have lost his cufflinks, something you haven’t possessed for many years, speaks volumes. It’s almost as if he is still influencing you from beyond the grave.’

‘Well, that makes more sense,’ Mrs Farrier said to her husband, after a second gulp of her wine. ‘I was wondering why I’d never seen the cufflinks. I didn’t even know you had any gold ones.’

Iris didn’t glance at her. She kept staring at Mr Farrier, leaning in his direction as she lowered her voice. ‘You don’t have to be like him, though. You can be

better.’

‘You can’t speak to me like that.’ Mr Farrier’s face had moved on from red to blotchy purple. Bex was starting to worry that he was going to have a heart attack. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All you have to do is give Rebecca her job back.’ Iris took a sip of her wine and smiled. If Bex didn’t know better she’d have thought Iris was enjoying herself.

‘I don’t want it,’ Bex said.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Iris said, glancing at her. ‘I thought you wanted my help?’

‘I want my reference. A fair reference. I deserve that,’ Bex said, looking at Mrs Farrier. ‘And I want a chance to say goodbye to the children, because it’s not fair on them. I don’t want you to hustle me out of the door like a criminal. That’s not right. But I don’t want to work for you any more.’ Bex hadn’t known the truth of the words until she’d spoken them out loud, but they felt right. She didn’t want to work for the Farriers. A thought came to her, golden and true; they didn’t deserve her help. And she didn’t have to pay penance by working for them.

‘Don’t listen to anything she says. She’s a thief and a liar,’ Mr Farrier said, standing up.

‘I’m not saying anything else,’ Bex said. She spread her hands, trying to reassure

Mr Farrier, although, God knew, he didn’t deserve her kindness. The wine had warmed Bex right through and she felt a bolt of happiness. ‘I’m done.’

‘You’re definitely that,’ Mr Farrier said. ‘You can’t make demands; no one will believe a single word out of your mouth –’

‘Just stop,’ Mrs Farrier said. Half of her wine had already gone. ‘I know what you’re frightened of, but I already know. I didn’t know about you and Bex, but I can guess. I know about the others.’

‘What?’ Mr Farrier sat down, like someone had just cut his strings.

‘Oh, please,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know what –’

‘Just don’t.’ Mrs Farrier held up her hand. She took another slug of the wine.

Mr Farrier picked up his own glass and downed it.

‘There is no “me and him”,’ Bex said. It was important to her that Mrs Farrier knew. ‘I swear to you. There is nothing going on between me and your husband and there never has been.’

Mrs Farrier looked at her over the rim of the glass. ‘He tried something, though. Didn’t he?’

‘I don’t think this is going to help anybody,’ Bex said. ‘Can we get back to my innocence, please?’ She tried some more of the wine. It really was very good. And clearly alcoholic. She took a bigger drink.

‘How do you know I don’t have those cufflinks?’ Mr Farrier said suddenly, pointing at Iris. ‘What makes you so sure I threw them away?’

‘Because my mother spat them out shortly before she died.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t point at me, please. It’s very rude,’ Iris said. ‘Things that were thrown away, they came to my mother. It was her gift. Mine is to give people what they need. It’s easier in some ways.’ Iris looked at her wine glass as if surprised to find it empty. ‘Damn stuff is too tasty,’ she said. ‘Gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. I recognised them. I was still,’ she hesitated, ‘holding a candle for him.’

‘I thought you broke off the engagement,’ Bex said.

‘Didn’t say what kind of candle,’ Iris said. ‘You can know something is wrong and still mourn its ing.’

Bex felt light-headed. She wondered if she’d been holding on to the past too tightly.

‘Are we all just going to sit here and listen to this nonsense? “Gifts”? How gullible do you think I am?’ Mr Farrier, to give him his due, wasn’t going down without a fight.

Mrs Farrier gave him a piercing look and he closed his mouth. She leaned forward, towards Iris. ‘What happened next? After your mum got the cufflinks?’

Iris shrugged. ‘She put them in one of the dishes on her dressing table. Well, she wasn’t very well, so I put them there for her. She was taking pills from the doctor by then. She thought they dulled the gift, made it less likely to happen.’

‘Did they work?’ Mrs Farrier asked, looking a little sad.

‘No. But they helped her forget what was happening. Took the edges off the world.’

Mrs Farrier nodded and lifted her glass. When she found it was empty, she held it out to Bex.

‘All gone,’ Bex said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Right.’ Iris seemed to rouse herself. ‘It’s time.’ She pointed to Mr Farrier.

‘You’ve just taken a truth potion. You are now bound to tell the truth and you are going to write Rebecca a reference. The one she deserves.’

‘Oh, make it a good one,’ Mrs Farrier said, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘She’s been ever so good. The children adore her.’

‘Not Tarquin,’ Bex said, sadly. ‘I just annoy him, I think.’ Bex told herself to shut up and stop ruining her chances of a decent reference. Then her mind caught on to what Iris had just said: Truth potion. What the Hell?

‘Oh, no. Tarquin loves you,’ Mrs Farrier said. Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’

‘That’s just his age,’ Iris said briskly. ‘Pull yourselves together.’

‘I need to spend more time with him.’ Mrs Farrier looked beseechingly at Bex. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Maybe,’ Bex said. ‘Although he really likes being left alone. He likes to stay in his room.’

Mrs Farrier slumped back. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’

‘He really loves Pink, though,’ Bex said. ‘And she’s touring. You could take him. And a friend.’

‘You think he’d go with me?’

I think he’d suffer your presence if it meant going to see Pink, Bex thought. The urge to say the words out loud was suddenly very strong and she clamped her mouth shut.

Mrs Farrier was biting her lip, clearly thinking hard. ‘I could do that,’ she began.

‘Why did you call him Tarquin?’ Bex said and then put her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry. That just slipped out.’

‘He prefers Tarc,’ Mrs Farrier said, staring mournfully at her empty glass.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Bex said from behind her fingers.

At that moment, they were distracted by Mr Farrier’s raised voice. He had got up and moved to Iris’s chair and was weaving slightly, his eyes slightly unfocused. ‘So,’ Mr Farrier said, as if about to prove a point. ‘If I threw the cufflinks away and they magically appeared’ – he made sarcastic bunny ears around the word ‘magically’ – ‘where are they now?’

‘Here.’ Iris delved into her bag and produced a pair of cufflinks. They were gold and lumpy-looking. On closer inspection, Bex realised they were moulded into the shape of a lion’s head.

‘Oh, Alistair,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘Those are so ugly. You never mentioned they were ugly.’

‘I thought they were cool when I was young,’ he said. And then put a hand to his mouth as if he hadn’t intended to say any such thing. The words kept coming, though. ‘He was such a straight-laced person. These seemed really exotic.’

‘Such bad taste,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘I’m glad you threw them away.’

‘This doesn’t change anything.’ Mr Farrier didn’t seem able to look away from the cufflinks ‘We only have your weird story. Bex could’ve given you these and asked you to concoct this bit of theatre, just for –’

‘Why would I do that?’ Bex said.

‘And why would I?’ Iris shook her head. ‘No, you’re going to have to do better than that.’ She stood up, suddenly not looking frail or old. She pointed at Mr Farrier. ‘The elderflower wine was laced with lemon verbena and now you are all bound to tell the truth. You falsely accused Bex of stealing cufflinks which you knew you had thrown away years before.’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Farrier patted his arm. ‘Never mind, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s all over now. Bex will come back to work and we can put this behind us.’ She smiled. ‘Now I

know there’s nothing going on between you two. No hard feelings.’

‘No,’ Bex said. ‘I just want my reference and then I’ll leave.’

‘Are you sure?’ Iris said.

‘Yes.’

‘Right then.’ Iris produced a pad of pale blue letter paper from her bag, waving it at Mr Farrier. ‘You can write it now.’

‘I’ll do it on the computer in the morning,’ Mr Farrier said, sagging a little. ‘I’ll email it to you.’

‘A digital copy would be good,’ Bex said.

‘In addition to the handwritten one you’ll be making right now,’ Iris said in a voice that rang with authority. ‘Then I can leave you in peace.’

Mr Farrier sat down looking tired and almost tearful. Mrs Farrier went to find a pen and Iris began clearing away the plastic cups.

Bex was finding it difficult to concentrate on Iris and the Farriers. None of it

mattered. She should go and see Jon. She should tell him how she felt. Iris had helped her, which meant she was worth helping. Maybe she was worth loving, too?

‘There,’ Mr Farrier said.

Bex took the handwritten reference, skim-read it and checked the signature and date. She was happy and none of this mattered, but she wasn’t an idiot. She still needed to find a new job in the morning. ‘Cannot live on love alone,’ she said, then put her hand over her mouth. That bloody truth wine.

Iris had gathered her things together and was shaking hands briskly with the assembled people.

They were heading down the hallway when the doorbell chimed. ‘I’ll get it,’ Bex called through to the living room.

A lanky figure with rather too much brown hair and a couple of days’ beard growth was on the doorstep. Jon.

‘Why are you here?’ Bex said before her brain could.

Jon looked uncomfortable. ‘I heard you talking. My window was open and I heard you and Iris and I thought I could help. Give you a character reference. See if I could get your job back for you.’

‘You didn’t need to do that,’ Bex said, glowing pink.

‘Is it all sorted, then?’ He looked at Iris who nodded.

‘Forgot my bag,’ she said and retreated back down the hall, leaving Bex and Jon alone.

‘Well, that’s good, then,’ Jon said, not looking especially happy.

‘It’s nice that you came,’ Bex said. ‘I appreciate it.’

He smiled, still awkward. ‘I wanted to help.’

Bex reached out and pulled him into the light of the hallway so that she could see his face more clearly. She loved his smile. It was so warm. And inviting. It made her want to kiss his mouth. Of course, everything made her want to kiss his mouth. Bex realised that she was staring at the lower half of Jon’s face and that he’d been speaking.

‘Sorry, what? I was watching your mouth.’

‘I said …’ Jon took a deep breath. ‘I wish you’d let me take care of you sometimes. I like you, you know.’

Bex felt foggy as if she were in a dream. She shook her head lightly. ‘What?’

‘You heard,’ Jon said. He glanced away, as if considering making a run for it.

Truth potion, Bex thought. Now or never. ‘I like you, too,’ she said, not trusting the electricity that suddenly seemed to be running through the air.

‘I know,’ he said, looking sad, and Bex felt the weight of disappointment hit her. This was it. He was going to say ‘I’m sorry, I just want to be friends’, the words she’d been both dreading and expecting for the last twelve months since that night in the bar when she’d felt her stomach flip.

‘You like me as a friend,’ he said, moving back through the doorway and onto the street.

Bex followed him, unable to stop herself. The words tumbled out: ‘More than a friend, actually.’

There was a moment of silence. Bex felt like everything else in the world had gone away and it was just her and Jon standing both uncomfortably close and too far away from each other on the dark street.

‘A really good friend?’ His voice was husky and Bex could hear the need underneath it, and suddenly she knew that it mirrored her own.

‘More than that,’ she said.

‘Oh, thank God,’ Jon said. He leaned down to kiss her and she stepped into his arms.

After a few moments, moments which could have lasted anything from a few seconds to twenty minutes, Bex became aware of her surroundings. The cool night air on the bare skin of her arms, the sound of Iris Harper clearing her throat as she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and closed the Farriers’ front door. Without the light from the hall it was harder to see Jon’s face, but she could still see his wide grin. He looked wildly, loopily happy and Bex had the feeling that she looked the same. For one thing, her cheeks were beginning to ache from smiling.

‘I’ve liked you for so long,’ he said quietly.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Iris said, moving past them on the pavement.

‘I didn’t realise,’ Bex said, thinking that if she got any happier, she was actually going to start floating off the ground.

He squeezed her hand. ‘Yeah. Didn’t you wonder why I kept suggesting film nights? Why Ben never ed us for Life of Brian? I’d told him to give us some space.’

‘I thought he just had terrible taste in comedy.’

Jon shook his head, still smiling.

‘You must’ve known about me, though,’ Bex said. ‘What about all those times I stayed over.’

He shrugged. ‘I just thought it was convenient. After it had got so late. Or that you were interested in Ben. That’s another reason I always encouraged him to be elsewhere.’

Bex couldn’t believe his stupidity. ‘What about when I kept suggesting we play chess at eleven o’clock at night? That was just so it would get too late for me to go home and then I’d have to stay –’

Jon’s smile got even wider. ‘I just thought you were a genius.’

‘You always beat me,’ Bex said, laughing.

‘I thought you were letting me win.’

‘Ha,’ Bex said. ‘I don’t even like chess that much.’

Jon looked stunned. ‘You’re kidding? We’ve played loads of times.’

‘I just didn’t want you to think I was thick.’

Jon’s smile disappeared. ‘I would never think that.’

Bex caught sight of Iris moving away from them. ‘Hang on, we’ll walk you home.’

‘You’ll have a job,’ Iris said, over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to the pub.’

Bex opened her mouth to say ‘really?’, but closed it again when she saw Iris’s expression.

The front door opened, spilling light. It was Mrs Farrier. ‘I just wanted to say … sorry for the way things turned out.’

‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Bex said. She felt Jon’s hand take her own and there was no room in her mind for anything else.

‘You’ll come by tomorrow?’ Mrs Farrier said, her usual frown looking more concerned than severe.

‘Not to work,’ Bex clarified. ‘But I’ll visit Carly and Tarc and say goodbye.’

‘Okay,’ she nodded sadly. ‘Goodnight.’

Once the door closed, Bex went on tiptoe to kiss Jon again. She caught sight of Iris retreating down Silver Street and was seized with a sense of responsibility. Iris had been really poorly; she ought to keep an eye on her. ‘Shouldn’t we go after her?’

‘If she’s going to the Red Lion, Bob will drive her home,’ Jon said. ‘He’s done it before.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Bex said. She would call in on the old girl tomorrow, take her something to say thank you. ‘Do you think she likes flowers?’

‘Who? Iris?’ Jon said.

‘Probably prefer something practical,’ Bex said.

‘Do you want to finish Walk the Line?’ Jon said, as they turned towards home.

‘Why not?’ Bex said, loving the feel of him close to her side, his warm hand clasping hers.

Dusk was falling quickly into night and Bex snuggled closer to Jon as they

walked. He released her hand in order to put his arm around her shoulder and she imagined how good it was going to feel sitting on the sofa with him in few minutes’ time. Anxiety fluttered through her stomach. How would they transition from friendship to relationship? They knew each other too well. Maybe it was too late for romance to work. Kissing him had felt wonderful, but perhaps that had mostly been relief that she hadn’t made a fool of herself, hadn’t lost him from her life? Maybe it would be too weird to be sitting in his house, watching a film on the sofa. Her stomach clenched. What if he expected everything to be on fast-forward because they knew each other so well?

He stopped walking. ‘I can hear you worrying, you know.’

‘I’m not worrying,’ Bex tried to say, but the words stuck in her throat. Bloody truth potion.

‘I’m really happy,’ Jon said.

‘Me, too,’ Bex said, feeling her breath catch as she looked at his face.

‘We don’t have to watch the film. Not tonight. We can watch it tomorrow or on the weekend or next month or whatever.’

‘I know,’ Bex said. ‘I’d like to, it’s just –’

‘You feel weird. .’

‘A bit,’ Bex said. ‘I’ve wanted this to happen for so long …’

‘It’s scary,’ he said, and she felt her worries disappear.

‘And amazing.’

‘We could just watch a bit of the film tonight; we don’t have to do the whole thing.’

‘Okay, that sounds good. Start slow.’

They started walking again, hand in hand this time.

After a minute, Jon said, ‘Can I just check? We weren’t just talking about Walk the Line, were we?’

Bex squeezed his hand and felt his pulse answering her own.

***

Iris had a swift whisky and then accepted a lift home from the barman, a sweet boy whom she’d helped out the year before. She waved to him and then turned to the shadowy shape of her home. The thick scent of herbs wafted from the

garden, but there was decay, too. Not the good earth smell of mulch, but something rotten and wrong. She felt her sense of contentment drain away.

No sooner had she got inside and put the kettle on for a hot drink than there was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path and a knocking on the door.

‘Good evening, Martin,’ Iris said, recognising the tall figure straight away.

‘Can’t stop,’ Martin said. ‘I just brought you something.’

Iris realised that he was carrying a cardboard box. Oh, no.

‘I wanted to say thank you and I knew you’d like it.’

It? The whisky and elderflower wine sloshed uneasily in Iris’s stomach.

He opened the box and held it out, looking pleased with himself. ‘He belonged to my daughter when she was little, but, well, she’s not little any more.’

Inside the box, not looking particularly little, either, was a tortoise.

‘I thought you might be a bit lonely these days,’ Martin was saying. ‘It’s not right, a woman on her own.’

‘So you brought me a guard tortoise?’ Iris looked at the lumpen reptile and suppressed a shiver.

‘No,’ Martin explained earnestly. ‘It’s a companion. A friend.’

I don’t need a friend. I need somebody to dig over my vegetable patch. It’s having a tantrum and I don’t have the energy to soothe it any more.

The tortoise was patiently chewing a leaf. It didn’t look particularly happy about being in a cardboard box, but it was hard to tell.

Iris resolutely looked away. ‘I don’t want a pet,’ she said. ‘Don’t need something getting under my feet.’

‘He’ll be no bother,’ Martin said, setting the box on the floor. ‘Once he’s settled in, he’ll live in the garden. Give him that old dog house in the corner. You don’t use it for anything else.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Iris said. It was official; her standing as the scary old witch was definitely waning. Martin would never have dared bring her a tortoise in the old days.

‘Don’t blame me if it dies,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the first thing about reptiles.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Martin adjusted his cap and dipped his head. ‘It’s just a gift, Mrs Harper. Yours now, to do what you like with.’

‘I’d like you to take it away,’ Iris said, but Martin just smiled idiotically.

‘You’ll like having the little guy around, I promise. Got to get back to work,’ he said, turning to leave.

‘So have I,’ Iris said to his retreating back.

She looked at the tortoise and, with a theatrical sigh, picked it up and put it on the kitchen floor. She ripped the side of the box open so that the tortoise could retreat back inside if it wanted, and put it next to the radiator. Did tortoises even like warmth?

Iris put a dish of water on the floor and some lettuce leaves. ‘You sleep here,’ Iris said. ‘And you can earn your keep by frightening the snails.’

Pride appeased – the tortoise wasn’t a companion or a familiar, it was a snail repellant – Iris retired upstairs. She brushed her teeth, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.

She had to it that she might have crossed a line that evening. You had to do the job that was in front of you, but you didn’t meddle. Sometimes, her gift meant that she had no choice, but tonight she’d acted from some other impulse. She’d wanted revenge and it hadn’t even mattered that they were the wrong

people. James Farrier was long dead. His son didn’t deserve to suffer for his sins. Especially since he already bore the burden of being raised by the man.

And she’d given them all a truth draught without their knowledge. Iris would never claim to be entirely on the side of the angels, but she had a firm moral code. You could dose people or de-hex them if it was clearly in their best interests, but feeding them spiked wine to extract a confession as piffling and petty as tonight’s was possibly overstepping her mark. That was the problem with witching. You were alone. You had to draw your own lines, make your own marks. And, after a while, it could get more and more difficult to tell if you were drawing them in the right places.

Iris looked at the china dishes she’d inherited from her mother. She no longer saw the jewellery as treasure, the way she had when she’d been a girl, and there was no one left to suffer the consequences if she got rid of them. She could tip the whole lot into the bin. Although that felt wasteful. Wasn’t she supposed to it all on, the way her mother had ed it on to her? Of course, she didn’t have a daughter. The closest thing she had lived on the other side of the world and held on to a ball of hate that Iris could neither comprehend nor forgive.

The silver birch outside her bedroom scraped its branches on the window, as if adding its voice to the ones in her mind. ‘All right, all right,’ Iris snapped. She dressed in her cotton night gown and got into bed.

The branch screeched across the window one last time and the bedclothes felt cold and slightly sticky. She couldn’t the last time she’d washed them and the mere thought of stripping the bed made her back scream.

It was official. She had lost control over her environment and she was too weak to wrestle it back. Her bones hurt and she was a meddling old woman. She

couldn’t do it all alone.

Not for ever.

Iris opened her journal and started a new page. She began writing, ‘My dearest Gwen …’

If you loved The Garden of Magic turn the page for an exclusive extract from

The Language of Spells

the bestselling novel from Sarah Painter

Prologue

The voices in the living room were getting louder. Suddenly the man’s voice wasn’t just loud, it was shouting. A big, frightening sound that sent Gwen out from under her quilt and into her sister’s bed. Ruby was awake. Her eyes were shining in the light that came in under the door. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Ruby whispered.

‘Who is it?’ Gloria had at least two boyfriends at any time and an endless stream of people came to have their cards read. Gwen felt Ruby shrug.

Gloria’s voice had risen. She sounded really angry. Gwen shrank down until the duvet covered most of her face.

There was a burst of noise as the shouting people moved into the hallway. ‘Tell me a story,’ Ruby said.

Gwen stretched her legs. She shut the angry voices out and thought for a moment. ‘Once upon a time, there were two sisters, Rose Red and Snow White, and they were walking through a thick forest –’

‘Not that one,’ Ruby said. ‘One with a prince. A really handsome prince. With loads of money.’

The front door slammed. ‘My story does have a prince.’ Annoyance broke

through Gwen’s fear. Ruby was always complaining.

‘It has a bear,’ Ruby said.

‘That turns into a prince.’

The bedroom door opened. ‘Girls?’

Gloria was framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. ‘You have to get up.’

‘I’m tired,’ Ruby said.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Gloria didn’t sound sorry. She never did. ‘We’re moving on. Get your things together. Don’t leave anything –’

‘Because we don’t look back,’ Gwen and Ruby ed in. ‘We know.’

Chapter One

Gwen Harper had been brought up in the sure knowledge that everything in life came as a pair. Every coin had two sides, every person had an angel and a devil lurking inside, and every living thing was busy dying. Gwen couldn’t imagine a good side to returning to Pendleford but, since she had no choice in the matter, she hoped that Gloria had been right about all that ‘light and dark’ business. She crested the hill and Pendleford spread out beneath her. The town was caught in a basin of land as if cupped by giant green hands, and the yellow stonework glowed softly in the winter sunshine. The dark river cutting through the centre was like a worm in an apple.

Gwen ed a sign that had ‘Pendleford: Historic Market Town’ in smart black lettering and then a smaller yellow one that said ‘Britain in Bloom’. Slung in front of this was a collection of broken-looking dolls, their long hair tied together in a big knot. Gwen slowed down to take a closer look at the creepy faces with their dead eyes and pink Cupid’s bow mouths.

She shuddered, trying not to think about broken things, dead things, or the icy water of the river. Her Nissan Vanette made a crunching engine noise which she decided to interpret as sympathetic nerves. She patted Nanette’s dashboard reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be staying.’ Gwen glanced at the legal documents on the enger seat that said otherwise but, before she could start worrying in earnest, her thoughts were derailed by the sight of Pendleford. The town looked eerily the same as it had when she’d left thirteen years ago.

Gwen took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. There was no need to panic. Her mother was on the other side of the world and Pendleford was a full eight miles away from Bath and her exasperating sister. Not even Ruby could shout over that distance.

Navigating her way out of the town centre, past rows of Edwardian villas with tasteful ‘bed and breakfast’ signs, Gwen turned to logic. She was going to spend one night in her Great-Aunt Iris’s house. Take a bath. Get one decent night’s sleep before she headed to the solicitor’s office in the morning and found a way around the stupid ‘can’t sell for six months’ clause. Then she’d be out of Pendleford. Again.

Gwen carried on with the pep talk as she drove. She had a dodgy moment when she thought she saw Cam and nearly drove up onto the pavement. It was a tall man with messy dark hair, but as soon as she ed him and looked in the rearview mirror, her heart in her mouth, she saw that it wasn’t him at all. Cameron Laing was long gone. Probably in London. Or prison.

The big houses gave way to row upon row of traditional stone cottages and a town hall with a triangle of grass outside. A man in head-to-toe tweed was changing parish notices on the board outside. Pendleford’s surface was as pretty and as tame as she ed. If it hadn’t been for the daily taunting at school and a very bad memory that began with the river and ended at the local police station, then perhaps she wouldn’t have hated the place quite as much.

At the very edge of town, there was a row of box-type houses. Council – or more likely ex-council – houses, with neat gardens and freshly painted windows that did nothing to hide the brown pebbledash and the nineteen-sixties municipal architecture. Then the town petered out into farmland and Gwen almost missed the turning for Iris’s road; the small wooden sign was weathered and only the word ‘End’ legible. After four hundred yards up a single track road, Gwen turned a corner and the house came into view. Stone-built, square and bigger than she expected. Gwen got out of the car and pulled on her fleece. The sky was pearlgrey and the weak November sun drooped in the east. It was quiet. ‘Too quiet,’ she said aloud, trying to make herself laugh. It didn’t work.

Gwen hesitated at the front gate, her body rebelling against setting foot inside the boundary of the property. Which was ridiculous. She was homeless and she’d been given a house. It was crazy to be anything except insanely grateful. Crazy.

The front door had once been dark green, but was sorely in need of a paint job. To her left, fields stretched out to the horizon and a flock of black birds swooped down to the frozen earth.

Gwen spent five minutes attempting to unlock the door before realising it was already open. The porch was cleanly swept and a neat pile of mail sat on the windowsill.

The inner door opened and a woman wearing narrow black tros and a yellow blouse looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes?’

‘Um, is this End House?’

‘Yes.’ The woman’s pale blonde hair was cut in layers and she shook her head slightly to flick her fringe away from her eyes.

‘This is my great-aunt’s house. Um. That is, I think this might be my house.’

The woman’s face changed and what could charitably be described as a smile appeared. It displayed a disturbing number of teeth. They were small and white, like baby teeth; alarming in an adult-sized mouth. ‘You’re Gwen Harper. I wasn’t expecting you yet.’ She took a step back. ‘I’m not ready for you, but I

suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwen stepped over the threshold. The hall was large and square, floored in red quarry tiles. The walls were whitewashed, but patterned with tiny black cracks, like something dark was trying to break through.

‘I’ll show you around.’ The woman turned to go, but Gwen stopped her.

‘I’m sorry, but … who are you?’

‘Oh, bless you. I’m Lily Thomas. I’ve been helping out your poor auntie for years.’

‘Helping?’

‘Cleaning and cooking, that kind of thing.’ Lily frowned at Gwen. ‘She was very old, you know.’

Gwen looked at the woman’s frosted-pink fingernails. They didn’t look like they’d scrubbed anything in their lives.

The woman followed her gaze. ‘Falsies.’ She waggled them. ‘Aren’t they brilliant?’

The doors off the hallway were all shut, but the staircase of polished dark wood curved invitingly and Gwen took an involuntary step towards it.

‘She needed help with all kinds of things towards the end, bless her.’

Lily’s voice seemed to be coming from far away and Gwen could hear a rushing in her ears. I must be holding my breath, she thought. Good way to faint. She made herself take a lungful of air, but the rushing continued and the stairs seemed to be glowing just for her. She walked towards the bottom step, confused when yellow silk appeared in her vision, eclipsing the lovely warm wood. It was Lily, barring her way.

‘The upstairs isn’t ready. I’ve not had a chance to clean. I wasn’t expecting you –’ Lily hesitated. ‘Not yet, I mean. I wasn’t told –’

‘That’s okay.’ Gwen stepped around Lily and took the stairs at a jog.

Weird, she decided, already on the landing. The door on her right was wide open, like someone had come out in a hurry. Through the gap she saw a double bed with a flowered wash bag lying on the quilt.

Lily appeared behind her, puffing slightly. ‘It’s a mess. I haven’t had a chance –’

‘Don’t worry.’ Gwen opened the other doors from the landing and discovered a small bedroom with a single bed and a desk underneath the window and another double with a brass bedstead suffocated by layers of blankets and a patchwork

quilt.

‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ Lily said firmly.

Gwen allowed Lily to usher her back down the stairs and into a long room lined with 1950s cream cabinets with pale green trim and lemon Formica worktops. A red enamel coffee pot and an electric kettle were the only things visible on the spotlessly tidy work surface. A small table with two chairs tucked in was at the end and the small window above the stainless-steel sink was cracked.

‘What’s through there?’ Gwen gestured to the door behind the table.

‘That’s the pantry. It’s very small.’ Lily smiled again. ‘Go and take a look at the garden. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

‘Right.’ Gwen left Lily moving comfortably around the kitchen and walked into the cold, dead air. Place must be well sheltered; there’s no wind at all. The garden was separated from the fields by a stone wall on one side and a line of trees at the bottom. Gwen identified rhododendrons in the corner, a giant spreading conifer thick with cones, holly, ash and hornbeam. A few fruit trees were dotted about the lawn. A lot of work, she found herself thinking. Around the corner was an untended vegetable plot. It had been cared for at one time, though, that was easy to see. Stone paths led along rows and the edges were defined with old red bricks. There were willow wigwams for peas or beans and fruit canes, but one was half pulled down by a mutant rhubarb that had clearly got ideas above its station.

The front garden offered more grass, many bushes, and wide borders filled with

the seed heads and brown plants of a dead summer.

The crisp evening air cleared Gwen’s mind. What was Lily Thomas doing in her aunt’s house? The way she seemed so at home wasn’t that odd – especially if she’d been working for Iris for years – but why on earth was she here now? She hesitated, wondering whether she was overreacting, when some bundles of greenery caught her eye. Half-tucked behind the water butt, three tied-together collections of foliage. She recognised branches of ash and broom, and ed her mother fixing something similar above the door to their flat; to ward off malignant forces, she’d said. Gwen dropped the bundle as if it were hot, and went back inside.

Lily was squeezing a tea bag against the side of a mug as if it had personally offended her.

Gwen sat down at the table, feeling slightly dazed.

‘I’ve made you a casserole but it’s down at my house. I’ll bring it up later.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Gwen said, ‘but I’m not sure –’

‘No need to thank me. Least I can do for Iris’s niece.’

‘Great-niece.’

‘Right.’ Lily popped open the lid on a plastic tub and arranged slices of fruitcake on a plate. ‘So, are you from the area?’

‘Not really.’ It was true. They’d lived in Pendleford for three years, but had moved around a lot before that. Gwen had never really felt like she was ‘from’ anywhere.

Lily frowned. ‘Somerset?’

Gwen shook her head.

‘Where do you live?’ Lily pressed on.

‘I’ve been in Leeds for the last six months.’ Gwen had a rule for dealing with people: never give away more than strictly necessary.

‘But where do you come from? Originally.’ Lily’s inquisitive tone reminded Gwen of every bitchy queen bee at every new school she’d ever had to start. ‘We moved around quite a bit.’

‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Lily pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have liked that.’

‘It was fine,’ Gwen said automatically.

‘I didn’t see you at the funeral,’ Lily said. ‘Were you close to Iris?’

‘No.’ Gwen didn’t feel like explaining that she’d barely known her great-aunt and had no idea why on earth she’d been given her house. She tried to gain control of the conversation. ‘Do you live in Pendleford?’

Lily nodded. ‘Just on the corner. I’m your nearest neighbour.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t be staying, but Lily was still talking, listing names of neighbours that Gwen knew she would instantly forget even if she were paying proper attention.

Lily stopped listing and said, ‘You look tired out, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Gwen felt a yawn coming on. She put a hand to her mouth and then apologised. ‘This is all quite sudden.’

Lily shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. She’d been poorly for ages.’ She took a generous bite of cake before adding, ‘Bless her,’ through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Why are you …?’ Gwen stopped. ‘I mean, did you have some sort of contract with my aunt? For this, I mean.’ She waved a hand, taking in the freshly cleaned kitchen, the tea, her presence.

‘A contract?’ Lily laughed, a bizarre, high-pitched laugh. ‘We didn’t need

anything like that. She was more like a sister – well …’ – she wrinkled her nose – ‘… a mother – to me than an employer. I know she’d want me to keep an eye on the place. Welcome you properly.’ She paused, giving Gwen an appraising look. ‘I’d be very happy to stay on and clean for you, too.’

So she was angling for a job. Fair enough. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not sure what I’m doing about the house yet. And even if I did stay, I wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for cleaning.’

Lily shrugged. ‘No problem. Just offering.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll let you get settled in and pop back later with that casserole.’

‘Well …’ Gwen thought about navigating the winding road back to the nearest shop and realised how tired she felt. Plus, she’d been surviving on cheap takeaways and supermarket sandwiches; a home-cooked meal sounded wonderful. ‘That would be lovely, thank you very much. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘We’re neighbours now. That’s what it’s like around here.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say she wouldn’t be staying, but yawned instead.

After Lily left, Gwen took her tea and wandered through the house, opening doors and getting her bearings. There were two large front rooms, both with big bay windows. One was a living room, complete with overstuffed brocade sofa and a riotous carpet of flowers, vines and leaves. The vast dining room looked forlorn and unloved by comparison. An oak dining table with twisted spindle legs and six chairs was marooned in an otherwise bare room and covered in a

thick layer of dust.

Behind the kitchen there was a downstairs bathroom, tiled in black and white and with what was probably the original washbasin and tub. A small back bedroom completed the downstairs, with three bedrooms upstairs.

Big house, she thought, looking around at the triple wardrobe, dressing table and chest of drawers that fitted comfortably in the master bedroom. Something was missing, though. The flowered wash bag. Either she was imagining things or Lily Thomas had swiped it while she was in the garden. Odd.

Gwen got her suitcase from the van and lugged it upstairs. She was bone-tired. She wanted to run a bath and get clean. She’d been making do all week – taking her toothbrush and flannel into public bathrooms and splashing out for a shower at a motorway service station just the once. But she was so tired. So tired that she actually felt sick.

Although that could be nerves. Being in the house felt so wrong. Illicit. Growing up with her free-spirited mother, Gloria, there had only been one rule: stay away from Great-Aunt Iris. Her mother had described Iris as ‘evil’, and since she herself was known around town as ‘Crazy Gloria’, Gwen had seen no reason to disobey her. She’d always figured that Iris didn’t want to know them, either. The thought gave her a jolt of guilt.

Gwen yawned again and lay on the bed, meaning to test it for just a moment. It was gloriously comfortable and after five nights on a camping mat it felt like heaven. She pulled the quilt over herself and closed her eyes. Just for five minutes.

Gwen woke up disorientated and very hot. She executed an ungainly quiltwrestle and went downstairs. The curtains had been drawn and a casserole dish sat warming in the oven. Lily had clearly been and gone. Gwen ignored the creepy feeling that gave her. She was being a suspicious modern urbanite; things were different in the country. People obviously still looked out for each other. Gwen still felt disorientated from her nap. The week of sleeping badly and the weirdness of the situation had caught up with her and she couldn’t summon up enthusiasm for food. Gwen turned off the oven and went back to bed. Tomorrow she would visit the legal people and straighten out the will. If she could sell the place straight away, she’d have the deposit to rent a flat and could get her business back on its feet. The money would save her life and she’d be duly grateful to Iris. She just wasn’t going to live in Pendleford. Not even for six months.

She dragged herself back up the stairs, every step an effort, and by the time she’d unpacked her overnight bag, she was yawning so long and so hard it was difficult to brush her teeth.

Some time later, she sat bolt upright. The room was pitch-black and her eyes strained with the effort of trying to see. Her heart was thudding as she struggled to work out what had woken her. A scratching noise almost made her cry out until it happened again and she realised it was the sound of a tree branch against glass. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to snuggle back down into the bed. Silence. No traffic, no sirens, no late-night revellers vomiting or fighting outside her window. It was probably the quiet that had spooked her. And the scratching. She clicked on the bedside lamp and climbed out of bed. The window was open and a brisk stream of night air flowed inside. Gwen swallowed. She had closed that window earlier. She had definitely closed it. Forcing herself forward, Gwen approached the window, feeling the cool air on her bare arms. She pushed the window open further and leaned out. The moon was riding high in the clear sky. She couldn’t see the offending branch, but there was plenty of greenery along the side of the house. She shut the window and latched it before getting back into bed and falling instantly asleep.

The next day, Gwen awoke to the sound of hammering on wood. She stumbled downstairs, trying to shake off the fug of sleep.

Her sister’s voice cut through two doors like a razor blade through trifle. ‘Gwen? I can see your van!’

Gwen opened the door and stepped smartly back into the hall, the full force of Ruby being too much to take in a confined space.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. You were still in bed.’ Ruby shrugged off her jacket and put down her leather handbag. ‘You can’t open the door like that. I could’ve been anyone.’

‘Not really.’ Gwen turned and headed back up the stairs. ‘Put the kettle on.’ She had to be dressed to deal with Ruby.

After hastily pulling on jeans, a shirt and hoodie, she found Ruby in the kitchen.

‘This place is a museum.’ Ruby frowned at the painted walls. ‘It’s not even tiled.’

‘I like it,’ Gwen surprised herself by saying.

‘Really?’ Ruby raised her eyebrows. She looked around. ‘I suppose you could knock through and make a proper family kitchen.’ She wandered through to the

dining room next door, then hastily returned. ‘Did you know the ceiling’s sagging in there? It looks like it’s about to come down.’

Gwen concentrated on pouring hot water onto tea bags.

Ruby opened some cabinets, ran a finger along the shelves. ‘She was very clean, anyway.’

‘She’s got a cleaner. Or a housekeeper. I’m not sure of the difference.’

‘Fancy.’

‘I think she needed someone at the end. I wish we’d known.’

‘It’s not our fault,’ Ruby said robustly. ‘She could’ve called.’

‘She might not have known you lived in Bath.’ What an awful thought. Iris all alone out here, her great-niece just down the road.

Ruby shrugged. Then she said, ‘It’s weird that she left you the house, though.’

‘I know,’ Gwen said, feeling awkward.

‘She always liked you the best.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Gwen said. ‘I actually can’t her at all. It’s a bit odd.’ Which was an understatement. Ever since getting the letter from Laing & Sons, she’d been thinking about Iris and finding a strange blank, like typed words snowed over with Tippex.

‘God, do you that chicken she had?’ Ruby paused, hand on hip and a faraway expression on her face.

Gwen shook her head.

‘Oh, you do. It was like her pet or something. You nearly stood on it, ? Iris went mental, but it wasn’t your fault. I mean, who keeps a chicken in the house? Bloody disgusting.’

‘I don’t .’ Gwen closed her eyes. A wave of nausea, like she was riding a roller coaster, swooped through her stomach and she opened her eyes again.

‘You must,’ Ruby was saying. ‘You cried all the way home and Gloria took us for ice cream. She never did that. You must .’

Gwen’s mouth filled with saliva. She tasted strawberry at the back of her throat and almost gagged. ‘I the ice cream. Just not Iris. Not the house.’ She gestured around. ‘I don’t any of this. Not at all.’ And that couldn’t be

right.

‘Well, we only came here once or twice. And you were young.’

‘Not that young. Thirteen, maybe?’ Gwen had a horrible feeling she knew why there was a blank in her memory. She’d probably asked too many questions and Gloria had solved the problem with a memory charm. Charms and hexes and simple casting were the kinds of thing Gloria had taught Gwen while other mothers were showing their kids how to bake fairy cakes.

Ruby shrugged. ‘Well, you’re not missing much. Apart from the chicken, it was pretty boring. Gloria and Iris talking and pretending they weren’t arguing.’

‘I don’t ,’ Gwen said again, hating that she sounded so forlorn, hating that being back in Pendleford was reminding her of all the things she’d tried so hard to forget.

‘I don’t care,’ Ruby said robustly. ‘It’s all in the past. Gloria’s escaped to Oz and Great-Aunt Iris is dead; what does any of it matter?’

Gwen pulled a face. ‘I just feel guilty. I don’t deserve this place. I hardly knew the woman.’

‘Well, according to Gloria, we were better off without her.’

‘I guess.’ Gwen handed her a mug, then sat down at the table to sip from her own.

‘It’s not our fault,’ Ruby said. ‘Gloria’s the one who cut . We were just kids.’

They had been forbidden from having anything to do with Iris. In fact, sitting in her house was probably still a capital offence. Whether she had ed on or not. Gwen was just going to ask Ruby if she had any idea what had caused the schism between Gloria and Iris, when Ruby said, ‘Look, she was a grown woman with her own friends and family and life. We weren’t part of it, through no fault of our own, but that doesn’t mean we missed out or that she missed out.’ She looked around the kitchen again. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Then why leave me her house?’

Ruby frowned. ‘How the hell should I know? Dementia?’

‘That’s not funny,’ Gwen said. After a moment, she added, ‘She sent me birthday cards.’

‘Did she? When?’

‘Every year after I turned thirteen. After we stopped visiting.’

Ruby opened her eyes wide. ‘That’s weird. What did she write?’

‘Nothing. Just her name. Just her initial, actually. I used to hide them from Gloria. Did she –’

‘No. Nothing.’ Ruby shook her head. ‘She never sent me anything. Didn’t give me a house, either. It’s not fair.’

Gwen thought that Ruby was only half-joking. ‘Good thing you married rich.’

Ruby looked around. ‘Can you imagine what David would do to this place?’

Gwen shuddered. David was a good man, but he was an architect and didn’t seem able to appreciate a house unless it had weirdly big windows or a glass atrium in the middle or a roof made out of turf.

‘Well …’ Ruby had stopped assessing the house and focused on Gwen. It was disconcerting. ‘I see you’re still dressing like an art student. People will think you’re mad.’

‘I look fine,’ Gwen said. ‘For my job, this is normal.’

Ruby pulled a face. ‘If you say so.’

Gwen thought about telling Ruby about the people she knew from the art fair circuit. Next to Bonkers Brenda, who crocheted bikinis and embroidered them with little faces, and often wore her creations on the outside of her clothes, she was positively conformist.

After a moment of silence, Ruby said, ‘Are we going to pretend the last year didn’t happen?’

Gwen realised that she didn’t have the energy for a showdown with Ruby. The stress of the last few weeks and the oddness of being back in Pendleford crowded everything else out. ‘I really don’t want to argue. I’m too freaked out by all this.’

‘Fine with me,’ Ruby said. She pursed her lips. ‘It’s unseemly.’

Gwen laughed. ‘Unseemly?’

‘And it’s bad for my chi.’

Gwen stopped laughing.

‘I’ve had a course of colonics and I don’t want to retox.’ Ruby spoke as if expecting a medal of some kind.

‘You had what now?’

Ruby gave her a withering look. ‘You know perfectly well what it is.’

‘And you paid for that?’

‘Mock away. I feel lighter.’

‘I bet you do.’

‘In my soul,’ Ruby said and the shock of hearing Ruby saying a word as loaded and mumbo-jumbo as ‘soul’ shut Gwen up.

‘I’m doing yoga now, too,’ Ruby said.

Gwen looked at Ruby in disbelief. ‘Yoga?’

‘It’s transformed my life,’ Ruby said. Her expression was a mix of anxiety and defiance, exactly the same as when she’d brought home a copy of Smash Hits magazine, aged ten. ‘Marcus says I’m a natural. He says I’d be able to take the teaching course if I wanted, set up my own classes.’

‘Marcus?’ Gwen instantly pictured a bendy-limbed Lothario leaning towards her sister, his long fingers reaching for her golden hair. She suppressed a shudder.

‘He’s been brilliant,’ Ruby said. ‘And the yoga really helps with stress.’

Gwen refrained from snorting at the idea of Ruby being stressed. Ruby led a charmed life straight from the pages of a John Lewis catalogue while she’d been living like … Well. If she was being kind to herself, she’d say a free-spirited artist. If not, she’d have to go with hobo.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Ruby said, as if reaching into Gwen’s mind and plucking her thoughts clean out. ‘You’ve never faced up to responsibility. As a mother –’

‘Here we go,’ Gwen said, irritation leaping to the surface. ‘I’m not a mother so I don’t understand.’

‘Well, you’re not. And you don’t.’

This was why she shouldn’t spend time with her sister, Gwen thought. At a distance she felt almost fond; at close quarters she could happily strangle her. ‘Do you meditate?’

Ruby looked startled. ‘Of course. The mind-body connection is fundamental to –’

Gwen shook her head and then found she couldn’t quite stop. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms. A tight ball of anger lodged in her stomach

and, all at once, she realised why. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said, surprised at the venom in her own voice. ‘All this time, I’ve been keeping away from you, not wanting to infect your precious life, your precious family with my “alternative” ways and you’ve been doing bloody yoga.’

‘You make it sound like a bad thing. I thought you, of all people, would be pleased.’

Gwen closed her mouth. There was nothing she could say to fill a pit of ignorance that deep. The unfairness of it burned bright and Gwen was surprised that Ruby couldn’t see the raw energy sizzling under her skin. She counted to ten to stop herself from saying something she would regret later and then settled on, ‘You must’ve had quite the epiphany.’

‘It’s not the same as your … stuff,’ Ruby said. ‘Yoga has been around for hundreds of years; it’s a spiritual thing, it’s not dangerous, it doesn’t ruin people’s lives.’ She counted the points off on her fingers, finishing with, ‘And it doesn’t mark you out as a weirdo. Not these days. I mean, you can buy yoga pants at The White Company.’

‘Well, if that’s what’s most important to you. The look of things –’

Ruby shrugged. ‘It’s a factor. Especially for Katie. You what school was like.’

Gwen repressed a shudder. Millbank Comp had not been a friendly place. Not for either of them. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages. I don’t want to argue with you,’ Gwen said. She pushed the anger and hurt back down and forced out, ‘If yoga

makes you happy, I’m happy for you.’

Gwen couldn’t look Ruby in the eye, though. Instead she began to explore. She opened the door to the larder. Old newspapers were stacked neatly in a cardboard box on the floor, a broom hung from a nail on the back of the door and there were empty glass jars filling the top shelf. A spider ran across the floor.

Ruby called across from the living room. ‘It’s got the original fireplace.’

Gwen ed her, trying not to shiver. The living room was misnamed. The walls were painted in oppressive purple which, combined with the patterned carpet and sofa, made Gwen’s eyes itch. She sniffed. There was the shut-in house smell, but with something else underneath. A herb of some kind?

‘Good cornicing.’ Ruby pointed upwards.

Gwen pulled the curtains back, revealing big sash windows. ‘These are nice.’

‘Original?’ Ruby said.

‘I think so. I don’t think Iris got around to doing a modernist makeover.’

Ruby prodded the sill. ‘Probably rotten. Nightmare to look after, but people lap up this kind of thing. Very saleable.’

‘Mmm,’ Gwen said non-committally. She showed Ruby the upstairs, pausing underneath the loft hatch. ‘I suppose I should look up there.’

‘I’m not doing it. That’s what a man is for.’

‘How very 1950s of you.’

‘Oh, please. Spiders, itchy insulation, low ceiling. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?’

‘True romance indeed. How is David?’ Gwen asked, smiling as she pictured her brother-in-law. He was married to his work somewhat, but a good guy nonetheless.

‘Busy. As usual,’ Ruby said.

‘But still utterly besotted.’

Ruby grinned. ‘Of course.’

He and Ruby had met at the same time Gwen was putting in regular time in the back seat of Cam’s car. When Ruby found out she was pregnant, David didn’t hesitate to drop to one knee and – this was the part that would endear him to

Gwen for ever – he’d made it look like he’d been planning to propose for months. Ruby had believed him and so she’d said yes and then he’d worked like a dog to finish his architecture degree while ing his new wife and baby. Nobody could resent the beautiful house they now lived in, their Audi and healthy bank balance. Well, Gwen corrected herself, someone would. Someone always did.

The third bedroom at the end of the corridor was filled with cardboard boxes and black bags. ‘What a mess.’ Ruby wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t envy you this.’

Gwen barely heard her. Ruby’s voice had retreated, become thin and insubstantial, leaving space for the all-too-familiar sensation of Finding. Not now. Not in front of Ruby. Not when she was being so friendly and yoga-calmed.

It was no good. She couldn’t fight it. The tunnel vision had arrived, the edges of the room filled in with black shadows and she knew that the only way to get things back to normal was to obey the impulse. One of the bin bags was calling to her. Inside there was a tangle of old handbags, shawls, scarves and gloves. Gwen’s hand plunged in and her fingers closed around something slippery and cool. A Liberty-print silk scarf with the peacock design it was almost impossible to find these days. She stared at the scarf and saw it on the stall, knew it wouldn’t stay there long. Then her hand itched again and she reached back into the bag. A matching clutch purse. Barely able to breathe, Gwen clicked open the clasp and checked the lining. Immaculate.

Gwen didn’t believe in signs. She knew she had an uncanny knack for finding lost things, but she didn’t believe it meant anything. Not like Gloria reading palms and tarot cards and – on one memorable occasion – an oil leak from a red Volvo. She turned the purse over in her hands and tried to ignore the feeling that the house was trying to tell her something.

‘Gwen? Gwen?’ Ruby was frowning at her. Then understanding dawned across her face and her scowl deepened. ‘Oh God. You’re not –’

‘No! It’s nothing. I just found this –’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Ruby put her fingers in her ears, just like when they were kids.

Gwen felt sick. She didn’t want to think about it, either. She pushed aside memories of Gloria parading her like a performing monkey. People’s gratitude for their lost car keys overlaid with a shrinking back, a look of fear and horror and, above all, disbelief. ‘How did you do that?’ Like she was conducting an elaborate and pointless scam.

Ruby’s lip was curled. ‘I’d hoped you’d grown out of that.’

She marched down the stairs and Gwen stayed back for a moment, trying to calm herself. She didn’t want to fight with Ruby. It wasn’t Ruby’s fault that Gwen had inherited the Harper family curse while she’d got to be normal. She headed downstairs, trying to think of a neutral subject. ‘How’s Katie?’ People loved to talk about their kids.

Ruby shrugged. ‘Fourteen. My days of being God-like are over.’

‘That must be a relief.’

Ruby gave her an odd look. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘That’s right,’ Gwen said, in familiar territory. ‘I don’t understand true exhaustion, responsibility or In the Night Garden. Thank God.’

Ruby gave a grudging smile. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a BlackBerry. ‘I’ll give you the number of a good estate agent. David’s used him before.’

‘I’m not selling,’ Gwen said. Yet.

Ruby frowned. ‘What do you mean? You can’t stay here.’

Gwen had been about to explain that, barring some kind of financial miracle, she might be stuck in Pendleford for the foreseeable future. Ruby’s response pissed her off, though, so she said, ‘I like it. It’s homely.’

‘You can’t,’ Ruby said, her face suddenly pale.

At once, her joke didn’t seem so funny. Ruby looked genuinely horrified. Nice.

‘What? You think I’ll embarrass you? You live in Bath. You don’t have to have anything to do with me,’ Gwen said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bother you.’

‘I can’t believe you’re thinking about staying here. You hated this town, don’t you ?’

Of course I , I’m not an idiot. ‘I didn’t hate it,’ Gwen lied. ‘And maybe I feel like settling down.’ She wasn’t going to give Ruby the satisfaction of knowing her business was in trouble.

‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Ruby said, still looking thoroughly spooked. ‘I mean, we’re only just speaking again. It might be too much, too soon, you know?’

And there it was. Her typically selfish sister. ‘This isn’t about you, Ruby. I can’t make every decision in my life based on you, or the horrible things you think and say about me.’

‘I was just being honest,’ Ruby said.

Gwen felt her eyes prickling with tears and she willed herself not to think about their argument. A year and a half of avoiding Ruby hadn’t soothed the raw emotion one tiny bit. She still felt like a gigantic bruise. This was why she kept her distance, Gwen ed with painful clarity.

‘You only ever think of yourself. What about Katie? What about me? David’s business?’ Ruby said.

A part of Gwen wanted to placate Ruby, to make nice. A larger part was almost

blind with fury at Ruby’s unfairness. This. Shit. Again. Gwen stared at Ruby and realised something: nothing had changed. Yoga or not, Ruby still thought she was the anti-Christ in tracksuit bottoms. She didn’t trust her and didn’t want her near her precious life. It hurt. She blinked. This was why you didn’t get close to people. They turned their backs on you. Better not to give a damn in the first place. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Go away, Ruby.’

‘We’re in the middle of a discussion,’ Ruby said. ‘We need to sort this out.’

‘I didn’t ask you to come round today, you volunteered. Now I’m asking you to leave.’

Ruby took a step back. Her eyebrows drew inwards as she processed the words.

‘You don’t want to be around me, you don’t trust me or whatever the bloody hell this lovely conversation is about, but I’m not going anywhere. This is my house and I’m telling you to get out.’

Ruby plucked her coat from the rack and slung it around her shoulders. ‘Gladly.’

Well, that went well. Gwen leaned her head against the glass in the front door and willed her heart to stop hammering.

To calm herself, Gwen looked at the Liberty purse again. An item like that would sell quickly, she knew, and if Iris had a few more gems like that scattered around the place, she might be able to scrape together enough cash for a deposit

on a flat. Not back in Leeds, but somewhere different, somewhere new. Her heart lifted as it always did when she contemplated a flit. There was always the wild hope that this next place would be the one, her for ever home.

She clicked the catch on the purse and caught her breath. Nestled against the silk lining was a tiny cylinder of rolled paper and a key. She swallowed. They must’ve been there before. She’d been distracted by Ruby. Nothing weird to see here. Move along.

Gwen smiled grimly. She’d spent thirteen years quashing magic nonsense like this, and she wasn’t about to lose control now. The paper would be an old receipt. The key was a dull silver and had simply been hidden against the grey of the lining.

Still, she couldn’t help herself. She unrolled the paper, which was soft with age, and felt vomit rise in the back of her throat. It said:

For Gwen. When you are ready, seek, and you shall find. It is your gift.

‘Sod that,’ Gwen said and went to brush her teeth.

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