open in surprise. ‘You do?’
Taking down two cups from the old wooden dresser, Moreg shrugged. ‘Oh yes. It’s been a long time, of course, but Raine and I go back many years.’
‘You know my mother?’
Moreg placed a chipped blue mug decorated with small white flowers before Willow and sat down opposite with a dainty teacup for herself.
‘Since we were young girls. Did she never mention it?’
Willow shook her head a bit too vigorously.
Willow knew, logically, that her mother – and she supposed Moreg Vaine – had once been a young girl, but it was a concept her brain couldn’t fully grasp. Like trying to understand why anyone would willingly choose to spend their time collecting postage stamps. All she could manage was a polite, puzzled frown.
Moreg said offhandedly, ‘It was a long time ago, I suppose, long before you were born. Like many of our people – magical people, that is – our families lived in the Ditchwater district. Your mother was great friends with my sister, Molsa, you see. As children they did everything together, setting bear traps to catch the local hermit, holding tea parties with the dead, dancing naked in the moonlight … but things changed – they always do, and many of us have moved on … It’s safer that way, and Molsa is gone now.’ Moreg cleared her throat. ‘Never mind that, though, drink your tea.’
‘Um,’ was all Willow managed in response, trying really hard NOT to picture her mother dancing naked in the moonlight.
Willow looked at the witch, then away again fast. Moreg’s eyes were like razors. Willow’s throat turned dry as she remembered one of the scarier rumours about the witch. And they were all rather scary to be sure. It was said that Moreg Vaine could turn someone to stone just by looking at them … Willow glanced at her mug and wondered, Why IS she here? Making me tea? She took a sip. It was good too. Strong and sweet, the way she liked it. And the cup was hers – one of the few items in the cottage that was. It stood alone among the haphazard collection of cups and saucers that bowed the Mosses’ kitchen dresser.
She supposed that senior witches made it their business to know which mug was yours. At some point I’m going to have to actually ASK her why she is here, Willow thought with dread. She took another sip of tea to stretch that moment out just a little longer.
Maybe, Willow wondered, Moreg is here to visit Mum? That seemed the most likely explanation.
Willow hadn’t taken more than two sips before Moreg dashed her hopeful musings. She looked at Willow, with her eyes like deepest, blackest ink, and said rather worryingly, ‘I need your help.’
Willow blinked. ‘M-my help?’
Moreg nodded. ‘It’s Tuesday, you see. I can’t quite put my finger on why or how … but I’m fairly certain that it’s gone.’
‘G-gone?’
Moreg stared. ‘Yes.’
There was an awkward silence.
Willow stared at Moreg.
The witch stared back.
There seemed to be no other explanation. The witch must have gone mad. Granny Flossy said it happened to the best of them sometimes. She’d know, of course, having gone mad herself.
Some said Moreg Vaine lived alone in the Mists of Mitlaire, the entrance to the realm of the undead. Willow supposed that would be enough to drive anyone round the bend. Mad and powerful seemed a rather dangerous combination, so she gave the witch a slightly nervous smile, hoping that she’d just misunderstood. ‘Gone? The d-day?’
Moreg nodded, then got up and took the Mosses’ Grinfog calendar from its peg behind the cottage door and handed it to Willow.
Willow looked.
She wasn’t sure what she was meant to be looking at; she was half expecting to see that the week just skipped from Monday straight to Wednesday. She was mildly disappointed to find that it had not. Tuesday was still there. Along with the Leightons’ advertisement for apple cider to cure all ailments.
‘But it’s still …?’
Moreg nodded impatiently. ‘It’s there – yes – but look closely.’
Willow looked. Printed on each day of the calendar were fairs, village meetings, harvest schedules, phases of the moon and other events. Each day had at least one item – except Tuesday.
She frowned. ‘But that could mean any—’
‘—thing. Yes. I thought that too. But, still, I can’t shake this feeling that it means something. Something bad.’ Moreg paused before explaining. ‘Do you remember what you did on Tuesday?’
Willow frowned. She closed her eyes and for just a second a big moth-eaten purple hat with a long green feather sticking up jauntily to the side swam before her eyes, with Granny Flossy’s face turning away from her, and for a moment she felt her stomach clench with fear. But then, just as fast as the image had appeared, it was gone, taking the momentary feeling of disquiet along with it.
She thought hard, the way you think about a dream that feels so real when you just wake up but is gone within seconds and is almost impossible to recall. On Monday she helped farmer Lonnis find his lease. Without it he would have lost his rights to grow oranges, but luckily Willow had been dispatched, and all was well with Lonnis Farms now – she’d got a whole bag of oranges for that. Then she’d come home and helped Granny Flossy to repot the grumbling Gertrudes. The sweet purple fruits were used for masking some of the nastier flavours from her potions (it didn’t really work, just like most of Granny’s potions didn’t really work since her accident). On Wednesday she’d gone to the market – helping the housewives of Herm find their misplaced household goods. Thursday, her mother left for the fair, and then it was today …
‘Not really – I can’t seem to remember what I did that day.’
Moreg nodded, then sighed. ‘I was hoping it may be different, but it’s the same with everyone I’ve spoken to – they seem to recall most of what they did this week, but Tuesday is a real blank.’
Willow bit her lip, hesitating. ‘But isn’t that …?’
‘Normal?’ supplied Moreg, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Yes, of course. Most people struggle to remember what they had for dinner the night before. Usually, though, if they put their minds to it, something will come up. But the thing is, when it comes to Tuesday, not a single person I have questioned can remember what happened. Not even me.’
Willow frowned. She had to admit that it was strange. ‘How many people have you asked?’
Moreg gave her an appraising look. ‘All of Hoyp.’
Willow’s eyebrows shot up. That was surprising: an entire village. Okay, a small village that was really more like one long road, but still, that was around fifteen families at least.
Another thought occurred to her. She hesitated, but asked anyway. ‘Why did you say even me?’
A ghost of a smile crossed Moreg’s face. ‘You’re sharp – that’s good. I meant only that it was strange, as it had never happened to me before.’
Willow was taken aback. ‘You’ve never forgotten what you’ve done before?’
‘Never.’
Willow’s eyes popped. She didn’t really know what to do with that information. She felt equal parts awe and dismay at the prospect.
Moreg changed the subject. ‘I believe that you are a finder?’
Willow hesitated; she’d never been called that before. Mentally she cringed. The closest she’d ever come to being called that was when her sister Camille took to calling her ‘Fetch’ for a large portion of her childhood. She’d