‘Jack?’
He stretched out his arms towards her, struggling to reach her. Instinctively she leant forward – forward – until her face was almost touching the surface of the lake, until—
Terror suffocated her. Scrambling backwards, she froze the surface of the lake, trapping Jack underneath. But she could still hear him, beating on the underside of the ice, screaming her name over and over …
‘Hey, Merry?’ She sat up with a jerk. Ruby was shaking her shoulder; the train was just pulling into Tillingham. ‘You OK? You were muttering something in your sleep.’
‘Uh … no, I’m fine. Just tired.’
Flo was staring at her, frowning. Merry shook her head fractionally; she didn’t want to start discussing her strange dreams in front of Ruby.
Merry stumbled off the train after the others. Flo said goodbye to them there as she lived on the other side of town and was getting a bus home. Merry got into Ruby’s car and turned the air conditioning on to full, trying to blow away the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to her brain.
Thankfully, Ruby seemed happy enough listening to the radio as she drove.
Merry was supposed to meet Leo at Gran’s house for dinner, so Ruby dropped her off there. Gran was in the kitchen, and despite the heat outside, the house was pleasantly cool.
‘Hey, Gran.’ Merry kissed her grandmother on the cheek. ‘That smells good. Where’s Leo?’
‘I made a chicken pie. And he’s not coming. He called and said he’s not feeling well.’ Gran gave Merry a searching glance, but Merry didn’t offer any explanation. She was hardly going to tell Gran that she’d been misusing her magic to spy on her brother.
‘Can I do anything?’
‘No. Go and relax.’
Merry wandered into the living room, spent a few minutes playing with Tybalt – Gran’s tortoiseshell moggie – then began browsing her grandmother’s bulging bookshelves: fiction, political memoirs, history, lots of knowledge books and wisdom books. And in a separate bookcase, Gran’s journey books. Merry opened the doors and ran her fingers along the spines. Gran favoured brightly-coloured, cloth-bound notebooks, though the bindings of the earliest books were faded now. As her nails bumped across the rainbow fabric, Merry remembered the photo of Ellie Mills, and that strange feeling of familiarity. And then she remembered an evening at Gran’s house a couple of months ago when Gran had asked her to copy out a spell from one of the journey books.
Ten minutes later Merry was sitting on the floor, a jumbled pile of discarded notebooks by her feet, one open upon her knees. Here was the spell: a charm Gran had developed for getting rid of acne. And on the opposite page was a photograph. Gran, with a group of six or seven other women of different ages, all standing a little awkwardly among four large, irregular-shaped rocks. A younger Gran – it had obviously been taken quite a few years ago. The camerawork was a bit wonky, but Gran had helpfully written the names of the women underneath the picture. And at the edge of the group – her hair bright pink in this photo – stood Ellie Mills.
Merry took the journey book into the kitchen. Gran was laying the table.
‘Gran, who’s this?’
Gran glanced at the photo.
‘Oh, it was taken at a convention in Derbyshire, held by a local coven. We went on a day trip to visit a nearby stone circle. About ten years ago, I think.’
‘But why is she there?’ Merry tapped the photo. ‘Ellie Mills.’
‘She’s one of the local witches. I don’t know her that well. Powerful, but rather … scatty, as far as I remember. Of course, she was only young when that was taken. She might be more disciplined by now. Why?’
Merry hesitated. Gran didn’t seem to know Ellie Mills that well, but still …
Her grandmother was peering at her over the top of her spectacles.
‘Merry?’
‘Er, the thing is … I think she’s dead. There was a photo of her in the paper today, and it said …’ Gran had gone sort of rigid, staring at the knife still in her hand. ‘I’m really sorry, Gran. I s’pose it was an accident. I didn’t read the whole article, but—’
‘No. It can’t have been. At least, not the kind of accident you mean.’
‘But – you don’t know that. Even witches have accidents. Mum told me about your sister and the car crash. So maybe Ellie Mills fell, or—’
‘No!’ Gran slapped the knife down on the table. ‘You think you know everything, Merry, when you’ve barely scratched the surface of what it means to be a witch! I won’t …’ Gran clamped her lips together. Merry could almost taste her gran’s agitation: an acidic fog filling her throat and her lungs.
‘What’s happening, Gran?’
‘I don’t know.’ Gran sank into a chair. ‘There are no more family curses. But—’ The oven timer went off and Gran flinched. But she made no move to get up.
They sat for what felt like ages, listening as the beep beep beep split the silence of the kitchen.
The meal that followed didn’t take long; neither of them had much of an appetite. Merry started the dishwasher then sat down opposite her grandmother.
‘Well?’
Gran sighed and pulled the journey book – still open at the page with the photograph – towards her.
‘Witches are … hard to kill. We can use magic to protect ourselves from ordinary people and to avoid accidents. We can heal ourselves. Usually, we prefer to expire in our beds: all our affairs in order, friends and family notified, and so on. Witches can’t hold back time, and eventually we’re usually ready to move on. But our deaths are expected. Organised.’
But Ellie Mills hadn’t died of old age. Merry glanced up at the ceiling; it was getting dark outside and even with the lights on the kitchen felt gloomy.
‘Unexpected deaths have three causes,’ Gran continued. ‘Usually, the dead witch has been experimenting with a dangerous or prohibited form of magic – that’s why it’s rarely discussed. Covens are embarrassed and try to cover it up. Or sometimes the witch has been killed in a fight with another witch. Or a wizard.’
Merry swallowed, remembering Gwydion: how he had controlled her and attacked her with fire runes. How he’d tried to kill Leo.
Gran brushed a fingertip across the image of the pink-haired girl in the photograph. ‘Ellie isn’t the first. There’ve been at least five unexplained deaths in the last year in the UK and Ireland. More abroad, before then. I’m just not sure …’ She lapsed into silence, fiddling with the journey book, folding and unfolding the corner of one page.
‘What about the third thing, Gran? You said there were three causes of unexpected deaths.’
‘Well … There are stories. Myths, some would say. Or at least exaggerations. Very old stories. The sort that nobody wants to believe could be true.’ Her grandmother’s anxiety was palpable now, surrounding Merry like a winter mist, seeping into her pores and her bones. A thought flashed into her mind: Maybe I don’t want to hear about these stories. These deaths are not my problem. Not this time … She picked up her phone and pushed her chair back from the table.
‘Sorry, Gran – I’ve just realised how late it is. Can we talk more tomorrow?’
‘Oh …’ Gran blinked and rubbed her eyes. ‘Of course. I can lend you a couple of books, just in case.’
In case of what? Merry wondered. But Gran didn’t say. Instead, she picked up the journey book and opened the elderly microwave that was sitting on the counter nearby. Inside – bizarrely