Modern Magick

I sat up very straight, electrified. ‘The isle disappeared! An entire island! Impossible!’

‘Apparently not,’ said Alban.

‘But then, its location was known initially?’

‘Mm. It was said to lie about three and a half miles off the Yorkshire coast, about due east from the town of Scarborough.’

‘But had it always been there? I’ve never heard of an island in those parts.’

‘There certainly hasn’t been for the past four hundred years. And there is no reason to imagine that it was a large island.’

‘Even so.’ My mind was awhirl at the prospect, but so was my scepticism. ‘I know that Waymasters used to be a lot more powerful, and clearly they could — and can — move buildings around. But so far, they’re small ones. Cottages and modest farmhouses.’

‘And the spire,’ put in Zareen.

‘Right, but even that isn’t so huge a place. An entire island, though? A spit of land? I’m not sure I believe it.’

‘Islands have been known to move about before,’ said the Baron. ‘Come loose and float away.’

‘Fixed or not, it’s still a big land mass. If it was habitable, it must have been at least a few miles square. How many Waymasters working together would it take to move all that? Surely it cannot be done.’

‘And yet,’ said the Baron. ‘As far as the official enquiry records, it was gone.’

‘They couldn’t prove that it was gone,’ I pointed out. ‘All they meant was, they couldn’t find it. Perhaps it was not gone, but hidden.’

The Baron inclined his head, ceding the point.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so resistant to the idea that an island had physically moved. A few weeks ago, the idea that a two-room cottage could waltz off had seemed impossible.

‘So the island existed,’ I mused. ‘And while we are not certain that the isle mentioned by Talbot Makepeace was the same one, it seems likely. Everything fits. So it was probably still there — or still somewhere — over a century and a half later, and somebody lured Millie there. Perhaps the same somebody who had awoken her Waymaster abilities in the first place, and bound her into the farmhouse.’

‘But is the isle still there now?’ said Zareen.

Melmidoc had rushed off to answer that same question. Had he succeeded in finding his lost isle? Or was it gone, sunk beneath the waves long ago?

If it was still there, was Millie still in the habit of frequenting the place?

Was that where she had taken Jay?

If it was, and the Baron’s theory was correct, then the island could be anywhere. It didn’t even have to be in British waters anymore. It could be lurking off the coast of New Zealand, or somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Under the circumstances, I preferred my theory.

‘I’m going to see George,’ Zareen suddenly announced.

‘What—’ I began, but she was already striding away in the direction of the Scarlet Courtyard.

‘Meet you at the party,’ she called back.

‘Right,’ I said, taken aback.

The Baron raised an eyebrow.

I could only shrug. ‘I do not know what’s going on with them.’

‘By the looks of it, I’d say a lot.’

‘Zar knows what she’s doing.’

‘She does have the look of a formidable woman.’ The Baron was twinkling at me again, damn him, which was as much as to say that I didn’t.

Probably a fair observation, what with my daffodil hair. I straightened my spine a bit more, and rose with dignity to my feet. ‘I have an alternative theory,’ I told him.

‘To my wild reports of wandering isles?’

‘Yes. I need to see Val. Are you game for a sneak-in?’

‘Sneaking into Home? Has it come to that? I thought you left on decent terms.’ Did I imagine the slight emphasis he’d put on the word left? As though he was making air quotes in his mind while he said it.

‘If you call defying Milady’s orders about the spire decent behaviour, then yes, we left on excellent terms.’

That was definitely a smile lurking about his lips. ‘As you say,’ he said mildly.

I gave a sigh. ‘It was Garrogin, wasn’t it?’

‘He did seem to think that you and Jay made a perfect picture of loyalty. The way he told it, well. I wish my staff were half as loyal.’

‘Curse him.’

‘Their Majesties have already done so.’

The twin curse of a pair of powerful troll royals ought to be a bit more effective than mine, so I let Lord Garrogin be.

Truth to tell, I was a bit uneasy about going back Home again so soon. I knew Milady would not mind in principle, but in practice? Our masquerade had already proved to be paper-thin. It was stupid to jeopardise it further by sauntering back Home just as though we still belonged there. It would have to be subterfuge.

Which is a tall order, because our House’s security measures are deservedly legendary. Why do you think Ancestria Magicka went to so much trouble to get their claws into Miranda? It isn’t like they could just send over a spy. They either had to get someone of their own recruited by Milady, or convert an existing Society employee; there were no other options. If Milady had revoked my access to Home, then there was no way I was getting in. Or the Baron either.

So it was with some trepidation — and some bitter feelings — that I approached the environs of our beloved House late that morning, riding as passenger in the Baron’s beautiful sleek car. We parked just outside the entrance, and the fact that I could still see the handsome double gates reassured me a little. First layer of security: it is tricky to break into a place you cannot find.

I had the sense not to waltz in at the front gate; instead, we circled around to a side-door into the grounds, and slipped through. Nothing was barred, and nobody tried to stop us. The walk from there into the House itself was a short one, just down a narrow passageway lined with hedgerows, across the narrowest part of the shrubbery, and then in at the door.

Hopefully.

Beloved House. I had been banished from it for only a handful of days, and yet I experienced a piercing sense of loss as I walked up to the door and gazed wistfully up at its ancient walls. Not just Home, but my home, and for the past decade. Place of work, place of abode, place of everything. A small part of me harboured the fear that, one way or another, I might never be able to come properly Home again.

But that was foolish. This was just an assignment, like any other. Once we had established the truth (or lack thereof) about the spire, the island and the whole prospect of time travel, we would be able to return.

‘Morning, House,’ I said with a bright smile, and knocked lightly upon the heavy oak door. ‘Is it all right if we go in to see Val?’

The door was unlatching even as I spoke, its bolts rattling as they drew back. Before I’d even got as far as uttering Val’s name, the door swung wide open with a cheerful creak. Was I being fanciful in interpreting it as a welcoming sound?

I went inside, laying a hand briefly upon the white-plastered wall as I went past. ‘I miss you too,’ I told the dear old place.

Baron Alban followed me into the passage. We were in what had once been the servants’ wing of the house; the old scullery was to our left, and on the right were the pantries. Some of those were still used to store food. ‘Do you and the House always chat like that?’ asked the Baron.

‘Yes, always.’ I spoke absently, for it occurred to me that my plan had been limited. All right, we were inside: but how were we to make it as far as the library without passing at least a few people?

I trod softly to the end of the passage and peeked around the corner. No one in sight, yet, but a couple of passages and a few corners down that way, we’d enter the library complex, and it was a popular spot. There was no way we could sneak—

‘Ves!’ said Val.

I whirled.

She was right behind me, ensconced as usual in her majestic green velvet chair. She did not look so perfectly turned out as usual; her upswept dark hair was tumbling down a bit at the back, and her clothes had the rumpled look that suggested “freshly pressed” was an increasingly distant memory. ‘Val?’ I blurted. ‘I was just—’

‘Coming to find me. I know, House brought me. Bloody hell, Ves, where have you been?’

‘We’ve been—’

‘I mean, I know the official story but I’ve never heard so much crap in my life. As if you or Zareen would ditch us like that! Or Jay either!’

‘I know, but it was necessary to—’

‘I’ve missed you.’ They might have been pleasant words but Val spat them out like they were the gravest insults, her eyes flashing fire.

‘Val.’ I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I thought Milady would have told you everything, I—’ It occurred to me that we were not exactly in a secure location, so I shut up. ‘Can we get somewhere quiet?’

Only then did Val notice the Baron, who had been loitering at a polite distance from us both. He sauntered up with a show of non-threatening casualness, and graced her with one of his courtlier bows.

Val’s eyes went very wide. I tried to remember whether she had ever met the Baron in person before, and concluded that she probably had not.

He did tend to have an impact.

‘This is Baron Alban, from the Court,’ I said, to cover her silence.

Val held out a hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet any representative of Their Majesties of Mandridore, but do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?’

The Baron shook Val’s hand with a smile. ‘Helping Ves, actually.’

Val gave me a roguish look that said well-I-never, but her voice was steely again when she spoke. ‘If you steal Ves away to Mandridore, Baron, I shall never forgive you.’

‘Understood.’

‘In fact, the entire Society will swarm Their Majesties’ gates in order to fetch her back.’

Alban saluted gravely.

I was touched.

‘Right,’ Val said, more crisply. ‘House, dear. Somewhere private for the three of us?’

A door opened silently in the wall to Val’s left. A door that had not been there a moment before.

Val’s wing-back chair floated serenely through it, and the Baron and I followed.

Turn page ->

I sent a few messages to Miranda after that, mostly variations on the general theme of why?

To my regret, but not to my surprise, she did not answer any of them.

By the next morning, it was official: Miranda had gone. Rob brought us a copy of the Society’s internal memo on the subject.

I winced upon reading it. Milady was most seriously displeased.

Miranda Evans is no longer a member of this Society. The circumstances of her departure are not for public dissemination. Let it be known, however, that any and all communication with Ms. Evans is strongly discouraged.

There was more, but not much. I pictured the icy fury with which Milady had penned the missive (or dictated it, she being incorporeal and all) and shuddered.

It did raise an interesting question, though. Had Miranda corrupted anybody else, prior to her departure? I could only assume that was the fear lurking behind Milady’s prohibition on communication. We none of us wished to lose any more people to Ancestria Magicka.

I’d had to field a string of messages from Indira, too. She had discovered Jay’s absence by way of several failed and unanswered phone calls and was cheerfully freaking out about him. Since I was in much the same state, albeit more secretly, there was not much I could do to reassure her. I could not even say for sure that George Mercer’s offer was still open, not after he and Zareen had so obviously fallen out over Miranda.

Difficult morning. I treated my nerves to an extra helping of chocolate from Milady’s wonderful pot, recruited my strength with some of Mrs. Amberstone’s best pancakes, and boosted my confidence with a change of hair colour. Maybe it sounds frivolous, but try it before you judge me.

I stepped out a little later, tossing my parti-coloured hair (cream at the top and daffodil-yellow at the bottom, with a smooth ombre fade in between). I was beginning to lose my patience with this particular mess, and it was high time we sorted it out.

I found Zareen in much the same frame of mind. A solid ten hours of sleep had restored her colour somewhat, and she looked much nearer her old self when she opened her door. ‘Plan?’ she said.

‘Find Jay.’ I ticked off point one on my fingers. ‘Find out what that isle of Melmidoc’s is about. Figure out what the bloody hell has got into Miranda and fix it. Discover the source of the Dappledok pups and fix that, too. And find out once and for all where in space or time those houses are going to when they vanish.’ I ticked them all off on my fingers, using rather more fingers in the process than I was hoping.

‘That’s a wish list,’ said Zareen. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘No bloody clue.’

‘Right, then. Situation normal.’ Zareen grabbed her jacket, stuffed her feet into her boots and fell in beside me as I made for the stairs.

‘The party’s at seven,’ Zareen said, checking the time. ‘We’ve got ten hours until then. Pick a place to start?’

‘Baron Alban.’

‘Needing a little eye candy?’

‘Always, but that’s not it this time. Val’s drawn a blank on Melmidoc’s isle as far as our library goes, and Mauf has nothing for us either. We need another resource, and I can’t think of a better one than the library at the Troll Courts. Can you?’

‘I can punch George in the face until he consents to check their records for us.’

‘Think that’ll work?’

‘No. And anyway, I’d have to tell him all about the isle first, and we sort of agreed not to do that.’

‘Right. Plan forming. Part one in progress.’ I composed another message to Miranda and sent it before I could change my mind.

It said: Rage aside, Mir, those books prove you want to help us. So help. Find out anything you can about a secret isle, probably 1600s, linked to names like Melmidoc Redclover. Please. Thanks xx

We hadn’t given Miranda the full low-down about the spire before, probably because it had not seemed relevant. We’d just told her about the part we knew would interest her: Dramary’s Bestiary. I wondered, though. Had she heard the rest from someone else? Word tended to travel at Home. If she had, she would have taken that information to Ancestria Magicka — which meant that George Mercer must be lying about their ignorance. If so, what was his game?

I showed my message to Zareen, who grunted, a sound halfway between approval and irritation.

‘I know, I know.’

‘I hate this.’

‘Me too. Right. Part two in progress.’ I called the Baron. ‘Alban,’ I said crisply the moment he answered. ‘It’s Ves. May I speak frankly?’

‘Please.’

‘This shit is driving us crazy and we would like to resolve it. We propose a joining of forces.’

‘Oh? Among whom, exactly?’

‘The Thrilling Three, even if we are presently down to the Testy Two, and the Troll Court.’

‘As represented by me?’

‘Yes.’

I waited. I knew the Baron would understand my meaning. I wasn’t just asking for his personal assistance; I was requesting the official aid of Their Majesties’ Court itself.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

The Baron arrived in person about an hour later.

Zareen and I spent the intervening time scouring Miranda’s books for what Nancy Drew might have called “leads” (unsuccessfully). About all I could determine from Millie Makepeace’s diaries was that she was batshit crazy, and largely unaware of her Waymaster abilities. Apparently magickal education for young women of breeding was on the underwhelming side, back in the day. I wondered who had introduced her to her powers (after death…?), and how they had known she’d had any. I shied away from the idea that someone from her own family had been responsible for her after-death fate, but one or two references to her father made me wonder a bit. Had he been a practitioner of the Weird Stuff? Perhaps.

Zareen read through her pamphlet with an irritable frown, and finally snapped it closed with, I thought, unnecessary violence. The booklet was old, and delicate. I gently took it from her. ‘No use?’

‘Tells me nothing new.’

Judging from her glowering dissatisfaction, it had reminded her of a number of things she did not like to think about.

I checked the title. Dark Deeds and Strange Wayes: The Wyrde Path. No author was listed.  

‘It’s all new to me,’ I said. ‘Mind if I read?’

Zareen had signalled her lack of objection with a shrug, and had then proceeded to stretch out in the grass (we were out in Mrs. Amberstone’s garden again, under the walnut trees). Whether she was sleeping or brooding I could not tell.

I skimmed through the pamphlet, keeping an absent eye on my phone in case of word from the Baron or Miranda — or Mabyn Redclover, at the Hidden Ministry. I’d informed her of the fate of the spire, and had capitalised on her satisfaction by pleading for help. I knew Val would be doing her utmost to come up with something, too; with that many people at work on the matter of the mysterious isle, I had hopes of hearing something useful soon.

But the pamphlet.

‘Chilling read,’ I said when I’d finished it.

That was an understatement. It proved to be the work of an early serial killer. The author — who was so cagey about his or her identity that I could not even determine their gender — had discovered at a horrifyingly young age that the “art” of killing (their words, not mine) had a pleasurably amplifying effect upon their “wyrde wayes” (also their words). The obliging author had conducted a number of grisly murders over a period of years (all described in detail) and recorded the effects of these despicable deeds upon their unsavoury magicks. All very positive, I was to believe; after several such murders, the author was understood to be in possession of virtually unheard-of power in fields such as necromancy, and could oblige any Ghoste or Spirite to do my Bydding, as well as making Puppets of the Deade, and, perhaps most interestingly, restorynge Life that has been Loste.

Did they mean converting the dead into the undead, or a revival from death back into a state of genuine life? If the latter, that was… remarkable. I experienced a vision of this unknown necromancer four hundred years ago, killing the same victim over and over again in the name of experimentation, and shuddered. Thank goodness I had not been burdened with the Stranger Arts. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes at the School of Weird.

I was not absolutely convinced by the author’s claims. The text displayed clear signs of narcissism and megalomania, in my humble opinion, and surely the links between murder and “wyrde” powers couldn’t be that simple or powerful or we’d have seen a total ban on all such arts many years ago.

But Zareen accepted it, and she ought to know.

I handed the pamphlet back to her.

Message from Miranda. Tread carefully, Ves.

‘Is that it?’ I said in disgust, quoting it to Zareen. ‘What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Means she knows something but cannot or will not say, other than to imply that it is dangerous.’

I sighed. ‘And that means Ancestria Magicka knows something, which means maybe it’s time to start punching George in the face.’

Zareen complied, metaphorically speaking.

And then came the Baron, strolling over Mrs. Amberstone’s neatly-trimmed lawn like he had all the time in the world. I suppose with those long legs, he could stroll all he liked and still make faster progress than I would at a brisk trot. He’d dressed down: he wore a pair of crisp, dark blue trousers and a loose white shirt, open at the neck. Polished shoes, no hat, his bronze-blonde hair artfully disordered. If anything, the effect was more devastating than all the impeccable, elaborate style of his previous ensembles. He smiled at me as he approached, his green eyes bright with apparent pleasure at seeing me, and something odd happened in my stomach.

‘Morning,’ I said lightly.

Baron Alban made us a polite, courtly bow amid exquisitely courteous greetings. I did not imagine it: his smile definitely lingered on me. ‘Morning, ladies. What’s the news?’

‘Not much.’ I showed him Miranda’s note, upon which he made no comment save for a raised eyebrow.

‘I’d hoped you were bringing the cavalry,’ I said, noticing all the empty space around him that was not filled with other knowledgeable and useful members of Their Majesties’ Court.

‘What, one wickedly handsome troll isn’t enough for you?’

‘Well, since you mention it…’

He grinned. ‘I’m afraid it’s just me, but I do bring help.’

I sat up. ‘Oh?’

‘I don’t know if you realise it, but you and Jay are popular at Court at the moment — what with uncovering the blight at the lost enclaves, hacking your way into Farringale and coming out alive, and now tackling this spire business.’

‘Their Majesties aren’t opposed to investigating there?’

‘No. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve disagreed with the Ministry. But Ancestria Magicka has them worried, and angry. Lord Garrogin was a friend.’

‘Was?’

‘Mm.’ The Baron’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘He isn’t anymore. His invitation to the Court has been revoked.’

‘So, the isle?’ I prompted.

‘I drew a blank at the library. Nothing there. I can say this with certainty because Her Majesty interviewed our Chief Archivist on the subject personally. I never saw a man more terrified. I don’t think he could have lied to save his life.

‘But, the library is not our only resource. The Court is a court in two senses of the word: it’s the home of Their Majesties, and it’s also a place of justice. Has been ever since the fall of Farringale. A lot of cases have been heard there, and a lot of complaints lodged.’

I discreetly checked the time. Not discreetly enough, for the Baron saw me and smiled a wry smile. ‘All right, the short version: I consulted the Scribe of the Court of Justice. One of his duties is to maintain the court’s records, including recopying the oldest and most faded documents at need. And those date from the early sixteen hundreds through into the eighteen hundreds.

‘Late last year he copied and refreshed an account of a complaint brought by one Talbot Makepeace, of Suffolk, who claimed that his house and his daughter had been stolen from him. The complaint was dismissed because his daughter was known to have been recently executed, and he could give no proper explanation as to how his house had been filched. He claimed it had walked away, and his dead daughter with it. I believe the poor man was written off as mad. He was noted to have shrieked something about that accursed isle as he was dragged from the Court.’

‘Ah!’ I crowed. ‘A link between Millie and the isle!’

‘Indeed.’ The Baron paused to smile at me. ‘Another, older complaint referred to an unnamed isle in a similar way. This one was dated to somewhere in the sixteen thirties, so the Scribe estimated, and it was a much more serious case. An attempt was made to prosecute one Melmidoc Redclover and his brother Drystan for the creation of a secret magickal society, one unauthorised by any power in existence. Now, they were not actually obliged to have permission in order to set up their own establishment; there was no such stringent system of laws then, as there are now. But if you wished to create a new magickal nation, with its own legalities and rules and its own, independent authority, it was considered polite to have the support of your peers. To act without it was to make a lot of people nervous, for what might you be planning to do? Melmidoc and Drystan skipped that part. The account, unfortunately, is not that useful, because the Redclover brothers could not be got hold of for comment. They’d disappeared, and so had the isle.’

Turn page ->

‘Where’s Jay?’ I said quickly.

‘He hasn’t said. But he will, if we agree to share what we know.’

‘Part of that pact you helpfully set up?’ I subjected Zareen to my best slitty-eyed stare.

‘Yes,’ she said, unperturbed. ‘And if he does know what’s become of Jay, then it probably was helpful, wasn’t it?’

I held up my hands in surrender, for Zareen’s words emerged icily, and her face was set in bitter lines. ‘What does he want in return?’

‘Everything we know about the Redclovers and the spire. But, he says he’s got more to share than just news of Jay. More about Millie, and others like her.’

‘He didn’t mention an isle?’

‘Not so far. I wanted to ask, but if he hasn’t heard about that yet I didn’t want to give him ideas. And he probably hasn’t, if he’s short of information about Melmidoc and Drystan.’

‘Maybe, but we don’t know that this island belonged to the Redclovers, or that they had control of it. Could be something else entirely.’

‘Could be. Ves, I know we’ve had this argument already but I really think joining forces with George would be to our mutual benefit. Right now we are groping around in the dark, trying to find stuff out for ourselves while also figuring out what they already know. Why not just cut the crap?’

I couldn’t deny that she had a point. But. ‘Zar, I hate to speak ill of your friend but he did try to kill us that one time.’

‘He said he’s sorry for trying to knock you off Addie.’

‘Good of him.’

‘He wasn’t really trying to, you know. He’s a deadly shot. If he’d wanted to kill you, he would have.’

‘Then why shoot at us at all?’ I remembered the day in question clearly: Jay had whisked us off to a new henge near Milton Keynes. We’d thought ourselves safe, but George Mercer and Katalin Pataki had followed. We had narrowly escaped upon the back of my beloved winged unicorn, while Mercer employed the most potent arts his Sardonyx Wand had to offer to knock us to the ground again. We’d been carrying Bill at the time, that was the crux of it: the very first book like Mauf, intelligent and communicative and packed with a dizzying amount of information. Everybody wanted him.

‘Ask him sometime,’ Zareen suggested.

‘Like when?’

‘Like at the Ashdown Castle Ball, which is tomorrow.’

So it was. I had forgotten about it. ‘I was really hoping to have Jay back by tomorrow.’

‘You might do. Who knows?’

I tried calling Jay again, with the same results as ever. Nothing. Failure to connect, and he had not read my messages.

I stared at the evidence of this in silence for a while. ‘Zar, how far do you have to go to get zero phone or internet service?’

‘Honestly? Not that far.’

I’d begun to wonder whether Millie had carted Jay off to, say, 1768, but Zar was right. Chuck him on a suitably remote mountaintop and the effect would likely be much the same.

But I hated not knowing. Above all things that I hate, it’s ignorance.

‘How could George know where Jay is?’ I asked.

‘He didn’t precisely say. He implied, though, that John Wester and Millie Makepeace aren’t the only examples of their peculiar capabilities and that Ancestria Magicka’s got a tame one.’

Hardly surprising, really. I’d guessed since the Greyer Cottage that they were after a pet Waymaster, preferably undead, and with the kinds of resources they had, of course they’d achieved it. In record time. While we were still flailing around, bumping into Millie Makepeace by accident.

Still, George wanted something from us. That meant we were ahead of them somewhere.

‘Here’s my counter-offer,’ I said crisply to Zareen. ‘I don’t just want to know where Jay is. I want him to take us there. If he’s got a tame walkabout house then that should be easy for him.’

Zareen gave me her weird, twisted smile. ‘Thought you’d say that.’ There followed a brief phone conversation in which she relayed this to Mercer, and soon rang off. ‘Deal,’ she told me. ‘If Jay’s not back by tomorrow, he’ll take us to him.’

I wondered whether that hadn’t been just a bit too easy, but I said nothing. Zar might be caught in a difficult position just now, but I trusted her. She might be chummier with Ancestria Magicka than I liked, but she would never betray the Society. Or me.

I hung onto that certainty with both hands.

We reached the Scarlet Courtyard just in time for dinner, which pleased my stomach greatly for (as I had begun to realise about halfway through the coach journey) we had managed to skip lunch.

Alas, food was not to be mine for a little while yet, because it turned out to be one of those occasions where everything happens at once.

Mrs. Amberstone met us as we trooped wearily through the hallway. She smelled enticingly of something that was probably pie. ‘Visitor for you, girls,’ she said. ‘Chap from the Society.’

Intriguing. ‘Thanks, Mrs. A. Whereabouts is he?’

‘Somewhere about the gardens. Seems restless.’

That did not bode well, but I tried not to worry about it as I traipsed upstairs with Zareen. I wanted a quick change of clothes and a drink of water before I dealt with the next problem.

Halfway up the stairs to our rooms, though, my pocket buzzed.

Got them from Val, Miranda had sent. Anything good in there?

I stopped dead, frozen with astonishment. I read it a couple of times, just to be sure, before I showed it to Zareen.

She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

I hauled the two books out of my shoulder-bag again and snapped a quick shot for Val.

It didn’t take long for her to reply. Where did you get those, and can I have them?

From Mir, I wrote back. Says she got them from you?

Those did not come from this library, Val replied.

I sat slowly down upon the steps and put my face in my hands, because as bad news went, this bordered upon awful. I was not quite so appalled as I would have been had it been Valerie or Zareen, or Rob, or Jay. But it was bad enough.

How far back did it go?

‘Why would Miranda lie about that?’ said Zareen. She’d joined me on the step, less because she was shocked, I suspected, than because she was exhausted.

‘I can only think of one reason. If those books didn’t come from our library and Mir’s concealing the source, then they came from someplace she should not have access to.’

Zareen just nodded, her head drooping wearily.

‘Shit,’ I muttered, and hauled myself to my feet again. The question of why Miranda had gone out of her way to put those books into our hands, even at the risk of discovery, could wait. First I had to find out who had come from the Society.

It was Rob, of course. We found him pacing about under the walnut trees at the back of Mrs. Amberstone’s garden, brow uncharacteristically clouded. He wore his customary dark shirt and trousers, and a dapper fedora over his dark curls. This last he took off, and rubbed a hand over his hair. The gesture looked unutterably weary.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said as we approached. ‘I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.’

‘It’s Miranda, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘How did you know that?’ There was a tilt to his head and a wary quality to his voice that I did not like. Was this how it would be from now on? Would we all suspect each other?

‘Miranda’s been at somebody else’s library, and I suspect it’s Ancestria Magicka’s.’ I showed Rob the few messages she and I had exchanged, and the books themselves.

Rob just looked at them, and gave a soft sigh. ‘That’s it, then.’ He shook his head, and gave the books back to me. ‘Might as well get some use out of those before we have to give them back.’

I stashed them again.

‘How did you find out?’ said Zareen.

‘I told you there’s been a rash of Dappledok puppies turning up? Miranda kept going out to collect them, but wherever she was taking them, it wasn’t Home. That became clear about an hour ago. Then we realised she hadn’t come back at all from the last pickup, had left no word for anybody, and — and she’s taken several of the rarest beasts from the East Wing. At least, nobody knows where they are, so it’s the most likely explanation.’

It physically hurt to hear this. Miranda was a fixture at the Society, had been for almost as long as I’d been employed there. How could she? What was she thinking?

I saw some of the same questions written over Rob’s face. ‘Has anyone spoken to her?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘She hasn’t been answering her phone, or messages.’

‘She answered me,’ I said, already typing. Where are you? That’s all I put.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this message she did not answer.

‘Was it Mir, then, who told Ancestria Magicka about Bill?’ I said, trying to maintain my composure. ‘And put the tracker spell into the book?’

Rob shrugged. ‘Hard to say until someone gets hold of her, but it looks likely.’

‘But why?’ I could think of nothing else to say.

‘She’s always been so passionate about those beasts,’ said Rob, and as devastated as he was himself he was still kind enough to lay a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘The Society has always had to follow Ministry policy there. Imagine how tempting it must have been to her, when Ancestria Magicka appeared. Money to do anything and everything necessary for her creatures, and the will to defy the Ministry if they deemed it important enough. Imagine what they must have promised her. And then you showed up with a Dappledok pup…’

I was gripped by a sudden fear. ‘Rob. My pup — or not my pup, but, you know — did Miranda take her as well?’

Rob nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Ves. There are no pups left at Home.’

‘Damnit, Miranda.’ I took a breath, and ruthlessly pulled myself together. ‘When we saw her this morning, she had a couple of unfamiliar kennel aides with her. I assumed they must be new recruits.’

‘As far as I know, not. We haven’t had any newcomers in the Beasts division lately.’

‘So they were probably from Ancestria Magicka.’

Rob nodded.

I realised Zareen was no longer with us. Looking around, I saw her several feet away, her phone to her ear. She had the tense, listening posture of a person hearing unwelcome news.

‘George Mercer,’ I said. ‘Bet that’s who she’s talking to. If Miranda’s been working for them these past weeks, he probably knew.’

‘And didn’t tell her?’ Rob winced in sympathy.

‘He wouldn’t, would he? But I think Zar believes he’s honest with her.’ Privately, I think she needed to believe that. Mercer was more important a figure in her world than he at all deserved to be, at least in my opinion.

‘Something doesn’t add up, though,’ I said, frowning. ‘Why did Mir get us those books?’

Rob thought that over. ‘I’ve known Miranda many years,’ he said after a while. ‘Whatever misdeeds she may have lately committed, I don’t believe she’s ruthless by nature, nor would betrayal have come easily to her. If she did put the tracker spell in your book, she probably thought her new allies would just steal it. She could never have meant for you or Jay to end up in harm’s way.’

‘So you think this is guilt?’ I slapped a hand against my shoulder-bag, where the purloined books lay.

Rob grimaced. ‘Something like that. More a desire to make amends, perhaps. And… just because she’s been helping Ancestria Magicka, doesn’t mean she’s become entirely disloyal to the Society.’

‘How good of her to help us,’ I muttered.

Rob gave me a sad smile, and I felt a bit guilty. But, then, Rob had heard this news a little sooner, and he’d had time to regain his composure. I hadn’t, yet, but I would get there.

‘Wait,’ I said, another thought breezing cheerily into my over-burdened head. ‘What about Lord Garrogin? He interviewed Mir, like the rest of us. Why didn’t he know?’

‘Those questions are being asked.’

Much good it would do us. Garrogin would deny all knowledge, and it might be the truth or it might not be.

I called the Baron.

It hurt so much, to have to tell him of Miranda’s treachery. He listened in silence, however, and when I raised Lord Garrogin’s name he became unusually grim.

‘Miranda’s not a sorceress or a witch or — or anything, Alban,’ I finished. ‘She doesn’t have a great deal of magick of her own. What she does have is a few charms and cantrips that keep her beasts calm and happy; a bit of healing magick; that kind of thing. Nothing, in short, that could help her to deceive a Truthseeker.’

‘Right,’ said the Baron, his voice wintry-cold. ‘Then he’s a turncoat, too.’

‘Looks like it.’

Baron Alban sighed. ‘Thanks, Ves. I’ll tell Their Majesties.’

Zareen came back, her face white and set. ‘We’re going to that party,’ she informed me.

‘Oh?’

‘And we may or may not be burning down the castle on our way out.’

Turn page ->

‘You know you don’t have to bargain, Ves,’ said Baron Alban in his lovely congenial way. ‘I am, as ever, happy to help.’

I beamed into the phone. ‘Well then, I’ll give you all the details over a pancake or something, but here’s the situation…’

Even the abbreviated version took me a couple of minutes to tell, time which Zareen spent roaming around inspecting the gathered coaches with some interest. They really were coaches, not the species of bus which is these days awarded that name: tall, bulky vehicles with huge wheels and big windows. The difference between these and the horse-drawn varieties of old was simply the lack of horse. There wasn’t a beast of burden in sight, and none of the coaches had traces to attach a horse to. They didn’t work that way.

Zareen was clearly intrigued.

‘Do you have any idea where the spire went?’ said the Baron as I finished my tale. He sounded rather urgent about it, too.

‘No, except that Melmidoc mentioned an “isle” a couple of times so I wonder if that’s where he was going. Before you ask, no, I don’t know anything more about it. He said nothing else of use.’

‘An isle,’ mused the Baron. ‘What does that book of yours say about it?’

‘I haven’t asked him yet. We’ve been busy with the business of getting out of here. But I was hoping to consult him on the coach-ride home.’

‘Ah,’ said the Baron, and I could almost see his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘I perceive we come to the favour.’

‘If you could get us onto one of those coaches,’ I said, ‘we would be eternally grateful. Otherwise it’ll take us all day to get home, and that’s a monumental waste of time.’

‘Give me a moment.’ The Baron rang off.

I joined Zareen. ‘Never seen these before?’

She shook her head. ‘How do they move?’

‘Magick.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I guessed that, but—’

My phone rang, and I grabbed it. ‘Yes?’

‘Someone’ll be there to help you in a few minutes,’ said the Baron.

‘You’re a hero. Thank you.’

‘Don’t forget about that pancake date. I won’t.’ He hung up.

I beamed upon Zareen and gave a contented sigh. ‘It’s good to have friends,’ I told her.

‘Especially important ones?’

‘There are times when that’s useful.’

‘This being one of them. That I will grant you.’

A woman came towards us at that moment — seven feet tall if she was an inch — and looked Zareen and I over appraisingly. She wore a long dress of indeterminate period, a practical periwinkle-blue garment devoid of fuss or flounces, with the sleeves rolled up over her elbow. She said something in the lilting Welsh tongue.

‘I’m afraid we aren’t Welsh-speakers,’ I apologised.

Her scowl deepened. ‘I asked how did you two come to have Baron Alban at your beck and call?’

She did not seem pleased at the idea. ‘I helped him with a couple of problems,’ I offered.

Her brows went up. ‘Oh? And what were they?’

Clearly his orders weren’t quite enough to win us this woman’s goodwill. ‘Some of the Enclaves were endangered,’ I said briefly. ‘We were able to save most of them.’

Her face cleared. ‘The Blight? That was you? Then, ladies, it shall be my pleasure to put a coach at your disposal.’ To my mild embarrassment, she made us something of a bow. ‘I have a cousin at Baile Monaidh,’ she explained.

‘It was our pleasure to help,’ I said.

Our suddenly congenial hostess had us ensconced inside a comfortable coach within minutes, which was lucky because Zareen was beginning to look wan and peaky. Her admonishment about fussing and clucking in mind, I did not say anything about it, but I was privately glad that she’d have chance to sit down for a while. The seats were unusually plush, upholstered in something velvety and blue, and wide enough for Zareen to recline in an almost fully recumbent posture. She did so with studied casualness; I suspect it would’ve killed her to admit that she felt weak.

We thanked the coach mistress fervently and settled in for a long, but not too long, ride as the coach began to roll. We were set to be taken all the way back to Yorkshire, as near to the Scarlet Courtyard as the Troll Roads could take us.

Not quite as good as Waymastery, all told, but pretty close.

I opened up my shoulder bag and withdrew Gallimaufry. ‘Right, Maufy,’ I said, extracting my new book and Zareen’s from his clutching embrace. ‘What do you have to tell us?’

‘Good afternoon, Miss Vesper,’ said Mauf. ‘Upon which topic am I requested to enlighten you?’

I passed the pamphlet on the Stranger Arts to Zareen, who took it with a notable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Let’s begin with the isle. You’ve got the Redclover brothers’ journals, yes? Was there anything in there about an isle, or an island, or anything like that?’

Mauf lay inert and silent for a moment, thinking. Or consulting his records, or whatever it was he did. ‘No,’ he said at last.

‘Damnit.’

‘That is…’ He paused. ‘There was an entry towards the end of the journal which I had difficulty in deciphering, for large parts of it have been inked over. I am almost certain that one of the words in that particular section is “isle”, but it is impossible to decipher the sentence as a whole. I am very sorry, Miss Vesper.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ I assured him, though I was inwardly cursing those guards back at Dapplehaven. They had taken the original copies of those books from us. I had thought nothing of it at the time, being supremely confident in Mauf’s ability to absorb any text that came in his way. I had reckoned without the possibility that some of it might not have been legible.

‘Still,’ said Zareen sleepily. ‘Interesting enough. Melmidoc wrote about it, then changed his mind and crossed it out. Why? Supposedly these were his personal journals.’

‘I suppose nothing stays personal when you’re a legend,’ I said. ‘And here is the proof of it. Hundreds of years later, and the likes of us are poking around trying to figure out what he was up to. He probably excited plenty of similar curiosity at the time.’

‘Mm, and he did not want any of those busy-bodies finding out about this island.’

‘So it’s a secret island. Better and better. Mauf, did you get much else out of the Dapplehaven books that seemed to be of interest?’

Mauf thought again, and while he did that I sent a sneaky text to Valerie. Well, why not? We weren’t technically working together just now, but that meant exactly nothing. She sent us books; I sent her info. Business as usual.

‘Melmidoc was certainly a Waymaster,’ Mauf began. ‘And a very powerful one. Drystan, however, is something of a mystery. His particular arts are not explicitly discussed anywhere in the journals, though there are hints and references enough to suggest that he, too, possessed unusually potent powers.’

Zareen’s eyes snapped open at that, and her gaze met mine. I could see she was thinking the same thing I was thinking. Drystan was a mighty sorcerer but the brothers had some motive to keep the nature of his powers a secret?

‘Stranger Arts?’ I said.

‘Sounds like it,’ said Zareen. ‘And since this Waymastery business has been oddly bound up with the weird stuff all the way through, it figures.’

‘Mm.’ And an odd connection it was, too, for Waymastery and the Stranger Arts typically had little to do with one another — at least, these days. But I had to admit, the combination was proving to be a potent one. The two practices combined produced places like the Greyer Cottage and Millie Makepeace’s house, not to mention the Starstone Spire itself. Who wouldn’t want to run with that? Who could fail to be entranced by the possibilities?

Which put me in mind of something else. ‘Mauf, you’ve said before that the journals don’t specifically mention travelling through time. But is there anything to suggest that such an account might also be among those that were erased?’

‘I cannot say, Miss Vesper. The passages in question have been thoroughly excised.’

‘Whereabouts are they? The crossed-out parts.’

‘Clustered largely towards the end, with a few exceptions scattered throughout the latter half of the book.’

‘The last entries were in 1630?’

‘That is correct.’

And Melmidoc Redclover had vanished in 1630, for the final time, never to be seen again — as far as history has recorded, at any rate. What had prompted him to disappear? Why had he never come back?

Well — that wasn’t true. He had come back, because we had found him living (if his ghostly state could reasonably be termed such) in Nautilus Cove, still in his beloved home. So spire and Waymaster both had returned from wherever they’d gone to; but perhaps neither had ever returned to Dapplehaven.

Or had they? I remembered the spikes at the top of the hill, upon which the spire had once tended to rest. Jay and I had surmised that they were there to discourage the spire from settling there any longer; when had they been erected?

I shook my head, dissipating this string of thoughts. I had no answers as yet, and the spiralling questions were only confusing me. ‘What about Millie Makepeace’s diary?’ I asked Mauf.

‘Intriguing lady,’ Mauf answered, with a touch of amusement. ‘I am innocent of these disgraceful charges!’ he recited in a higher voice than his own, a woman’s voice. ‘To be sure, I attacked that foolish cook. Anyone would have done the same! She had put in far too much rind, and so bitter it was that I could not eat the pudding at all! It is not too much to expect of a cook, is it, that she should prepare a satisfactory orange-pudding? I threw the remainder, dish and all, at her foolish head, and she thoroughly deserved it! She screamed fit to bring the bricks tumbling around our ears, and made as though to come after me, but I was able to escape such vulgar treatment and retreated into the garden. Thus much is true. But I did not kill her! For though she is inept in the preparation of an orange-pudding, there is none to match her skill at bread-pudding, or carrot-pie. Was none, I should say, since the foolish woman is dead.’

‘Employer from hell,’ murmured Zareen.

‘The cook is said to have died from a wound to the head,’ said Mauf. ‘No further detail is given. Either, then, Miss Makepeace was assumed to have returned later to finish the deed with some other, suitably heavy object in hand as weapon; or perhaps the dish of orange-pudding did the job, and ‘twas confectionery that killed the cook.’

I suppressed an inappropriate desire to giggle. The poor cook. ‘I suppose it’s just possible that someone else bashed in the woman’s head?’ I suggested.

‘Quite possible,’ allowed Mauf. ‘But judging from the tone of her diaries I would conclude that Miss Makepeace was not of sound mind. She describes other violent episodes, and with a sublime lack of compunction.’

‘Wandering off the point, Ves,’ said Zareen. Her eyes had drifted shut again, but clearly she was still listening.

Right. Yes. It was a bit late to clear the name of Millie Makepeace, supposing she deserved it. She’d already been punished for the crime, and in a fashion that would normally prove awfully final. ‘The diaries end with her execution?’

‘The day before. You will be pleased to hear that she requested, and received, an orange-pudding as her final meal. One can only hope this one proved more satisfactory to her.’

‘Mauf. Please stop making me laugh. It is inappropriate, given the subject matter.’

‘Sorry, Miss Vesper,’ said the book, without a trace of discernible remorse.

I wondered why Val had sent the book down, in that case. Perhaps just on spec. She must’ve dug it up at some speed, to send it down with Miranda.

I sent her another note. Thanks for the books, by the way.

Her reply came back at once. What books? Working on the isle thing. Get back to you later.

What books? I blinked at the screen in confusion. The ones you sent with Mir?

Zero books sent with Miranda, came the reply.

I showed this to Zareen, whose face registered the same puzzlement. ‘I’m sure she said Val had given them to her.’

‘That’s what I thought, too.’

‘Maybe we just assumed that.’

‘Could be. Val is the usual source of books.’ But I felt a vague sense of disquiet.

I toyed with the idea of contacting Miranda. I’m not close to her in the same way as I am with Val, or Zareen. In either of the latter cases I’d whizz off a text without a second thought, but to pester Miranda like that felt more like some kind of encroachment. It wasn’t that Mir was unfriendly, but… she did not so much encourage hobnobbing.

I decided to try it anyway. I phrased a carefully-worded message idly enquiring where the books had come from, paired it with a bit of enthusiastic flattery as to their usefulness, and dispatched it. I was not surprised to find that no immediate reply came.

Something buzzed, but this time it wasn’t me. Zareen rolled her eyes and fished her phone out of some obscure pocket. ‘Tired,’ she said laconically. ‘Better be important.’

She listened, and as she did so her face clouded over. Then she became, suddenly, alert. ‘What? Where is he? You haven’t hurt him, have you?’ She listened a moment more, then said: ‘Fine, I’m sorry, but how do you know all this?’ After that, she was silent for so long, I could hardly bear it. Who did she mean by he, and who was she talking to? What had made her frown like that?

Finally, she said a curt, ‘Right. Thank you,’ and chucked her phone onto the coach seat. Her eyes were narrowed, and she still said nothing, nor looked at me at all.

‘Zar,’ I said at last, in what I hoped was a voice of cool composure but came out rather strained. ‘Do tell.’

‘George,’ she said. ‘Knows where Jay is, or so he claims. He knows about Millie Makepeace, somehow, too. He wants to exchange information.’

Turn page ->

‘We have to get out,’ I said, turning from the spire’s burning window. I was halfway to the stairs before I realised Zareen was not following.

She stood in the centre of the room, and there was a set look to her face that I recognised. Her skin was turning bone-white, and her eyes filling with black…

‘Zar!’ I snapped, and ran back to her. ‘No! What did you just say to me?’

‘I said “times of great need”, and this would be one of them.’

‘Within reason. Zar, I’d love to save this building but not at your expense. Come on.’ I grabbed her arm and tried to pull her, but she shook off my hand.

‘All I’m doing is waking Melmidoc,’ she said, and her voice turned dark and whispery. ‘If he’s still home. Then we’ll go, I promise.’

I would have argued, but my attention was caught by the flames that licked at the window’s little panes of glass. For the most part it was your regular, common-or-garden variety of fire but there was a flicker to it that seemed odd.

‘Purple,’ I blurted.

Zareen didn’t blink.

‘Hold on, Zar! I don’t think this is the demolition crew after all.’ I ran to the window, pulling the sleeves of my lightweight cream cardigan over my hands. It did not do much to protect my hands, so I had to work fast as I unbolted the window and shoved it wide open. At great risk to life, limb and my primrose-coloured hair (Yes, Jay, I know I’m an idiot) I stuck my head out into the fresh morning air and took in a gulping breath.

A dark, draconic shape swooped past.

‘Archie!’ I bellowed.

The dragon slowed, but not, as it turned out, because he had heard me. He flew in a smooth arc and swooped down upon the hapless spire once more, fire streaming from his open maw.

‘Archibald!’ I bawled. ‘Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!’

He heard me that time. To my relief, the stream of fire flowing from his jaws slowed to a wisp or two of flame, then stopped altogether. ‘Who?’ I heard him say as he soared past, purple scales shining in the light of the fires he’d set.

I informed him who I was, at volume, and with some asperity.

He returned to hover gracelessly near the window, and peered at me. ‘I remember you,’ he said.

‘I should hope so! What will the next Mayor of Dapplehaven say when he hears you’ve been attacking the spire?’

Archibald brightened at that. ‘He’s here?’

‘No, not just now, but he will be joining us later.’ I hoped that last part wouldn’t turn out to be a lie. ‘He would be most disappointed, Archie. Why would you attack Melmidoc and Drystan’s home?’

‘I thought you were here to destroy it,’ he said in an injured tone. ‘Some people are coming to take it down. A Redclover told me. She said I should come here and burn anybody who gets near the spire.’

That must be what Mabyn had meant when she’d said she had “set something in motion”. To be fair to her, she hadn’t known at the time that Zareen and I would be here. ‘She was right,’ I told Archie. ‘There are some people coming to ruin Melmidoc’s home, but it isn’t us. We’re here to stop them.’

‘Oh.’

‘So no more fires, all right?’

Archibald tasted the air with his long, slithery tongue. Since no more gouts of fire were forthcoming, I took this gesture for assent.

The smoke was beginning to choke me and those licking flames were just a touch unnerving, so I devoted the next couple of minutes to summoning a nice smatter of rain. When I had water pouring suitably out of the cloudless sky, and the flames were winking out with dampened, hissing noises, I turned back to Zareen.

To my relief, she had stopped whatever it was she had been preparing to do. Her eyes were normal again, and her face was regaining some colour. I did not quite like the look of her satisfied smile, though.

‘Zar, you didn’t…?’

‘I was about to stop!’ she said. ‘Promise! Only I’d already found Melmidoc by then.’

Slumbering in great comfort beneath an old favourite stone, said a voice, in deep, earthy tones that rumbled up from the starstones themselves. And she hath had the temerity to disturb me.

‘But it was necessary,’ said Zareen. ‘Did you not say so, a moment ago?’

If my spire is aflame then perhaps it was, admitted Melmidoc.

‘The fire’s under control now,’ I put in, but at the same time as I spoke there came a gasp from Archibald and he bellowed, ‘Mel!’

Silence, for a moment, and then the stones rumbled: Is that Archibaldo? He pronounced it ark-i-bal-doe.

‘MEL!’ screamed Archibaldo. There followed a great, crashing thud, and the graceful, delicate spire rocked upon its foundations. The dragon had thrown himself at the wall in his enthusiasm, and bounced off. More or less.

Hold, Archibaldo! shouted the stones of the spire. Contain this unseemly jubilation! We are aged, and cannot withstand such an onslaught.

‘Sorry!’ panted Archibaldo. ‘But Mel! MEL!’

That is my name, or some little piece of it. It is good to see that you live, old friend.

‘I do!’ said Archie, and then remembered his purpose. ‘Mel, some people are coming to destroy your house! We have to go!’

What? snapped Melmidoc. Archie proceeded to give a somewhat garbled account of the imminent danger to the spire, elucidated by my interpolations. I expected anger from Melmidoc and some kind of urgency, but he gave only a long, weary sigh. I see.

‘We go!’ crowed Archie. ‘Back to the isle! It’s been so long, I wonder if Drys is still there? And the others? Can we go now?’

We do not go to the isle, said Melmidoc, cutting off Archie’s warbles of delight.

‘But why not?’ said Archie, crestfallen.

We do not go anywhere, Archibaldo. It is high time I departed this world.

I mentally reviewed the obstacles presently facing our stated mission. A Ministry rabid for the destruction of ancient and irreplaceable buildings; our Waymaster missing and incommunicado; Dappledok pups popping up left, right and centre; historic buildings wandering about through space and time, piloted by homicidal maniacs; and now a suicidal ghost.

It’s never dull at the Society, I can tell you.

‘Please reconsider,’ I begged Melmidoc. ‘Your home is valuable beyond measure, and we came here to save it.’

Not everything can be saved, nor should it be.

‘And we would have speech with you,’ I continued, and paused. Apparently Melmidoc’s slightly antiquated articulation was rubbing off on me. ‘There’s so much you know, so much you’ve done! All those wonderful creatures, this spire, the — oh, and what is the isle? Please don’t leave us just yet, not when we’re just getting to know you.’

Flattery softens the hardest of hearts, it’s sometimes said, and I’ve broadly found it to be true. Melmidoc wavered. I judged this from the long pause that followed, and a creaking among the stones of the spire that sounded, in some odd way, thoughtful.

My achievements, said Melmidoc at last. Spurned and reviled by those that named themselves authorities! We retreated to the isle, but they could not let us have even that.

‘The isle?’ I prompted again.

But Melmidoc did not answer. He lapsed into a brooding silence, leaving Zareen and I to exchange an uncertain glance. What more could we, or should we, do?

‘I bet Drys is still there,’ came Archibaldo’s voice from the window. ‘I miss him. Can we go and see him?’

I wonder if he is, said Melmidoc, in so low a whisper I almost failed to catch it.

Then the spire began to move. Not smoothly, like a car drifting into motion, but with a swaying, lumbering sensation — as though it had literally grown legs and walked away. I fell against the window and clutched it, white-knuckled, aghast at how close I had come to falling out.

A glance through the shattered panes — when had that happened? — revealed that we were not in Nautilus Cove anymore. A forest lay spread before us, predominantly composed of coniferous trees, with the glitter of still water somewhere ahead.

Another great, wrenching lurch of movement and the forest was replaced by the rugged slopes of a mountainside. Melmidoc was moving the spire after all, but not the way Jay did, from starting point to destination in one smooth(ish) hop. He bounced from place to place, darting about like a hyperactive bird, settling only briefly in each spot before dashing off to the next.

Interesting.

‘Steady!’ I yelled, as with another gigantic step of Melmidoc’s I was almost turfed out of the window again.

This proved to be a mistake, for he stopped so abruptly that I was thrown the other way, and sent sprawling onto the stone-tiled floor. Ah, said Melmidoc. Yes.

And with those two laconic syllables, a violent wind blew up in the space of an indrawn breath, and sent me whirling out of the window into chilly fresh air. Something caught me halfway down; I felt a sensation like invisible fingers closing around my middle, and my precipitate fall slowed dramatically. I landed in mossy grass, quite gently, and Zareen joined me a moment later.

We both watched in crestfallen silence as the glorious spire gathered itself and jumped away, leaving us behind.

‘Well,’ I said after a while. ‘We saved it.’

Zareen just grunted.

I scrutinised her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

I peered. The shadows had deepened under her eyes; she looked like she hadn’t slept for a week.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Ves. I love you, but I did not confide in you so you could start your mother hen routine on me.’

I opened my mouth to object, but she forestalled me. ‘Don’t deny it! You cluck and fuss and it’s sweet that you care, but I don’t need it.’

Unsure what to say, I maintained an abashed silence.

This, perhaps, made Zareen just a touch guilty, for she relented and said: ‘I’ll be fine, I promise.’

I gave her a Miranda-style mini-salute, and turned my attention to the problem of where we had ended up.

We were no longer in Nautilus Cove, that was for certain. The pearly sea was gone, as was the frondy slopes that had led down to it. We had been plonked down in the middle of a wide expanse of clover-studded grass — indeed, in the grass versus clover wars the latter was winning by a mile. Nothing much beckoned upon the horizon, until I turned, and discovered the outlines of a town not too far distant. Dainty white clover blossoms carpeted the ground, but I detected a break in the otherwise ceaseless vegetation nearby, which proved to be a road. A handsome, well-kept one, too, very wide, and paved in clean white stones.

Zareen and I stepped onto it and began a brisk walk in the direction of the town. ‘I think…’ I mused as we walked. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t like to say that I’m sure, but I think I know where we are.’

‘Really.’ Zareen’s voice dripped with scepticism.

‘It’s the clover,’ I explained. I bent and plucked a leaf to show Zareen. ‘They all have four leaves, or five.’

Her brows snapped down at that. ‘Don’t tell me we’re in Ireland.’

‘Oh, no! I know shamrocks and leprechauns are often grouped together but that’s a circumstantial tie, there is no actual link. And anyway, the shamrock has three leaves, not four. We’re actually in Wales. If I’m right, we’re in the Glannyd Ceiriog Troll Enclave, and that town is Glannyd Pendry.’

‘Lovely,’ said Zareen. ‘And where in all of Wales is that?’

I had to think about that for a moment. ‘Um, the Ceiriog Valley, as I recall, is in northern Wales.’

‘How far from home?’

I didn’t have to think about that at all. ‘Far.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Don’t worry. I have a plan.’

I really did, and it wasn’t even one of my crazy plans (as Jay would put it). It goes back to that sort of-date I had with the Baron the other week — the one where he’d whisked me off to Rhaditton for a pancake breakfast? I’d had little to do with the Troll Roads before, because they’re not open to anyone who isn’t, well, a troll. Or escorted by one with serious privileges. But now that I knew they were a) there, b) genuinely amazing, and c) not absolutely one-hundred-percent off-limits to non-trolls, I’d do my level best to make use of them more often.

Only in an emergency, though, which this rather was.

The town of Glannyd Pendry is one of those that drips money. I don’t quite know how, for the Ceiriog Valley isn’t exactly central and there is little real footfall up there. It’s one of those that had a greater prominence in some past age and, unlike many others, managed to hold onto its prosperity. Anyway, we approached a town bristling with large, handsome, troll-sized buildings, most of them made out of the same clear white stones as the road we’d come in on. They were dazzling in terms of their architecture, all pediments and columns and huge, glittering windows. The air smelled of clover nectar, on the outskirts, but as we travelled deeper into the town that faded away in favour of one of my favourite aromas: that of good things to eat. I could have cheerfully stayed for a week.

Pity that we did not have that kind of time.

We attracted a little attention as we sauntered, with our best attempt at nonchalance, through the wide, well-kept streets, for there were many citizens abroad, but besides ourselves there were few humans. Always on the short side, I felt positively dwarfed in comparison to the good trolls of Glannyd Pendry, for not a one of them stands an inch less than six and a half feet, and plenty of them are rather taller. I felt like a child again: short, and lost in a confusing sea of perambulatory trees.

I had hoped to be able to find my way back to the coach-stop unaided, but being me this proved impossible. In my defence, it must’ve been at least five years since my last visit to the town. I stopped a couple of the more friendly-looking passers-by, and with their (slightly begrudging) help Zar and I arrived at a positively enormous coaching inn within half an hour of entering the town.

Whereupon I called the good Baron.

‘Alban,’ I said as his voice came upon the line. ‘I have a deal of interesting information to share, and quite the story to tell, but in exchange I’m in need of a little help.’

Turn page ->

All right, usually I love travelling by unicorn.

I tend to assume that Addie knows her way from everywhere to anywhere, which, as it turns out, is far too much to expect of the poor girl. Also, as anyone who’s ever taken more than an occasional leisurely hack across the countryside will tell you, the delights of being on horseback tend to wane after a certain point. Zareen and I made the long journey to Norfolk in a state of increasingly grim determination, wrestling with mobile navigation systems which had no idea that Nautilus Cove even existed.

I might have been ungenerous enough to curse Jay and his inconvenient absence, but that was only while I was still airborne, gritting my teeth against the surprisingly cold wind while my hair blew into my mouth and my derriere voiced vociferous complaints about its treatment at my uncaring hands. Once Addie brought us down on a quiet little slip of a beach along the Norfolk coast and we were able to dismount — and once the warmer air down there had somewhat thawed out my face — I lost all desire to eviscerate Jay and was able to remember that I was worried about him.

I checked my phone. Nothing.

Patting Addie’s steaming neck, I whispered foolish compliments into her ears and promised her the biggest bag of chips she had ever seen in her life, just as soon as I made it to a chippie. She rolled her eyes at me and wandered off, her shadowy friend trotting amiably in her wake.

‘Right, then,’ I said, looking up and down the deserted beach. The greyish sea lapped apathetically at the rocky sand, a few clouds hung listlessly in a patchy blue sky, and behind us a cliff rose vertically to an unscaleable height. ‘Addie?’ I called. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know how to get in?’ I cursed myself for not having paid more attention on the way out, a few days before. Riding with the baron had proved to be a distracting experience.

I had not really expected a response, but a moment later Zareen said: ‘Up there!’ and pointed a ways back along the beach.

Something was glittering upon the sheer cliff face. Fittingly, it shone in rainbow colours.

We went that way.

The glow was coming from a sliver of jagged crystal embedded into the otherwise drab rock. When I touched it, the colours faded, leaving it an unremarkable chunk of opaque white stone. But the world shifted around me and dissolved, and when everything stopped spinning I was on another, whiter, pearlier beach, and the sea had gone all iridescent. Nautilus Cove.

I mentally doubled Addie’s upcoming chip rations.

Zareen materialised a moment later and stood smiling for a moment, taking great inhalations of the balmy air. It did smell rather heavenly, come to think of it — like the brightest, freshest sea air mingled with something flowery. I couldn’t see any flowers, but one doesn’t question things like that when one is prancing through a magickal dell. It’s the way they are.

I’d had a private, lingering fear that we might return to find the Striding Spire had, somehow, gone. Stridden Off, in the way that it used to, or perhaps been somehow relocated by an indignant Ministry. But it hadn’t. The clear, white beach gave way to an expanse of sleek, jade-coloured grass dotted with frondy bits (botany is not among my specialities). In the near distance the ground began a steep climb up into some rolly hills, and halfway up those was the spire. I hadn’t previously had occasion to see it from this perspective, and the sight was breath-taking. So graceful a building! Tall and slender, crowned with an elegantly sloping roof (I’d seen as much as I wanted to of that part), its windows glinted gently in the sunlight and its pale walls displayed a hint of the bluish radiance that would come in with the twilight.

‘The Redclovers had style,’ Zareen said.

They certainly did. ‘Why, then, is it abandoned out here?’ I mused aloud. ‘If you’d built something that lovely, why would you ever leave?’

‘The passage of four hundred years is neither here nor there, I suppose?’

I strode off in the direction of the spire, my boots swishing through the crisp grass. ‘Not with these people. Their bodies may have died long ago but I doubt they went far after that. I’m willing to bet that the spire had a Waymaster-in-residence, John Wester-style, for a long time, and maybe it still does.’

‘So that’s what Jay had in mind?’

‘Yes. Especially after Millie. Wester obviously wasn’t some kind of a fluke, and if there have been more of them — why not Melmidoc?’

‘You saw no sign of him before?’

‘He’s an old man. He fell asleep over his newspaper a hundred and ten years ago, and has yet to wake up.’

Zareen grinned. ‘Right, then. Let’s go rattle his door handles and throw stones at the windows.’

My previous visit to the spire had been only a few days prior, but I found a much-changed building when we went inside. Rattling the doorknobs proved unnecessary, as the door was unlocked. And why not? There was nothing left in there, nothing at all. The kitchen on the ground floor was reduced to a collection of aged wooden counters, probably left in situ because they were both unlovely and (I imagined) heavy. The bright, circular room near the top which had previously held all the accoutrements of a comfortable living space was completely empty. The chairs were gone, the knick-knacks and ornaments, and above all, the books. All of them.

Someone had cleaned, for not a speck of dust floated up as Zareen and I tramped up the winding stairs. That was nice, I supposed.

‘They did a thorough job,’ Zar said as we stood in the doorway of the Redclover brothers’ decimated library.

‘I wonder why.’ I was wondering that pretty hard. Taking the books I could understand, even if I was disappointed. They were a valuable resource, and were liable to be damaged if left uncared for on such remote shelves. But the furniture?

I felt that unwelcome but sadly familiar sensation of foreboding.

Jay and I made the acquaintance of Mabyn Redclover during our previous investigation of the Dappledok pups, a spriggan who was somewhere high-up in the Forbidden Magicks division of the Hidden Ministry. I blessed my forethought in making sure to secure her number, and called it.

‘Ms. Redclover, Forbidden Magicks.’ Mabyn’s voice came crisply over the line.

‘Mab. It’s Ves. I’m at the spire, but nothing much else is.’

‘I was going to call you this afternoon,’ said Mabyn, and she sounded grim. ‘The Ministry finished emptying the building day before last. There was a bloodbath over the books, as you may imagine, with strong competition from the Troll Court to secure them. In the end they split the books, but the Ministry took everything else. I’ve only just found out why. It’s scheduled for demolition, Ves, and soon. They want it gone, no delay.’

‘I thought it must be something like that,’ I said. ‘Any idea why?’

‘None whatsoever. I’ve spent the whole morning trying to get an audience with the right people and I’ve largely failed. They won’t talk to me. I was reduced to loitering in the hallways hoping to run into the Chief or Vice-Chief Ministers. Well, I did see Honoria Goodenough — that’s the Vice-Chief — but she said I’m too close to the situation and wouldn’t listen to me. Just because I’m a Redclover! It’s not like I have any real connection to a pair of Redclovers from four hundred years ago. I tried to argue that it’s a rare and precious example of seventeenth-century magickal architecture and its starstone composition ought to be enough to secure instant and eternal protected status but she wasn’t having it. Nor would she tell me why. I’m sorry, Ves. There’s nothing more I can do.’

I hadn’t known Mabyn for very long, but long enough to learn that it was unlike her to gabble. She was genuinely upset. ‘It’s all right, Mab. I’m glad you tried. Do you know when it’s due to be demolished?’

‘They’ve kept that information from me. What do they expect me to do, throw myself in front of the demolition force? It’s ridiculous. But it’ll be soon. As in, possibly this week. I have set something in motion which I hope will delay them, but I don’t know if it can be there in time. I’m sorry, Ves.’

‘Right. Don’t worry, we’ll fix this.’ I hung up.

Zareen’s face was grave as I relayed Mabyn’s news, but she spoke composedly. ‘That ties in with our suspicions, doesn’t it? This building’s completely unique and irreplaceable. If they’re willing to wreck it anyway, that more or less confirms that it’s been used for something they’d consider seriously questionable.’

‘More than that. They think it could be used the same way again.’

Zareen was nodding emphatically. ‘Jay’s not the only one who thinks Melmidoc’s still here.’

‘Yes, but I’m wondering how he arrived at that conclusion. I was hoping for just such an outcome last time I was here, but I swear, I felt not a flicker of a presence. Does it take a Waymaster to spot another? Jay’s rather discouraged that idea, but in that case, why was he in a hurry to come back?’

‘I know that look.’ Zareen eyed me with sour suspicion. ‘You want me to do something, don’t you?’

I might have been wearing the pleading eyes, at that. I hastily composed my face. ‘Those Stranger Arts you aren’t supposed to talk about? Could you somehow sense a spirit presence, even if it’s dormant?’

‘Or determined to hide from me? I don’t know.’ Zareen looked annoyed, for no reason I could understand. Then she sighed, and passed a hand over her eyes. It occurred to me that she was looking tired, dark shadows etched under her deep brown eyes. Her shimmery green eyeshadow did a fine job of deflecting attention from them. She hesitated, apparently struggling with herself. ‘Look, Ves,’ she finally said. ‘The Stranger Arts — or the Weird Stuff — it’s not quite like your magick. It… takes a toll. I’m not supposed to talk about it partly because I’m not supposed to use it, except at great need. And there are good reasons for that.’

‘What kind of a toll?’

A deep frown clouded Zareen’s brow. I almost hadn’t wanted to ask, for the matter clearly troubled her. But if it was important…

‘It’s to do with Mauf’s bright idea about the… amplifying effects of… of—’ she stopped. ‘Look, if all power corrupts, let’s just say that some kinds of power corrupt faster than others. And the link isn’t as clear-cut as Mauf, or those wannabe scholars, suggested. If I get too immersed in the weird stuff, I… it changes me. I feel a need to do some terrible things, Ves, and if I give in to them… I will be more powerful. Only for a short time, of course. It’s like a hit of caffeine, or steroids. When it wears off, you feel as weak as a newborn kitten, and to add to the fun it’s like the worst kind of withdrawal you can experience — crack is nothing to it—’ She stopped again, her expression turning wary. She’d said more than she meant to.

For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. This was a glimpse into Zareen’s daily life, and her past as well, that I’d never before been offered.

She (and George Mercer) had expended considerable power and effort to exorcise the spirits of the Greyers and John Wester from the Greyer cottage. After that, she’d gone quiet for twenty-four hours — I hadn’t seen her, or heard anything from her. At the time, I thought nothing of it. Zareen and I were friends, but not to the extent that we talked every day, or kept tabs on each other all the time. Now I wondered what had been going on with her during those hours of silence.

I looked at the shadows under her eyes with a new understanding.

‘I didn’t know,’ I said at last.

Zareen shrugged. ‘The School of Weird isn’t just a special school for people with our abilities. It’s also a kind of quarantine, a help centre, a support group and rehab all rolled into one. It needs to be.’

That also explained her enduring link with George Mercer. He understood her in ways Jay and I never could, and they must’ve shared so much… I resolved never to tease or poke her about that friendship ever again.

And I understood what she had not said, at least not in so many words. After her efforts at the Greyer cottage, she needed time to recover, to rebalance herself. She couldn’t afford to drown in the Stranger Arts again so soon.

I remembered the way the whites of her eyes had filled in with black, and shuddered inwardly.

‘Right then,’ I said briskly. ‘How else can we wake up Mr. Redclover?’

‘Throwing stones at the windows is out?’ Zareen gave a weak smile.

‘If he slept through the removal of the entire contents of the building, I’d say we need something a little more potent.’ I thought hard.

I came up with nothing.

‘Maybe we could—’ began Zareen, but the rest of her sentence was drowned out by a terrific roar that sounded from outside — somewhere close. The spire’s glorious starstones shook under the force of it.

Zareen and I ran to the window, just in time to see a gout of crackling fire lance across the sky.

‘That’s dragon-fire!’ shouted Zareen.

Another blast of fire followed seconds later, and this one hit the window. The window-frame caught and flames roared cheerfully to life, blocking the sunlight and casting dancing patterns across the floor of the tower. The reek of smoke filled my nostrils.

‘Mabyn was wrong,’ I said tightly. ‘The demolition isn’t just this week. It’s today.’

Turn page ->

‘So,’ I said, as Zareen strolled up a few moments later. ‘I’ve lost Jay.’ I had tried three times to call him, but he hadn’t answered.

‘Lost, how?’ she said. ‘Or do I mean, how lost?’

‘I’d say he’s the kind of lost that nightmares are made of, and I lost him because I let him go into Little Miss Makepeace’s creepy farmhouse alone.’

‘And she made off with him?’

‘Correct.’

‘Why did you let him go in alone?’

‘Because he told me to wait.’

‘And you obeyed?’ Zareen was incredulous.

‘For about three seconds, which turned out to be long enough.’

Zareen shrugged, splendidly unconcerned about Jay’s abrupt disappearance. ‘All part of the plan, most likely. Do you want to know what I found?’

‘Is it something exciting?’

‘Extremely.’ Zareen’s plum-painted lips wore a huge, satisfied smile.

But her revelation was forestalled, because we both became aware of a rustling noise emanating from somewhere among the trees where the house had so lately stood. It sounded like an animal rooting about among the bushes — a dog, I might have said, and was proved right moments later when a dog duly appeared. A small specimen, it had jaunty yellowish fur, an enormous nose (presently glued to the ground) and a tiny horn protruding from its forehead.

‘Oh, there are more,’ said Zareen, and went forward to meet the pup. Being a friendly sort, it greeted her with a cheery wave of its tail, though it did not seem disposed to lift its nose from the ground.

Zareen scooped it up, and held its little wriggling body close to her chest. ‘I saw two back that way,’ she said, pointing somewhere behind me with her chin. ‘So, three? Reckon there are more?’

‘Oh, my giddy aunt,’ I groaned. ‘Three more of the blighters?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if there are more than three. Miranda’s going to die of joy.’

‘And everyone else is going to run for the hills, taking their valuables with them.’ My thoughts were in a flutter with so much happening at once; I took a couple of steadying breaths, and made myself think. ‘Right. Call Home, and…’ I stopped. Calling Home for back-up wasn’t an option anymore. ‘Call Rob,’ I said instead. As I spoke, I dragged open the flap of my ever-present shoulder bag and hauled out my favourite book. ‘Morning, Mauf,’ I greeted him.

Mauf’s pages riffled in greeting. ‘Good morning, Miss Vesper. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Quick job for you.’ I stroked the rich purple leather of his covers. He liked that, and it always put him in a helpful mood. ‘That bookmark looks great,’ I added, for a little flattery never hurts.

The bookmark in question, a pure silk ribbon dyed majestic gold, fluttered coquettishly. ‘Why thank you, Miss Vesper. If I may say so, you made a fine choice. What an eye for textiles!’

I may have preened a bit, too. Flattery works both ways. ‘You shall have another sometime,’ I promised him. ‘For the moment, can you tell me if you have any information about one Mellicent Makepeace, of the Newmarket Makepeaces?’

Mauf went quiet for a moment. Presumably he was searching through his… memory? Records? It was hard to tell how it worked with him. ‘There was a family of that name in the Newmarket area,’ he confirmed. ‘Is there any particular era of interest to you?’

‘Eighteenth century?’

‘Ooh,’ said Mauf.

‘You’ve found something?’

The book literally wriggled with glee. ‘Millie Makepeace, daughter of Mr. William Makepeace of Broneham Manor.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Family of only moderate wealth, I would guess, though squarely genteel. Miss Makepeace appears to have been a model citizen.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Until she was hanged for murder in 1779.’

My relief turned to chagrin. ‘Not again.’

Zareen poked her nose over my shoulder. ‘Who’d she kill?’

‘The cook. There had been an altercation earlier in the day, the subject being a pudding which Miss Makepeace thought improperly prepared.’

Zareen actually giggled. ‘That’s fantastic.’

‘She killed someone over a dessert?’ I spluttered. ‘Zar, this madwoman has hold of Jay. This is anything but fantastic.’

‘Right.’ Zareen sobered. ‘But she likes Jay, Ves. It’s that smile. He’ll have her eating out of the palm of his hand by now.’

I wasted a second or two picturing the smile in question — undeniably attractive — before I pulled myself together. ‘Did you call Rob?’

‘Yes, but I’m guessing you’ll want to call him again now.’

I did indeed. Fortunately he picked up right away. ‘If this is about the pups—’ he began.

‘It’s not.’ I rattled off an account of the latest development.

‘Right,’ said Rob when I’d finished. ‘I’ll see that this reaches Milady. Miranda’s on her way to collect the pups. Have you found out where they’re coming from?’

‘Not as such, but I can only imagine they came from the house that’s just wandered off with Jay.’

‘Then Jay is well-placed to investigate and I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon. There’s no way you can follow the house, I suppose?’

‘Not that I’ve yet discovered, but working on it.’

I like Rob so much. As capable of harming people as he is of healing them, he’s nonetheless the most grounded person I know. Nothing ruffles him.

I stashed my phone and turned back to Mauf. ‘Maufy, why is it that these house-toting Waymasters are always murderers, cut-throats and thieves?’

‘Always would not be correct, but there is a definite pattern emerging,’ Mauf agreed. ‘In 1697, Roderick Vale of Bantam Cross put forward the theory that magical abilities are sometimes amplified in times of crisis. He cited several pertinent examples, of which three were convicted murderers or thieves condemned to death by hanging. They performed extraordinary feats well outside their usual capabilities, though admittedly the goal at the time was to escape hanging and there is no indication that this enhancement of their powers proved permanent. Or would have proved permanent if they had not actually been executed, which two of them duly were. Then in 1741, Harriet Bodkin wrote in On the Unfortunate Matter of Dark Magicke that committing terrible deeds had been seen to have a similar effect on what are nowadays referred to as the darker arts, or perhaps the stranger arts, and—’

‘Mauf,’ I interrupted him. ‘I love you. Let’s finish this conversation a bit later, okay?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I hoped he was not offended. Mauf could be prickly sometimes. But if I let him really get going, he’d ramble on all day.

I returned him to his sleeping-bag in the satchel. ‘So if Roderick and Miss Bodkin were correct, it’s no coincidence that the likes of the Greyers and Miss Makepeace were chosen for hauling houses around. Maybe no one else had the capacity.’

‘Yes, but.’ Zareen was frowning. ‘Waymastery has never been classified among the stranger arts, has it?’

‘Perhaps terrible deeds don’t only enhance the stranger powers. Maybe it works on the other arts, too.’

‘Why would it?’

‘Good question.’ Very good question. The idea didn’t seem to hold much water; I could think of several vastly powerful witches and sorcerers off the top of my head who’d never so much as squashed a spider. Nonetheless, the Greyers and John Wester and Mellicent Makepeace formed a clear pattern. If it was not that their deeds influenced their arts, what else was it about them?

‘I wonder how long Millie’s been cooped up in that house,’ I mused aloud.

‘Since her death,’ said Zareen promptly. ‘Like Wester. Those kinds of arts are time-sensitive. I mean, you maybe could dig up someone who’s been dead a while, re-bury them in a new site and hope there’s enough of their spirit left to harness for your nefarious purposes, but in most cases there won’t be. Ancestria Magicka knows this. That’s why they were after the Greyer cottage — if you want to make a fresh, new perambulatory building you need live spirits, so to speak. If Millie had been hanged and buried as normal, her spirit would either have passed on or wandered off within a few days.’

‘In that case, I wonder who bound her to the house? She must be buried somewhere in there, no?’

‘Right. Someone purloined her corpse, post-hanging, and sited her in the farmhouse. We’ll ask her sometime.’

I thought. ‘Do you suppose she went back to Newmarket?’

‘To the place of her crime and subsequent execution? Doubtful. I mean, would you?’

It occurred to me that our options were severely diminished without our pet Waymaster. If Jay were here, I’d have suggested we pop down to Newmarket to check. But here we were, hundreds of miles away and with no convenient means of transport.

‘Options,’ I said. ‘We can go to Newmarket the slow way and see if Millie’s there with Jay. We can wait here a while and hope the house comes back. Or we can move on to the next thing.’

‘What’s the next thing?’ If Zareen wasn’t already best friends with that pup, she was working on it. The pup was rubbing its furry little face all over her cheek. I felt a tiny bit jealous.

‘The spire,’ I said. ‘Jay wanted to go back there. He had some plan in mind, which being Jay he did not impart. I think I’ve an idea what he was up to, though.’

‘Gets my vote.’ Zareen spoke around a huge, soppy smile, and kissed the pup’s face.

‘But Jay—’

‘Is a grown man. I know you feel responsible for him, but you aren’t. He can handle himself.’

She was right, but still. I called Rob again. ‘Rob, about Jay. The Mellicent Makepeace house came from the Newmarket area and it might have gone back there. Can we possibly send someone to check?’

‘We?’ said Rob. ‘I thought you three were going it alone now.’

‘Rob.’

He laughed. ‘I’ll go myself. Send me the address.’

I did that, feeling better. Zareen was probably right on all points, but it still didn’t sit right with me to just leave Jay to his fate. If he was at Mellicent’s old village and in some kind of trouble, there was no one better than Rob to help get him out of it.

If he wasn’t at Mellicent’s old village, well… I had no way of finding out where else he might have been taken to.

Focus, Ves.

‘Right,’ I muttered, and fished my tiny syrinx pipes out of my shirt. ‘Soon as someone gets here to pick up these pups, we’re airborne. Where did you say the others were?’

We enjoyed an entertaining time chasing down the rest of the Dappledok pups. There proved to be four, at least that we discovered, and keeping them with us was no easy task. I’d privately hoped that Mellicent might consent to return Jay while we were waiting for Miranda, but I was to be disappointed. When at last Miranda appeared with two of her kennel aides and a quartet of travel-baskets between them, there remained only an empty space where the farmhouse had previously been.

Miranda barely looked at Zareen or me. She had eyes only for the pups, and the feeling was apparently mutual, for they mobbed her at once. I told myself it was because of the treats she kept in her pockets, some of which were duly distributed as she coaxed them into the baskets. Only once all four pups were safely confined and ready to go did she focus on me. ‘No further info on where they’ve come from, I suppose?’

‘Nope.’ We’d explored the area a bit more while we waited, but without turning up anything of use. ‘They were most likely brought here in Mellicent’s farmhouse, like the one we found at the Greyer cottage. But where they came from before that, we’ve no idea.’

‘Jay might, though,’ said Zareen.

‘True.’ I called him again. Still no answer.

‘Well, let me know if you get hold of him,’ said Miranda. She quirked a smile at the both of us and added, ‘How’s the rogue life treating you?’

‘We’re doing great!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve only called Rob about five times today, and this is the first time since at least this morning we’ve had to call in for help.’

Miranda grinned. ‘You know, nothing would’ve stopped me from coming down here for these little chaps, but I did feel obliged to run it past Milady first. She said to give you anything you needed.’

‘Did she indeed?’

‘So you’re rogue with Milady’s official sanction? That’s different.’

‘You should know, Mir. Life with the Society is never simple.’

She gave me a tiny salute. ‘Got it. Oh, Val sent this for you.’ She drew a little book out of the pocket of her waxed jacket and handed it to me. ‘And…’ She rummaged for a moment, then produced a shabby-looking pamphlet for Zareen.

There was no text of any kind on the cover or the spine of my book, but the pages inside were covered in faded hand-written script. The title page read simply: Mellicent Makepeace, 1778.

‘How the bloody hell did Val get hold of this?’ I squeaked.

‘Never question the Queen of the Library.’ Miranda collected her two baskets, nodded to us, and retreated to her car, her aides trailing behind her. It occurred to me, distantly, that I had never seen either of them before. New recruits? I felt an odd sensation of devastation. Barely two days away from the Society and I was already out of touch.

I shook off the feeling. ‘What’s yours?’ I said, showing Zareen the title page of my book.

She whistled. ‘It’s a treatise on the Stranger Arts and their connection to “dark deeds”, as the author puts it. More or less what Mauf was saying. Late 1600s, anonymous.’ It was bound in what looked, to my reasonably experienced eye, like human skin, which could not but make me shudder a little to behold.

My satchel was vibrating. I opened it and hauled out Mauf, who was (in his bookly fashion) spluttering with indignation. ‘I’ve never met such books!’ he said. ‘Let me have them at once.’

Meekly, we put Mauf back in the satchel and added Val’s donations. Mauf consented to settle down.

‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to read on horseback anyway.’ I lifted my face to the wind and blew a ditty on my silver pipes. The melody rang out, bright and clear.

As ever, Adeline appeared within minutes. I probably never would understand quite how she managed it. She trotted up to me, her silvery-white coat gleaming in the sun, and nuzzled me with her velvety nose.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t have any chips today.’

She snorted.

‘Later,’ I promised.

She had brought her night-black friend with her, who walked calmly up to Zareen and stood waiting. I wasn’t altogether sure that Zareen knew how to ride a horse, but I was soon reassured: she jumped nimbly onto the unicorn’s back and settled there, her eyes bright. ‘I’ve never flown by unicorn,’ she told me.

I mounted up — Addie is obliging enough to lower herself a bit to help me out, seeing as I am rather short — and took hold of her silver harness. ‘Hold tight,’ I advised, and clucked my tongue to Adeline. ‘To Nautilus Cove, darling!’ I told her.

She broke into a gallop, her powerful wings beating in time with her stride, and we rose smoothly into the air. The fresh, spring wind enveloped me, bringing with it (somehow) the scents of honeysuckle and chocolate, and I swear a sparkling, rosy mist blew lightly past my eyes.

I do love travelling by unicorn.

Turn page ->

‘I’m building alliances,’ said Zareen a little later, once George Mercer had gone. ‘Which is the first thing anybody in our situation would do. What can we expect to achieve with exactly three people?’

Jay was not impressed. ‘You couldn’t have consulted us about this brilliant plan?’

Zareen wasn’t impressed either. ‘You couldn’t have chosen a different pub to have dinner? Or did you think George couldn’t see you sitting there?’

Jay shot me a look, which I interpreted to mean it was all my fault.

‘Mercer was never going to believe you just wanted to see him, whether we were there or not,’ I said, in my own defence.

‘Quite,’ said Zareen shortly. ‘And I wanted to distract him. Note all those questions he was asking?’ She smiled mirthlessly. ‘You were listening?’

‘We were,’ I said. ‘And I did.’

‘If Katalin knew he was with me, so did his superiors. He was sent to bleed me for information, just as I was trying to bleed him. Well, he can take that snippet of gossip back with him and we’ll see what they do.’

‘They’ll agree,’ I said. ‘It’s the perfect way to keep tabs on us.’

‘Supposing they want to,’ said Jay.

‘Why wouldn’t they?’

‘Why would they?’ Jay countered. ‘As Zareen has just pointed out, there are exactly three of us. Without the Society at our backs, what can we be expected to achieve that would put Ancestria Magicka in a tizz?’

‘We may be only three, but we get results,’ I objected. ‘Who was it that found out about the Greyer cottage?’

‘They did. We may have found it first, but only by about twenty-five minutes — and they were on the trail well before we knew anything about it.’

That was, annoyingly, true. ‘Well then, the Redclover brothers and the Spire. We did that on our own.’

Jay patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure they’re quaking in their boots.’

George Mercer had left with a promise to think over Zareen’s offer, which Zar had interpreted to mean “receive instruction from his bosses”, whoever they were. The rest of their conversation had yielded very little, for they’d put each other on guard by then, and they were both skilled conversational fencers. Zar had dropped lots of intriguing, but not very informative, hints about our recent discoveries, all of which Mercer had failed to follow up on — which might mean that he already knew all about them, or merely that he was too clever to take the bait. Zar treated his various light-hearted queries, jokes and remarks in the same fashion. She hadn’t been able to draw him on the subject of his trip to Gloucestershire, either. He’d claimed to have gone there on a mundane errand (picking up a new recruit). It could have been true.

I was privately horrified at the idea of our developing a close association with George Mercer, or anybody else from Ancestria Magicka. It’s difficult to pretend to help somebody without actually doing anything useful for them. Sooner or later you do actually have to help, and how was that going to pan out? I didn’t want to help them. Neither did Jay. They’d take anything we gave them and find a way to do something terrible with it, and there was no guarantee that we’d glean anything of much use in return.

But Zar was serene. I hoped fervently that she knew what she was doing.

We spent an uneventful night at The Scarlet Courtyard. No one came to spy on us, no one tried to kidnap us, nothing went mysteriously missing… all told it was a bit disappointing. We awoke in the morning feeling a touch let down.

That lasted until I was approximately halfway through a plate of eggs and toast in Mrs. Amberstone’s pretty east-facing morning room. I received a call.

‘It’s Rob,’ I said to Zareen and Jay as I picked it up. ‘The bonds of the Society have begun to chafe and you’re ready to join us?’ I said into the phone.

‘Not just yet,’ said Rob in his deep, calm voice. ‘But I’m seriously thinking about it, Ves.’

‘I could be very persuasive.’ And I might, too. For all that I’d argued, I privately agreed just a bit with Jay: the three of us could use some help.

‘This I know, to my cost. Any news for me?’

I relayed Zareen’s surprise manoeuvre regarding George Mercer.

‘Keep your enemies close,’ remarked Rob.

‘There’s such a thing as too close.’

‘So there is. Do you want my news?’

I desperately did. Rob talked for a couple of minutes and then rang off, with a solemn promise to send me all further developments as soon as they arose.

‘There’s been an outbreak of Dappledok pups,’ I told my trusty companions, and began hastily scooping up the remains of my breakfast. ‘Three spotted at different places around England. Two of them popped up in magicker communities — Rob’s sending details — but one’s been seen scurrying around in the Cotswolds.’

‘That house,’ said Jay.

I nodded, my mouth full of toast.

‘Right.’ He stood up. ‘We’re going.’

I took the toast with me, and followed.

‘Where the bloody hell are they coming from?’ said Zareen.

I didn’t have the slightest idea either, but it was definitely time to find out.

Jay whisked us away to Gloucestershire, and I soon developed the feeling that I might never want to leave again. We came out in a featureless field, notably devoid of visible henge — ‘Stones are gone, still works,’ said Jay briefly in answer to our puzzled faces — and set off in the direction of habitation.

And habitation proved to be a drippingly gorgeous Tudor manor set among wooded emerald hills, the latter dotted about with the kinds of places people mean when they talk of the English country cottage. Pure idyll. The walk to Owlpen village took us only a few minutes, but I would’ve been happy had it taken an hour. Golden morning sunshine drenched everything around us, making the greenery glow with a light almost magical, and the air smelled fresh in the way that only spring can bring.

There isn’t much left of the village, though there are signs that it used to be rather larger. Jay led us to a spot some thirty feet from the narrow village road, hidden from the few scattered stone houses that made up the settlement. ‘The vanishing house was seen around here,’ he said, stamping lightly on the grassy earth with one booted foot.

A swift look around confirmed that no, there really wasn’t an eighteenth-century farmhouse loitering in the bushes. ‘It always appears in the same place?’

‘So say the reports. But they aren’t always very specific. You know the kind of thing. “Well, it was near the gate into that field that used to belong to Farmer Wells — the one with the twisted oak at the north-west corner? Where Marjorie fell and broke her leg last winter.” And it’s no use asking which of several possible fields they’re referring to, or what “near” means anyway.’ Jay walked as he talked, hands in the pockets of his jacket, moving in ever-widening circles.

Zareen and I joined in, watching for any sign of a two-hundred-year-old building hidden among the trees, or crouched behind a rambling hedgerow.

‘Should be anywhere within about a mile’s radius…’ said Jay, then stopped. ‘Aha. Farmhouse ahoy, suitably incongruous. Looks like flint?’

I hurried to catch up with him. ‘That is indeed flint,’ I said, which is relevant, I promise. Flint stones are not a popular building material in those parts of the country supplied with better options, like limestone, or good clay for bricks. Flint properties are usually found in East Anglia, which has a lot of flint and not much of anything else. So I’d wager this farmhouse originated from somewhere nearer Norwich than Stroud.

‘Good work, men,’ I murmured.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Jay tipped an imaginary hat to me, and off we went.

‘Wait,’ I said, stopping. ‘Where’s Zar?’

Jay gave a cursory look around. ‘Doubtless off getting into mischief. She’ll catch up.’

Knowing Zareen, that was fair enough.

The farmhouse had parked itself on the edge of a tiny copse of ash and birch trees. It looked innocuous enough, flint excepted, and quite as though it could almost belong there. The place had not been well maintained, for parts of the walls were crumbling, chunks of flint having dropped out long ago, and the white paint adorning the sash windows was peeling. Jay and I approached cautiously, half-expecting to be challenged, but the morning air was breathlessly still and nothing moved.

‘I think I’ll try your trick,’ said Jay, and walked up to the blue-painted front door. A dull brass knocker hung there; Jay rapped loudly with it several times.

Nothing stirred.

‘Hello?’ called Jay, and when that, too, was productive of nothing he raised his voice still further. ‘Come on! There must be someone in residence, even if you aren’t alive. Someone of a Waymasterly persuasion, probably long dead, wrapped around this house like a bad smell… aha.’ Rudeness apparently had its benefits, for the heavy blue door creaked open and swung ponderously inward.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said a cool, female voice. Refined. She had undoubtedly been gentry when she was alive.

‘Just trying to get your attention,’ said Jay, with one of his more charming smiles. I wondered if it would still work on someone who’d been a house for longer than she’d been a woman.

Apparently it did, for the door opened a bit wider. ‘Do you play whist?’ said the house.

‘No, but I’m sure you could teach me.’ Jay paused upon the doorstep. ‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

The door swung back and forth a bit, creaking. ‘Mellicent Makepeace, of the Newmarket Makepeaces,’ she said. The voice had definitely warmed. ‘And who calls upon me?’

‘Jay Patel, of the Nottingham Patels.’ Jay peered cautiously through the half-open door.

‘A pleasure, Mr. Patel,’ said Mellicent, and the door swung wide again. ‘I am perfectly safe, I can assure you. There is no one home this morning. I am quite alone.’

‘Then you must be lonely,’ said Jay.

‘I am!’ The words emerged as a forlorn wail. ‘Will you keep me company?’

‘For a little while, Miss Makepeace. I believe you may be able to help me with something.’

I’d joined Jay at the door by this time, but I said nothing, preferring not to interrupt his rapport with little Miss Makepeace. Jay leaned towards me and whispered, ‘Wait here a minute?’

I opened my mouth to ask why I was to be left languishing on the doorstep but Jay had already gone, darting through the door before I could utter more than two syllables.

To my dismay, the blue door shut crisply behind him.

‘Miss Makepeace?’ I called.

Either I did not have Jay’s charm or she was unresponsive to my particular brand of it, for there came no reply.

I began to have a bad feeling.

This feeling quadrupled when a tremor ran through the ground beneath my feet, and all the misshapen flintstones in the farmhouse’s walls rattled. I jumped back instinctively. Mist rose up in a thick, billowing cloud, obscuring the lower half of the house — and then the whole thing was gone, leaving the copse of youthful ash trees swaying dreamily in the winds of its passage.

I stared numbly at the spot where the farmhouse had been.

‘Jay?’ I called.

Of course, there was no reply.

Turn page ->

There are definitely people I’m fonder of than Katalin Pataki. It isn’t just that she happens to belong to the enemy. She also has a lamentable way of making me feel just a touch inferior. She’s about a foot taller than me, with the long, sleek look of a supermodel. Why should that make me feel deficient? Well, it shouldn’t. Apart from the practical advantage of being able to reach the top shelves in the cupboard without fetching a step, there is no real superiority to being taller.

Such is the folly of womankind.

Mind you, I say that but I’d noticed Jay eyeing the bulky figure of George Mercer as he came in, and his face registered the same kind of scowling irritation with which I beheld Katalin Pataki. So I’ll amend that.

Such is the folly of humankind.

Anyway, Katalin waltzed up to our table with her slinky supermodel stride and stood looking down at Jay and me. She said nothing.

‘Yes?’ I said after a while.

She still said nothing, and I realised it wasn’t me she was surveying so much as Jay. And Jay was meeting that stare with no sign of discomfort.

Well. Jay may not be half muscle, like Mercer, but he’s got all that black windswept hair and those cheekbones, and with that black leather jacket he always wears there’s a touch of the roguish about him. I began to wonder whether Ancestria Magicka’s pursuit of him (by way of Katalin) was about more than just his juicy Waymastery skills.

‘How can we help you?’ said Jay, and to my irritation that prompted a half-smile and, at last, a response.

I refuse to admit that the looming-over-us-without-speaking thing was in any way intimidating.

‘What are you doing on Saturday night?’ she said.

Oh, please. If she must ask Jay on a date, did she have to do it right in front of my nose? As though I didn’t even exist! The cheek.

To my secret relief, Jay did not have the flattered look of a man delighted to accept. His eyes narrowed, and he said with scepticism: ‘What would you like us to be doing on Saturday night?’ I liked the us in that sentence.

Katalin produced cards. Not business cards but lovely invitation cards on thick creamy paper. There was even a flash of gold gilding as she presented them to us — one each.

I examined mine in silence.

Ancestria Magicka’s Summer Ball, it said, amid the usual flourishings and faff. Ashdown Castle, Saturday 13th of May.

If I wanted to be picky I might note that referring to the 13th of May as summer was a touch optimistic. This is Britain, after all. But that aside: what?

‘Why?’ said Jay, perfectly expressing my own feelings in that one syllable.

‘You’ll see,’ she said mysteriously, and walked away.

Hm.

I exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with Jay. ‘Apparently they’re ready to stop hiding their HQ,’ I noted.

Jay had laid his invitation on the table and sat frowning at it. ‘Big event,’ he said. ‘And if they’re inviting the enemy then they’re up to something.’

‘Declaration of war?’

‘Maybe not quite that, but something of the kind. Taking their place on the game board, so to speak.’

I tucked my card away in my handbag. ‘We’ll go.’

‘Definitely.’

I watched as Katalin made her way over to George and Zareen’s table and repeated the procedure, though this time she only produced a card for Zareen. As a member of Ancestria Magicka, I supposed, George needed no separate invitation.

Zareen’s brows went up. She said something to Katalin, but we were too far away from their table and there were too many chatty diners in between for me to hear what she was saying. Katalin’s response was equally lost.

Away went Ms. Katalin Pataki, and Zareen fell into conversation with George. None of which I could hear either. I sat chafing, chewing a fingernail.

‘You know,’ said Jay conversationally, ‘it’s customary to look at your date once in a while.’

My head swivelled. ‘This isn’t a date!’

‘No. But if you want people to think we are here for normal reasons, like, say, to have dinner and talk to one another, then stop staring fixedly at Mercer.’

He had a point, though I suspected the note of grumpiness I detected in his tone was prompted by something else. ‘Sorry,’ I said as graciously as I could.

Jay offered me a chip, the biggest one on his plate, which I took to mean I was forgiven. I ate it in some abstraction, for I was busy casting a charm. Only a small one, I swear. It was a charm to bring far voices near, and a busy pub was not the best place to try it, for of course it brought all the far voices near and for a moment I was deafened. It took a little effort to sort through all that chatter and focus on the voices of Zareen and George, during which period I stared through Jay’s face, glassy-eyed.

‘Well, whatever the reason for it I’m always up for a good shindig,’ said Zareen clearly.

‘Want to go with me?’ That must have been Mercer.

‘Ves,’ said Jay.

‘I’d be delighted,’ said Zareen, and I pictured her smile.

‘Great,’ said Mercer, and then added smoothly: ‘Where do I pick you up?’

‘Ves,’ said Jay.

‘Moment.’ That sounded like a probing question from Mercer, and I didn’t want to miss Zar’s reply.

‘I’ll find my way,’ she said.

‘You’ve been to Ashdown before,’ said Mercer.

‘Mm,’ said Zareen. ‘What, you couldn’t afford a castle that wasn’t derelict?’

‘It’s not entirely derelict,’ objected Mercer. ‘Parts of it are sound, and we’ll restore the rest.’

‘Still, your lot clearly doesn’t lack for money. I’d have thought you would go for something better. Castle Howard, say, or Harewood House.’

‘The minute they go up for sale, we’ll be first in line,’ said Mercer tartly. ‘Until that day, we’ll have to make do with Ashdown.’

Not a bad answer, for he was right: properties large enough to house an organisation of Ancestria Magicka’s size were not plentiful, not if one wanted a historic place. But Zar was onto something interesting, for why did they want a historic place? So much so that it was worth buying a house half fallen down?

‘You’re listening in, aren’t you?’ said Jay in disgust.

‘Shh,’ I whispered.

He stared at me, brows lowered, eyes narrowed. I expected further objections from him — something along the lines of you can’t eavesdrop on somebody else’s date! — but actually he just said: ‘Fine. Are you hearing anything good?’

So I began to relay everything I heard to Jay, which to nearby diners probably resembled something vaguely like dinner conversation.

Mercer said: ‘How did the Society come by your house, anyway? Got any tips for us?’ He said it lightly, as though it were a joke. It could easily have passed as such.

‘No idea,’ said Zareen, equally lightly. ‘Well before my time.’

‘What, aren’t there stories?’ Mercer laughed. ‘That I cannot believe.’

‘All kinds of stories — at least six for every event. Milady spreads them herself. I think it amuses her to mess with us.’

Good move, Zar, I thought silently. If there was still a traitor at Home feeding rumours to Ancestria Magicka, perhaps that would sow some doubt.

‘She sounds difficult,’ said Mercer.

‘Terribly, but we love her.’

‘Right.’ Mercer’s voice was sceptical. ‘So you walked out on her.’

Zar waved this off with admirable insouciance. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to part ways with those we love. This is important.’

‘This?’

Zar lowered her voice. ‘You know. Wester and the Greyer cottage. The pups. What happened to the Redclover brothers. All of it.’

George Mercer sat back in his chair, scrutinising Zareen with an unreadable look.

‘You’re staring again,’ said Jay, and I slumped back with a sigh. ‘Worst sleuth ever,’ he added, though his lips twitched in a smile.

I rolled my eyes at him.

Mercer was speaking again. ‘What am I doing here, Zar?’

‘Having dinner with me.’ I could hear the bright smile in her voice as she said it.

‘To what end? It’s been years since you and me, and all of a sudden you want to have dinner? I don’t buy it.’

‘Quite right.’ Zareen was suddenly brisk. I heard a clatter of cutlery as she, presumably, set aside her plate. ‘I’ve come with an offer.’

‘Oh?’

‘A pact. We have the same goals, George. Ves and Jay and I, we know what the Waymasters of old used to be able to do. The Redclover brothers at least, and possibly others besides. The Ministry might be intent on hushing it up but I know that Ancestria Magicka is determined to discover the whole truth — and so are we. Help us, and we’ll help you.’

I saw my own horror reflected in Jay’s dark eyes, for that certainly had not been part of the plan. Just what did Zareen think she was doing?

Turn page ->

‘Home’s burnt down?’ I said, as the Baron took a seat next to me.

He gave me a strange look. ‘No, of course it hasn’t.’

Hm. What else might rank as bad news in Baron Alban’s world?

‘Ancestria Magicka has taken over the Hidden Ministry,’ suggested Jay.

Alban did not disclaim this idea as emphatically as I would have liked. He thought for a moment, and then said: ‘Not to my knowledge.’ An unspoken yet seemed to hover in the air.

‘Stop guessing,’ said Zareen. ‘Let the man speak.’

The Baron tipped an imaginary hat in her general direction. ‘It’s Lord Garrogin,’ he said. ‘He’s back at Court.’ He looked intently at me, and then at Jay. ‘Why on earth did you two tell him so much?’

‘Just us two?’ I protested. ‘Zareen was grilled for ages.’

Zareen rolled her eyes. ‘I was interrogated at length because I wouldn’t tell him things.’

Oh.

I gave a cough. ‘What did we tell him that’s bad news?’

‘News of your defection from the Society reached the Court late last night. Garrogin professed himself astonished. It seems the pair of you rattled on at length about your loyalty to the Society and your total lack of interest in working anywhere else.’ The Baron sat back as his tea was presented to him by a smiling waitress. When she had gone, he slid the plate of cheesecake in my direction and continued: ‘As a Truthseeker he’s uniquely qualified to detect the perfect sincerity of everything you said, and it therefore seemed odd to him that you’ve suddenly broken with Milady.’

I took a spoonful of cheesecake, and savoured a mouthful of syrupy-sweet strawberry while I considered my response. ‘Crap,’ I said at last.

‘Perhaps it won’t matter,’ said Jay optimistically. ‘Do we need to care what they think at the Troll Court?’

‘Maybe not,’ conceded the Baron. ‘But who are you trying to fool?’

‘The Ministry, for the most part.’

I put in, ‘And any other organisation with the authority to frown upon our delving into forbidden topics.’

‘Like, for example, the Troll Court?’ said Zareen, with withering sarcasm.

‘They have no authority over us,’ insisted Jay.

‘No, but they can make plenty of trouble for us anyway.’

‘It’s a problem,’ said the Baron. ‘Because I can’t really contradict Garrogin’s assessment of the situation. Ves is known for her unshakeable loyalty to the Society, and anyway he’s a bloody Truthseeker. People believe him. The best thing I can think of to say in your support is that it must’ve been something very serious to prompt you to leave, and that naturally leads to one question: like what?’

I might think the Hidden Ministry was wrong to put a total ban on all investigation into the arena of time-travel, but they were quite right to keep the subject quiet. We didn’t need any more bright sparks like Ancestria Magicka armed with those kinds of prospects. If they wouldn’t appoint a task-force to take care of the matter, well, we’d appointed ourselves. But we in no way wanted gossip spreading far and wide as to what we might be getting up to.

‘So we need a cover story?’ I said. ‘Some other dark and dangerous thing we might have considered it worth leaving the Society for?’

‘Like what?’ said Alban, with a twinkle, and he was right because I could think of nothing.

Even if I could, the moment we ran into Garrogin again that particular game would be up. He’d catch us in a lie. And he’d seemed certain he would encounter us again…

…which was an interesting point. Why had he felt that way?

Baron Alban shrugged, and took a long swallow of tea. ‘I don’t know what the solution is. I thought it wise to warn you. For the moment, do your best to stay out of Garrogin’s way?’

‘Assuredly,’ I murmured. As long as he stayed at the Court, that shouldn’t be too hard.

‘And be careful who you trust.’ The Baron said this with uncharacteristic hesitation, as though reluctant to speak. ‘Back Home, I mean.’

That brought a dark frown to Jay’s brow, and I could not suppress a sigh. He was right, of course, and we’d known it all along. But it hurt to have to hear it spoken aloud. We knew there was a traitor at Home, and as yet, we still had no idea who it was. As far as the rest of the Society was concerned, Milady’s story of our departure had to be the truth. We couldn’t risk confiding in anybody else, with the probable exception of Rob.

‘Why did Garrogin fail?’ said Jay after a moment. ‘He spoke to everyone at Home, and it’s supposed to be impossible to fool a Truthseeker.’

‘So they say,’ said Zareen. ‘But how many of them are there, now? We’re mostly working with legends of the Truthseekers of old, and you know how those kinds of tales can get exaggerated.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And also, if arts like Waymastery have declined in power down the ages, might not the same be true of arts like Truthseeking? Perhaps Garrogin just isn’t as good at it as his predecessors were.’

‘Both good points,’ said Alban. ‘But there’s one other possibility.’

‘He does know,’ said Jay. ‘But he’s a traitor too.’

Jay seemed to be getting awfully suspicious-minded. But the Baron, to my dismay, was nodding. ‘It is possible that he knows very well who your traitor is, and has always known. But if he’s also in the pay of whoever’s bought off your mysterious colleague, then he’d obey an order to conceal that information.’

‘Damnit,’ I said with a sigh, slouching in my chair. I did not like this at all. Suspicion and paranoia proliferating by the day, mysterious dangers around every corner, an inability to trust one’s fellows combined with the necessity of lying to them… it was not my style. I liked openness and co-operation and goodwill.

A pox on Ancestria Magicka.

Then again, if they did contrive to learn the secrets of time-travel, a pox they would most likely have. Smallpox, perhaps, or even the Great Pox itself — syphilis.

Which reminded me. ‘Dear Alban,’ I began, with my best smile.

‘Yes?’ He did not look quite as buttered-up as I was hoping. The look he directed at me was more suspicious than charmed.

I fluttered my eyelashes, just a bit. No change.

Curse it.

‘I’ve some questions,’ I said more briskly, abandoning all hope of sweet-talking the information out of him.

He folded his muscular arms. ‘No,’ he said.

‘No?’

‘No, the Court has no secret information about travelling through time via Waymastery.’

‘Damn. How about the Redclovers of Dappledok Dell?’

‘Which ones?’

‘The interesting ones. Melmidoc and Drystan, of the Striding Spire.’ If our suspicions proved correct, these two spriggans had jaunted around in time quite at their leisure, by way of that sparkly spire I was just talking about.

‘I don’t know,’ said Alban. ‘I can check the libraries.’

‘Lovely. And Ancestria Magicka?’

The Baron conceded to uncross his arms. His tea cup was empty. I offered him a forkful of cheesecake but fortunately this was spurned. ‘Probably we know about as much as you do,’ he said. ‘It’s a fairly new organisation, less than two years old. Extremely rich, though no one seems to know where their funds are coming from. Aggressive, mercenary, and sometimes dangerous. I hope you aren’t planning to take them for your role-model.’

‘But we are,’ said Zareen. ‘They’re perfect. Unscrupulous, uncompromising, and working in mysterious ways. We don’t have funders, so we’ll have to adopt a similarly enigmatic attitude on that score. And we’re plenty unscrupulous enough to investigate the Spire in spite of the Ministry’s strict orders not to.’

Unscrupulous. A wonderful word. ‘Not a single scrup between us,’ I agreed, with a big smile.

Jay looked faintly ill.

The Baron waved a hand in a whatever gesture, and stood up. ‘Must go,’ he said, then paused, and withdrew a sheet of paper from an inside jacket pocket. ‘I almost forgot that.’ He bowed to us, handed the paper to me with a wink, and strolled away.

It was a scan of somebody’s hand-written notes, apparently the minutes of some sort of meeting. Neither the author nor the identities of the attendees were specified, but the contents were highly interesting. I read it quickly, and handed it off to Jay.

Zareen raised her eyebrows.

‘Seems there’ve been a few reported sightings of disappearing buildings made to the Court this year,’ I said. ‘One of them sounds like the Greyer cottage, but there are others.’

Zareen snatched the paper from Jay and devoured its contents in hungry silence. ‘I’d heard nothing of these,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘Though I thought I’d dug through pretty much everything.’

‘The Troll Court thrives on mystery.’

Jay retrieved the paper and studied it more closely. ‘The most recent of these sightings was last week.’

‘Which one was that?’ I asked.

‘Eighteenth-century farm house, in the Cotswolds. Observed vanishing into the mists on the edge of the village of Owlpen.’ He collected his phone from a pocket and after a moment’s work added: ‘Which is only a couple of miles from the Owlcote Troll Enclave.’

‘George was in Gloucestershire recently,’ said Zareen. ‘Stroud area. Wouldn’t say why.’

‘I’m guessing this is why,’ said Jay.

‘Excellent.’ Zareen gave the satisfied smile of a spider about to devour a particularly plump fly. ‘I’ll ask him about it.’

We checked ourselves into a B&B for a couple of nights. There is one in the vicinity of Home called, for reasons unknown, the Scarlet Courtyard. The proprietors are both witches, so they’re tolerant of our sort. Mrs. Amberstone is about eighty years old but unbelievably spry. I can’t get her to tell me what dark magic makes that possible.

‘I’ve got a coffee cake in the oven,’ she informed me as she showed me to my room, a cosy little space under the eaves with a sloping dormer window.

‘I love you,’ I said with total sincerity.

She winked at me as she withdrew.

Anyway, having spent the afternoon arguing about our various options and what we might be disposed to do about them (‘The Spire,’ said Jay. ‘The Cotswolds,’ said Zareen. ‘The Troll Court,’ said I,) we arrived at The Cupboard shortly before seven.

‘Off you go,’ said Zareen silkily. She’d done all the eye-makeup and looked incredibly sultry.

‘You promised!’ I said.

‘Actually, I remember myself saying “no”.’

‘She did,’ confirmed Jay at my elbow.

‘Then why did you let us come with you?’

‘I don’t mind your being in the same building. Just keep away from my table.’

I wanted to protest, but Jay grabbed my arm and steered me towards a table on the far side of the pub from Zareen’s chosen spot. I wilted into a chair, disappointed.

‘You don’t seriously want to play gooseberry on Zareen’s date?’ Jay said, his expressive eyebrows going up.

‘Is it a date?’ I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of Zareen across the crowded room. ‘She hardly sees him.’

‘If I showed up for dinner and found all that waiting for me, I’d definitely call it a date.’ He inclined his head in Zareen’s direction as he uttered the word that, and I realised he meant the dress and the up-do and the eye-makeup.

‘She’s just trying to impress him so he’ll talk.’

‘Yes,’ Jay agreed. ‘By taking him on a date.’

I wondered how far Zareen’s interest in George Mercer really went. Was she just being manipulative, or did she really like him? She was as enigmatic as the Troll Court.

The door opened then, and George Mercer came in. He wore a dark blazer over a t-shirt, his unruly brown hair artfully wind-swept. I hadn’t taken much note of his physical characteristics before, as the first time we’d met he had been trying to knock me off my airborne pegasus and the second time he’d got straight into a fight with Jay. But now I noticed his height — at least 6’2”. He was well-built, too, and good-looking in a rugged sort of way. I could see why Zareen had kept in touch.

So intent was I upon my scrutiny of his personal charms that I failed to notice he was not alone. By the time this fact had registered with me, Katalin Pataki was halfway across the pub and heading straight for our table.

‘Curse it,’ I muttered. ‘What’s she doing here?’

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