A Witch in Love (10 page)

‘Yes. Quite.’ Ben smiled too and the awkward moment was over.

Dad turned back to the house. He put his free arm around Ben’s shoulders and we began to walk, Dad’s pace still slow. He was getting old, I realized. No longer the giant who’d carried me for miles on his shoulders when I was little. The realization made my heart give a painful clutch and I let my glove fall to the ground.

As I retrieved it they drew a pace or two ahead and I watched them lean on one another. Two old friends, no longer in their prime, their heads drawn together in companionable reminiscence. I could only hear snatches of their conversation, but I knew they were discussing old times, old friends, and yet always skirting painfully around the subject closest to my dad’s heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘
T
he scraper’s in the door, Lorna.’ James was heaving suitcases into the boot of the car. ‘No, the
other
door.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sakes, James. Why can’t we use de-icer like normal people? Honestly, men, Anna. Don’t ever get married.’

‘Bye, Tom.’ Ben gave Dad a crushing man-hug and then turned to muffle me in his thick greatcoat. I hugged him back, breathing in his particular scent; the smell, I realized suddenly, of London. He smelt of expensive cologne, dry-cleaned wool, and the sooty tube-air I had almost forgotten. My heart throbbed for a moment with something that was not quite homesickness – for my home was here now – but was close.

‘Goodbye, little Anna.’ Ben kissed the top of my head and spoke quietly, next to my ear. ‘Come and see us sometime.’

‘Thanks, Ben. I’d love to.’ I meant it.

‘We’re only a train ride away.’ Rick stuck his head out of the car window. ‘And you’ve always got a bed at ours if you need it. Well, a sofa bed.’

He grinned through the window and James honked the horn, penned in behind their convertible. Ben stuck up two fingers and then lowered himself behind the wheel, and they bumped off up the rutted lane, the ice crackling beneath their tyres.

Dad put his arm round me and we stood watching for the glimpse of their cars as they crested the hill. Then they were gone, and the stillness of the forest settled around the house again.

We were just turning back to the house when I stopped.

‘What is it?’ Dad asked. ‘Did they forget something?’

‘No …’ I said slowly. I put out a hand, pointing.

There were footsteps, boot-marks, in the snow, all around the house.

Two sets of prints, maybe more, traced a wavering path, right around the outside. In places they led so close to the house the walkers must have almost brushed the walls. In other places the tracks wavered out a few feet as if the walkers had wanted a better view of the building. Dad stared at them for a moment, as puzzled as me.

‘Huh. How odd.’

‘Whose are they?’ I asked.

‘Not mine,’ Dad said. We peered closer. The prints were much bigger than my size sixes, closer to Dad’s size tens. Then Dad seemed to shrug it off.

‘Probably Rick or James. James was saying last night he wished he’d had more time to explore the countryside. Maybe he came out this morning for a poke around.’

‘What and just walked round the house? Twice?’

‘Why not?’ Dad shrugged. ‘I can’t see what else it could be, can you? Who’d come out here just to walk round the house?’

‘I guess …’ I trailed off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the wavering yet purposeful tracks creeped me out. It just didn’t seem like something James would do. Why would he walk steadily twice round the outside of the house, so close he could peer in each window? If he’d come outside to explore he would have gone round the outbuildings, up the lane, into the woods.

But Dad was right, of course. Who on earth would come all the way out here, just to walk around our house? Granted there wasn’t much to do in Winter, but the kids weren’t
that
bored.

‘So what now?’ Dad asked as we made our way back to the house. He’d clearly dismissed the matter from his mind. ‘Toast? Telly? Fancy giving me a hand with the tiling?’

‘Dad,’ I blurted, ‘why don’t you ever talk about Mum?’

His face got that agonized, shuttered look I knew so well and I realized that for years – ever since I could talk, basically – I’d backed away from causing my dad pain. I’d shielded him from discussing my mum, even helping him to skirt around the conversation when it came up with other people. Now, as I saw the expression in his eyes, every instinct was shouting at me to stop pushing, stop hurting him.

Except this time, I didn’t stop.

‘Please, Dad. I’m starting to realize, there’s so much about myself I don’t know.’

Like, why one of the most powerful groups of witches in England wanted to recruit me. Why my own mother had wanted to hide my existence. Why she’d tried to stifle my magic, prevent even the chance of me becoming a witch. What was
wrong
with me?

‘Dad …’ I begged.

I could see the ripples of pain coursing through him as I spoke, see the way the spell ran through him, controlling his every word. I ought to stop hurting my dad – but … but wouldn’t the right thing be to set him free?

I pushed against the enchantment with my power, feeling its subtlety and steely strength.

‘Dad …’ I said again, and I took his hand, reaching into him. I could feel it woven through and through his mind, twined so closely into his own desires that it was impossible to tell where Dad’s own reticence ended and the spell began. This was no crude charm, slapped on top of his psyche like a gag. This had been done by someone who
knew
Dad, knew exactly how he worked, what he himself wanted. It
had
to have been my mother – it had to have been.

It was also way beyond me, I could tell that immediately. I had a strong suspicion it was probably beyond Maya too, maybe even beyond
anyone’s
power to remove without slicing through Dad’s psyche, ripping his mind into useless shreds. It had grown into Dad, grown to be part of him as much as his blood and his bones.

I sagged into a kitchen chair, overwhelmed by the strength of my mother’s opposition, her strength of will reaching back over the years to thwart me even now.

Dad looked at me, misunderstanding my frustration, and his face was full of compassion.

‘I will tell you, sweetie. I promise I will, just, please, trust me.’

Trust you? Or trust her? How could I trust her?

‘Never mind,’ I said tiredly. ‘I think I’ll go upstairs; I’ve got English coursework to do.’

‘All right, sweetie. Oh wait, hang on. I nearly forgot. Seth rang.’

‘What? Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘He said not to. Asked me to pass on a message.’ Dad led the way into the hall and passed me the message pad by the phone.

Seth rang
, it said in Dad’s handwriting,
to let you know his grandad had a funny turn. Bran’s in hospital. Elaine’s there. Seth’ll be down at the harbour for the rest of the morning if you want to see him
.

Oh no.

The cold sea air was searing against my face as I strode along the cliff road, my face turned unseeingly towards the channel. Please,
please
let this have nothing to do with me. Please let Bran be OK. Please let it all be all right.

Then Seth’s voice, urgent, furious, came into my head.
Anna, don’t. You’ve got to stop thinking that everything bad that happens in a fifty-mile radius is to do with you
.

I was totally engrossed in my thoughts, so that when the voice in my head called, ‘Anna. Hey, Anna!’ I jumped and almost tripped.

‘Seth!’ I hadn’t noticed I’d reached the harbour. I hadn’t noticed the small yacht drawn up by the quayside. I hadn’t even registered Seth, standing on the deck and waving, until he called my name. ‘Seth, sorry, I was completely … I was thinking about something. How are you? Are you OK?’

‘I’m all right. Come aboard and I’ll tell you about it.’

‘Who does it belong to?’ I asked, looking bemusedly at the sleek lines and tall mast. I knew every boat in Winter harbour by now, at least at this time of year, and this was not one I’d seen before. It was run-down though, even I could see that. Peeling varnish, cracked woodwork … The name
Charley’s Angel
was painted on the stern.

‘Belongs to a customer at the pub – Charles Armitage. We got chatting – he needs it doing up and said he’d pay me. Come on, I’ll show you round.’

He held out his hand and I fought down the nausea that immediately clutched my stomach. I’d never felt the same about the sea, not since the fight with the Ealdwitan. Every time there was a storm I listened to the crash and roar of the waves and saw, in my mind’s eye, the waters rising, the foul sightless things of the deep ocean invading Winter’s streets again.

I hadn’t swum, or paddled, or been to the beach since. But sailing was another matter. Sailing was life itself to Seth and there was no way to love him without loving his boat.

So I shut the terrifying images away in the part of my mind that I kept for my nightmares, and leapt, with my heart in my mouth, across the narrow sliver of oily water between the boat and the quay.

Seth caught me safely and steadied me, and then I followed him down into the small cabin, ducking my head and blinking as my eyes adjusted to a blinding combination of orange corduroy wallpaper and purple flowered curtains.

‘Wow.’

‘You said it. Last refurbished around the time of
Charlie’s Angels
, the original.’

‘That wallpaper! Those light fittings!’

‘I’m more worried about the engine and the state of the hull.’

‘Seth, can you do it?’

‘I think so. I can take it to the chandlers if there’s anything really wrong and charge it back. Basically Charles just doesn’t want to have to bother with it himself. He’s only got a holiday cottage down here; most of the time he lives in Surrey so it’s just a pain for him to have to supervise. But of course the more work I can do myself, the more money it means for me. And God knows, anything I can save will come in handy next year.’ He looked sober. We were both worried about funding university.

‘Anyway …’ He seemed to shake himself. ‘It’s got a little generator so we can boil a kettle. Would you like a cuppa?’

‘I’d love one.’ I sat down on the nylon bunk cushions and bit my thumbnail. ‘Listen, how’s your grandad? I was so sorry…’

Seth grimaced.

‘Not half as sorry as I am. I mean, of course I want the old bugger to get better for his own sake, but this is going to make life bloody difficult for you and me.’

‘He’s still … ?’ I trailed off. Seth nodded grimly. ‘Have you tried talking to him, or your mum?’

Seth bit his lip and looked out of the porthole, not meeting my eyes. At last he sighed.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you this but … well, maybe it’s better just to spit it out.’ He stopped and I was suddenly worried, worried by his unhappy stance and refusal to meet my eyes.

‘Seth, what is it? You’re frightening me. Is Bran OK?’

‘Well … not really. Look, I didn’t want to tell you because I thought it would make you feel bad. But I did talk to Mum and I asked her to talk to Grandad. I said that it was my house, mine and Mum’s, I mean, and that I wanted to have you over, as my girlfriend, during Christmas. I said I was fed up of tiptoeing round Grandad’s feelings. I said I wanted to have you over to dinner with Grandad there and put an end to this. And I wanted Grandad to be nice to you. Anyway Mum thought it was perfectly reasonable, though she was a bit doubtful about bringing Grandad round to the dinner idea, but she said at the least it was completely reasonable for me to want to see my own girlfriend in my own house. So she talked to Grandad – we both did – and …’ He trailed off.

‘It didn’t go well?’

‘Worse than that.’ Seth ran his hand through his hair, tousling it into wild curls. ‘He went into a rage; I’ve never seen anything like it. Mum simply couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He just bellowed at us both for about ten minutes without drawing breath and, then, when Mum tried to reason with him, he had a kind of … a kind of fit.’

‘His funny turn,’ I whispered, suddenly cold with the realization. Seth nodded.

‘Yes. It was like, I don’t know, some kind of seizure, almost like a heart attack. His face went grey and he couldn’t speak. Mum had to take him to hospital in the end and he’s still there. But it looks like he’s never going home, or at least not home to Castle Spit. He’s too ill to live in such an isolated place.’

‘Because of me.’

‘
No
,’ Seth said forcefully. ‘Not because of you. Because he’s a stupid, prejudiced old man. Because he’s never been crossed in his damn life and can’t cope with it now. Because he’s so full of rage that he can actually induce a seizure to get his own way. This is
his
fault, not yours.’