I never thought about having any of my own before I crossed over. I think about it now. Me and Fi. Coupla sprogs. Her family woulda had a fit if she settled down with me. Guess she was never gonna settle down with no one.… I know where Fi is now. Our paths would cross if I let them. Don’t fancy she wants to hear anything I have to say either.
Ebb’s late.
Maybe she forgot.
Not like her to forget. Never has, in all these years.
Can’t call her. Don’t even know if she has a mobile these days.
I stand, and pace a bit under the tree. Normally, Ebb casts a spell so that no one sees me.
I’m antsy. I creep up closer to the house. If anyone’s up, I should be able to hear them. The house is dark. One of the kitchen windows is cracked, but I can’t smell dinner. Ebb says she helps Mum with the cooking now. Roasted gammon, it’ll be. And bread and butter pudding. Ebb usually brings me out a plate.
I go up the back steps and peek inside the window in the door. The kitchen is empty. I can’t hear anything.
I twist the knob, not expecting it to turn, but it does, and the door gives. I step forward gingerly, not sure whether I’ll be allowed—but the house accepts me, and I stand there for a moment feeling right sorry for myself in my mum’s kitchen.
I smell the child before I see her.…
She’s hiding behind the doorway, peeking out at me. “Is that you, Aunty?”
“Aunty?” I say. “Do I look like somebody’s aunty?”
“I thought you were my Aunt Ebb. You look like her.”
She’s a little blond one in a red plaid nightgown. Must be my sister Lavinia’s. Vinnie wasn’t much older than this herself last time I saw her.
“I’m family,” I say. “I come to talk to Ebb—why don’t you go get her for me? She won’t be mad.” Not at the girl, anyway.
“Aunty Ebb’s gone,” the chick says. “She left with the Mage. Grandmum’s still crying. We can’t even have Christmas.”
“The Mage?” I say.
“Himself,” the girl says. “I heard everybody say it. Mum says Aunty Ebb was arrested.”
“Arrested! For what?”
“I don’t know. I guess she broke a rule.”
I stare at the child. She stares back. Then I turn for the door.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“To find your aunty.”
71
SIMON
I wake up feeling hungry.
And not until I’m awake do I realize that it’s not me who’s hungry.
The air is dry. And itching. Pulling at my skin—pulling with needles, pricking at me.
I sit up and shake my head. The feeling doesn’t go away. I take a deep breath and then it’s inside my lungs, too. Like sand. Like ground glass.
The Humdrum.
I look over at Baz’s bed—the sheets and blankets are cast aside. He’s not there. I stumble to my feet and out of the room, standing in the blood-dark hallway. “Baz,” I whisper.
No one answers.
I follow the bad feeling down the hallway, down the stairs, to the front door of the manor—the night sky and the snow are so bright, there’s light streaming into the foyer. I open the door and run out into the snow.
The feeling is stronger out here. Worse. Almost like I’m standing inside one of the Humdrum’s dead spots. But when I reach for my magic, it’s still there: It rises to the surface of my skin and hums in my fingertips. It pools in my mouth.
I try to force it down again.
I follow the itchy feeling forward. (I should go back inside. I should put on shoes.) I find myself running towards the private forest that sweeps along the side of the Pitches’ house like a curtain.
I’m wearing Baz’s red-and-gold-striped pyjamas, and they’re wet to my thighs. The hungry feeling gets stronger with every step. It sucks at me. I feel my magic slipping out, sliding around my skin. A tree branch drags against me and catches fire.
I keep pushing forward.
I don’t know where I’m going—I’ve never been in this forest before. Plus there’s no space between the trees. I’m not on a path, there isn’t a clearing.
When I hear him laughing, I stop so abruptly that my magic sloshes forward, spilling up over the sides of me.
He’s right there, leaning against one of trees.
Him. The Insidious Humdrum.
Me.
“Hello,” he says, tossing his ball in the air. He catches it, frowns at me for a second, then tucks the ball into the pocket of his jeans.