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"'Good morning, Wren,' Pa says. "'Have you seen your aunt on your travels?' "'No,' I say. "'She's probably still getting dressed.' "'At this time of the day?' he snaps. I shrug. "'I'm sure she's on her way.' I take a seat, glancing at the serving table at the side of the room. It's empty, apart from an oil lamp and a pair of large placemats. The door swings open, and Alice comes in, holding a steaming dish above her head. She's flanked by Gellert and Pelham, their snouts high as they inhale the scent of whatever she's carrying. "'Kippers!' she says, rolling her eyes. I jump up and grab hold of the dogs' collars, tugging them away from her, keeping hold of them until she's placed the dish at the back of the serving table. They sit next to me grudgingly, their wide eyes fixed on the dish, rivulets of drool dangling from their jowls. "'Someone needs to train that pair of oafs,' Pa says. He looks at the door again. "'Where is your aunt? Does she not realise what time it is?' I have no idea why he thinks Auntie Ever's timekeeping is my responsibility. I blow out slowly, watching as a little white cloud forms in front of my face. The fire's been lit, but it's still bitterly cold in here. It's dark too, darker than normal. The little lamp in the middle of the table encloses us in its dull yellow embrace, but the far end of the room is lost in darkness. Someone could be sitting in the window seat and would never know they were there. A sudden explosion of noise from down the corridor makes us all jump. It's Auntie Ever. The distinctive clickety-clack of her wheelchair becomes more clamorous as she enters. She toots her horn, a harsh interruption to the silence of the room. Pa shudders as the acrid tang of steam and smoke reaches us. Auntie Ever's steam-powered wheelchair is an unusual sight, but it gave her freedom to get about after the accident without relying on other people, so who can complain if it's a bit noisy? She toots her horn again, looking at Pa pointedly and manoeuvres herself into place across the table from me. Steam belches from beneath her wheels as she comes to a standstill. Is breakfast ready? she says, glancing at the serving table. Tiddir wafts her smoke away with her hand and pretends to cough, his eyes slipping to Pa as if looking for his approval. I only just brought it in, Alice says. It's still piping hot. That is not the point, Pa says, folding up his newspaper. Breakfast is always served at eight, and it is now five past. Auntie Ever ignores him, instead nodding a brisk thank you to Alice as she plonks a plate of kippers and eggs in front of her before serving the rest of us. Pa slides his spectacles into their silk case and tucks in. I look at Auntie Ever surreptitiously, her hair is piled high on top of her.
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You'd better not have forgotten I'm taking Ted, he said, a scowl on his freckled face that made him look disturbingly like their father. Of course I ain't forgotten, he's already in. Gracie was still on Olive's pillow, grubby pink cotton limbs spredigled. Olive thought of fetching her, but the fist-sized dent in the door of their flat's only bedroom made her pause. She bit her lip, reluctant to risk disturbing dad's sleep. Trying to ignore the jitters in her stomach, she reasoned that they couldn't be going wherever they were being sent off to for more than a night or two. Hopefully she could manage without her rag doll for that long. Lord, it's half six already. You'd better get your coats and plimsolls on, kids. And don't forget your gas masks. Gas masks, another thing to remember. They'd been practicing memorizing their home address all week. Olive slung the string carrying her gas mask box over her shoulder. With one final check, mum made sure they had their identification cards. Blue for Peter, biscuit colored for Olive. She thrust their bulging pillowcase bundles towards them. Now, it'll be like I told you. You'll line up in the schoolyard with the other kids, like you've been practicing. Then you'll all walk to the station to catch a train for a little holiday out in the countryside, where it's nice and safe. Some of your teachers will go with you. Make sure you behave for them and don't go giving them none of your cheek, Peter. Do as you're told in your new place, and I'll see you soon, mum said. She seized them each by a shoulder and squeezed hard. Whatever you do, do not let them split you up, she said, as if it was very important. Do you hear me? Stay together and don't let no one tell you different. Keep hold of Olive's hand, Peter. Give him a clip across the ear if he doesn't do as he's told. Make sure you look after him. Mum's eyes seemed to bore into Olive, as if she was deciding whether she could be trusted with such an important task. More than anything, Olive knew she mustn't fail.
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Was it after Catrin climbed down to the cove below that Roz felt she was being watched? She remembers the long shadow of the cairn, the meaning of those stones, old as centuries, one for each relative that had passed away. She can still feel the ground tilting below her feet as she ran back down to the house, the sensation of being observed clinging to her like nausea. The night before, when things were normal, they had all sat around a fire. And Catrin's father had told them of the cold-eyed fairy folk that lived in the holes of the ragged cliffs. As she raced down the cliff path that morning, she imagined them flying after her, their arms outstretched, their fingernails trying to catch her hair. Roz can remember all of these details with a clarity that hurts, but they are jumbled up in her head. She can recall the relief that flooded through her like a dam burst when she reached the house, her hand on the door, the paint still slick with salted dew. It is only at this point, where the door opens wide to the smell of toast and coffee, and she enters the kitchen where her parents are, that her memory resolves itself into a coherent, terrible chain of events. Where have you been? Her father asked. We've been worried. Just up to the cliff. Catrin and I wanted to watch the sunrise. Her father frowned. That was irresponsible, Rosalind. Out on the cliff path in the middle of the night. It wasn't the middle of the night. Taking Hazel with you without telling us. I didn't take Hazel with me. Catrin then, said her mother. She must be with Catrin. Ros's words faltered. Hazel didn't come with us. Her father, her mother became very still. The three of them looked at one another, and Ros saw their faces change from irritation to fear. Then.
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And after they had laughed, her friend resumed, I know it sounds like a waste of an afternoon, but I do assure you it won't be. And I did promise Frida Blandish that I'd bring anyone along to see the old lady who might amuse her, thanks. Who is Frida Blandish? Lady Daglish's companion, she has her own flat in the house. Is she old too? No, 40-ish, she's all there. Dresses well too, in a slapdash way. You sound as though you don't like her. Well, no, Lou, I don't, much. She's so busting with energy, she quite wears one out. No one has any right to be so fit nowadays, it's unnatural. It is maddening, I agree. Mrs. Cottrell gave her second sigh in ten minutes. But again, she was not thinking about what had been said. She was remembering her attempts to paint gentians on her honeymoon, nearly 21 years ago. And how the flowers, so sturdy, yet so delicate, and of so divine a dark blue, had obstinately refused to appear upon her sketching block as anything but wreckage colored blurs. And then, while her friend continued to enlarge upon the difficulties, which Mrs. Blandish and Lady Daglish must encounter in keeping up so large a house as Waterloo Lodge nowadays, her thoughts drifted away to London. Perhaps because she lived in the heart of it, where the stale air is foul with the fumes of petrol. While the air all about her at this moment was bitter, but pure. And the air she had breathed in Grindelwald 21 years ago seemed, in her memory, to have an otherworldly freshness that she longed to breathe again. London, she thought.
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Okay. You win. Besides, I'm leaving in a matter of days. You know I don't do the long distance thing. I can't help the frown that forms on my face. I wasn't out for a reminder that Mason is leaving me. I mean, Annapolis. Leaving Annapolis, my brain quickly corrects. But it still feels like I'm losing my right arm. Breaking it off now is the right thing to do, he continues. It was completely mutual. I shake my head. God, I'm so glad I don't date men like you. Mason Adler is everything any woman would fall for and immediately regret. Bundled up in an intimidating frame with an eight-pack I've had the pleasure of viewing on our many trips to Sandy Point State Park for a day at the beach. I'm trying to be noble and you're chastising me for it, he comments, rising to his full six foot two and extending his elbow my way. Come on, I'll buy first round if you don't spread the word to Annapolis's women that I'm a pain in the ass with commitment issues. Ask Patrick to join us. I sigh at the sound of my boyfriend's name. Or at least I think he's my boyfriend. On nights like tonight, I kind of wonder. He's busy. Working late again. He's got a trial next week and needs to be prepared. He's not celebrating your good news with you? Asshole. Hey, in his defense, I didn't tell him about the email from the agent yet. Why not? My lips draw together tightly as we step through the door and into the hive of activity that defines Main Street on a clear summer evening. He wouldn't get it. You know, doesn't really understand why I'm bothering. After a few rejections, I think he just thinks I should give up and go get a real job or something. Dejected at the admission, I feel something gnaw at my belly. I like my job working at a bookstore surrounded by the novels that inspire me. But mine is not quite the kind of resume that would impress someone like Patrick. I don't know why you're bothering with that guy. He's smart. Successful. His car is paid off. So the hell what? My SUV is paid off. Does that make me a catch? I angle a look at him. He has to know the answer. Mason is the catch of the century. Funny, sharp, sexy as hell. But I'm not in the mood to stroke his already sky-high ego. Besides, he's taking me to a black tie gala this month, and I already bought a dress for it. So we might be on the tail end of our relationship. But there's no way I'm letting it die out until I get to wear that gown. Oh, that's a good reason to stay with a guy. His tone is laced with sarcasm.
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Mam tells me not to listen to rumours, but Mari says it's true, and running the paper shop means she knows everything. In the last three years, the only person Boo's let into her house is Dr. Shelby. Even the ladies who deliver her meals have to stay on the doorstep. She has a gardener, a man from up the valley, but he never goes inside either. Dad wonders if Boo is lonely, but I don't think she is. She could let people in if she wanted to. My bedroom door opens just a bit. Then Judy Garland's beautiful furry face appears as she pushes further and pads in. She jumps onto the bed and rubs against my arm, looking up at me, all innocent, little madam. I pick her up, clutch her into my jumper, and whisper, let you know all the secrets in that house, don't you? Chapter two, Scarpered. After school this afternoon, there's a different kind of drama in our house. I can't find Judy Garland, and I've looked everywhere, under the beds, in the airing cupboard, behind the settee. Dad's going spare, because we need to take her to the vet for her jabs. She isn't anywhere, I call down the stairs. Don't be daft, Hayley. Dad shouts back. She has to be somewhere. You didn't leave the back door open when you brought the washing in, did you? Heck, she's scarpered. Judy Garland has this sick sense when there's a vet appointment. We have to be like prison guards on those.
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When you begin to explore self-help or personal development, change becomes inevitable and with that comes a slow evolution of self. You start to investigate your self-worth, your strengths, weaknesses, motivations and beliefs. Life shifts and your emotions shift with it. What once excited you may now bore you. Someone you thought was important might no longer fill you with awe. This progression is perfectly normal. Remember in the introduction when I told you that self-help had never been on my radar? At that point in my life I was as far from being self-aware as I could get. I had no clue who I was, what I wanted or why I was the way I was. When I look back at the younger version of me, I cringe. Not because of the bad 80s perm, although that was enough to make anyone weep, but because she was so distant. I had loads of friends but I never really listened to them or helped them achieve and grow. I was told I was fun, which at the time would have been a compliment. Today I see that as being disconnected and fake. As a teenager and young adult, my mind operated on autopilot, which essentially meant that my habits, thoughts and reactions controlled me instead of the other way around. After my marriage ended, I was lost, lonely, scared and suffering from ill health due to stress. My default setting allowed me to use distraction as a way of coping with the situation I found myself in. I drank myself into oblivion. Nowadays we use social media to lose ourselves and often compare ourselves to the fake lives projected onto our newsfeed. Over time I got better at recognising this. I still use books and movies to escape reality, but I've learned to come back to real life afterwards and I now appreciate the need for a positive distraction. My struggle with food is ongoing, but I'm aware it's an issue and I'm dealing with it. Can you resonate with any of these actions? Have you used food, drink, drugs or sex to dull the pain? Do you sit in front of your TV endlessly binge-watching your favourite shows? To become self-aware means that we see the harm in certain distractions and we choose what we want to do instead of operating on autopilot.
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"'Don't pick at it,' Queenie says from a mound of rugs on the other side of the fire. "'Why must young'uns always pick at these things?' Then she turns over and pulls a blanket over her head. "'Queenie ain't much of a lark,' Yale says, grinning. Someone walks past me and dumps a dead rabbit at my feet, making me start back in shock. The little eyes are wide open. "'Think you could gut and skin that,' a voice says. I look up, and it is the old man, Job, sneering down on me from his hairy rat face. "'Well?' I touch the rabbit, still warm. "'Is it dead?' Job laughs, a horrible wet sound. "'You ain't much use, are you? Is it dead?' He snorts with contempt and walks away. "'I leave the fire and the rabbit. I want to pick up pie, but somehow I can't after that, not in front of these people.' "'Luca is standing on the eastern edge of the wood. From the trees, the land is open and rises slowly to the horizon, and the sun is just above it, still stained red from its rising. The light is cherry bright on the grey trunks of the beaches, and there are birds singing all through the wood, a glory of sound.' Luca turns and glances at me irritably. "'You make a lot of noise. It's not like walking on a carpet. You gotta pick your way more careful, like, and keep looking all around, all the time. That way you gets to see things that ain't common, or every day. What like?' He is staring out at the sunrise. He points across the open fields. "'Out there, come spring, you'll see the hares come, if you sit quiet enough. They jump up and prance and dance and box each other, mad as March. Tis a sight to see. That's how this place got its name. We calls it Boxing Hare Wood for M, though the name ain't on no map. Hares is sacred animals, creatures tied to the moon. Some of the Romani hunt them for sport, but not us, not my kin. He sets traps for rabbits and squirrels, and will take a pheasant or a pigeon, but not a hare. These things of beauty.' It seems an odd thing for him to say, and as he speaks, he has almost a kind of wonder in his voice. I sit beside him in the dead brown bracken.
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That seemed to get his attention, and he spun round from the window to frown at her. Out, yes, out, it is Saturday night, and I'm not a total sad case, you know? She retorted, her face flushing red and her fingers crossing behind her back. He didn't have to know who it was she was going out with or where they were going. He scowled at her, tape measure forgotten. You're going out on a date, he asked. Katie found the disbelief written across his face pretty insulting, and stupidly, she rose to the bait. Yes, a date. Just because some men think I'm vertically challenged, mouthy and annoying, doesn't mean that the whole male population of Wales is of the same opinion. Her chin went up, and she tried to stretch a couple of extra inches on her heel, but only succeeded in stumbling to the side. Before she could fall, a strong hand shot out to take her elbow and steady her. When she looked up, he was standing inches away, staring down at her. I'm sorry, Katie, he said softly. Katie felt her breath catch in her throat, and then stopped breathing altogether when his eyes started searching her face. It was the first time she had ever heard him use her name, and at the sound of it, in his low, rough voice, she felt her stomach hollow out, and a warm feeling spread through her chest. This close up, he looked almost too beautiful to be real. He leaned in further, and just before she thought he was about to kiss her, he closed his eyes again, clenched his jaw, and stepped back so suddenly that she was left tottering without the support of his hand. He took a deep breath, and his hands bunched into fists at his sides again, before he opened his eyes, his expression reset to the standard blank mask she was used to.
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Directly opposite her sat the daughter, Romany. She was tiny, built as if a breath of wind could blow her away like a cobweb, but there was something in her not-quite-brown eyes that suggested that she was more robust than she might appear. She was barely eighteen, and already she had had to deal with the terminal illness and death of her only parent. You didn't manage that without coming apart, unless you had some inner resources to draw on, and she didn't look as if she was coming apart. There'd been no drama or histrionics. She had listened to the reading of the letter calmly and without reaction. The solicitor knew that her client's wishes would have come as a surprise to all five of them, and she had been very clear on the matter of secrecy, almost gleeful, in fact, at their meeting several weeks before. I'm not going to tell them what I'm planning, she had said. By then, her skin had taken on a yellowish pallor and was pulled tightly across her cheekbones, making them appear angular and sharp. I'm sure they'll all say yes if I ask them now, but I'd rather not give them the option. If they don't know what's coming, they're less likely to make excuses or refuse. The solicitor's training made her uncomfortable with such vagaries, and she wanted to object, get Angie to put something more concrete in place for the girl. But then again, Romany had already turned eighteen, and so, technically, there was no need for the appointment of a single guardian, let alone four. Whether the chosen ones were prepared to step up to their allotted tasks was not a legal matter, and therefore not one with which the solicitor need concern herself unduly. She had the sense that there was something else at play here, though, some greater purpose, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. But she wasn't paid to decipher clues from her clients. She had drafted the will and read the letter out as instructed, and with that, her responsibility for the matter ended.
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Her heart rate slowed, just as Andy, one of the removal men, came up behind her. Just the plants and the last of the fragiles to go, Mrs. Green. He paused, running his hand over his head. Shall I let you have a minute on your own, like? Sorry, no, it's fine, Andy, just having a moment, she said. Adding, and please, I keep telling you, call me Nan. Nan, yes, right you are, just sounds a bit, Andy petered out. Yes, she knew the name made him think of a grandmother, not the mother of twins, nearing 30, who still rocked a size 28 Levi's and a battered leather jacket. She had spent her childhood longing to be called Judith, Sophie, or Claudia. But by the time she named her own children, she had embraced her Welsh roots and called them Kerry and Ellen. Robin could not resist reminding her of how hypocritical this was, however much he liked the names, at any opportunity. Right, I'll tell the lads to do the last bits, okay? Andy said, touching her shoulder gently before almost tiptoeing out of the room. Nan flushed, she had almost forgotten how it felt to receive kindness. The atmosphere in their house had been so officious for the past few weeks. Lists, the ruthless culling of stuff, urgent calls, checks and double checks, goodbyes, change of address notifications. Robin kept his distance, buried himself in his work, snapped at her as his doubts fled, subsided, and then festered. He had said yes, but his coolness told her every single day that this was all her doing, and he was not at all happy about it. The responsibility was sometimes unbearable. Then she tried to imagine her children's cheeks turning pink in the salty breeze that blew off the sea as they explored the island together, and it calmed her. As a child, when she had visited the island, she hadn't washed between her toes after their last day on the beach, so that she could bring some sand back home to Hanwell and feel it in her bed. Exploring Uncle Dewey's farm, burying her face in Auntie Manon's apron and inhaling her baking doggy farmy smell remained one of her happiest childhood memories, the distillation of joy.
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The magical witching stone she had used to perform the spell had turned warm, and this tiny fragment had come from that exact stone. Wasted wisdom ceased to be, continued Mrs Smith. Magic fly from memory. Exodus, magicam, exodus, magicam, Roxy whispered inside her head, gripping the piece of stone tighter than ever, exodus, magicam, simula manimini in context, Mrs Smith finished, with a flourish. There was a silence. Well, Mrs Smith opened her eyes and looked down at Roxy. Those lenses really were the thickest Roxy had ever seen, her eyesight must be awful. How are you feeling? Roxy let out all her breath in a rush, I feel fine. She gazed back at Mrs Smith, eyes wide as those of a newborn, is there any reason I shouldn't feel fine, Mrs, I'm sorry, I don't think I know your name. The ministry official's lips curved upwards, in an imitation of a smile, I'm Mrs Smith, you've had a little bump on the head, a skiing accident, terribly dangerous sport. She got to her feet, rest now, and I'm sure your sister will be in to check on you soon. Roxy settled back against the pillows, and watched Mrs Smith walking towards the door. Then the woman stopped, and turned. For a brief, but heart-stopping moment, she stared back at Roxy, with an unreadable expression on her face. You will take good care now, she said, very softly, won't you? Roxy's mouth was sandpaper, no words would have come out, even if she'd tried. She nodded. Mrs Smith nodded back, and turned and left the room. She closed the door quietly behind her. My stars, Roxy whispered to the grit in her hand, I don't believe it, we did it, we did it. The grit, because it was only a piece of grit, albeit a powerfully magic one, said nothing. But now sleep was washing over Roxy anyway. She could do nothing but hope that when she woke up, she would remember it all. One Four months later It was towards the end of a chilly afternoon in early spring. The sun was just starting to set, and hundreds of people had formed a queue outside Snelling's department store on the Royal Boulevard in Rexopolis. The grand store's glamorous façade, usually a gleaming white marble, had been shrouded in enormous silk drapes, in a shade of deepest midnight blue. The only part of the storefront that had been left shroudless were the ornate gold revolving doors. Above the largest of these was a huge midnight blue poster featuring six words. H-Bomb and the Missiles, Sweet Agony This was the reason for the snaking queue, and for the atmosphere of barely controlled excitement in the chilly dusk air. H-Bomb and the Missiles, the biggest band in the entire world, had chosen to launch their latest album in their home city of Rexopolis. The band's legion of devoted fans were practically swooning with anticipation, mostly thanks to the rumour sweeping the queue like wildfire, that H-Bomb himself, the lead singer and the band's biggest star, was going to show up to the exclusive launch party, right here in Snelling's tonight. Roxy Humperdinck, who was watching the queue from the other side of the Royal Boulevard, knew this would never happen. H-Bomb had not visited Rexopolis for over five years. He hadn't visited anywhere in Illustria, in fact. She had been exactly seven years old the last time he had come home, and even then it had only been a flying visit, under cover of darkness, and surrounded by burly, sunglasses-wearing security guards, to catch the last ten minutes of her own.
