Chapter 5 At the Willow

5

At the Willow

AS IT TRANSPIRED and as should have probably been expected from a witchcraft high headquarters, Hecate House was not easy to find. The letter only gave sparse detail—Highgate Cemetery, London—which Bonnie explained in another frantic phone call was to be expected. The exact entrance to Hecate House regularly incarnated, changing every full moon so as to minimise the chance of non-wicche folk stumbling across it. It was left to a witch's intuition to locate it for themselves again and to figure out how to open the entrance, which Belle quickly decided was extremely unhelpful and stupid.

She emerged from the humid Underground to find autumn giving a sleepy sigh across the city. Leaves skipped like skimming stones, and a damp breeze rippled silkily at her ankles. It was welcome after a sticky journey across almost the entire breadth of the city. A drizzle slipped down from the sky and threatened to soak her from head to toe in a matter of minutes, so she hastily threw an umbrella over her head. Rainy London could be a miserable feeling—heads down, socks soaked, arms folded fiercely across chests—but it fit this time of year like a glove, the smell of damp ground and muddy earth tailored to the place.

Belle snuck her first glance at the entrance to Highgate Cemetery, elegant and sombre, framed by a pointed Gothic arch. The entryway was cloudy with damp and centuries of soot on a street that was quiet and peaceful, save for a handful of passersby wrapped in waterproofs and clutching takeaway cups. Belle, feeling as though she may as well have hung a sign around her neck declaring "Lost Witch," gave them an awkward "nothing to worry about" wave for inexplicable reasons.

She had hoped that when it came to it, Hecate House would call to her. A carried voice on the air, a beckoning finger. She'd heard stories of the cemetery whispering with a disembodied voice, enticing people to look back over their shoulder, only for them to see nothing and nobody behind them. With no such helpful spectres presenting themselves post-breakfast, this was evidently where Belle's intuition and abilities were supposed to take over. It seemed to be happening increasingly often—this moment where she'd look around for the responsible adult to guide her with a hand at the small of her back before the gut-punch realisation that she was on her own to make the call. The creased, well-thumbed pocket A–Z sticking out of her bag could only take her so far. Magic had to point the rest of the way, along with a few aged signposts.

Belle tried to trust that instinct was pulling her feet in the right direction amongst a landscape of thousands of gravestones, jutting from the gums of the soil like chipped teeth. Weeping angels looked down over those below, one sweetly sleeping on the job. Sombre obelisks, looming crosses and veiled urns depicted snakes swallowing their own tails for eternity. Everything was coated in a watery sheen, speckles of rain flickering the picture like old film. The minutes were ticking by alarmingly quickly on Belle's watch, but time in the cemetery felt halted. In perpetual memory, in loving memory, in precious memory…all gulped down by the silence.

Doing her best to follow the weathered signs, she eventually found herself at the grand dark tunnel of Egyptian Avenue and took a moment to hold a stitch that was blooming above her hip. The main path was flanked by a pair of looming obelisks that could have touched the sky itself. Then appeared a shady, circular avenue, lined with delicate sunken tombs like tiny terraced houses. The vaults, built around the roots of an ageing cedar tree up high, looked oddly welcoming with their cold, moss-cushioned eternal rest behind front doors. A rest sounded great, frankly.

One step farther, and Belle felt it. That crest of a wave breaking, the force upon her senses that told her others of magical persuasion were nearby. Of course Hecate House had to be here—the most revered, supernaturally charged part of the cemetery. She followed the trodden path around the grand circle like a lasso, past ancient family crypts and tombs of the historic London elite, scanning for a possible entrance. A caretaker sweeping an enormous pile of wet leaves into a neat mountain remained oblivious to the witch who was looking a little unhinged and very unsure.

"Please. Please. Please tell me I don't have to break into a tomb. That does not feel like a good thing to do."

Belle glanced at the dark doorways of each vault. The darkness, the ice cold, whatever else might be inside. "Why would a high witch headquarters be anything to do with a tomb? Of all the places. You're magic. You can choose anywhere . Next time, choose a Maldives water villa, guys."

She stopped in her tracks at what had appeared on the path. She'd done a full loop, and the Victorian lamp-post in front of her, the only one, standing alone in the circle, had not been there before. Had it? It was unassuming enough to go unnoticed—if you didn't happen to be looking for an undisclosed entrance to a witch headquarters.

Belle hesitated, questioning herself. The lamp-post reminded her of stories that Bonnie had read to her before bed when she was young. Inevitably stories of witches, in so many forms and worlds. There'd been a matching lamp to this one in their local church graveyard, where they'd walked together in all weathers, hunting down specific weeds, rare crabgrass, downy thistles and oily feathers for Bonnie's brewing. Bonnie would remind her daughter, long before powers came into play, to never doubt that wise lions, powerful witches and mystical wardrobes were all very, very real and waiting to be found. To venture past the lamp-post in the story had always led to strange adventures and great changes in fortune. It had always led to witches.

"This has to be it."

Her instincts said fire . Belle focused on the unlit tinder inside and tipped her finger up towards it, a nest of tiny sparks conjuring a small flame behind the glass. Instantly, the iron frame filled with tawny light, pleasant against the damp grey air. The lamplight landed simply and selectively on just one weeping willow tree, which covered the opposite walls in a cascade. Against the drizzle, the glow coated each sweeping leaf like a cobweb, falling as if to spotlight that tree alone.

Glancing over her shoulder to check that nobody was taking any notice of the mad girl staring at a thicket of a willow, Belle reached out and parted the dense wet greenery, soaking her sleeves. As the darkness shrunk away, the warm light revealed a wooden door pressed deep into the stone circle wall of the cemetery. It couldn't have been there before. Even behind the willow, she would surely have spotted the heavy dark oak door strapped with aged metal. Or the weighty knocker shaped like a celestial moon. Or the intricate carvings of stars in the grain, along with three single words: Tonitru, Fulgur, Pluvia.