21

21

L ady Winter dealt with my arrival out of the darkness as briskly as if she'd helped half a dozen fugitives. I told her everything in full, seated on her sofa by the fire with a glass of water cupped in my hands, and she listened gravely and without giving anything away.

"I'm sure you know now how foolish you were" was all she said. "And fortunately I'm neither your mother nor your teacher that I need to lecture you about it. Young mages always do try to summon faeries, and it often does go wrong, so that part is nothing new. Your worst mistake was trusting a Lennox-Fontaine to act in anyone's interest other than his own."

"I never thought he would go so far," I said, and knew I only sounded naive. I pressed the cool glass to the bridge of my nose, willing my thoughts together. "My family. Are they safe? Do they know the Guards are looking for me?"

"They know." There was an odd note to her voice, one that I was too hazy to place. "The Guards came to your house last night—or rather, in the early hours of the morning."

I sat bolt upright, pain and weariness momentarily forgotten. "Are they all right? What happened?"

"They're safe. Don't concern yourself. Sam Truelove Wells managed to warn them, less than an hour before they arrived. Your brother had already taken little Rose and left."

" Sam warned them? But… why did Matthew leave? And Rose? If they were looking for me—"

"They weren't looking for you," Lady Winter explained patiently. "They had come to take your brother."

No. Alden wouldn't. Even if the worst was true, and he wanted me out of the way, surely he would never be monstrous enough to hurt my family. Even if I had, in his eyes, lost him his own brother. Even then.

"I doubt Lennox-Fontaine was to blame for that," Lady Winter added, as though I had spoken aloud. Perhaps I had. "The Board never were happy with letting your brother go free after the war. The locks being under threat would be enough excuse to move on him. And of course with Rose sharing that same blood, your family feared the Guards would take her too—especially if they found how much magic she knows."

My heart was racing—the echo of it throbbed in my head and my arm. "Are you sure they're safe? Where are they?"

"They're close by. The Guards didn't stay at your house long. Your mother told them that Mr. Hill and Rose were in Manchester, and they had no idea where you were. When they didn't find anything, they left. I think your mother rather frightened them."

I didn't smile at that, as I usually would. Images flashed before my eyes as though on a cinema screen: summoning spells ripping through my family home, my mother's stiff-necked fury, fingers pawing through my family's lives. Rose, torn from sleep, wide-eyed and fearful in the dark, told to run.

"I'll fix this," I said uselessly. "I promise I will, somehow."

As long as we were still on this earth there was nothing that couldn't be fixed. I had said that so many times growing up, to my younger siblings, and later in the dark to myself. I had believed it; I still did. I just couldn't see a way to fix this. For the first time since Ashfield, magic felt impossible, wild as the sea and infinitely more dangerous.

"We'll discuss all that tomorrow," Lady Winter said firmly. "I told you, they're safe now. First things first. Let's get that spell out of your arm."

I was too far beyond exhaustion for real surprise. I only blinked. "Can you do that? I was always taught a tracking spell could only be removed by the caster."

"In the old days, that was true. If I'm not mistaken, though, that spell wasn't cast on you directly. That would have been difficult magic, far too precise to be flung from an aircraft."

"No." I caught on, thankfully, to the familiar intricacies of practical magic. They, at least, made sense. "It was cast on a metal casing, which embedded itself in my arm. You could draw it out with a summoning spell?"

"Like a bullet being pulled from a wound—or so I assume. It will hurt, though. Stay very still."

It did hurt. The pellet proved stubborn, and every fraction of an inch it gave was like having red-hot wire drawn through my flesh. I sat rigidly still, gritting my teeth, willing myself not to cry or flinch as Lady Winter pressed her fingers to the sting and repeated the spell once, twice, three times. When at last she pulled her hand away, the world spun into a red blur. Lady Winter caught me before I hit the floor.

"There." Her arms tightened on my shoulders, firm and reassuring. "All over." She held out her hand, and I caught the glint of metal and blood between her fingers. It looked like a small bullet, at first; as it woke to the air, its wings unfurled once more, and its tiny legs scrabbled furiously for purchase. "Nasty little thing. And lazy spellcraft, I might add. I appreciate the blending of magic and science, but the Board are getting slapdash with it. Like those airplanes they've been using instead of broomsticks since the war. All noise and flash, no precision."

I had thoughts on this issue myself; I had attended a lecture on it only last month. I kept my mouth shut. Not only could I not remember any of them, I was fairly certain I was a wrong breath away from being sick.

The rest of the evening was a dizzy haze. There was a waiting bath of hot, fragrant water and then a clean nightgown and a bandage for the still-bleeding wound in my arm. A bowl of hot porridge sprinkled with sugar and a cup of tea. A door, old and worn, that turned out to lead to a cellar. It was charmed, Lady Winter explained, to open only to those with the counter-spell, like the Illusion with less glamour. It was a relic of the very earliest foundations of the house, constructed during the English Civil War, when not all the Families were on the same side and there was frequently need to hide some mages from others. If I stayed down there, only those who already knew the room was there would ever find it—which did not include anyone presently on the Board. The Winters were a small family and had always kept to themselves.

"I'll tell your family where you are," Lady Winter promised, before she closed the door. "They'll be very glad to hear you're safe."

I nodded faintly. The world was swimming in and out of focus, and I was shivering even after the bath and warm clothes. "Thank you," I managed. "I'm so sorry to put you at risk like this. If the Board found me here—"

She laughed bitterly. "The Board have been getting away with far too much for far too long, Clover. If I can help them not get away with this, believe me, the risk is welcome. Now lie down."

I barely heard her. There was a small camp bed made up down there, sagging precariously under the weight of thick quilts and pillows. I curled up under them, burrowing into their warmth, and fell as immediately and deeply asleep as though I'd been hit with a brick. My last, vague thought was that I didn't care if the Families found me now. I had done my best.

The rap of knuckles on the door must have woken me, although I was barely aware of it. My dreams had been of faerie doors and rattling engines and spells flying overhead. I came out of them bolt upright on the bed, heart hammering, hand poised and a spell on the tip of my tongue. I had never been in a fight, but I had a degree in magic. I knew how to throw fire, I knew how to freeze water, I knew how to send pain shooting through nerves. If they wanted to take me, I wouldn't make it easy.

"Clove?" The voice was so familiar that my body relaxed before my mind caught up. "It's Matthew. Let me in."

I'll tell your family where you are. I cursed as the memory of where I was settled around me, and Lady Winter's words came back with it. I should have told her not to let them come to me, whatever it took. My resignation of the night before had melted away with the morning, and all my fears had come crashing back in its place. All the Families in England if not beyond were looking for me, and now apparently for Matthew too. He couldn't be here.

The knock came again. I disentangled myself from the quilt, wincing, every ache and throb of the last day and night blossoming painfully along my legs and back. My feet were swollen and blistered; I gave up any hope of hobbling up the stairs and opened the cellar door with a twist of my fingers.

My brother came down quickly, two stairs at a time, his brow creased with concern. He stopped when he saw me and looked me up and down.

"Well," he said conversationally, "you look like death warmed over."

"Oh, thanks very much," I retorted. It was the best I could do, under the circumstances, with the familiar sight of him bringing a lump to my throat. Even now, part of me still believed he could protect me, and in that moment I ached to be protected. I folded my arms tightly against it and forced steel into my voice. "What do you think you're doing here, Matty? It's not safe."

His eyebrows raised. "Thank you very much yourself. Remind me again, of the two of us, which one spent their youth at the front and which one spent it at a magic school for young toffs?"

"That's exactly why I'm the one—"

"Aunt Clover?" a small voice from the top of the stairs cut me off. A small head peeked around the door—a fair head, with the Hill family eyebrows above wide blue eyes.

"Come on down, Rosie," Matthew called. "It's safe."

I shot Matthew a look, part fury and part bewilderment, which he returned with the wide-eyed innocence he knew always got up my nose. Regrettably, I couldn't kill him in front of a child. Instead, I bent down and held out my arms to the little girl in the gingham dress, pulling on my old role as the interesting aunt who definitely did not have the forces of the magical world trying to kill her.

"Hello, Rose!" Her little body was warm in my arms; I breathed in the scent of her fine hair, soap and smoke and the fresh air from outside, and the terrible pressure in my chest eased. "Gosh, you've got so big!"

"I was seven in April," she informed me, as though I could forget—as though, in fact, I hadn't sent her a book of fairy tales, an oversized box of chocolates, and a pen enchanted to write in whatever coloured ink she was imagining. I had meant to visit, but the day had coincided with a three-week research trip I was taking to Rome, so I'd promised to see her again in the summer.

I was meant to present that research at a seminar this weekend. The thought cudgelled me out of nowhere. My paper was sitting on my desk, fully written. The Guards probably had it now, along with everything else in my small, neat office and my crooked little bedroom overlooking the quadrangle. I had missed my lecture yesterday, the one I had been driving home to prepare for, and I might never give another one at Camford again.

"Well, that explains it." I don't think my voice wobbled. "Seven's a big age."

"Rose, love, how about you go look for a new book in Lady Winter's library?" Matthew suggested, as Rose opened her mouth to reply. "Your aunt and I need to talk for a bit."

"I'll see you soon," I promised her, and she nodded, disappointed. I waited until she reached the top of the stairs (she stopped and blew me a kiss, which I caught and returned), then turned back to Matthew.

I meant to go on scolding him for coming, for bringing her, for anything. I meant to push him as far from me as I could, back out to the edges of safety. But fear and grief and the clasp of Rose's tiny hands around my neck had dissolved any steel I'd managed to summon. I caught Matthew's eye, and in one stroke I forgot that I was a grown woman and a mage who could handle things herself, I forgot that this was all my fault and I had already put him in far too much danger. All I could think was how glad I was to see him.

He must have seen it, because he softened too. "Come here," he said gently, and I clung to him as I had the day he came home from war. His arms were stronger and surer now, and his coat carried with it the comforting home smell of hay and dirt and spring rain.

"All right?" he asked, as we pulled apart.

I found a deep, steadying breath and nodded. "I'm fine, honestly. What about you? Where are you hiding?"

"Not far away. We got into the woods for the night—remember that old hut we found when we were little? Rose was a bit bewildered, but she did well. In the morning I came to Lady Winter to find out if you were safe. We're in an old labourer's cottage out on the edge of the estate for now—it's been empty since Lord Winter died. Nobody's come looking again—at the moment they're more worried about you and Hero. Clover, what the hell were you thinking all those years ago?" Now that he knew I was safe, his voice was growing serious. "Surely you knew better than to go messing with the fae?"

"I know." I sat back down on the bed, cold once more. He was right. We had all known better. "I'm sorry."

"I knew something was wrong back then. I just didn't want to ask. Just what did that spell cost? Nobody got hurt, did they?"

Gerald Drake. Charles Perowne. I hadn't thought of those names in years—I couldn't. I couldn't name them now. I didn't need to—Matthew read my face and swore quietly.

"Great. And it's my fault."

"No!" I was startled into speech. "I opened the door, not you."

"You did it for me. That makes it my fault."

"Oh, shut up." I admired my brother's willingness to take burdens on himself, truly, but sometimes it got on my nerves. "I wasn't a child, Matty. I was old enough to make my own choices. Besides… it wasn't all for you, not really. That was just what I told myself, to give myself the excuse. I wanted to see for myself if it worked. I wanted to be the one who made it work." I fumbled for words in the dark, and found only his own. "I was sick of pretending everything was fine since the war too. I didn't just want to fix you. I wanted to fix everything."

He made a noise that might have been a sigh or a laugh. "Well, you didn't do a great job, I have to say."

I didn't have a chance to reply. A soft knock, and Lady Winter was coming down the stairs.

"No trace of any Guards this morning," she said to me without preamble. Her dress and hair were unchanged from the night before, both slightly rumpled, and I knew she had been watching all night. Yet she didn't look tired. She had the firm, brisk energy of a commander on a battlefield. "The morning papers arrived, though."

They landed beside me on the bed with a slap, face-up. A grainy photograph taken at a conference last May, my face very round and the glint on my glasses obscuring my eyes. Scholarship Witch Still Evades Capture. I tried to open my mouth, to make some light remark about how the journalism in the Practitioner got more sensationalist every day. I couldn't. I felt sick. I hadn't been called a scholarship witch in a long time.

"Those bastards," Matthew said softly. "I'm sorry, Clover."

"You'll be safe enough here for now." If Lady Winter objected to Matthew's language, she made no sign. "They'll hesitate to intrude here, on a Family house, without cause. I'm Family by marriage only in their eyes, though, and foreign to boot. They'll find cause soon enough, and the spells around this cellar won't hold against everything."

"I just can't make sense of any of it." I took off my glasses to rub my eyes, hoping it looked like weariness and not the dashing away of tears it was. "Hero did know better than to mess with the fae. She only did it years ago because the door was right there, and Alden and I persuaded her it was safe. I can't think what would possess her to do it now, when it means tearing down the veil between worlds. What deal could be that important? Matthew, did Sam give you any hints when he spoke to you?"

"Not about Hero. And he didn't speak to me, exactly." He caught my questioning look and sighed. "The evening before last, about when we were heading to bed, there was a rapping sound at the window. Outside there was a large black bird—a raven. There was a note wrapped to its leg. I thought it might be from you."

I had sent a raven to Rose once or twice, just because I thought it would be more fun for her than a telegram. She loved birds. But that evening I had been running—or at least walking—for my life. "It was from Sam?"

"First time I've heard from him in ten years. It said something about a German ambassador being killed by a faerie curse, and that the Families wanted me back in their custody. It said to take Rose, just in case, and be gone by the time they arrived. That was it."

It took me longer than it should to work out what my attention had snagged on. When I did, everything stopped.

"Wait—the German ambassador was killed by a faerie curse?" Beside me, I heard Lady Winter's breath catch. "Are you sure?"

He raised his eyebrows. "It's the sort of thing I'd remember, isn't it? Considering?"

"Do you have the note with you?"

"I remember what it said. Lord Beresford was killed by a faerie curse. The same one that…" He shifted, uncomfortable, and his eyes flickered away. "Well. You know."

There was only one that Matthew wouldn't want to talk about. "The same one you survived. The curse from Amiens."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That one. Is it important?"

It was more than important. It changed everything.

Human mages, however talented, couldn't perform faerie curses.

"It isn't her," I said. Hearing my own words didn't seem real. It was as though the bottom had fallen off the world, and everything was drifting. "Hero. It's the faerie. The one who tried to break through at Ashfield."

Lady Winter nodded very slowly. "The faerie from Amiens. It's here."

I felt rather than saw Matthew tense, freeze, the terrible involuntary stillness of a rabbit when a hawk screams down from the sky.

"I closed the door." My own voice seemed to be coming from very far away. "That night at Ashfield—I know I closed the door."

"It's been many years since then," Lady Winter reminded me. "There may have been other open doors, like the one at Ashfield. There are any number of ways it could have broken through."

It was true, I realised as my panic ebbed enough to think. After all, I had been the one standing in that circle at Ashfield—if it had broken through then, it would have taken me, not Hero. Besides, it had been eight years since then. Faeries stole bodies, and sometimes even pretended to be those people, for short bursts of time, not for eight years. It must have come through another door, perhaps only the same night that Lord Beresford had been murdered.

But if there was another open door, then why was the dryad going to such lengths to break the locks that separated our world from faerie country? Why, for that matter, had it spent so many years trying to come through at all, when it clearly had none of the usual faerie interest in experiencing the human form? We never had found out what its plans were, only that it would step over any number of broken bodies to fulfill them.

Now it had taken Hero. I thought of that terrible winged shape, silver birch twisting into a crown on top of its head, and my insides turned to water. Whatever had happened, it was the fault of that night somehow. Ashfield had loomed in my memory too long for me to shake the conviction that everything came back to it.

Another thought came to me, almost as unwelcome. "Alden said the Board didn't know how Lord Beresford died," I said slowly. "Matthew, what time did the raven come from Sam?"

Belatedly, I looked across at Matthew. He hadn't moved; I'm not sure he had released the breath he had drawn at the mention of Amiens. His face had the frightening remoteness I had once thought was part of the curse and now knew was just how men of his age looked sometimes when a nightmare came on them without warning in broad daylight. I hadn't seen it in a long time.

"Matty?"

He blinked; I saw him drag himself back with the convulsive shiver of someone coming up from deep water. "I'm here. I'm listening. I just…" He drew a breath, released it. "The raven… It would have been half past eight, maybe, no later. The sun was still setting. Why?"

It would take a raven a few hours to get to Pendle Hill. I had been sitting in front of Alden at seven o'clock that evening.

"Alden knew." I heard myself sounding far, far too calm. "He must have. He's minister for magical enforcement. If Sam knew in time to send that raven, then Alden knew by the time I came to him. He sat there, he talked to me about Hero and why she might have committed murder, and he never told me it wasn't her at all. He lied to me."

"He's lied to everyone," Lady Winter said. "Or at least the Board has. There's nothing in the paper about a faerie curse. The story is that Lady Beresford is acting upon her own free will. I don't like that. They should have no reason to hide that information."

"Perhaps they don't want to panic the Families?"

"Perhaps." She sounded doubtful. "Even if that's the only reason, it makes things very dangerous for you. If the Board truly are trying to keep a faerie incursion secret, this is a good deal bigger than Lennox-Fontaine trying to protect his career, and they'll look that much harder. I doubt you'll be safe here another night. You need to leave."

"Where? Where is she supposed to go—my lady?" Matthew added belatedly. "They're wizards. They'll find her."

"Your sister is a witch," Lady Winter reminded him. "They won't have an easy job of it. As for where she's supposed to go—Clover? I assume you have a plan?"

Until then I would have said it was less a plan than a growing conviction about what I had to do and a doubt whether I could do it. Lady Winter's calm assumption of my competence steadied me, as perhaps she intended. I forced myself to concentrate, to think about this academically, the way I'd test a new hypothesis. Whatever had happened to Hero—whenever and however it had happened—I couldn't help her if I didn't keep my head.

"I do." The headlines in the paper were still glaring up from the bed. I turned them over without looking at them. No distractions. "I need to find Eddie."

I had told Lady Winter of Eddie's involvement; it couldn't have been a surprise to her. Still, she looked troubled. "Nobody's seen Edmund Gaskell for years. Do you know where he is?"

"The last I heard, he was staying in one of his family's cottages somewhere in Scotland." That had been from Alden, but I doubted it was a lie. There would have been little point, and being caught out would have only made me suspicious of what else he was lying about. "He knows more about dryads than anyone I know. Perhaps he can work out what this one might want, and how it might be bargained with. At the very least, I have to warn him that he might be in danger. I have to tell him about Alden, and about Hero."

"And then what?"

"Then I need to find Hero." It came as simply and naturally as anything I'd ever said. "I need to stop her before she—before the faerie inside her—achieves whatever it's set out to do."

"It sounds like Alden and the Families have every intention of doing that themselves," Matthew said. His arms were folded, as they often were when he was thinking harder about something than he was pretending. In this case, I think he was also keeping himself together. "Why do you need to volunteer?"

"Because they'll kill her," I said bluntly. "She's in terrible trouble, and it's my fault. However that thing got inside her, at the very least she never would have met it if not for me. She trusted my judgement, and I let her down. I need to save her."

"Clove…" His own voice had the same calm I forced into mine only moments ago, and I suspected it came at even greater cost. "Listen to me. You don't understand what these people can be like. I learned when I first met them what they'll do to keep their secrets. You've been living with them for years, but you've never stood against them."

"Well, then I have the advantage." I heard Hero's ringing bravado in my own voice. "They don't know what to expect."

Normally that would have made him at least smile. This time, he only shook his head, frustrated.

"It isn't only the Families. I—" I watched him pause, gather himself, forge ahead. "I've seen that thing face-to-face, you know. I saw it murder an entire battalion. I watched those men go down beside me, screaming, their flesh turning to wood, until their hearts stopped and they died in no-man's-land. I heard it whisper to me every night for years, and when the curse had me, I knew what it was saying. Whatever this faerie wants, it's not like the ones you tell Rose stories about, the meddlers and mischief-makers, the ones who think bargaining with humans is a game. It hates us. If it sees you, it will kill you without a thought."

In all the years since he'd been home, Matthew had never once told me anything like that. I had seen the way his mind swerved from those years, like a car on an icy road. It was true what I had told Alden: Matthew was doing well, more than well. The splinter left in his shoulder that still troubled me didn't seem to bother him, the midnight enchantments had stopped, his body had gained weight and muscle and his face had lost its constant tension. The farm was surviving, the family were thriving. I had broken the curse. But I hadn't fixed him, as he'd accused me of trying to do. Like so many of his generation, he had seen and done too many things, things that ran deeper than curses, things that had broken his world and put it back together a different shape, and the only way he lived with them was by keeping them in the dark and refusing to look. If he was dragging them out now, for my sake, then I had better listen.

"I know," I said, when I could trust my voice. "Or at least, I can't know, but—I believe you. But, Matty, can't you see that all that is exactly why I need to fight back? You saw how dangerous that faerie was on the battlefield, how much it wants us all dead. Hero has it in her head . It's trapped her in her own body. You of all people must be able to imagine what that's like."

He started to speak, then stopped. I saw his eyes flicker, toward me then away, as he turned my words over in his mind.

"Edmund Gaskell, at least, I can help you with, if what you've been told is true," Lady Winter said into the silence. "I know where that cottage in Scotland is. It came from my husband's family—it went to the Gaskells when his great-aunt Camilla married in. It's in the Highlands—I can find you the exact address."

Relief washed over me. At least Lady Winter thought I was doing the right thing. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me—thank the way Families interbreed. You can thank me for this next part, though. Tell me, have you ever flown a broomstick?"

I shook my head, taken aback.

Her lips twitched. "Well. I have some clothes for you to change into. When you're ready, meet me in the orchard. Mr. Hill, you might want to bring Rose. She'll want to see this."

I had seen broomsticks before. They had been in fashion last century, and some of the older lecturers at Camford still favoured them. We would see them propped up outside lecture theatres occasionally; at Ashfield, one unusually showery day spent exploring the attic, the four of us had found an old broom belonging to Alden's great-grandfather, although we couldn't get the flight spell to work. Eddie had had one as a child, at his own house. Hero used to laugh about them affectionately, the way I might at our old fat Shetland or the plough my father had used before we'd bought the tractor.

The broomstick Lady Winter gave me felt no different than the one I had used often at home to sweep the floor: the handle thin and cracked, the brush a thick bundle of fibres clogged with dust. And yet with a word and gesture, it came alive in my hand. The broom was suddenly lighter, supporting itself rather than supported by me, and it hummed with repressed energy: the difference between touching a twig on the ground and a living branch. My blood quickened in response. Just for a moment, the grip of dread clutching my stomach loosened.

"Try it," Lady Winter said. "It should respond to the slightest pressure of your hands, as a horse might."

The farm horse had never listened to a word I said, but I didn't say so. This, in the midst of all the confusion and guilt and fear, was something I could learn. It was magic . My brain snatched at it, and my hands grabbed the handle. I straddled the broomstick and kicked off.

I understood now why Lady Winter had told us to meet her outside in the orchard. The broom rose gently into the air, and I rose with it, not perched on it precariously as I'd feared but part of it. It was exhilarating. The trees above screened us from any prying eyes, even had there been anyone to pry. The broom and I made three great wobbly circles of the garden, at first with my toes skimming the top of the grass and then increasingly higher as my confidence grew. I wove through the trees, narrowly missing a branch, and thrilled at the cool breeze on my face and the sunlight overhead. I'd thought my car was freeing. This was the same freedom, the same impossible speeds, but with the encasement of metal fallen away, just the broom beneath me and the magic in my blood. I couldn't imagine why it had fallen out of favour with the modern world.

Down below, Rose and Matthew watched, Matthew sceptical and little Rose's face alight with wonder.

"Can I try next?" she begged, as I landed with a slight bump and stumble on the ground. "Please?"

"When you're older," Matthew said, on reflex. He was still unhappy, I could tell, but he was pulling together a good impression of himself for Rose's sake. Lady Winter had been wise to suggest he fetch her. "Are you sure about this, Clove? You can always borrow the motorcycle."

"Does it work now?" I asked, still breathless from the ride. Despite everything, I had to fight the wild desire to laugh.

"'Course it does! Well, usually. With a good kick or two."

I made a face at him. "I'll take this, thank you. We know they found me on the road last time, anyway. This way I can stick to the trees and hedges and stay out of sight. Are you sure I can borrow it, Lady Winter?"

"I'm not likely to use it again." Lady Winter hefted the broomstick in one hand and gave it an affectionate spin. "Everyone rode these when I was at Camford—though already a good bicycle was faster and more comfortable, especially when you applied a few judicious spells to make the wheels spin without the aid of your legs. Then motorcars began to creep in shortly before the war, and they were all the rage. The convenience and the comfort—and groups could travel together. Brooms are thoroughly out of fashion these days."

"I'm not surprised," Matthew said. "I don't mean any offence, but I wouldn't like to perch on that. I'm surprised those Family gentlemen ever produced any heirs at all."

I definitely snorted that time.

"Ignore your brother," Lady Winter said sternly. "The broom will take care of you. It won't be able to take you to France, unfortunately—the flight spell can't cross large bodies of water—but it will get you to Scotland."

Scotland. France. London. I'd been so focused on Hero, on the dangers and the stakes, that I'd forgotten the sheer enormity of the distances involved. My exhilaration faded. "I don't even know where the lock in Paris is."

"Ah. Eddie Gaskell might be able to help with that, in fact. The Gaskells have relatives on the Conseil—the French Board. Tell him to call in a favour with a second cousin or something."

I nodded.

"In the meantime," Lady Winter added, "I'll see if I can reach Sam Wells. Clearly, he knows more about what's going on than most. He wouldn't take my call this morning, but let's see how long that lasts. He owes me a favour, after he called me up out of the blue all those years ago and asked me to educate you."

I hugged her, on impulse, the way I had never dared before. "Thank you," I said. "Not just for the broom. I know the risk you're taking, and I don't know how I can—"

"I'm not only helping you," Lady Winter interrupted. For the first time that morning, her brisk cool melted, enough to glimpse something dark and furious lurking beneath the surface. "I am fond of you, Clover, and of course I want you to be safe. But this is more important than your safety alone. Do you know why I attended Camford? Because the British Raj is rife with the younger sons of English Families, and my father saw the best way forward was for us to ingratiate ourselves with them. I was bright and reasonably attractive and of good blood, as these things are judged by the Families, so my father pulled strings for me to go to England and study at Camford in the hope that I could meet and marry an English lord. It was not my reason for going. I wanted to gain an education in magic that I could bring home and use to help my own country, and a British one would carry more weight over there than one from an Indian university. I was there for three years. I studied hard, I did well, I endured all the sneers that came my way, and because I had powerful patrons, no real harm came to me. But it wore me down, in the end. I met William, soon to be Lord Winter, and let myself do what my father wanted and marry him. I don't regret that. We were happy together, truly, until he died in the mud in the Somme, and he made certain I had money and independence after his death. I do regret that I didn't stay at Camford longer, and that I didn't go home as I intended. I regret most of all that all the time I've been here, the British held my people in a tight and bloody grip, and every time they've tried to wriggle free, that grip has squeezed even tighter and thousands have died while I've done nothing."

I must have looked about to speak, though I'm not sure what I would have said, because she raised a hand.

"I don't mean to give you a lecture. Suffice it to say, the English Families and those on the Board of Magical Regulation in particular are steeped in lies, and I would prefer they not get away with this one. Particularly as it seems likely to result in a faerie breaking down the barriers between worlds."

Lady Winter had tried to warn me, obliquely, about her time at Camford. As a girl I hadn't listened, focused on my own studies and experiences. I remembered now the faint tension in her eyes as she'd wished me well there, the mingled relief and disappointment as she'd looked me up and down when I'd returned and observed that it seemed to suit me. I remembered the bitterness that had always been in Matthew's voice when he'd spoken of the Families, who had kept him for several long months as they argued whether he should live or die or be locked up forever to keep their secret safe. I remembered that Sam's worry when he asked after Matthew was based on very real dangers, and the fae had always been the least of it. I was beginning to feel as though I'd walked through Camford blinkered, and the worst part was that those blinkers had been worn willingly. I thought I'd been accepted there as long as I didn't look at it too hard. And yet when it came to it, a single word from Alden and it had all fallen away.

Matthew nodded slowly, as though accepting an answer to a question he hadn't asked. "Leave Sam to me," he said abruptly. "I'll talk to him. He's in London, isn't he?"

"You can't go to London!" I protested, alarmed. "The Board are looking for you!"

"Well, they won't be looking for me in London. Rose, you don't mind staying with Lady Winter for a few days, do you?"

I shook my head at the same time as Rose. "If Hero breaks the lock in Paris, she's coming to London next. You'll be face-to-face with that thing."

"As far as I know, I'm still the only one in this room to have faced this thing in battle."

"You were struck by a fatal curse."

"But I didn't die," he countered.

I growled, frustrated, and the first smile I'd seen since the mention of Amiens twitched his mouth.

"Let me help," he added, more seriously. "I can't promise Sam will talk to me either. Until that raven, I hadn't heard from him in years. But if he broke the rules for me that time, he might do it again. I'll do my best. You were right, you know." He looked at Lady Winter. "You both are. I can imagine what having that thing in your head must be like—I've had it there myself. And the Families shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. Not this time."

"All right." I had to swallow very hard. "Thank you."

I left Pendle Hill behind within the hour, broomstick laden with saddlebags of food and warm clothing, goodbyes from Lady Winter and Matthew and Rose echoing in my ears. I tried not to wonder if I would ever see it again.

The Gaskells' Scottish cottage was some three hundred and fifty miles north, and though a broom felt very fast skimming the air with the wind in my face, it would still take an inexperienced rider like me the better part of a day to get there. Over the hours, the joy of soaring above the great curves and contours of the Lancashire countryside was eroded by monotony and discomfort. My muscles, still sore from the day before, began to cramp painfully with the effort of holding the same position, and the wound in my arm throbbed under its dressing. Worst of all, the broom required concentration. Every time my attention began to drift, I would take a quick nosedive into the grass, and come up cursing and brushing uselessly at grass stains on Lady Winter's dress.

My attention drifted often, unsurprisingly. I was far better off than I had been the night I escaped London—then, I had simply been fleeing, frightened and confused, trudging in the dark with no plan and no clear path forward. Now I was at least headed toward something. I could tell myself that Hero needed my help; I could steel myself with the reminder that all this was my fault and I had to set it right. Yet the enormity of it kept intruding, and with it sickening flashes of what Hero was living through every minute while the Board tried to kill her. It hadn't truly sunk in yet—I wouldn't let it—but it pressed its barbs to my mind and stabbed.

As the skies deepened to late afternoon, I landed close to a small village. It was the closest hub of civilisation to the Gaskell cottage, some ten miles away, and I wanted to find an evening paper—it would be an ordinary paper, not the Practitioner , but I wanted to see if I could glean anything about Hero's activities nonetheless. I also, I had to admit, longed to step into a shop and get something hot to eat and drink. I couldn't guarantee that Eddie's place would be safe, and I was almost too stiff and cold to walk. I tried a simple cantrip to shrink my broom to concealable size, and to my relief it folded to the length of my forearm—small enough to fit into my satchel.

I never got to eat. I found a small newsagent, where I paid for a newspaper and leafed through it quickly. The photograph on the second page was so familiar it took a moment for it to settle into my brain. When it did, my heart chilled.

It was me. Me, except according to this paper I was a dangerous poisoner who had killed two men and was wanted by the police. Except that the picture, which was from a conference, was now claimed to be at the village school where I taught. Except that the number the public were supposed to contact would doubtless take them straight to the Board of Magical Regulation.

It was no longer the magical world that was looking for me. It was everyone. My name glaring up from that perfectly mundane newspaper gave everything a horrible new layer of reality. Even now, somebody could look idly up from reading the evening news, see me, and freeze.

It was at that moment that I saw the car outside. A large, dark green monster, parked by the side of the road. The driver stood beside it, a red-haired man my own age, smoking a pipe. It could have been anybody, just passing through on business. Except that I knew him. It was Justin Abbott, from my undergraduate class. The last I heard, he had gone into the Guards.

I left quietly, straight-backed, not too quickly, my legs trembling now not from weariness but from fighting the urge to run. My hands shook as I mounted my broom once more and kicked off into the darkening skies.

There were no cars around the Gaskell cottage for miles, at least. There was only one road through the hills, and that was narrow and winding, built for horses rather than motorcars. The cottage itself was smaller than I had expected, a grey stone house like my family's, perched at the top of a steep hill overlooking a deep blue loch. It was so enclosed by trees that I almost flew past it, though to be fair that was partly my own fault. It was late evening by then, and with the long journey and the prolonged mental strain of keeping the broom in the air, I was desperately tired. I understood now why motorcars and motorcycles and even bicycles had taken over bloody broomsticks. I never wanted to see one again as long as I lived.

I landed the broom amidst the thick woodland, just out of sight of the house. It was cold now, with an evening bite in the air, and my legs and arms had locked painfully around the broom; when I straightened, it was with an involuntary groan as my back spasmed. I stretched my shoulders and tried very hard not to think of my armchair by the fire at Camford, the dinner being served in the dining hall this very minute. I needed to focus.

The difficult thing was finding a way to talk to Eddie without attracting anyone's attention. The Guards were bound to have called on him. The fact they were in the village so near was not a good sign. There would probably be others in the cottage—if not Family, then certainly a gardener and a servant or two. I wondered, vaguely, about working out what room was his, waiting until he'd gone to bed, and flicking a pebble at his window. At least he went to bed early—or had when I had known him.

That, of course, was if Eddie even wanted to see me. We had parted on strange terms, a long time ago. And I had dragged him into enough trouble already.

God, what was I doing here? How on earth did I think I could find Hero and chase the faerie from her body when I couldn't even find a way to knock on a door?

I was still standing there, fighting the urge to burst into tears like a three-year-old, when a small dog came barrelling out of the undergrowth.

If I wasn't a former farm girl and well past being scared of anything short of another biplane right now, I would probably have panicked. It was a scrappy little fox terrier, barking at the top of its lungs—not only could it draw attention to me, but from the flash of its teeth, it was more than inclined to bite. As it was, I stood still and folded my arms, firm, not aggressive, as if it were a neighbour's working dog.

"Down!" I ordered.

"Scruff!" I heard the call, the whistle, and then a man strode into the clearing.

I think we were both just as surprised to see each other. Certainly we both started, stopped, stared. I must have looked a sight: a bespectacled woman, bedraggled hair and an old-fashioned white dress stained with grass, holding what was undeniably a broomstick. He looked, quite frankly, as though he'd strolled forth from a John Constable painting. A strong-figured man about my age, dressed in work clothes and a broad-brimmed hat that half hid dark curls. Just a groundsman or a gardener of some kind, really, no different to some of the lads I'd grown up with at home. At Pendle Hill I would have passed him working in the fields with barely a glance, and he would have done the same to me. In the clearing, in the fading light, I think we both believed the other a figure from a dream.

The man recovered first. "Excuse me," he said, and I heard the Yorkshire lilt to his voice. The dog ran back to his heels, tail wagging, and he crouched down to ruffle its ears absently. "You wouldn't happen to be Dr. Hill, would you?"

I hesitated, but took a chance. It was unlikely that a Guard, whose members were selected from the best Families, would have such a regional dialect. And I knew only one Yorkshireman in this part of the world. "I am. Well, Miss Hill, technically. Clover. I'm not submitting until October."

The man's face relaxed into a surprisingly boyish smile. "Ah! I thought so. I'm Richard Sutcliffe. Would you be looking for Eddie? He thought you might drop by, though he was expecting you to come by road. I can show you in, if you'd like. You look like you could use a cup of tea."

I knew now he was a real person. But in that moment, he was more dreamlike than ever.

"Please," I said faintly.