

THE THEA HARTSONG CHRONICLES - BOOK ONE

BELTANE

Thea Hartsong

© Copyright Thea Hartsong 2013.

Smashwords edition

For B, D, M, & T with love always.

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Chapter 1 A beginning.

One thing was obvious. Something had gone horribly wrong.

The acrid smell of burned-out electrical circuitry hung in the air as the man struggled to sit up. His ears were ringing, his head spinning, and he felt sure that he was going to be sick. Trying to force his eyes to open was a big mistake; it only made the feeling of nausea worse, and scared him half to death because instead of the moonlit forest glade all he could see was a patch of flickering white light.

After a few terrible moments when he felt certain he'd never being able to see again, he slowly began to be able to make out some blurred shapes, and eventually to see what had happened to the camp site. It was a complete disaster area.

The tent looked as though it had been torn to bits by some sort of tropical hurricane, though that was hardly likely on a gentle English spring evening without even a breath of wind. Pieces of canvas were strewn across the clearing, and one of the tent poles was impaled in the trunk of a tree. Two guy ropes hung loosely from it, and a single tent peg dangled almost comically swinging to and fro about six feet above the ground.

Shifting slowly onto his knees, he found himself struggling to remember what he was supposed to be doing here in the middle of the forest so late at night. Wasn't he meant to be filming something? If so, where was the camera?

When he eventually found it, at the edge of the still, dark, pool of water in the center of the glade, it looked as though it had melted. Its tripod was twisted sideways about forty- five degrees, and the video tape lay strewn across the ground in tangled knots like the entrails of some great beast.

Whatever had happened, whatever he'd been trying to film, there would be no record of it now. He stood for a moment staring out into the night uncertain what to do next. Then something caught his eye, something that changed everything. A tiny red recording light was blinking at him from the other side of the pool.

He was just about to set off towards it when a bubbling sound from the water in front of him made him stop in his tracks. He looked down; a broad ripple was moving swiftly outwards from the center of the pool towards the shore.

There was something there...in the water... a soft golden colored glow, deep down beneath the surface began spreading rapidly until it filled the pool completely making it glisten, and gleam, as if the whole thing were filled with liquid gold.

He only put his hands in front of his eyes for a moment to protect them against the sudden glare, but when he opened them again he could barely believe what he was seeing.

The forest glade had been deserted before, but now the figure of a tall man, whose face seemed strangely familiar, stood solidly in the middle of the clearing. His sandy-colored shoulder- length hair was soaking wet and lay plastered to his skull in strands, and his drenched clothes dripped water onto the dry earth in a steady trickle. But it was what he carried nestled in his arms so tenderly that was so strange, so surprising... and so out of place.

Wrapped in what looked like a tangle of pond-weed, its hands clenched in tight fists, was a tiny newborn baby.

Chapter 2. The threads are woven

My name is Thea Hartsong. If you recognize my name from the newspapers or TV please _don't_ stop reading...I didn't do what they say I did, _I promise_.

Everything you are going to read here is the truth. What I didn't experience for myself at first hand I figured out later from what other people said to me, or from surfing the web. I can't tell you exactly where I am right now for obvious reasons, though not only because I'm wanted by the police. There are other reasons too, ones you'll understand if you finish reading my whole story.

The only problem, of course, is that I'm crazy. Officially. It's a matter of public record. Look it up if you want to, if you haven't already that is. I'm willing to bet every little intimate detail of my private life, not to mention my full medical history, has been smeared across the pages of the newspapers and the Internet for months. So, you see, there's a strong possibility that everything I'm going to tell you has been conjured up out of nothing by my sick mind.

To be perfectly honest I can't really say for sure that it hasn't, I just don't _think_ it has. I remember this T shirt I saw someone wearing once in Greenwich Village which said, 'just because you're paranoid it doesn't mean they're _not_ out to get you!' I think that's basically my philosophy right now.

Well, there it is, take it or leave it. Read this post or delete it, believe it or don't believe it. I'll leave it up to you to decide. At least if you've got this far then there's a sliver of a chance that you might carry on and read the whole story, figure out I'm not completely out to lunch, and act on the warning my words contain.

It's important, _really_ important that _somebody_ does. Not just for me, but for everyone, everywhere. For the future of our entire planet.

So, I expect you're wondering how it all began. I used to think for a while that if I hadn't slapped Sadie Adams face during recess none of this would have happened to me, that I could have had a regular life with nice, safe, ordinary everyday problems like everybody else. Of course I know now what a joke that is.

It's strange how once a step has been taken it becomes part of the past; fixed, inevitable. A simple movement of the arm and wrist, or failing to press your foot down on a brake pedal in time, and everything can change. I don't know if I believe in fate completely, but whenever something happens to me which I didn't see coming I can't help thinking of the ancient Norse legend about the women who sit around the roots of the world tree spinning our destinies. The Norns.

We don't know where the threads lead and we can't break them. The most we can do is try to stretch them, or to try to persuade the spinners to extend them a little further. Wyrd bið ful aræd as they say in Anglo Saxon, fate is inexorable.

You'll have to forgive me, I'm a bit of a languages geek. I love words. I've been hooked on myths and legends since my dad gave me a children's version of the Icelandic Sagas, the ancient tales of Gods, Giants, and Heroes, which mix up magic and mythology with the true history of the Vikings, for my tenth birthday _._

I was planning to study medieval literature at university one day, though I guess that's never going to happen now. Life has taken me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me down a different path, a path that has blown everything I thought I knew about the world to smithereens, and one which is a long way from over yet.

Up until recently I'd always thought I was a pretty ordinary sort of girl, average height, average looks, except for a pair of startlingly green eyes which everybody tells me are my best feature. I'd always flattered myself that I was smarter than the majority of people though as it turns out it seems I'm nowhere near as smart as I'd imagined. Cap the whole thing off with a mop of curly red hair that just won't obey any instructions whatsoever, and a figure that goes straight up and down a bit like a boy's and you've pretty much got me.

Personality-wise I've always been a bit of a loner. I'm the girl who spends most of her time in the library. It's not because I can't make friends, I'm just happier with books I guess. If I wanted to analyze what it comes down to I think I'd say that I've just always felt a bit out of place. Square peg in round hole so to speak.

Even so, my life was like anybody else's right up to the point at which my dad died, just days before my sixteenth birthday. That was the real turning point, what the Greeks call 'peripeteia', a reversal of fortune, when all the bad stuff began.

I really loved my dad. Most daughters do I know that, but our relationship was especially close. He drove me crazy on occasion, and there were plenty of things about him which were far from perfect, leaving his toenail clippings in the bath for example; gross! It's just that for most of my life there was just me and him.

Mom died giving birth to me, and dad was the one who got to read me bedtime stories and hold my hand until I went to sleep, listen to me sawing away at a violin, take me to riding lessons and swimming, collect me from sleepovers, bandage my bruised knees, and eventually my bruised heart when I started to get interested in boys.

It's going to sound strange, but I knew it was going to happen, the car crash I mean. I had a really vivid dream about it the night before. He drove off a bridge into a river in upstate New York; the weather was pretty bad apparently. They said they thought that he got disoriented, lost control, which is pretty much what happened to me afterwards. I blamed myself, of course, for not telling him, not stopping him from getting into the car. Bouts of anger and depression made me want to lash out at everybody one minute, then the next I'd want to sit in my room in pitch darkness and blank out the world completely.

I started suffering from insomnia, which was all very well until the daytime hallucinations kicked in. I was seeing all sorts of weird stuff. You name it, from winged horses to two-headed ogres. I even had little people talking to me for a while until they finally put me on the anti-psychotic pills I call my head zappers. I have to take them every morning to keep me on the level.

It probably seems like I'm making light of the whole thing, though I can promise you it was horrible. Imagine what it would be like not to know what's real anymore.

Even with the pills I started going off the rails, behaving like a complete brat at school and at home too. I became hard to handle, and what a girlfriend of mine described rather colorfully as 'discombobulated'.

Before the Sadie Adams incident I'd been seeing a shrink off and on for about two months, to help sort out what we pretty much all agreed were 'grief issues'. He was a creep who I refused to speak to again after he tried to get me to tell him if I'd had any erotic dreams recently.

He was eventually canned by my stepmom Rebekah when I explained to her why I hadn't been to my last two sessions. She's a shrink herself, and following what she called, in her cut-glass English accent, a 'difference of opinion' during which they hurled terms like existential angst, repetition convulsion, and transference at each other she sent him packing.

Although I didn't call Rebekah mom or anything, she'd only got married to dad a couple of years before he died, she was pretty much the only person I had left in the world once he'd gone. That is except for Grampi.

Grampi was dad's father, but I'd hardly ever spent any time with him. He was what you might call 'eccentric' which is the word that people seem to use for someone who's nutty as a fruitcake but has enough money for folk not to care. Perhaps that's where I get it from. He figures the world's coming to an end, so he lives in this cabin full of canned foods and piles of ammunition up in Canada someplace.

In a way I was responsible for Rebekah and dad hooking up. She was a visiting tutor at dad's university; they got talking after a she'd attended one of his lectures and she asked him out. She was obviously interested in him but Dad wasn't even going to go until I forced him to call her.

I knew he'd been lonely looking after me on his own, and I secretly wanted him to find someone nice to date. I have to admit I was slightly thrown when they decided to get married, but what the heck. Dad was in seventh heaven and Rebekah gave me my space, she knew better than to try to throw any mother-type moves on me too soon.

The shock of dad dying brought us much closer together than we'd ever been before. I hadn't really realized how much she loved him until we both lost him. She was inconsolable for days afterwards and barely left her room. What really impressed me was how she'd stuck by me when all the practicalities were dealt with and we'd seen him buried. She didn't _have_ to carry on taking care of me; we weren't related by blood and I was practically old enough to do that for myself, headzappers aside.

The day I hit Sadie Adams Principal Dalziel forced Rebekah to come all the way from the hospital uptown where she was on call, to the school in Brooklyn to tell her that he was suspending me.

It hadn't even been a particularly hard slap, though from Sadie's reaction you'd have thought I half killed her. She threw herself onto the ground, thrashed her feet and started screaming like a banshee. Within minutes I'd found myself in the Principal's office _again_.

If you knew Sadie Adams you'd understand why I did it. She's one of those prom queen types, mean as a rattlesnake, with a nauseatingly convincing 'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' expression which she employs in the presence of any adult she happens to encounter. Unfortunately Sadie's parents got straight on the phone the minute they heard about it, and her father, a corporate lawyer, threatened to sue the school if I wasn't excluded for good.

"My hands are tied Mrs Hartsong," Principal Dalziel intoned as Rebekah listened glumly,"I'm sorry, but I'm sure you'll appreciate what a difficult position we're in."

He stood, his bald head gleaming like a bowling ball, and gestured vaguely towards the paneled door of his office as if slightly uncertain that it would still be there.

The slap actually had nothing to do with what people tended to refer to in whispers as 'my condition'. Sadie was a bully, and she had just tripped a ninth grader in the corridor so that she fell against the lockers. I didn't even mean to slap her really I was trying to grab hold of her by the hair, and mistimed it.

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse I had to face up to the fact that I was no longer welcome at Watmore Middle School, and as Rebekah led me down the steps outside the school I couldn't really say that I was sorry to be leaving.

Surprisingly Rebekah didn't even seem particularly angry about school. She told me on the way back in the car that she'd got plans for us both anyway.

When we got back to the Palace, that's our joke name for the Brooklyn Heights apartment we both shared, we'd sold the family house after dad died - too many memories - she sat me down on the couch and made us both a nice soothing cup of tea. I mentioned she was British didn't I?

While she was waiting for the pot to brew she asked me how I'd feel about moving away from Brooklyn. I thought about it for a moment and then shrugged.

"Ok. I guess," Brooklyn was where my life had always been, while on the other hand Brooklyn was where everybody knew that I was a freak who saw things and took pills.

"Where are we moving to?"

Rebekah lifted the lid to the pot and began stirring it with a tea spoon.

"The New Forest."

Having never been anywhere that wasn't Stateside I naturally assumed with a name like that she was talking about someplace in the Catskills or maybe even as far away as New England. It took a while for her to explain that she was talking about going to live in _old_ England.

"That's over three thousand miles away!" I groaned.

"I know it'll be a wrench for you. It's just that I've been offered an extremely good position in a psychiatric hospital over there. They first contacted me months ago through a firm of headhunters. I told them I wasn't interested, but they called me last week and offered me the post outright. The salary is more than generous, and it'll be a complete break from everything. It could do you a lot of good; take you away from all of the associations and triggers which have contributed to you being unwell. Besides it doesn't have to be forever, the contract's only for three years."

My eyebrows shot up at the thought of spending three years living in a country I'd never even been to before. However as Rebekah handed me my cup of tea and I took my first tentative sip, she never puts enough milk in for me, I began to see the plus side.

"Can we go to the British Library?" Rebekah blinked in surprise as she offered me the cookie tin.

"I don't see why not. There are regular trains to London. "

I took a chocolate chip cookie and dipped it into the tea, eliciting a rather satisfying pained reaction from Rebekah.

"Great!" I said, through a mouthful of soggy cookie, "they have the only known medieval manuscript of _Beowulf_ in the world. I've always wanted to see it."

Just two weeks later Rebekah and I found ourselves sitting in a jumbo jet winging our way over the Atlantic Ocean towards Great Britain. Rebekah's not a great flyer to say the least, though she won't really admit it because she doesn't think it looks good for a psychiatrist to have a phobia about flying.

I just find the whole thing boring and uncomfortable. Dad used to say 'if God had wanted man to fly he wouldn't have invented economy seating' and after nearly seven hours in the air my backside agreed.

I kept Rebekah talking most of the way across in order to distract her from the bouts of turbulence which periodically made the plane shake like Jello and turned her an interesting shade of green.

I hadn't had much time to interrogate her properly about exactly where we were going since I'd agreed to her proposal. We'd been too busy arranging a visa for me, contacting schools, and organizing for the Palace to be sub-let while we were away.

The first thing Rebekah told me about the New Forest was that it isn't new at all. I don't know a lot about Great Britain, but it didn't surprise me remotely that the English would call a place which has been there since 1066 'new'. From what I can gather they seem to consider anything that wasn't there when the druids were dancing around Stonehenge to be 'modern'.

In between casting nervous glances out of the window, and holding onto the arm rests for grim death, Rebekah managed to tell me that not only was it not new, it also wasn't really what you or I would call a forest. It was founded as a royal hunting ground by King William the Conqueror when the Norman French invaded England in the eleventh century, and although it does have lots of trees over half of it is open heathland and muddy bogs.

"What was that?" Rebekah jumped as the wings made a mechanical clunking noise, and the cabin slanted downwards, "we're going down. The plane is going down! What's happening?"

"It's OK." I told her, glancing out of the window, "we've started our descent into London is all. Look, you can see the outskirts of the city through the clouds. Well you would be able to if you just opened your eyes."

Muttering what sounded like some sort of mantra Rebekah seemed to be trying to wrap her arms behind her own back and rock herself to sleep at the same time. I decided I should try to keep her mind off the fact that we were about to go through a layer of thick cloud which was bound to be bumpy.

"Where exactly are we going anyway?" I asked, taking her hand in mine; a tricky maneuver when you are trying not to be obvious about comforting someone.

"I told you before" she said, squeezing my hand tightly in return. It felt surprisingly nice. It was the first time she'd done anything like that since the funeral.

"The village is called Baring. You'll love the animals TT," Rebekah started calling me TT not long after dad died; it was his pet name for me, "they run free within the park boundaries."

I shifted in my seat to try to get some life back into my cramped legs, "what sort of animals? Bears, coyotes, jackals, cougars?"

Rebekah managed a weak smile. "No! Nothing like that. In fact there's nothing in the forest that can hurt you at all."

I wish I'd known then how wrong she was. I'd have pulled my hand away, burst into the cockpit, forced the pilot to turn us around and made him fly us straight back to New York, or to Timbuktu or anywhere at all as long as it was a million miles away from the New Forest, and the village of Baring.

Chapter 3. Baring

I want you to imagine the most picture- postcard like English country village you can. Think of narrow streets lined by beautiful thatched cottages made from honey-colored stone, their gardens overflowing with flowers. A British pub nestles on the village green next to a duck- pond, whilst behind it a pathway leads to a Saxon church, its stained glass windows refracting the beams of sunlight which manage to find their way through the tall Atlantic cedars and dark yews which surround it. Add in a small sleepy Victorian-era railway station with about two trains a day, a post office, and a few shops for the tourists. Place it within a glorious deciduous forest landscape, then let ponies, donkeys, cattle and sheep wander freely along the roads and you're probably thinking of the village of Baring.

When I first saw it from through the windshield of our hire car as we arrived in early August I thought it was the most wonderful place I had ever seen in my life. Though what the people did for entertainment I had no idea, the nearest town was over five miles away.

Rose Cottage, our new home, was a slightly rundown, pretty house near the end of the village in a road known as the Quomp. It was close to a tiny gas station which appeared to have been taken over by a herd of horses. Rebekah said it looked as though they were waiting to fill up with gas.

The cottage had a small dark living room, which was made up for by the huge kitchen, dominated by a long oak table, and an ancient dust-covered Aga cooker. Rebekah took one look at it and announced she'd buy us a microwave at the first opportunity.

Upstairs there were three bedrooms, the front one which Rebekah shot-gunned right away had an en-suite shower room, though the tiles were cracked and a bit grimy.

There was a tiny box room which smelt slightly of mold, a family bathroom which looked as if it had been fitted shortly before Noah set sail in the Ark, and then the room at the back, covered in hideous 1970's striped wallpaper, which became mine by default. Not that I was complaining, the view out over the back garden was beautiful, once I managed to get the window unstuck.

The garden although overgrown was filled with the scent of roses, explaining where the cottage got its name, and the tall beech trees which framed the boundary of the property made the whole place seem tranquil, secluded and slightly mysterious.

I threw my bags onto the iron bedstead, causing a cloud of feathers to pop out of the eiderdown, hurried downstairs, pushed my way through the back door, and out onto the lawn. Listening to the buzz of bees and the chatter of a particularly noisy blackbird I shouldered aside an overgrown laurel bush, and made my way along the uneven paving stones which made up the shaded pathway leading to the end of the garden.

It was dark and much cooler under the boughs of the beeches, and I slowed as I approached the rickety wooden fence with its peeling once white paint, now a dull grey, which enclosed the garden. Looking out into the woods the sunlight fell in pools of dappled light and shade. The ground was a mass of twisted roots, fallen branches, and leafy mulch. It was so green for a moment it looked to me as if the trees were under water, as if I was in a deep, deep Ocean or a lake.

Even though it was a hot day, the heat did not seem to penetrate far into these woods, and in my thin cotton dress I gave an involuntary shiver. Yet at the same time the forest didn't frighten me. On the contrary it seemed to invite me in. Everything seemed incredibly familiar to me. Almost as if I'd been here before.

Before I knew it I'd vaulted over the fence, tearing a hole in my favorite summer frock in the process, and was stepping over fallen branches, getting mud on my sandals, and pushing my way through brambles, small bushes and piles of twigs moving further and further into the trees. The pale yellow leaves of wild primroses caught my eye. Kneeling down I began to gather handfuls, and to thread them into a chain.

A cracking sound made me stop in my tracks. I wasn't alone. I looked around, but it was impossible to see anything other than the forest itself. The birdsong I'd heard earlier had vanished now, the woods were completely silent. There was a sense of anticipation. It felt as if the whole forest was holding its breath waiting for something to happen. I held my breath too, my heart beating slightly faster now. I hesitated and then shifted my weight trying not to make a sound as I moved.

Slowly I began to retrace my steps towards the house when a loud thud just to one side of me made me swing around, and draw in a shocked gasp of breath.

Only feet from where I was standing a large pony had appeared from behind one of the trees. It had the most perfect white coat, and deep brown almost black eyes which instantly rooted me to the spot. The pony pawed the ground with one hoof, and snorted, shaking its head from side to side impatiently. I watched it, mouth open, transfixed, and was about to reach out towards it to try to touch it when my stepmother's voice calling from the garden broke the spell.

I glanced over my shoulder in the direction her voice had come from, and when I looked back the pony was gone. I stood for a moment, gazing vacantly at the place where it had been, almost unable to believe I had really seen it, when Rebekah's voice echoed through the trees again, and I turned and walked reluctantly back towards our new home, painfully aware that someone was going to have to stitch the tear in my dress.

I woke early, the curtains on the windows were just thin muslin and the sun pouring into the room ruled out the lie-in I'd had planned. Even with my headzappers my nights are almost never completely trouble free and I often wake up tired.

What I mean is I tend to get a lot of nightmares, and some of them are fairly extreme. I can wake up in the morning and feel like I've just done a dozen rounds in a boxing ring followed by running a marathon.

My headzappers are OK. They mostly solve things for me during the day, though if you read the packet and look at the side effects you'd probably never dare to put one in your mouth. The downside for me is they can make me feel fuzzy- headed and I occasionally get tremors in my hands.

The tremors can sometimes be a sign that I'm going to have an 'episode' so I need to pay attention to them if I can. I've known them to shake like I'm a hundred and three years old. I remember laughing at a stupid movie I saw with my dad years ago. There was this cowardly gunslinger who everybody wanted to take part in a fast draw against the bad guy, the gunslinger was arguing that he wasn't up to the job and said he would prove it.

He lifted his hand and held it out in front of himself. The other guy in the scene looked at the hand, which wasn't trembling at all, and said "it's steady as a rock!" The gunslinger agreed and then lifted his other hand which was twitching and shaking all over the place, "yes," he said, "but this is the hand I shoot with!"

I dragged myself out of bed, staggered across the hallway into the bathroom and swallowed my headzappers with a mouthful of water from the tap. Rebekah was already in the kitchen struggling with the toaster as I appeared around the door wearing my trusty Star Wars nightshirt.

"Ah! TT, thank goodness. Can you make this thing pop up?"

A thin stream of smoke was rising from the chromium toaster which looked like an antique. I grabbed the plastic handle and shoved it upwards ejecting a burnt slice of toast onto the work surface.

"Oh well, can't be helped" Rebekah muttered, picking up the blackened toast with two fingers as if it might bite her rather than vice versa, and dropping it into the trash.

"I don't really have time to eat it anyway. I have to head out to an induction session for my new job this morning. Can you find something to do to amuse yourself without me?"

I took another slice of bread from the bread bin and smearing it with butter and jam popped it straight into my mouth.

"No problemo," I replied, chewing at the same time. "I want to take a look around the village anyhow."

As soon as I'd finished breakfast I wrestled my way into a pair of jeans and a strappy top and set out to explore my new domain. Before I could get more than a few paces down the road I heard the sound of a woman's voice shouting something.

I swiveled around to see a middle-aged woman in a Barbour jacket bearing down on me waving frantically. The reason for her distress quickly became apparent when I spotted a Spaniel puppy skittering in my direction dragging its lead behind it.

The sound of a car approaching rapidly behind me, prompted me to scoop the puppy up into my arms narrowly saving it from being mangled beneath the wheels of a large black 4x4 which whooshed past in a cloud of dust. The woman, red faced, and panting with exertion managed to splutter her thanks.

"I could never have forgiven myself if anything happened to my little Caesar!"

In between having my face licked by an enthusiastic and unapologetic Caesar, his tail whipping back and forward like windshield wipers on fast wash, I told her I was glad to help.

"You must be the new tenant at Rose Cottage," the woman announced, thrusting out a rather large and sweaty hand for me to shake which I only managed to do by juggling the puppy in the other one, "Audrey Brakes, Willow Farm. Welcome to Baring."

I tried to pass Caesar back to her, but he nuzzled closer trying to bury himself in my cleavage.

"Caesar likes you. He's usually an excellent judge of character. Do you ride?"

I nodded, digging the squirming creature out of my armpit, "as a matter of fact I do."

Dad had paid for me to take lessons at the Jamaica Bay Academy after I'd nagged him for nearly two years. Audrey beamed at me as I managed to press the frantically wriggling puppy into her hand.

"Splendid. If you've nothing better to do over the summer you can earn a few pounds exercising horses for me, my dashed arthritis won't let me do much at the moment." Caesar began trying to nip at the join of flesh between her fingers and thumb.

"You don't own a pony with an all-white coat do you?" I asked, "I saw one in the forest yesterday."

Audrey's smile evaporated. "Good Lord no! We don't have forest ponies; they're all owned by the commoners. Our stables are for hunters."

I muttered an apology, secretly wondering at the idea of calling anyone a commoner in the twenty-first century. Mind you this was England after all, land of the Royal family and the aristocracy. No revolutions or guillotines for the Brits.

It was only after Audrey and Caesar had continued on their way and I went into the village Post Office that I found out what she'd really meant.

The balding rather pompous man who worked behind the Post Office counter, suggested I buy a short pamphlet called _The New Forest_ _Story_ which explained the forest's most important traditions.

"You should know all about the place if you plan to live here," he told me, squinting through his bifocals in a disapproving fashion. I'd foolishly mentioned I wasn't a tourist, just a new neighbor.

An ice cream seemed a fair reward for my dog rescuing ability, so I sat down on a bench in the sunshine overlooking the duck pond to enjoy it. Flipping open the first page of the pamphlet I soon found myself engrossed.

According to the author a commoner was the name given to a person who owned a plot of land in the New Forest with rights of common attached to it. The rights were awarded by Kings and Queens over centuries. I discovered commoners have the right to graze their animals in the forest and the animals that the tourists see running free aren't really wild at all, they all belong to someone. I wondered again who owned the white pony which had so miraculously appeared in front of me the previous day.

As I skimmed through the pamphlet I noticed that my bench had become completely surrounded by a family of ducks. From the sound of their quacking and squawking they were probably after my sugar cone. Even so the number that had decided to beg from me seemed a little excessive, so shooing them away I made a swift break for the churchyard. Mercifully duck-free the land surrounding the church was made up of a higgledy-piggledy mixture of new rather solid looking granite headstones, and older ivy-covered tombs capped with carved angels and cherubs.

The thing I regretted most about being away from New York was that I couldn't visit dad and mom's grave anymore. They were buried together in Cypress Hills cemetery. I liked Rebekah for letting that happen, she was kind of hopeless sometimes in spite of her high-powered job, but she knew how to do certain things the right way.

I began to wander between the rows of graves enjoying the sense of continuity I always get in a churchyard. Nothing lasts forever; yet the world still carries on. I've always found graves interesting, not in any ghoulish way, just because of the epitaphs, the inscriptions, carved on them.

My favorite is from Boot Hill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona. I visited it on a road trip with dad when I was thirteen and we both thought it was pretty much the perfect memorial.

Here lies Lester Moore

Four slugs from a .44

No Les No More.

I spent an hour or so just meandering; reading the names and the short verses on the graves, and looking at the wilting flowers which their loved ones had left for them. Eventually I found myself on the far side of the graveyard near the boundary fence. On the other side of the railings I caught a glimpse of a chunk of black marble peeking out from behind the long grass. From where I was standing I couldn't make out exactly what it was, though it looked as if it might be another grave.

Wondering what a grave would be doing outside the churchyard I made my way back to the main gate and skirting the church crossed around to the other side. It took me a moment or two to get my bearings, the grass was much longer than I'd expected, and the stone was further around the church than I'd thought.

Finally, when I'd almost given up I found myself on top of it. I'd been right, it was definitely a gravestone, faded and chipped, its inscription obscured by tall grasses. Pushing them aside revealed a strange carving of a circle with a five pointed star inside it. Beneath the star was a name 'Sibyl Osgood died September 27th 1899' followed by a puzzling inscription.

'Do what thou wilt.'

Something else caught my eye under the knotted grasses, and working my fingers in between the tangled stalks I pulled out a freshly-cut lily. As I straightened up clutching the flower which smelled slightly over sweet as if on the point of corruption, I found myself face to face with an elderly man with a straggly beard and bulging eyes. He pointed his finger at me accusingly.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!"

I opened my mouth to explain that I wasn't trying to steal flowers from the grave, only to bite back the words when he spat on the ground at my feet and hissed at me.

"We don't want your kind here. So you take your filthy flowers and be off with you, back to whatever sewer it is you crawled out from!"

Too surprised and shocked to reply I stood gawping open- mouthed as he turned his back and stomped off towards the graveyard. It was only later when I found myself back in the front of the church that it occurred to me what the man had been wearing. The black top and the white collar were unmistakable; there was no question about it. He was the parish priest.

Shaken by my strange encounter I crossed the village green towards the pub. The Handmaid's Arms was obviously an old coaching inn. Remembering a couple of Jane Austen movies I'd seen in my early teens I felt sure that the large gates in the middle of the building had once provided the way into a central courtyard for horse-drawn carriages. I could just imagine Elizabeth Bennett hopping out before retiring to her room to write her journal.

The painted sign, hanging above the wisteria-covered main entrance seemed rather unusual to me even allowing for my lack of experience with English pubs. The name would have led me to expect an image of a serving girl in a mop-cap or something equally Olde Worlde, instead the picture showed a terrifying looking monster.

Its head would have resembled that of a goat, if its snout hadn't looked just like a pig's. This freaky mash-up was plonked on top of what appeared to be the body of a woman. The whole grotesque thing was covered in a long black cloak with a hood, and stood holding a scroll in one hand and what looked like a brass toasting fork in the other.

The background was a star-filled sky in midnight blue with a huge yellow full moon. The whole effect was certainly arresting, even if I couldn't for a minute imagine that it would actually encourage anybody to stop for a drink or a bite to eat; though from the look of the crowds of day-trippers filling the tables outside and spilling onto the green itself it didn't appear to be much of a deterrent.

On the other side of the green, just next to The Handmaid's Arms, was a stone cross surrounded by wooden benches. The poppy wreathes and the lists of names chiseled into it in long lines revealed it to be a War memorial of some kind.

A girl sat perched on the arm of one of the benches. Her long black skirt worn with lace-up work boots and fishnets coupled with a beaten-up leather jacket seemed defiantly urban Goth in such a rural setting. She drew in smoke lazily from the remains of a thin roll-up cigarette and then flicked it casually away from her onto the grass.

Silver bangles jingled on her wrist as she pushed back a lock of jet-black dyed hair which had fallen across her face revealing a sulky expression, bright scarlet lipstick, and too much mascara. She dismissed me with a glance, and looked back towards whoever it was she was sharing the seat with.

When I first set eyes on Jem Masterson I had no idea how closely our destinies would be entwined. What did I think of him at the time? Well obviously I thought he was handsome. What else could I think? He had movie-star looks with that curly dark-blonde hair and those pale blue eyes.

However slumped on the bench next to Goth-girl with a mean looking scowl on his face and digging a hole in the wood with a penknife he also looked like every girl's worst nightmare. And, as I now know, that's exactly what he was. He _is_. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll explain all about that later on in its rightful place... those darned sisters and their threads.

When Goth-girl threw an empty soda can at one of the ducks I began to get the feeling that there might just be a touch of decay in the heart of this little piece of paradise Rebekah and I had brought ourselves to.

On my way back around the circuit of roads that surrounded the central part of the village I spied a narrow lane flanked by a pretty stream. Following the flow upwards I enjoyed the play of light on the water as it trickled over the uneven pebbles lining the bed.

Crossing a narrow footbridge I found myself in a cobbled courtyard shaded by a plum tree. A peeling wooden notice board which had seen better days introduced the Paper Mill a second-hand bookshop crammed into one of the smallest buildings I'd ever seen. It looked as though it was designed for gnomes rather than humans.The owner enhanced this impression since he was less than five feet tall, and his wrinkly walnut-colored face was concealed behind a remarkably bushy beard.

Books teetered on top of each other in great piles which made removing a volume a daunting prospect. Browsing the shelves, and trying not to bang my head on the oak beams which wandered across the ceiling as if they hadn't quite made up their minds where they wanted to get to, I was drawn to a well-stocked section on myths, legends, and fairy tales which I quickly realized contained some rare editions.

Burying my nose in a copy of Christina Rosetti's _Goblin Market_ I was quickly lost in the poem. The story's all about a young girl called Laura, who gives in to temptation and tastes forbidden magical fruits offered to her by the goblins, giving them a lock of her hair in exchange. The gnome shopkeeper's voice broke my concentration. He was speaking in a broad accent that sounded as if he was doing an impression of a pirate.

"Ere, do ee wanna pum then? They'm fresh from the tree. Tha'll ave to put the book down if ee do, can't get no joose on er."

I hadn't got a clue what he was saying, it was only when I saw that he was holding a ripe plum in his gnarled fingers that the penny dropped.

Suddenly realizing that I was famished and dismissing Christina Rosetti's warning from my head - 'their offers should not charm us, their evil gifts would harm us' - I placed the book back on the shelf and gratefully accepted the plum.

The fruit was deliciously sweet and I had to take care not to let the juice drip onto the pile of books at my feet.

"Do you always feed your customers?" I asked, through a mouthful of fruity pulp.

"Only the purty ones m'dear," he answered, offering me a rather sticky hand to shake.

"Eli Pitton."

"Thea Hartsong. I love your shop. You have a wonderful collection." Eli, who I decided to think of in future as the Nice Gnome or NG for short, smiled and looked around at the packed shelves. Nodding towards the section I'd been looking through he said something incomprehensible.

"You'm keen on furrys and that then?"

I tried to concentrate. What could he mean? It was no good I had to ask.

"Furrys?"

"You know, furry tails."

I stared at him completely nonplussed. He spoke very slowly emphasizing each word as if he was talking to a small child.

" _Legends_ an that!"

I got it at last. Furry tails - fairy tales! Wiping the juice from my chin with the back of my hand, I gave him the usual spiel I give people whenever anybody asks about my interest in myths.

"My dad was a Professor of Anthropology at NYU. He got me into all that stuff."

The NG nodded sagely. "Is that roight? Well then if you'm fond of all that sort a thing ee should look in on the Black Cat next door."

The Black Cat turned out to be another tiny shop hidden away on the other side of the courtyard from the Paper Mill. I hadn't even noticed it when I crossed the bridge, partly because it was obscured by the plum tree, but also because there were no lights in the windows and it had no sign to show its function other than a small line drawing of a cat lying on its side as if asleep.

The windows were dusty and the thick glass slightly distorted the view of the inside though I did manage to make out the outlines of an array of dream-catchers, and to see crystal pendants dangling above a counter which was covered with all of the items you'd expect to find in a new-age store.

There were bottles of esoteric looking potions, packs of tarot cards, sticks of incense, and a couple of quite lurid looking statues in the window display. You know the sort of thing, a semi-clothed girl sitting on the back of a dragon or wrestling with a giant serpent.

One of my girlfriends in New York took me to a shop called Mystical Presence in Brooklyn once. It was much the same sort of thing, though the shop in Brooklyn was a bit of a let-down because it looked just like a Wal-mart for the occult.

I was hoping for a place with a bit more atmosphere. The Black Cat certainly looked more like the sort of shop you'd design if you were going to show an occult store in the movies. Even so I was still slightly disappointed that NG should imagine something quite so lame would appeal to me.

I liked the supernatural in its rightful place, between the pages of a good book. Books were the best way to escape from reality; this was just a pale imitation.

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees as I skirted the edge of the cricket pitch and started back towards the Quomp. When I entered the cottage Rebekah was in the kitchen surrounded by bags of food shopping unwrapping a new microwave.

"Oh dear," she sighed.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

Rebekah held up a wire which emerged from the back of the microwave.

"There's no plug attached!"

A short car ride into the town of Ringburg gave me my first chance to taste real English fish and chips.

"Traditionally you should eat them out of newspaper" Rebekah told me, as she drenched the battered cod fillet she'd bought with vinegar and salt.

"Only they don't serve them that way anymore, something to do with Health and Safety I think."

We ate our meal with our fingers sitting on a wall next to a piece of open heath on the edge of the town, grease dripping onto our chins.

"So how was your first day in the New Forest, do you think you're going to like it?" Rebekah asked through a mouthful of batter.

I was just about to reply when a donkey poked its head over my shoulder, and stuck its hairy face into my bag of chips making us both collapse into fits of laughter.

Chapter 4. The lodge, and a meeting in the woods

I spent the next few weeks in overalls accessorized with splashes of paint which also ended up on my hands, on my face, and occasionally in my hair. Rebekah jokingly called it my art therapy which wasn't far from the truth since I loved every minute of it, and it made me feel useful. She'd got permission from our landlady Mrs Jenks for us to spruce up Rose Cottage a bit, and I was appointed interior decorator in chief.

I began with my room of course gradually working my way through the cottage until I finally admitted defeat when faced with the prehistoric bathroom. There was really nothing outside complete demolition that would improve it.

I used my weekends to get a workout on Audrey Brakes's farm. Alongside exercising the horses I helped her by mucking out the stables, washing the stable yard, and even got to have a go at driving a tractor around the fields collecting hay from the meadow ready for the autumn, though I somehow managed to get it stuck in a ditch. I felt like a genuine country girl for the first time in my life. I looked like one too. I practically lived in Wellington boots.

Most of my clothes had mud, horse hair and bits of hay on them, and the knees in my jeans were full of holes. Let me tell you there's nothing like a bit of hard physical labor to help ease the mind and exhaust the body. I slept better at Rose Cottage that summer than I had in all the time since dad died.

While I worked for Audrey she told me more about the New Forest's traditions and way of life. The whole thing sounded positively medieval; they even had special courts set up and managed by people called Agisters to manage their own affairs.

According to Audrey not a lot had changed since the forest was first enclosed by the Normans. When I tried to tease her by saying that felt a bit like they'd invented the whole thing for the tourists - I mean I'm American right, we love that kind of thing, ancient traditions blah,blah,blah - it didn't work out as I'd planned. Unfortunately Audrey didn't see the funny side at all. She sat me down on a hay bale and gave me a very polite, but very firm, talking to.

Roots run deep here... people have been doing things the same way for generation after generation... nobody in the forest takes kindly to interference from outsiders in any of the old ways... this place is older than you can ever imagine or ever know – that was the main gist of it.

Will somebody please explain to me what's so great about doing the same thing again and again century after century? I'm pretty sure that the United States was built on the idea of breaking with traditions, doing things your own way rather than slavishly following what everybody else does. Not that I dared say that to Audrey of course.

I think the only reason she kept me on after my gaffe, aside from my brilliant tractor driving of course, was down to my way with the horses. I'd never experienced anything like it at home in the U.S. Sure I learned to ride OK back in Brooklyn, but with the horses in Audrey's stable it was almost as if I knew what they were thinking, and vice versa. I could make them do most anything I wanted without any effort at all. If a horse was upset or out of sorts I would whisper a few words to it and it would be right as rain.

One evening when I was coming out of the tack room after work I heard a loud whinnying from the stables. Audrey's favorite stallion Abacus was lying on his side in the straw suffering from a bad bout of colic probably because he'd been gorging himself on acorns again. His eyes were rolling and he was making a pitiful whickering sound as he thrashed from side to side. Before I knew what I was doing I was in his horse-box.

Ducking under his heels as they swished down past my head I knelt on the straw next to him, and placed both my hands on his swollen sides. He lay still immediately though he continued whickering through the flecks of foam around his mouth.

As I knelt there listening to his labored breathing, I can't really explain it, I felt as if I could sense the obstruction, sense the undigested acorns which were causing him so much pain. My hands began to feel warm.

I thought at first that I was just feeling the heat from Abacus's sides then I eventually realized the heat was coming from me, through my hands. It was being channeled out of my body down my arms and into his stomach. Abacus gave a sudden loud snort, and then hauled himself up onto his feet.

He stood looking down at me for a moment as if to say 'what was all the fuss about? and then turned towards his hay bag ignoring me completely.

"Well now," Audrey's ruddy face appeared at the door to the box, "it looks as if you might save me a pound or two in vet's bills"

I didn't mention the incident to Rebekah when I got home as I didn't want to worry her. It occurred to me later when I was in bed and trying to get to sleep that it was perfectly possible that I'd misread the whole thing. Perhaps Abacus wasn't really that ill after all, he'd just been making a fuss over nothing and I'd imagined the rest of it.

By the end of the summer I'd managed to save a pound or two of my own, thanks to Audrey, though I spent a fair bit in the Paper Mill buying up a few of the NG's choicer items from the mythology section. Though I still wasn't really sure what he was saying half the time we managed to pass some pleasant hours together chatting about books.

During a conversation about the relative merits of Celtic versus Nordic legends I discovered his accent wasn't from the New Forest at all, it was the neighboring county Dorset's famous 'burr.'

September was fast approaching and with it the prospect of starting a new school. Rebekah had sorted an interview for me at the New Forest College which was a short bus ride away in the village of Brockbourne, and I had gotten accepted to study for A Levels in English Literature ,History and Psychology, and on a whim had also opted to do an AS level in Art – I've always enjoyed drawing, and I think I was still under the influence of the house painting!

Audrey was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to spend as much time on the farm through the autumn, but admitted that she'd been thinking of hiring a full time farm-hand at some point in any case. She'd just been putting it off while I was helping out.

All the students at the college were between the ages of sixteen and eighteen so I'd be among my own age group again. While I was happy about that, I wasn't looking forward to having to explain about my 'condition.' It was possible that I wouldn't have to if my headzappers kept things on an even keel, though Rebekah did tell me that it might be best if my tutors or a close friend could spot the early signs of any potential 'incident'.

In my view Rebekah was being overly optimistic in thinking that I might have a close friend to tell. I'd never found it that easy to open up, let alone people I'd only just met.

Enrollment went off without a hitch, and in spite of my worries about the social aspect of studying in a totally new environment I was quickly drawn into conversation by a couple of girls I recognized from my tutor group when I sat outside on the grass to eat my lunch.

Millie had short brown spiky hair, the broadest grin I've ever seen and a mischievous sense of humor to go with it. Lucy was mixed-race with coffee colored skin, hazel eyes and a complicated weave that she said took over five hours to do.

She introduced me to her gentle giant of a boyfriend Sim, who at six foot four towered over all of us, and who looked as if he might be able to lift all three of us above his head with one hand tied behind his back. He had a large nose and his ears stuck out like the handles on a mug, in spite of it all he still managed to be good looking.

"He plays Rugby," Lucy explained, "it's like your American football."

Sim flexed a bicep stretching the material on his shirt sleeve close to bursting point, and then slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead.

"Only we don't wear all that sissy protective stuff!"

Millie chuckled, "which is why you don't have a single brain cell left to call your own, and you're retaking your GCSEs for the second time in a row!"

The words had hardly left her mouth when she was forced to duck under Sim's arm and scrabble up the grassy bank as he launched himself to grab her. Lucy and I laughed companionably as Millie weaved her way across the lawn shrieking while Sim attempted to tackle her to the ground and tickle her senseless.

I caught up with her again later that afternoon when she indicated I should sit next to her in Art class.

Our art teacher, Miss Payne, was in her late twenties and looked a bit like she had stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, with her long flowing kaftan-like dress and her auburn hair hanging down in waves around her shoulders. Half the boys in the class were in love with her and the other half were pretending that they weren't.

She was really friendly and easygoing and managed to make the projects she was the setting for the term sound challenging and fun at the same time. In fact by the end of my first day I felt that all of the tutors the students I'd met had gone out of their way to make me feel at home.

It was only when I stepped onto the bus that the atmosphere changed. As I walked down the aisle I recognized Goth-girl's trademark sneer, and the blond curls of her handsome companion. They were sharing the earphones of an i-pod, and nodding their heads to music only they could hear. He was looking out of the window, unaware of my existence. Even so as I passed them Goth-girl slipped her arm through his quite obviously claiming her territory.

I couldn't swear to it, but I thought I heard her mutter under her breath something like "there goes the American psycho."

Even if I'd misheard I was sure whatever she'd said had been about me and hadn't been a compliment. I thought about swinging round and giving her the edge of my tongue, or even getting hold of that dyed mop and seeing how firmly it was attached.

However, as I squeezed myself into the backseat alongside Millie, Lucy and Sim, who was taking up two seats at once, I resolved not to rise to the bait. I didn't want to be excluded from my new school the very first day.

"Who are those two?" I nudged Lucy and pointed down the aisle. She squinted her eyes; apparently she doesn't wear her glasses because she thinks they make her look like a geek.

"That's Jayne Carter, I went to primary school with her, she came to my birthday parties and everything until she hit puberty, then she started buying dolls in coffins, and moping around in her room listening to Slipknot records. Now she won't even give me the time of day.

I tried to make it sound casual, "and the guy?"

"Bad boy heartthrob Jem Masterson? Yep, didn't take you long to spot everybody's secret little crush.

Ouch!" Sim had dug her in the side with his elbow.

"Sorry babe. Just being honest." She leaned over, and gave him a compensatory kiss on the lips. Sim slipped an arm around her and kissed her back passionately. I watched for second until they began to chew on each other's faces in earnest, then turned to Millie instead.

"So tell me about him?"

"What's to tell? He's gorgeous, but how should I put it? Troubled? One minute he can be nice as pie, the next he's a complete jerk. Jayne got her claws into him a few weeks back when he was in one of his bad phases, and now they're joined at the hip. Good luck to her say I."

Jayne must have figured she was being discussed because she turned around and stuck her tongue out. So what? I thought. Big deal. To my mind Jayne Cater and Jem Masterson weren't important to my life, which just goes to show how wrong you can be.

When I got back to Rose Cottage Rebekah wasn't home so I decided to surprise her by cycling up and meeting her directly from work. I thought it might be nice for us to take a stroll up on the heathland near the Lodge, the private psychiatric hospital where she was working, before cooking dinner together.

I'd wanted to take a look at the place ever since Rebekah described it to me the first evening she'd got back from her new job. I'd rescued a tatty old bicycle from the ramshackle garden shed, which provided a home to broken plant pots, some rusting tools, and about a million spiders so I took the opportunity to christen it.

Despite the rubber on the tires being slightly perished I managed to inflate them both fairly successfully. I wheeled it out onto the road and launched myself into the saddle, peddling furiously as I tried to overcome inertia and get its heavy metal frame up the steep hill out of Baring.

The Lodge was an imposing building on the outskirts of the village. If you've ever seen the film Edward Scissorhands you'll know exactly what it looks like. I did my best to sketch it, but as you can probably see I couldn't really do it justice.

From the turrets, arches, gargoyles and battlements and the enormous gatehouse complete with a raised portcullis you'd imagine it'd been built in medieval times as a mighty defensive fortress to keep out ravening hoards of marauders. However, according to Rebekah, the whole thing was thrown up in the late nineteenth century, and had never seen so much as a skirmish.

She thought it was ridiculously over the top, though it was the only building in the area big enough to house the clinic and the residential wards the patients needed.

I wheeled my trusty bike up the gravel drive, the front tire was already flat as a pancake, and concealed it behind a hedge. Who I imagined was going to steal it I can't guess.

I managed to get through the security check at the gate after about ten minutes of arguing. They were very reluctant to believe who I was. It was only after Rebekah had been paged that they let me past their security post and into the building itself.

Passing through a series of seemingly endless corridors I was shown into a brightly lit day-room by a male orderly who left me to see if he could track down Rebekah.

There were a number of large comfortable-looking armchairs placed in semi-circles around the room. Only one or two patients remained as the majority of the day's activities were over. One of them began to rock in his chair and moan before lifting a clenched fist and it banging on the arm.

A female care assistant bustled over to me clucking like a mother hen to shoo me away, while another moved smoothly towards the agitated inmate.

"You really shouldn't be in here young lady. Come with me." She said sternly ushering me back into the corridor, and then into a small cupboard-like room with a stained glass window dominated by a tea urn.

"Are you are relative?"

I explained about Rebekah, and her expression became slightly less forbidding.

"Now my dear, you'll have a cup of tea?" It wasn't really a question, more of a statement. What is it about the British and their tea?

"First visit to a psychiatric unit is it?" she asked, pulling a tea bag from a glass jar. I nodded, not bothering to mention my own brief stay in hospital when I was first diagnosed. She pressed a lever on the urn releasing a stream of hot water.

"It can all be a bit of a shock, if you're not used to it."

I agreed with that.

"This building is fascinating though. You don't happen to know anything about the person who built it do you?"

The question seemed to have a strange effect. Turning and giving me a long penetrating look, as if I was trying to trick her in some way, the woman paused briefly before responding.

"Are you asking me seriously?"

"Yes, of course," I replied.

"You honestly don't know who built this house?" she enquired, pressing further, the doubt clear in a sharp edge to her voice.

I was baffled. "No," I said, "I honestly don't."

Something in my tone of voice seemed to convince her I was innocent of whatever it was she'd been concerned about. Lowering her voice in spite of the fact that we were the only two people in the room she leaned in towards me.

"Does the name Sibyl Osgood mean anything to you?" she asked.

I started. "As a matter of fact it does."

A hint of the former suspicion reappeared on the woman's face so I blundered on.

"I saw a gravestone with that name outside the churchyard... who was she?"

The care assistant's smile had a hint of smugness about it that I didn't particularly like.

"Well now, that depends on who you talk to. She was either a harmless eccentric or the most evil woman that ever lived."

I was momentarily nonplussed. "Which do _you_ think she was?"

The woman cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the door before she replied.

"Neither one nor the other to my mind. She knew what she was about, that's for certain. After all she made enough money at it. How else could she have built this monstrosity?"

She gestured towards the window, clearly intending to encompass the whole building. As she did so I realized that the stained glass has an image on it - it was the same weird creature I'd seen on the sign for the Handmaid's arms.

"That woman set herself up as the world's leading authority on black magic. The occult. It's Baring's everlasting misfortune she chose to base herself here."

She hesitated before continuing, "I know I shouldn't say it, considering my job and all that, but the place has been a magnet for weirdoes and nut-jobs ever since. It's no wonder they put a madhouse here."

Just then the male orderly nurse returned with Rebekah in tow, full of apologies for the fact that they hadn't brought me straight to her office. She hurried me away from the care assistant, back through the corridors, past the security post, out of the front door, under the portcullis and into the grounds again.

Once I'd recovered my bike we walked around the side of the building heading for the heathland which stretched away above the house.

As we rounded the corner a large squarely-built psychiatric nurse with short cropped hair appeared pushing a wheelchair. He looked as though he would have done well as an Olympic shot-putter. He must have weighed in at around 220 pounds and most of it looked like pure muscle. His extreme size was emphasized further by the contrast between him and the emaciated man he was pushing in the chair.

It was hard to say how old the man in the wheelchair was because his face and body were gray and haggard looking, almost as if he had been starved half to death and was on the point of shriveling away completely.

As they got nearer to us the man in the chair began to become agitated, twitching and thrashing in the seat against the straps which held him in place.

When they were only a few inches away he suddenly jerked out one of his stick-like arms towards me and clutched at my wrist, pulling me towards him.

Gripping me with fingers like a vice he hissed two words in a croaking whisper, which as if it had come from vocal chords disused for a couple of decades

" _The blood!"_

He repeated the words again his eyes bulging with the effort as if his life depended on my understanding what he meant.

" _THE BLOOD!"_

Wrenching the man's arm from mine, and forcing him back into the chair the huge male nurse barked at us in a strangely high- pitched voice with a guttural sounding foreign accent that we should move away, so that he could be deal with the patient more easily. Rebekah suddenly recovered herself. She'd been frozen to the spot since the first moment the man grabbed hold of me. Now she took control, ushering me onto the grass, and fussing over the red friction burn on my wrist.

"He's stronger than he looks," I joked, partly to try to stop Rebekah from beating herself up for letting him get near me in the first place. I glanced back over my shoulder; the nurse was kneeling next to the chair pressing a hypodermic syringe into the still struggling patient's arm.

He quickly subsided, slumping back, slack-jawed, as the nurse heaved himself back up onto his feet.

Rebekah kept on and on repeating that it was all her fault, and that she should have known to make sure we gave him a wide berth. I tried to calm her down, reassuring her as best I could, even though I felt fairly jittery about the whole thing myself.

I finally managed to convince her not to worry about it anymore. There was no lasting harm done. He'd just given me a bit of a shock really. Even so, the incident put a dampener on the idea of a walk and instead we turned back down the driveway towards home.

That night was the first time I had the dream; the dream that was to return to haunt me regularly.

It was one of those horrible nightmares where you find you're being chased. I was running along one of the endless corridors at the Lodge, and there was something nameless made of shadow behind me, _following_ me. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there and that it wanted me.

My breath came in shallow pants as I tried to gulp for air while I ran and ran. After what seemed like an eternity I finally came to a door. I turned the handle and pushed, only to find the door was jammed. It _must_ open! It _must!_

The shadow was getting nearer now. I felt a chill as the corridor became darker and darker with its approach, swallowing light. I pushed desperately at the door - suddenly it fell open and I stumbled through it.

Slamming it behind me, and leaning my back against it to prevent it from being opened again, I found myself in a blank, empty room.

Although there was nobody else there I knew somehow that I wasn't alone. Panicking, I looked around the room again... there was nothing there...nothing at all. It was then that I felt a tingling sensation; the hairs on my neck had begun to rise. Slowly I looked up towards the ceiling.... and saw a huge eye staring down at me.

Have you ever woken yourself up by screaming? I don't recommend it. It's not a pleasant experience.

Rebekah came running in to me straight away, and I spent the rest of the night sleeping in her bed as if I was a baby. She said, as she stroked my hair, that she thought the upset during the day might have messed with my head a little, and that we should look at adjusting my headzapper dosage a tad.

Although the nightmare was upsetting I gradually forgot about it as the weeks passed and I threw myself into my new life. I dedicated my time to my college work, and went for long rides on Abacus.

Audrey had hired a new full time hand called Derek, though she was still happy for me to help out occasionally.

I also discovered the wide range of amusements that country life can offer. Millie dragged me along to a couple of excruciatingly painful dances run by an organization called Young Farmers; I stood on the touchline of a Rugby pitch in the rain alongside Lucy while Sim tried to batter people into the mud; joined a yoga class in Ringburg village hall with Rebekah; took part in a quiz night in which practically every question required an encyclopedic knowledge of British pop music and sports, and became a member of the Handmaid's Arms skittles team - it's basically bowling.

I also spent quite a bit of time exploring the forest, traipsing down the lanes and paths across its ever-changing landscape.

I can't tell you why the New Forest seemed like familiar territory to me, it just did. I had this strange sensation that there was a spot somewhere, a special place that I hadn't stumbled across yet, which was out there waiting for me.

During one of my early evening walks, collecting blackberries for dessert - mixed with apples from the garden under a crumble topping they were heavenly - I caught sight of something hidden away in the trees wondering if this might be what I was looking for I stepped off the path and pushed my way through the undergrowth towards it.

Nestling in a bed of mosses, ferns, and grasses was an old caravan, its windows almost opaque with grime.

A battered horsehair couch lay alongside it, next to a striped deckchair under a red beach umbrella. The door was hanging open, swinging slightly in the breeze and there was gentle tinkling coming from inside. I stepped a little closer and called out a tentative "Hello!"

There was no reply. Letting my curiosity get the better of me I stepped up to the door and peered in. Inside was an incredibly cluttered Aladdin's cave of hanging lanterns, wind chimes, dream catchers, and colored glass.

After calling out again and getting no reply I couldn't resist a closer look, and, although I knew I shouldn't, I crept through the doorway.

In spite of its chaotic, messy appearance there was a wonderfully heady, rich smell inside the caravan like a hundred joss sticks mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread, being carried on a ship full of Oriental spices.

Instead of just taking a quick peek and leaving I became even more inquisitive. I had a sudden urge to open a large wooden cupboard above the tiny sink.

As I opened the door a huge pair of yellow eyes stared out at me from the darkness. A loud hooting sound surprised me so much that I stepped back and tripped, knocking over a pile of books, and making a jangling clatter as I banged into half a dozen wind chimes. I trod on something soft.

There was a sudden yowling noise, and a hissing mass of fangs and claws launched itself up my body towards my face. Staggering backwards I managed get my arm up to stop it, but not before a deep scratch was scored across my cheek.

Trying desperately to get away I fell backwards over a tin bucket and landed outside the caravan flat on my back, and badly winded.

Sensing victory the yowling creature launched itself from the steps to the caravan onto my chest scratching at my hands with its needle sharp claws. I did my best to scramble away on my backside or at least roll onto my front, but the creature had no intention of letting me escape that easily. The ordeal only ended when a voice called out.

"Grimalkin!"

As if the creature was obeying a command, the clawing stopped.

Not willing to give up my defenses entirely I peeped through my bloodied hands at my rescuer.

My first impression was that I'd been saved by a fortune teller from a booth in the State Fair.

A woman of about fifty or so, holding a bunch of wildflowers, and wearing an outfit that wouldn't have appeared out of place on a flamenco dancer stood looking down at me.

Framed by brightly hennaed dreadlocks, a thin face concealed by sunglasses featuring circular purple-tinted lenses, and shocking cherry colored lipstick looked down at me. A pair of long dangling gold earrings, and a flowery headscarf fringed with gold coins rounded off the outfit.

In spite of the hippie get up the woman looked extremely angry. I sat up fully, and looked around nervously to see what it was that could have attacked me so ferociously moments ago. Surely it couldn't have been the fat ginger tomcat on the arm of the broken down settee licking its paws?

"What you doing here? What do you want?" The woman was definitely annoyed.

"Nothing, I'm sorry I was just curious." My reply earned me a dry snort of laughter.

"You know what that killed don't you?"

She stroked the cat pointedly. I held up my hands to show the scratches covering them as I felt a trickle of blood run down my cheek.

"You should have some sort of warning sign. You can't just let your animal attack people, what if I'd been a little kid?"

The woman put one hand on her hip as she faced me. "This is private property. You've no business poking your nose into other people's things."

"I didn't mean to," I blustered, "the door was open and I... "

The sentence hung in the air. I couldn't really think how to excuse myself for going into the caravan. I decided not to bother trying, and shaking my head got to my feet.

"Where do you think you're going now?"

The woman's chin was tilted upwards slightly as she inspected me through her purple sunglasses.

"Home, I guess."

"You can't walk home bleeding all over yourself." She turned back towards the caravan. "Come on, follow me."

Throwing aside a patchwork quilt the woman made a space for me to sit down on a narrow single bed which traversed the caravan. She bustled about next to the sink muttering away to herself under her breath before returning with a jam-jar containing a sticky yellow ointment.

The paste felt cool and soothing on my scratches as she smeared it onto my hands and my sore cheek.

"Still the hurt, mend the skin. We ask healing for your daughter," she intoned quietly, holding my hands in her own.

The cat, Grimalkin I assumed, hopped up onto the bed next to me. I shrank back slightly remembering the sharpness of those claws, but he rubbed against me and began purring, as if to apologize for his previous behavior.

"Well I never!" The woman looked at the cat with a surprised expression on her face, "he doesn't usually give anyone except me the time of day. You got any catnip in your pockets?"

I shook my head as she crossed to the cupboard I'd been foolish enough to try to open earlier and reached inside.

"I know you ran into Grimalkin, did Ozimandias say hello?" She withdrew her arm; on it, blinking in the daylight, was a plump tawny-colored owl. It considered me with an expression like a strict schoolteacher, and then began preening its wings with its beak.

"I suppose I should introduce myself too," the woman acknowledged, "my name's Chantelle but most people call me Shanty."

"Thea," I said, taking a look at the scratches on my hand before offering it for her to shake. The fierce red lines had already faded more than I would have imagined possible in such a short time.

"Wow!" I exclaimed, "what was in that ointment?"

Shanty wrinkled her nose. "Just a spot of Arnica, and a couple of other herbs."

I touched the back of my left hand with the tip of my finger; it wasn't even tender any more.

"You should market it wholesale, you'd make a fortune." I flipped my hands over to compare the unbroken skin underneath, revealing the underside of my wrists.

"What's that?" Shanty was pointing at the brown pigmentation under my left arm.

"Just a birthmark, dad always called it my life tree, see it looks kind of like a trunk and three branches?"

"It looks like nothing of the sort!" Shanty said indignantly, you'd have thought I'd insulted her dress-sense or something from her reaction, it was seriously peculiar.

"Well," I said, taking my cue and standing up. "Guess I ought to be on my way. Thanks for the ointment, and sorry about the nosy parkering."

Shanty moved to block my exit. "Sit down!" She said firmly.

I stood my ground until a low growl from the back of Grimalkin's throat made me drop back again. That cat was seriously deranged and I didn't want to provoke it if I didn't have to.

Crossing to a small chest of drawers next to the bed, Shanty reached in and pulled out a small rectangular package covered in black velvet. Peeling aside the wrapping she revealed a pack of tarot cards.

The minute I laid eyes on her I'd guessed she was a fortune teller, and I was absurdly pleased my instincts had proved correct. Though if she thought she was going to get me to pay good money to hear a lot of bunkum about a tall dark stranger she'd be sorely disappointed.

Indicating I should I join her at a tiny pull down table she pushed the cards across to me, told me to cut the pack in two, and to choose three cards.

"I think I should tell you I don't believe in all this stuff," I said, as I pulled the cards from the shuffled pack one at a time and handed them back to her. "I don't have any money anyway, so I can't cross you palm with silver, or whatever it is you are meant to do."

Shanty tutted at me impatiently, and then devoted herself to studying the cards I'd chosen. After what seemed like an age she slowly nodded to herself, as if something she'd suspected had been confirmed. I was surprised she didn't want to spin me some yarn, and at the same time relieved I didn't have to pretend to be interested.

Shanty took a necklace from around her own neck and slipped it over my head.

"There," she said with relief, "that's much better."

I looked down at the thin silver chain, and held up the amulet which was dangling from it. It was a small round piece of porcelain with circles of color on it. There was a ring of dark blue, then a ring of white, an inner circle of a lighter blue with a round black dot in its center.

"It's really pretty, what is it?" I asked, as I held it up to the light.

"It's a Nazar," Shanty replied, "a Turkish amulet known for its protective qualities. It brings good fortune."

"Thanks," I said, holding it out to her, "but I honestly haven't got any money."

Shanty shook her head emphatically. "It's a gift."

At that moment a great flapping noise filled the air and Ozimandias the owl launched himself off the shelf in the cupboard, landing with a thump on the bed right at my side. Shanty looked at the bird, then at me, and gave an involuntary wince.

"What's the matter? I asked.

Shanty shrugged. "It's peculiar to see one of my familiars so close to someone else."

"Familiars?" The word came out slightly more forcefully than I'd intended.

"Aren't they what witches have?"

She peeled off her purple sunglasses and looked at me directly.

"Of course they are. I am a witch."

Chapter 5.The Wiccan rede

A childhood diet of Grimms Fairy Tales, not to mention the occasional Disney film, has made me more than averagely cautious around people who claim to be witches.

Not that I'd actually met anybody who had up to that point. In stories they always had a disturbing tendency to start out as sweet little old ladies, and end up as ravening monsters hurling lightning bolts.

Although Shanty was more bag-lady than little old lady, and in spite of the fact that I didn't really believe in witches as such, I decided not to take any chances. I didn't want her morphing into Bellatrix Lestrange on me.

Thanking her again for the necklace I was about to stand and make my excuses when a thought occurred to me. In a lifetime of lapping up stories about witches, goblins, demons, princesses, dragons, and fairies everything I'd learned, everything I knew, was _fiction_.

This was the first time I'd actually met someone who seemed to believe in this sort of stuff for real. In the interests of research alone surely I shouldn't pass up the chance to quiz her about it?

"What exactly does a witch do?" I asked tentatively, hoping against hope she wouldn't say "chop nosy teenage girls up with an axe, and cook them for dinner."

Shanty tilted her head to one side, rather like a bird. "It's not so much a question of what we _do_ , as who we _are_. The title of Witch has been twisted away from its true meaning. I told you I'm a witch. That doesn't mean I ride around on a broomstick casting hexes."

I breathed a mental sigh of relief.

"Witches are, for the most part, followers of Wicca, one of the most ancient of faiths."

I couldn't stop myself from interrupting her. "You mean being a witch is a religion?"

"In a way. We draw on the power of the Earth to try to ensure that there's an eternal balance within the life source. Do you know what the Chinese terms Yin and Yang mean?"

"Um, I think so, aren't they opposites...black and white, man and woman, inside, and outside...something like that?

"Almost; literally they mean shadow and light."

Shanty crossed the caravan and brushing Ozymandias aside, sat herself next to me. The owl puffed himself up slightly and shut his eyes showing his disapproval.

"They show how all opposites are interconnected, dependent on one another," Shanty's dreadlocks looked like sausages of hair close up.

"Who's your God? I asked her.

"We worship the divine masculine, and feminine principals united together in harmony. The Wiccan Rede, the principal we live by is a simple one.

"And it harm none, do what ye will."

I was sure I'd heard something like that before; I just couldn't quite bring it to mind."Where do Wiccans go to pray, or have ceremonies and stuff?"

"We have many sacred places. There are Ley Lines all over Britain, our temples lie where they join. They could be on a hillside, in a grove of trees, or by the banks of a river."

I found that while I'd been listening to Shanty my fingers had strayed to the amulet she'd given me. Letting it drop I repeated the unfamiliar expression again.

"Ley lines?"

"Lines of magnetic force, underneath the ground, they respond naturally to masculine or feminine energies. Dowsers find them with a witching rod."

I'd heard that expression before. "Dowsing's what you call it when you have a forked twig or branch and try to find water isn't it?"

"They do the same thing prospecting for oil in your country, though you Americans call it doodlebugging."

Doodlebugging! I made a mental note to store the word for future use. Shanty got up and moved towards the grimy window, smearing it with her sleeve as she peered out.

The sun had almost set and it was getting dark outside. I'd need to get back soon or Rebekah would be worried. I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans pocket to send her a quick text. Typical! No signal.

"Right here in the village of Baring is one of the strongest junctions of Ley lines in England. We're directly above the axis of the _Wessex Astrum,_ a sacred geographical hexagram linking the Neolithic sites of Stonehenge, Avebury, and Glastonbury."

I was impressed. I knew all about Glastonbury, and the Tor from reading hundreds of versions of the Arthurian legends. It was high on my list of places to nag Rebekah to take us to visit. The Tor was a steep conical hill rising up out of a broad flat marshy plain. The Ancient Britons called it _Ynys Yr Afalon_ , the Isle of Avalon, and it was here that King Arthur was supposed to have been buried.

Shanty continued on. "The problem is the world's out of balance, the signs are there for all to see. Scientists would have us believe it's global warming, chemicals in the atmosphere. Cut the chemicals and the problem will go away. Unfortunately it's not that simple, nothing will change if Gaia continues to be denied."

"Gaia?" The wind chimes gave a gentle tinkle, as a breath of air passed in through the open caravan door. Shanty turned away from the window.

"The Earth Goddess. Our mother. She's being ignored, belittled, _humiliated_. It's been going on for centuries, but now we've finally reached the tipping point."

"What do you mean?" I asked her.

"She's being treated the way we're treated ourselves." I must have looked puzzled because Shanty sighed."I mean women Thea!"

I was still drawing a blank. Shanty's expression was grim.

"How are women treated in this world?" she demanded.

I hesitated before answering. "I don't know. OK in some places I guess?" Shanty's lips thinned as she considered this, then she shook her head.

"Open your eyes Thea. Women are persecuted, patronized and oppressed very moment of very day. There are places where just to be born a woman condemns you to life as a second class citizen, unable to work, show your face, drive a car, or walk the streets without fear of being attacked or ridiculed. Even here in the so-called civilized world the true essence of the female is threatened by the frivolous rubbish we women have to put up with about our bodies and our opinions. As long as things continue this way balance can't be restored.

The power of our goddess, Gaia, is fading as we turn our faces away from her. How else could it be that the name witch has become a curse, an insult, when once it merely meant one who could conjure – literally a wise woman? " She slumped down on a stool near the sink as if drained by everything she'd said.

I suppose I've always thought of myself as pro-women, in a slightly shallow Girl-Power sort of way, most of my favorite legends feature warrior maidens. I've just never really considered what being female means that deeply, never felt the need to perhaps.

"Can't witches do magic or something?" I suggested rather lamely, "make things better? Isn't that what you're famous for?"

Shanty's head came up a little. "What magic there is in the world has been weakened by lack of belief. It has to be felt, nurtured. There's much that is hidden which can be seen if you only know _how_ to look. Trust your intuition Thea; find ways to change your perception of this reality. What you see around you here is illusion."

It was my turn to sigh, her answer was exactly what I'd expected to hear and it felt like a complete cop-out. After all I'd seen _The_ _Matrix_ about half a dozen times, and I wasn't about to go down that rabbit hole.

I sniffed the air suspiciously, it crossed my mind that perhaps there was a more obvious reason she'd been so eager to conceal the caravan from prying eyes.

"Is that what this is really all about?" I asked, "are you going to try to sell me some _herbs_ to help me see things differently?"

Shanty looked puzzled for a moment, then chuckled as she clicked to my meaning.

"No," she said, "not at all. Though it's true some drugs have been used to open pathways to the other side, most suppress them. They interfere with true vision, distort it. True vision comes only from inside." She looked at me pointedly. "You of all people should know that."

I suddenly realized that I could barely see Shanty's face; it was almost pitch dark inside the caravan. Night had fallen ages ago, and I was really late for dinner and about to be in serious trouble.

When I finally burst into the kitchen at Rose Cottage, red faced and out of breath twenty minutes later, Rebekah almost had a fit. She'd been on the verge of calling the police. I told her I'd been with Millie at her place doing our homework together and had completely lost track of the time. I didn't think she'd take kindly to the thought that I'd spent the evening chatting with a Witch.

Chapter 6. A faery ring

By the time I got to college the following day I'd dismissed almost everything Shanty said from my mind. Though she did inspire me to doodle a picture of Mother Gaia when I was supposed to be writing an essay for my English class.

The idea that the ice caps were melting because of a goddess who was feeling slightly offended struck me as ridiculously far-fetched. In any case

Shanty wasn't exactly the most reliable of sources. It'd been interesting talking to her but I'd already decided to file her under 'amusing eccentric' rather than 'possible muse.'

Miss Payne had set the title of _Transitions_ for our fall art project, and Millie and I agreed to spend the afternoon together taking pictures, finding inspiration from the forest.

"Seems to me everything alive either transforms itself or gets transformed by something else," Millie observed. She was lying face down on a patch of earth at the base of a tree snapping a picture of the way thick strands of ivy were clinging to its trunk. I looked around at the surrounding forest. She was absolutely right, from the rotting branches on the ground to the leaves gradually turning from green towards the reds and browns of fall, everything was changing.

"You know, I could take a picture of you Thea," she said rolling on one side and pointing the camera towards me, "your skin cells are constantly shedding off and replacing themselves. In fact, I think I read somewhere that we replace all the cells in our bodies about once every seven years, so you're _literally_ not the same person you were when you were nine."

"That's for certain," I stuck out my tongue as Millie took a couple of shots in quick succession.

"Perfect, you should do that all the time it's so becoming," she joked, "I sometimes wish I was though."

"Was what?" I asked.

"The same person. It's not easy having to grow up."

"No." The image of dad getting into the car and waving at me passed through my mind.

Millie got to her feet and brushed leaf mold from her jeans and sweater.

"My parents are splitting up, and they're fighting over who gets custody of my little brother and me."

"That sucks."

"Uh huh. Tim, that's my baby brother, doesn't have a clue what's going on, but I'm old enough for them to try to persuade to support one side or the other."

I crossed to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Millie smiled gratefully as I gave her a hug.

"It's no biggie. I just sometimes wish I was nine again."

Almost on cue I heard the faint sound of a child's laughter echoing through the woods. I looked towards the direction it had come from.

The sunlight through the trees seemed to be filtering down into clearing some distance away giving it a warm glow and I thought I could hear the sound of voices being carried towards us on the breeze which whispered through the foliage.

"Come on!" I said, taking Millie's hand and leading her towards the voices, "let's see who it is."

Millie looked blank. "Who _what_ is?"

As I led her through the trees the voices became clearer and clearer. I could hear the sound of at least three young children playing together, laughing and giggling with glee at whatever imaginary adventure it was they were engaged in.

Millie kept asking where we were going until suddenly we emerged into a breathtakingly lovely forest glade. There was an expanse of soft moss-covered grass scattered with small hillocks making it seem both smooth and uneven at the same time.

The branches of the trees bowed overhead providing some dappled patches of shade, whilst the majority of the space was bathed in bright sunlight.

At one end of the glade was a large pool of crystal-clear water surrounded by a narrow beach of shingle and sand. A stream ran from the pool off into a line of weeping willow trees which covered it with an arched green tunnel of branches and leaves.

Large uneven rocks lay half submerged along the narrow rivulet of water making it the perfect place for splashing about while trying to catch the tiny silver fish which darted to and fro in shoals through the transparent water. It was here that the children I'd heard were playing.

Three toddlers; a small boy, and two slightly older girls were squealing with excitement as they tried to capture the elusive little fish in their brightly colored plastic buckets.

Two women, presumably the mothers, sat on the bank of the stream directing the proceedings whilst sharing a picnic in the surprisingly warm September sunshine.

Something at my feet caught my eye. I looked down to see a peculiar construction of twigs and branches, twined together and leaning against the base of a tree. It appeared to twinkle in the light and looking closer I saw that it was decorated with tiny beads, marbles, feathers and plastic jewels. It wasn't the only one either.

Dotted between the trees surrounding the pool and along the edges of the stream there were dozens more of these strange looking objects made of twigs, dried mud, grasses, and mosses, and prettified with all sorts of decorations. There were tiny china cups and saucers, earrings, buttons, pieces of colored glass, jam-jars with candles in them, there were even sets of wind chimes hanging from the branches.

The effect was as if we had stumbled upon a nest of jackdaws, with an eye for a sparkly jewel, or the village of a tribe of tiny forest dwellers.

As I looked around the glade, seeing for the first time that there were also complicated webs of string knotted between the trees, I also realized that _this_ was the place I'd been looking for since I'd arrived in Baring.

"I know this place," I murmured almost under my breath.

"So do I," said Millie, moving towards the pool and slipping off her shoes, "I used to come here all the time when I was little."

Stepping into the shallows she began rolling up the legs of her jeans. I unlaced my walking boots, pulled off my socks, and then walked to the edge of the water.

As I dipped my toe into it something happened to me, something I couldn't possibly understand at the time. For now let's just call it part of the Wyrd - my fate. Another of the strands was about to entwine me.

The moment I set foot in the water I had a sudden and intense vision of a woman's face.

"Come on Thea! It's lovely. Freezing, but lovely!" Millie's voice carried to me, but it wasn't her, or the pool I was seeing.

The vision should have unnerved me, seeing things that weren't there was definitely not a good sign for me, yet the face was accompanied by a feeling of such peace and wellbeing, and the woman was so beautiful, gentle-looking, and unthreatening that I felt surprisingly unconcerned, safe even; truly safe.

The vision evaporated as swiftly as it had appeared, and I saw Millie waving at me to come in further.

After a second or two I felt able to move again. Stepping out into the water properly I enjoyed the powerful contrast between the chill around my legs, and the heat of the sun on the back of my neck. My headzappers were in my bag on the sandy beach. I would have to make sure I took one the minute I got back to the shore.

"Are you OK? Millie called over,"fine," I told her, "what are all those twig houses about?" I asked, wanting to distract her from any further questions.

I didn't want to have to discuss my vision with her. I still hadn't been able to get myself to bring up the subject of my 'condition' with any of my new friends.

"They're for the faeries," she said laughing and splashing the water with her hands, "this place is called faery's ring. You're supposed to make them a place to live in, and then you scatter sweets, or pour a drink into a tiny thimble for them. If you do it right they'll make sure no harm comes to you. If you're very lucky they might even grant you a wish."

As she spoke the toddlers scrambled out of the stream, and skipped towards their mothers for a snack.

"It's the best place on earth for children."

"Ow!" I'd trodden on something. Reaching down into the water I pulled up an empty beer can.

"Mind you," Millie sniffed, "it has other visitors at night."

While Millie took pictures around the pool I decided to collect some of the pebbles lining the bed of the stream. They were another example of something being transformed, as the relentless current had gradually worn them away over millions of years until they were smooth. Each of them was so different I thought it would be interesting to try to do a painting of a handful of them or perhaps make them into a sculpture.

The children's voices gradually faded as I moved further upstream. I sat and sketched a boulder for a while before moving on again.

The overhanging branches became lower and the foliage thicker until I had to duck under the boughs, and squeeze through gaps in the branches to get any further forward. I resolved to see what was around the next bend in the stream and then go on back.

Moving aside a branch and stepping onto a jagged piece of rock to collect a striped black and white pebble I suddenly came face to face with Jem Masterson.

He was sitting on the opposite bank of the stream dangling his feet in the water. I was about to turn and dive back into the safety of the willows when he called out to me.

"Hey! Take a look at this." He was peering into a tussock of grass. I debated ignoring him – curiosity won out over caution; it always seems to in my case.

"What is it?" I waded nearer, while still keeping my distance. I hadn't forgotten the penknife he'd been carving the bench with.

"I think it's a green winged orchid, though I can't believe it's flowering so late."

I was so surprised that the celebrated bad boy Jem Masterson should be interested in a flower that I moved a little closer to his side of the bank. I could just make out a fragile purple bloom, peeking out from behind the tall grasses.

"Why's it called green winged when it's purple?" I asked.

"Because of these."

He pointed at a petal. I moved closer still, and was now able to see thin green stripes running along the full length of the petal he was indicating. The others were dotted with green freckles.

"It's lovely," I said, fascinated in spite of myself. I crossed the last few feet and found I was close enough to reach out and touch the delicate plant.

"Isn't it? It's rare too. It's so weird that it's in flower so late in the year. Must be down to global warming"

"Not according to someone I know!"

Jem stopped looking at the plant, and studied me instead; his eyes were a really pale shade of blue. Remember what a jerk he is I told myself; ignore the curls... and the long eyelashes...and the cupid's bow mouth. He was speaking again.

"The spring, the summer, the childing autumn, angry winter change

their wonted liveries, and the mazèd world, by their increase, now knows not which is which."

"I'm sorry?"

" _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ William Shakespeare. I studied it at my last school. It seems the Elizabethans suffered from changes to their seasons too."

"Didn't they hold frost fairs on the Thames when it froze over?"

He looked impressed. I tried not to show how absurdly pleased I felt by leaning over to smell the flower.

"Be careful!"

His words stopped me in my tracks, my face inches from the orchid's petals. Moving my head back slowly I asked him what the problem was.

"The purple flower in Shakespeare's Dream is a powerful love potion, one drop in the eye and you're smitten. You wouldn't want that would you?

I looked at him again wondering what the correct answer to that question actually was.

"I'm Jem by the way."

"I know."

He blinked. "How's that?"

"We're at college together," I told him, "I've seen you with your _girlfriend_ " I emphasized the word. "Jayne isn't it?"

"Jayne's not my girlfriend," he answered, shaking his head.

So much for loyalty I thought. You deserve your reputation, curls or no curls. I couldn't stomach Jayne, but where did he get off denying that he was dating her. I'd seen them together plain as daylight.

"Have you mentioned that to her?" I asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice. He thought for a moment and then smiled wryly.

"It's complicated."

"Save it for Facebook!" I threw the words over my shoulder as I waded back into the water and began to push my way past the branch of willow again.

Clambering to his feet he called after me. "What's your name?"

"I'm Ariel," I answered, as I sloshed through the water, "the Little Mermaid!"

Millie was extremely impressed with what she referred to as my super-cool behavior when I finally got back to the glade clutching an assorted handful of pebbles, and itching to tell someone about my encounter. She kept laughing about the 'Little Mermaid' as we walked back through the woods together.

"You're awesome Thea," she announced, linking arms with me.

I was sure she was right; I just wished that my stomach would stop doing flip-flops when I thought about how I'd felt when Jem Masterson looked at me. After all, I'd only exchanged half a dozen words with him at most.

I suppose at sixteen and a half I'd had relatively little experience of boys. There had been my childhood sweetheart Aaron Thorkin who I hung out with in my paddling pool and swore I was going to marry, right up to the point where he pulled the head off Surfing Barbie, and broke my Hello Kitty tea set.

I was keen on a sensitive, poetic, soul when I first went to Junior High, who I've now realized was scared to death of me and made elaborate excuses not to be left alone in my company for too long. I'd graduated from him to a nice guy who taught me to French kiss before dropping him for a complete brute who seemed to enjoy being mean and making me cry.

None of them had really amounted to much more than casual flirtation and puppy love when I looked back at them objectively. Partly I guess because of me. The way I am. I just don't seem to be able to connect the way some people do.

You know how some girls always seem to have a proper relationship? It's never been like that for me. I've always felt in a way that I was playing a game, that I was pretending somehow. I suppose I'd just never really been in love.

I suddenly realized I was jealous of Sim and Lucy's closeness and intimacy, I wanted that too. Sim and Lucy? Who was I kidding? The person I was really jealous of was Jayne Carter.

Chapter 7.Night and fire

Over the next couple of weeks I made it my business to find out as much as I could about Jem Masterson. Don't get me wrong, I don't approve of encouraging a boy to cheat on his girlfriend I was just intrigued by him - or at least that's what I told myself at the time.

I wanted to believe I was doing it just in case 'it's complicated' turned into 'single' at any point in the future. I knew I wouldn't actually be able to do much about it even if it did; I just wanted to find out if we might be compatible in any way whatsoever. That was my _excuse_.

So Jem Masterson the lowdown. He was certainly someone who split opinion, though the one thing everybody agreed on was that he was liable to mood swings. Well I knew all about those. He'd only recently returned to the family home in Baring after attending a series of posh private schools abroad.

Rumor had it that he was expelled from his last school. I knew all about that one too. I couldn't find out anything at all about his father, though evidently I should have heard of his mother, since she was supposed to be a wealthy writer of best-sellers called Circe Masterson. Millie told me she did some series called _Blood and the Ring_ a couple of which were made into movies, or video games, or what have you. I think Rebekah read one of them once though I'm not certain.

Their home was a massive country estate called Draxton Manor surrounded by a huge wall. Nobody I spoke to had ever been there, and apparently Circe preferred travelling to and fro in her helicopter instead of going by road like the rest of us plebs. I felt seriously intimidated.

Jayne Carter was a different issue altogether; she lived in a council house on a quite rough estate in Ringburg. It seemed from what I could gather that her attitude was all a bit of a front, she worked nights in a café to help her family out with money, and quite often looked after her younger brother who had Downs syndrome. That didn't fit my picture at all. I didn't want to sympathize with her, I wanted to despise her.

I got my chance when I stepped off the college bus one evening to be faced with the sight of Jayne standing on one of the tables outside the Handmaid's Arms. She was involved in some sort of drinking game though I couldn't make out the details.

A cheer went up and she jumped down to collect her jacket from one of the young men who slung his arm around her shoulders and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. I was just wondering what Jem would think if he'd seen it, when I realized he had. He was walking towards me along the opposite side of the narrow road; we would pass within feet of one other. He couldn't fail to notice me. Except of course he could, he did.

He walked right past without so much as a glance in my direction; I might have been completely invisible for all the reaction he gave me. I turned, color rising in my cheeks at the snub, and watched him walk away from me and into the pub garden.

He took the time to slap various backs, lifted Jayne back onto the table and passed her another drink. Raucous laughter floated across the pub garden and out to where I stood, feeling utterly humiliated. The poor little rich boy could play his silly games; I had a life to get on with.

It was absurd, I'd absolutely no right to feel betrayed by someone I'd barely spoken to, and certainly _wasn't_ dating. All the same I still couldn't make myself feel better about the incident in the road. I was snappy with Rebekah at dinner and moped off up to take a shower while she settled down in front of her computer to write up some case notes.

I shut the door to the bathroom; pushed aside the clammy, mildewed, shower curtain, turned the mixer tap full on, listened as air thumped its way through the rattling pipes, and then threw off my clothes as a thin trickle of lukewarm water finally emerged from the shower head.

I was fast discovering that although the British once had an empire that ruled three quarters of the world, they couldn't do pluming for toffee. I was about to climb into the tub when I noticed that I was still wearing the Nazar necklace Shanty had given me. I wasn't even slightly impressed with the good fortune it had brought me so far, so swinging it over my head I laid it on the edge of the sink, and jumped under the pathetically weak shower.

That night was the second time I had the dream about the eye. I was running again, though this time it was through thick woods in pitch darkness.

There were flashes of the same huge eye – much the same as before. Only now it was twitching, blinking, and searching for me. The emaciated man in the wheelchair from the Lodge was gripping my arm and rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards repeating "THE BLOOD! THE BLOOD!"

A scratching, grating sound, made me try to block my ears as a crow appeared flying towards me beating its wings frantically, its talons bared.

Just as it was about to reach me it was struck from the sky by a screeching owl which came diving down out of the darkness. I woke with a start and sat bolt upright in my bed trying to calm the beating of my heart.

I was awake but I could still hear the noise from the dream. There it was again! The same scratching, swishing, and scraping sound I'd heard in my nightmare.

I looked over to where the sound was coming from, terrified that I would be confronted with the eye once more. Instead I saw that the branch of a tree was scraping to and fro across the window pane.

It must be the wind I thought as I pushed back the bedcovers, crossed the room and threw open the window. I immediately regretted the flannel Onesie sleep-suit I'd slung on after my bath because standing in the garden holding the end of a long thin branch against the window was Jem Masterson.

It was bitterly cold outside and in spite of the long thick cardigan I'd wrapped around me before tiptoeing downstairs I gave an involuntary shiver as I stepped out into night air. I had no intention of letting Jem try to charm me; I wasn't interested in whatever lame excuses he had to offer. I was going to give him a piece of my mind, and then go straight back to bed.

Unfortunately for my plan he'd vanished, and the garden looked completely empty. I'd just begun to wonder if the whole thing wasn't part of my bad dream, and I was actually still fast asleep in bed, when I noticed a flickering light and heard a faint crackling sound.

Jem was squatting by an open fire feeding twigs into the flames at the end of the garden close to the fence. He dragged a log from the bushes and seeing me approach gestured for to me to sit next to him.

I shook my head and remained standing. I certainly wasn't going to meekly do what he wanted me to, though I realized after a moment that it was too cold to stay where I was.

I compromised by walking back up the path, and then returning with one of the folding wooden chairs from the lawn. Deliberately placing it on the opposite side of the fire, as far away from Jem as possible whilst still being near enough to benefit from the warmth being radiated by the burning branches on the fire, I sat down, crossed my arms and frowned at him.

We sat there in silence looking at one another for what seemed like an age. Was it the heat from the flames or were my cheeks flushing red? I broke eye contact and looked up at the night sky. It was incredibly clear, and the stars looked enormous. I didn't think I'd ever seen so many in the sky all at the same time.

"You see that star? he was pointing upwards, "the one on the horizon? It's the planet Venus, named for the Roman goddess of love and beauty."

I picked up a stick which was lying at my feet and threw it into the fire, watching it flare and ignite. I was determined not to answer him and least of all to be the first to mention what had happened the previous day.

"Why did you cut me dead yesterday?" I demanded curtly. So much for good intentions.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking genuinely confused, he was obviously a skillful actor.

"Don't bother pretending not to know." I said, throwing him a clue, "outside the Handmaid's Arms.""

"I _didn't_ " he replied emphatically, "It wasn't...

He stopped suddenly mid-sentence.

"Wasn't what? You walked right past me."

Jem twisted on his seat, he looked horribly embarrassed. "It's difficult to explain" he murmured almost too quietly for me to hear, "I don't know if I should....I don't know you well enough yet to..."

This was pathetic, he couldn't even apologize properly. I stood up and turned towards the house. Jem scrambled to his feet.

"Sometimes, I'm not myself!" He blurted the words out in a rush then slowed as I stopped in my tracks, "literally not myself. Can you understand that?"

It was probably the one thing that I _could_ understand, the only thing he could have said that could have made me stay. I knew all about not being myself. Wyrd bið ful aræd, the threads were being spun.

Even so I didn't reply right away. Instead I sat back down on the garden chair, and put my hands out to warm them at the fire. There was another long, slightly awkward, pause before Jem spoke again. He had a vulnerable look to him, as he sat hunched on the log like an overgrown child; it was a complete contrast to the arrogance he'd projected when I first saw him.

"So," he said, "you made a deal with the sea-witch and now you can walk on land? I guess that explains why you're not talking. She's got your voice."

I couldn't resist smiling at that one.

"How is that for you? Being here, on land?"

"Not so good," I admitted.

"Why?"

"Haven't you ever read the original story?"

Jem shook his head. I yawned before continuing, it was late and I was still not fully awake.

"Whenever the Little Mermaid walks on land her feet feel like she's treading on sharp swords, hard enough to make them bleed."

"Wow! A lot of those old faery tales are darker than you expect them to be."

"They're like life."

He looked into the flames and considered this. "There's this saying I found on the internet that I like a lot. Reality is too obvious to be true. I feel the opposite way round about stories, they often seem more real to me life. Wouldn't it be amazing if you could just escape into a story?"

"I do," I said, "every time I read one. Though it depends which one you mean. Like you said, a lot of stories can be pretty dark. Isn't that what your mother does, write books? What sort of stuff does she write?"

Jem pulled a face. "I don't know, I've never read one."

"You've never read one of your own mother's books?" I didn't see how it could be possible.

"We don't get on." He picked up a stick and began poking at the base of the fire.

"I've barely seen her for the past ten years. She doesn't really do parenting. I've been in boarding schools during term time then in summer camps, or the villa on Cap d'Antibes, the chalet in Klosters. It's surprising how infrequently you need to see your children when you have a few million pounds, and how easy it is to get used to spending time in the company of housekeepers, and servants."

"What about your father, where's he?"

Jem's brows tightened into a frown. Tossing the smoldering stick into the heart of the flames, he wiped ash from his hands onto his jeans and pursed his lips before answering.

"Good question," he looked over at me, brushing a lock of hair away from his face with the back of his hand and leaving a smear of ash on his cheek. I had an almost irresistible urge to get a hankie, lick it and wipe away the mark, despite the fact that I'd always hated it whenever dad did that to me.

"Are you happy Thea?"

It was the first time he'd used my name. I liked the way it sounded coming from his mouth.

"So you know who I really am then?" I joked.

"I know all about you," he answered seriously, giving a shy smile. "I've spent the last two weeks quizzing everybody I know to dish me all the gossip."

I laughed. "Snap!"

He seemed surprised, "really? I had the impression you didn't like me much."

"There's a difference between liking and trusting."

He nodded his head thoughtfully, as if I'd said something profound. "I thin I could like you a lot."

"What about Jayne?" I countered, trying not to show how pleased I was to hear him say it.

"I told you already, we're not together. Things aren't how they look from the outside. I wish you could trust me. Can you try to, do you think?"

I looked away, I wasn't going to let him hypnotize me with that puppy dog expression on his face.

"It's too early to say." I glanced back, he looked so miserable I immediately had to add something else. "I don't see why we can't be friends though if you want to. Maybe I'll learn to trust you."

A broad smile, almost as bright as the flames from the fire, illuminated his face.

"I hope so," the smile faded, "though I suppose it's difficult to trust someone whose personality changes all the time."

I was on the verge of telling him about my own problems with that particular issue, when he distracted me.

"You must miss New York."

I hadn't thought much about the city of my birth for a while. I did miss it in some ways. I guess Rebekah was right being in Baring had made me forget about my life in the Big Apple.

"I wish I could go there myself." The intensity of feeling behind his words drew me back to the present.

"Why don't you then? I asked, he shook his head impatiently. "It can't be the money." The words were out before I had time to consider them properly, a pained expression passed across his face. "Sorry, I didn't mean....."

"It's OK. You're right. It's not because I couldn't afford to," he sounded bitter, "I just can't. I'm stuck here in this dump for the time being, whether I want to be or not."

I suddenly felt deeply offended. For some inexplicable reason I wanted him to like Baring and the Forest as much as I did. "Well, nobody's keeping you here" I announced brusquely, getting to my feet, "in fact I don't think anybody invited you in the first place."

The vulnerable Jem I'd seen earlier was gone in a flash, now he seemed cold, formal, and distant.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you" he said coldly, I'll let you get back to bed... I just thought..." He left the sentence hanging, shrugged his shoulders and then stepped into the darkness.

"Wait!" I couldn't stop myself from calling after him. He turned to face me, waiting for me to speak. "What were you going to say?" I asked him, "just then?"

Standing there with the glow from the fire faintly illuminating his face he was so beautiful it almost took my breath away.

"I was going to say that I thought you might be someone I could trust myself. It isn't the easiest thing for me to do. There was, there _is_ a...a _quality_ about you, I can't explain it. I noticed it the first time I saw you in the forest. I'm sorry if I upset you."

As we stood gazing at one another, in the flickering light both of us knew that something was happening between us. A connection was forming whether we wanted it to or not.

"You're not the _only_ person in the world who suffers from mood swings you know." I tried to say it teasingly needing to break the tension somehow.

Crossing around the fire, I sat down on the log, and copying his earlier gesture indicated shyly that he should sit next to me. For a moment I thought he might refuse. Instead he sank down next to me. We sat together contemplating the flames, shoulder to shoulder barely touching, but all too aware of the feeling of our bodies side by side.

Eventually I started to talk about dad. I let it all out, the pain, the regret, the blame I felt, and finally my breakdown. Jem listened patiently without interrupting. It was only when I'd finished that I realized his hand had been resting on top of mine through most of the story. I lifted it away, under the pretense of getting another branch for the fire which was dying now; the ruddy glow of the embers had been joined by a reddish tint in the sky as dawn began to break. Jem seemed pensive.

"Do you think it's right to protect someone you care about no matter what?"

"If you love them, yes of course I do."

"Even someone who doesn't deserve it?

I thought about it for a moment. "You'd still have to wouldn't you? Whether they deserved it or not. If you loved them?"

"That's how I see it too." Resting his elbows on his knees he leaned forwards staring into the dying glow of the fire as if it might contain the answer to some question which was troubling him. He reached out and took my hand in his. "I've got something I want to tell you."

"Thea!" Rebekah's voice echoed through the garden. I ducked down so that I was almost flat on the damp grass, and gestured urgently at Jem to do the same. She was leaning out of the open bedroom window; I could just make out her silhouette.

"Are you out there?"

"Jem!" I whispered, our faces almost touching as we lay on the ground,

"you have to get out of here!"

He grinned and whispered back "OK!" But instead of leaving he squirmed forwards crossing the couple of inches that separated us and quickly kissed me on the lips. I practically jumped to my feet with surprise.

"Sorry Ariel. I couldn't resist. I've been hearing Sebastian singing to me for the past ten minutes!"

With that he scrambled backwards until he was close to the bushes and ducked into them, vanishing like a stage magician.

I ran it over in my head. "Sebastian? Oh, yeah... Kiss de girl. What a cheek!"

"Thea!" I could hear from the tone of her voice that Rebekah was getting really worried now.

"I'm here!" I shouted, struggling up to my feet, the front of my sweater soggy with dew.

By the time I got to the backdoor Rebekah was there waiting for me. Wrapped in her pink flannelette dressing gown with her hair all mussed up with sleep she looked much younger.

"What are you doing out of bed this late, are you alright?

I'm fine. I just had a nightmare, needed some fresh air."

"I went to the bathroom and saw your door was wide open. I was worried TT. I didn't know where you were! What were you doing out there?"

I considered how to answer; the closest thing to the truth seemed the best idea. "I thought I'd make a bonfire and look at the stars." Rebekah drew me into a hug, she was warm as toast.

"Sweetheart, are you still making sure you take your medication every day?"

I let out a heavy sigh. "Of course I am, don't worry."

She put two fingers under my chin and lifted it so that she could look directly into my eyes. "Are you _sure_ everything is alright?"

I gave her a peck on the cheek and smiled. "Yeah, as a matter of fact everything's just fine."

Chapter 8. An invitation

I forgot to mention that before my nighttime encounter with Jem, during the fortnight when I'd been grilling everybody I knew to find out more about him, the phone at Rose Cottage had rung for the first time.

I'd noticed the cottage had a landline when we first moved in because the phone looked as if it belonged in an antique shop. It was a mustard-green plastic brick with a dial rather than buttons, which sat on the floor in a corner of the kitchen. I didn't think it was connected, so I nearly cut my finger off when it suddenly began to ring.

I was waiting for Rebekah to get back from work and right in the middle of slicing a particularly slippery tomato. I let out a cuss word or two, dropped the knife into the sink, and sucking on my bleeding finger tried to get over the settee to the telephone. Flipping it off the hook with one hand I cradled the receiver in the crook of my neck

"Mnfffff?" I removed my bleeding finger from my mouth and tried again,

"hello?"

"Thea?"

The voice sounded familiar, who could possibly be calling me on this phone?

"Yes," I replied cautiously, "who is it?"

"It's Shanty, Shanty Corydon. We met the other day."

"Oh, yeah, right." I was hardly likely to forget meeting a real live card-carrying professional witch, even if I didn't think much of her supposed powers.

"I wanted to ask you if you have any time to spare on weekends. I'm looking for someone to help out occasionally in my shop, the Black Cat? Saturdays mainly."

I caught sight of myself in the mirror next to the kitchen table. I was scrunched up over the arm of the sofa, trying to support the phone in my neck while holding the finger of my other hand vertically above my head in an attempt to stem the flow of blood which was threatening to drip onto the cushions. I realized what I needed most was some more of Shanty's patent healing ointment.

"Sure, why not?" I told her."

"This Saturday? Ten O'clock?"

"Mmmm," my finger was firmly lodged back in my mouth again. Who would have imagined that making a salad could be so dangerous?

On Saturday, after a quick coffee at the Paper Mill in the company of the NG, I showed up for work at the Black Cat right on the button of ten. Shanty looked slightly surprised to see me, apparently the last assistant she'd had never made it in before half past; she'd just assumed all teenagers were equally lousy timekeepers.

Although I hadn't lied outright to Rebekah about where I'd be working, I'd been deliberately vague. I didn't want her to fret unnecessarily. Fortunately she was uber distracted by some complicated case she was dealing with at work so she didn't really ask me much about anything. I didn't think she'd mind particularly, I was just aware that the occult angle probably wouldn't play well with my 'path to recovery.'

The mystery of the phone call was solved relatively quickly when Shanty told me she'd known the previous tenants of Rose Cottage. It was certainly no secret what address the only American in the village was living at.

The job was a breeze; in fact I had no idea why she wanted to spend good money on getting someone in to help her at all. Most of the customer orders were for the online business - hazel wands, herbal remedies, spell books, natural beauty products and such like. All I had to do was read the order, throw whatever it was they'd asked for into an envelope, fix a sticky address label to it, frank it with the correct postage and toss it into a collection bag.

I had lots of spare time to twiddle my thumbs and chat with Shanty.

The few live customers who appeared were either spotty pre-teens looking for love potions, or middle-aged women after vegan face creams. A fat sweaty man with a black straggly beard, lots of tattoos and a tongue piercing dropped by looking for "some, like, really sharp knives for sacrifices innit?" and was swiftly shown to the door.

Actually Shanty didn't seem to particularly like having customers in the shop - period. Perhaps that explained why there were so few of them.

The two of us managed to get on reasonably well together though our relationship was totally one-sided. Shanty liked firing lots of questions at me about my family mainly. It was done in a nice, friendly sort of way, but it became a little like one of those scenes in the movies where the secret agent has to sit on a chair with a light pointed in her face and beat the interrogator. The only way to deflect her was by giving her so much unnecessary detail that she started glazing over, and stopped listening.

I fired off a few questions of my own whenever I got the chance. I was very pleased with myself for managing to prize out of her that she and the NG had been an item once upon a time. Who would have guessed? I amused myself, in between packaging the occasional order, with picturing the two of them in intimate and increasingly compromising situations; which only goes to show how dull it was working there.

In fact the only genuinely interesting thing that happened at the Black Cat took place on the second Saturday I'd been there.

I was busy making myself look busy, not that Shanty seemed to care, organizing some crystals into a display when the door to the shop opened and a woman stepped in.

She was in her mid-forties with a striking face, not exactly beautiful, more arresting and sophisticated looking. She had an air about her which suggested she was used to being admired. What made her stand out was Shanty's reaction. She bristled, I know it's an expression they use a lot in books to describe people's reactions, but she really did bristle.

It was like watching a cat preparing for a fight, fur on end, muscles tensed, and a vicious hiss just waiting to come out at the first sign of trouble. I saw this nature program on the Discovery Channel once showing a mongoose watching a snake. That's how Shanty looked when she was watching this elegantly dressed woman walk slowly around the shop touching this and that, stopping for a moment to open a book, then holding a scented soap under her nose to smell it.

Each of her movements seemed controlled yet at the same time fluid, no energy was wasted, and there was a strong sense of untapped strength in everything she did.

The mystery woman seemed blissfully unaware of Shanty's bristle factor and strolled all the way around the shop before finally heading to the counter with a bottle of evening primrose oil. I put my hand out to collect the money when Shanty barged me aside and slammed the till shut.

"We're closed!" She stood glowering at the woman, as if daring her to complain. If she was hoping to get a reaction she must have been disappointed, because the woman simply looked at her in silence for a moment, put down the bottle of oil, smiled politely and walked out of the shop.

Shanty was right on her tail, slamming the door shut the instant she'd stepped out though it, and twisting the key firmly in the lock. I gaped at her.

"What about the other customers? It's only two O'clock"

"They can use the ruddy internet!" she snapped. What's more she point- blank refused to tell me who the mysterious woman was, or why she was so uptight about having her visit the shop. The most I could get out of her was that she was _bad karma_.

I kept the fact that I thought it was fairly _bad karma_ for the owner of a business to treat a customer quite so rudely, and that it probably explained why she lived in a run-down caravan in the woods. It took a while before I finally found out who the woman was, and even then it happened by chance rather than design.

The morning after Jem showed up outside my window and kissed me a hand-written card appeared with the mail. It was terse to say the least. The only words on it said "come to tea, 5 pm."

It was only when I looked at the address printed on the top of the card that I realized who it was from. Draxton Manor, Baring. Jem wanted me to come to his millionaire's mansion for tea!

I finished college early; I only had one lecture on Wednesdays, and rode the bus back into Baring feeling both relieved and guilty that I hadn't seen either Jayne or Jem at the campus that morning. I'd confided in Millie during class that I was meeting Jem later on, and had to put up with a monologue explaining what a bad idea it was. I'm ashamed to say I was fairly prickly with her and we didn't part on the best of terms. The trouble was I agreed with every word she'd said. I just wasn't going to pay any attention.

English tea, what kind of a social event could that be exactly I wondered? I could've asked Rebekah of course. I just wasn't in the mood for one of those embarrassing chats about boyfriends adults always seem to want to have if they get the slightest hint you might be interested in someone.

Since Rebekah married dad we'd drunk a lot of tea together, I'd had tea at the Lodge, at Audrey's and with the NG, though he preferred coffee, I just hadn't actually been to someone's house _for_ tea - let alone to a millionaire's mansion. I was already beginning to panic about what to wear. I admit it's slightly odd given that I'd spent the night outside with Jem wearing a cardigan and a Onesie, but that's how I felt.

The afternoon passed in a haze of outfits, none of which seemed to fit my idea of an English tea party. I finally settled on a pinafore dress over a thin roll neck sweater, with plain navy tights and a new pair of suede boots I'd bought in Ringburg. I wrestled my hair back in a long pony tail and secured it with a scrunchy.

I wanted to be sure that just in case Jem's infamous mother was going to be there I looked like the sort of girl you could safely introduce to a parent. A horrible thought struck me. What if she really liked Jayne? Perhaps I looked way too square and boring? It was too late to do anything about it if I did, because it was already past the time when I should've left. I hurried out of the cottage, and set off on my bike along the road towards Ringburg, trying to keep the oil from the chain away from my tights.

About a quarter of a mile out of Baring I found myself pedaling next to a seemingly never-ending high stone wall. Some fifteen or twenty minutes further on I saw an impressive granite archway flanking the road.

On the top of the arch was a statue of a lion, guarding the entrance. A heavy wrought iron gate blocked the passageway underneath the arch, though through it I could see a long gravel drive leading off through woodland which then wound off to the left.

There was a control panel with a small camera on it next to the gate. Looking into the camera self-consciously I pressed a chrome button and waited. A foreign-sounding voice that was vaguely familiar spoke only one word.

"Yes?"

I looked blankly into the camera. I was on the verge of giving my name when there was a buzz, and a clunk, and the gate swung open slowly on its hinges.

The trees planted along either side of the drive were amazing; there were dozens of huge conifers lining the route on either side of the gravel track soaring hundreds of feet into the air. I almost got a crick in my neck staring up at them as I cycled past. Rounding the corner I'd seen from the gates I had my first sight of Draxton Manor.

Whilst the Lodge had been a wild fantasy of a building, Draxton Manor was the most perfect house I had ever seen in my life. Ivy, climbing roses and clematis trailed around the windows of an English country house, made of a honey-coloured stone, which looked as if it had been there since the beginning of time.

I don't mean it looked old, though of course it did; it looked as if it belonged right where it had been placed, almost as if it was part of the forest itself.

A path led up towards the property through a rolling meadow of wild flowers. Half way through the meadow a square of grass had been leveled and provided the landing site for a sleek black helicopter which squatted like a giant insect guarding the bottom of a set of stone steps.

Leaving my bike at the bottom of the steps I clambered up them until I reached a paved terrace flanked on one side by a thick green hedge. Coming to an archway cut into the hedge I passed through it, and entered an enclosed formal garden which took my breath away.

A fountain gushed water through the mouth of a bronze fish into a stone basin surrounded by ferns. Stone columns linked by a lattice of wooden cross-pieces provided shade for paths bordered by ornamental shrubs and flower beds, and each of the paths ended in a pleasing feature of some kind; a statue, or a pedestal, or a sundial.

I passed a series of benches which seemed to have been placed in the best spots all the way through the garden, tempting you to sit and listen to the gentle hum of bees as they flitted through the air collecting nectar from the late blooming flowers.

Although I would have loved to spend more time in this heavenly place I was only just in time for the tea date so I made my way swiftly through another hedge archway only to run straight into Jem.

His expression on catching sight of me would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so hurtful. He gasped in shock, and gawped at me stupidly, looking for all the world as if he'd seen a ghost.

"What the?...What are _you_ doing here?" he stammered, barely able to get the words out. This wasn't the scenario I'd been picturing.

"What do you mean, what am I doing here?" I demanded, jabbing my finger towards him to emphasize what I was saying. "You _invited_ me." His response left me completely stunned.

"Are you crazy?" He grabbed me by the arm, turning me back towards the gap in the hedge, "you have to get out of here, right away," his hand was in the small of my back, and he was physically pushing me along now.

"Just a minute!" I dug my feet in firmly and resisted, the soles of my boots scraping along as they dug into the gravel path, "what the Hell do you think you're doing?"

I was furious. I wouldn't be shoved aside like an empty crisp packet, particularly not by someone who had told me to come here in the first place. Jem looked desperate to get rid of me, what was going on? Then I twigged.

"Is Jayne here?"

"No, of course not," Jem insisted, "it's nothing like that!"

"Oh yeah?" I dripped sarcasm, "is that so?"

"Yes, it is!" He looked so agitated it was obvious he was lying. "You have to leave now."

I felt my face flush involuntarily with anger, and tears pricked my eyes, I would not cry in front of him, the pig! I managed to speak, although my voice sounded fairly wobbly. "Don't worry. I wouldn't stay here another second, even if you offered me a million bucks!"

I spun hard on my heel and marched off back through the formal garden, none of this was doing my new suede boots any favors. The fountain, statues and columns didn't look so appealing on the way back. I blundered my way past them tears starting to fog my sight, so utterly consumed with anger I thought I would spontaneously combust.

Just before I reached the other side of the garden I lashed out with my foot at one of the pretty shrubs bordering the path, kicking it as hard as I could and hearing a very satisfying crack as snapped at the base. I could always buy another pair of boots.

"What a pity, I was fond of that plant," the words came from a delicate wooden arbour I'd missed seeing on my journey through the garden the first time. A woman was sitting inside it, concealed by heavy foliage.

My heart sank. I looked down at the shrub I'd attacked; it was leaning drunkenly. My anger evaporated and I felt totally wretched. I groaned inwardly. "I'm really sorry. I'll pay for it to be replaced."

"No matter, though perhaps you'd like to share your reason for crushing it in the first place?" The woman leaned forwards so that the sunlight caught her face. She was wearing sunglasses, but I would have known her anywhere, it was the elegant woman from the shop. This must be Circe Masterson; Jem's _mother_.

I was about to reply when Jem reappeared next to me. I shot him a look filled with daggers, bits of broken glass and sulphuric acid.

"Have you met my son?"

I really hated it when I got things right. Jem and I spoke at exactly the same instant. He said "no" just as I said "yes". Circe Masterson's eyebrows lifted enquiringly. Jem spoke first.

"She was just leaving."

I mumbled my agreement; if he was going to pretend we'd never even met I wasn't going to bother to argue. Let her think I was trespassing; it was probably less embarrassing than trying to explain what a jerk her son was. Circe shook her head.

"I don't think so," she announced with a quiet authority. I looked at the shrub again; it must be something rare and extremely valuable. Jem's fists were clenched, and he was trembling with barely repressed emotion.

"Why not?" he demanded.

Circe removed her sunglasses, and turning to look at me she patted the seat next to her.

"Because I invited this young lady to tea, and she hasn't had any yet."

I think it's fair to say I was more surprised than I'd ever been in my life. She'd invited me? Not Jem at all? Not that it made his reaction to me any better or easier to understand; though actually it did. It was even more likely that Jayne was at the house if he'd no idea I'd been invited round for tea.

He stood there dumbstruck, it was clear he didn't have a clue what was going on. In spite of the fact that all my instincts were telling me to get the heck out of there I also felt a powerful urge to rub Jem's nose in it by staying. Let him worry about Jayne seeing me, I really didn't care anymore. Trust him? I'd rather trust a rattlesnake. He was still gaping at the two of us like a toddler who's had his toys stolen.

I pulled myself together and crossed to join Circe in the arbour. Jem moved a step forward as I sat next to his mother on the wooden bench, only for Circe to shoo him away, and tell him to "get Lechkov to bring tea."

He hovered for a second or two longer, as if he was going to argue about it, then abruptly turned his back and stomped off towards the house.

"I must apologize for Jem's rudeness," her voice was as rich and exotic as she appeared to be herself; I also thought I caught a hint of a slight foreign accent in her vowel sounds though I couldn't place it.

She continued, smiling at me reassuringly. "He knows how jealously I guard my privacy. I generally make it a rule that no one. No friends or acquaintances should ever be invited to the house."

The image of Jayne slumped on the sofa next to Jem I'd been holding in my head burst like a bubble, I studied Circe more carefully. What kind of mother won't allow her son's friends back to the house? It must have made the usual swapping of sleepovers tricky to say the least.

An image of Jayne wearing Goth-style pajamas lounging in Jem's bedroom suddenly popped into my mind, I suppressed it. Circe was still speaking, "...happy to make an exception in your case. Indeed, I sent the card myself. I'd no idea you'd already met my wayward son."

I glanced in the direction Jem had gone then blurted out the questions which had been bugging me since she'd invited me to sit down. "Why _did_ you invite me here? What's all this about? And how do you even know me?

"I saw you working in the Black Cat that day, you remember?" Circe leaned her head on one side and waited until I nodded before continuing, "I noticed something about you in the shop, something which made me want to meet you in person, and also..." She paused as if she wasn't sure how to phrase what she wanted to say next.

"I don't mean to sound alarming or over-dramatic... but I wanted to warn you about something. My ears pricked up.

"Warn me? About what?"

As I spoke a shadow fell across the entrance to the arbor, something was blocking out the sun. I looked around to see an enormous shape silhouetted against the late afternoon light.

As my eyes adjusted I realized it was the figure of a man holding a tray of tea things. I recognized him immediately, it was the giant male psychiatric nurse I'd seen pushing the man in the wheelchair at the Lodge.

"Ah! Thank you Lechkov, just put them down on the table."

The huge hands holding the tray looked like they'd be designed for tearing encyclopedias in half rather than dealing with delicate bone china and plates of cream cakes, however he managed well enough, setting the tray down gently onto a circular iron table just next to the bench.

Circe must have noticed my reaction, because once she'd waved him away and he'd lumbered off back towards the house she leaned in towards me conspiratorially.

"No doubt you've already encountered dear Lechkov at the Lodge?"

The question threw me, how could she know that?

Circe smiled like a cat with the cream, "I'm a writer Thea, you must allow a writer to know practically everything about everything if she chooses to set her mind to it. Research is an essential element of the profession."

I took her point; I just didn't know what had motivated her to take such an interest in me.

Concentrating on pouring tea from an exquisite porcelain tea pot into wafer thin china cups Circe pushed a three tiered tray of tiny cakes and pastries in my direction.

"Poor Lechkov. Unfortunately two or more part-time posts are the norm for many in these straightened times, the minimum wage being what it is. However in spite of his moonlighting he does us proud. Milk and sugar?"

I wasn't certain what she'd said made any sense. Surely she could afford to pay her servant more than the minimum wage? I guess that's how the rich stay rich. I was starting to become impatient with this whole situation; it just didn't feel quite right.

"You said you wanted to warn me about something Mrs Masterson?"

"Circe, please!"

"Circe. What is it I need to be warned about?"

A nasty thought crossed my mind. Research... the price of servants, poor little rich boy, and a shop girl who has been asking lots of questions about her son and heir. I put down the mini scone I'd been about to put in my mouth, and stood up.

"I get it," I announced, my voice tense with controlled anger, "if you want to warn me off you don't need to. I wouldn't date your son if he was the last person on earth."

Circe blinked; she gave a rich warm chuckle and then popped a tiny cream éclair into her mouth and chewed it appreciatively. "Please sit down my dear," she said, picking up a second with her elegantly manicured fingers, "as I think I mentioned before I had no idea you and Jem had already met. In fact I'm most disappointed in him for not mentioning it to me right away. You may appreciate it's not easy being the parent of a teenager. One day you have a delightful flaxen haired infant rushing to embrace you, and the next you wake up to find you are sharing your home with an ogre. In fact I should incorporate that idea in my next book. Far from warning you off I should be delighted to find someone willing to shake him out of this infuriating hormonal moodiness. I'm heartily sick of it. I'm sorry, does my directness shock you?

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I considered this. "No" I said, cautiously.

"That's a relief. I seem to manage to offend pretty much everybody I speak to these days. My concern for you is not related to my son at all, it's something quite different. Could I ask you to be so kind as to show me your wrist?

I stared at her blankly. "My wrist?"

"The left one... the underside?"

I turned my hand and pulled the sleeve back on my sweater. She peered closely at my arm.

"Yes. I thought I saw it the other day when you were about to take my money, before we were so rudely interrupted."

I looked down at where she was pointing, the brown pigment in the shape of a tree on the back of my wrist stood out clearly in the Autumn sunlight.

"My birthmark? I asked, Circe inclined her head, "what about it?"

"I wonder if I could ask you something?" Circe leaned back and rested her arm along the back of the bench.

"Ask away, I won't promise to answer."

"A wise response," another éclair vanished into her elegantly painted mouth. She dabbed at it with a spotless linen napkin, leaving a smear of bright red lipstick on it, "has your employer ever shown any particular interest your birthmark?

I thought for a moment. Was I being disloyal to Shanty if I admitted she _had_ behaved a little strangely when she'd first noticed it? I didn't see how, so I admitted as much, telling her about the tarot reading in Shanty's caravan. I reached for the Nazar necklace around my neck to show it to her, before realizing that I wasn't wearing it. It was still in the bathroom.

Circe's expression seemed to imply that none of this surprised her at all; in fact she looked quite smug, as if what I'd said confirmed some suspicion she'd had all along.

Tutting slightly to herself she reached for another éclair only to find there were none left on the cake stand. Her hand hovered over a Florentine for an instant, just long enough for me to admire a chunky ruby ring on her index finger, before she withdrew it to rest it in her lap once more.

"I'm afraid to say Shanty hasn't been completely open with you my dear."

"You know each other then?" I watched her face carefully; I was interested in finding out why Shanty had bristled to such a degree on seeing her. Circe offered me a tight smile.

"We're acquainted. As you may know I make my living writing about the supernatural, and as a consequence I find myself obliged to...how shall I put it nicely? _Deal_ with... a wide range of people who dabble in witchcraft, magic and the occult. Some of them... like Shanty can _seem_ charming, but only until they reveal their other side, a side which for the most part remains concealed from sight.

It's OK, I said, "you don't have to worry. Shanty told me straight out she was a witch." Circe's smile got even tighter; I could tell she wasn't reassured.

"She told you about Wicca?" I took a small chocolate muffin from the cake stand and was about to dip it in my tea when I realized where I was.

"Yep."

The tight smile was back again, "and the mother Goddess; Gaia?"

I nodded my head," she told me everything."

The smile tightened so much it almost became a grimace. "Oh I doubt that very much indeed. Did she try to tell you that witches are all just wise women? Wiccans who have been given a bad press by men?"

I shrugged. "I suppose so, in a way. Not exactly in so many words," I slipped the muffin into my mouth, it tasted amazing. Why were they all so small though? It was a bit like being at a doll's tea party.

Circe put her cup down on its saucer deliberately. "The religion of Wicca is not quite as new- age and benevolent as Shanty might like to suggest. There are a significant number of Wiccans who follow what is known as the left hand path. You may have heard about Baring's most infamous practitioner of black witchcraft..."

"Sibyl Osgood?" I interjected. Circe inclined her head. "Indeed, Sibyl Osgood. The followers of the dark arts live by a creed which is both simple and ruthless. Their motto is 'do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law', and they live by it."

That was where I'd heard those words before. Shanty told me the Wiccan version, but I'd read the first part of the other one on Sibyl Osgood's grave

"There's nothing they won't stoop to, in order to fulfill their twisted aims. I know it might be interesting to you, amusing perhaps, to make friends with a witch, but I can assure you having anything to do with someone from the darker side of Occult is extremely dangerous. "

I was shaking my head through the whole of this speech, "I can't believe Shanty has anything to do with people like that."

Circe stopped for a moment and seemed to reflect on this. "Perhaps not. Like all Wiccans she can't stand me so it is hard for me to judge. When I appear they all react as if they were being forced to suck a slice of lemon."

I couldn't help laughing as I remembered Shanty's pained expression when Circe had walked into the shop. "Why?" I asked, "why do Wiccans hate you so much?"

"Because I've turned their religious beliefs into a very successful franchise. I created a series of highly profitable stories for teenagers, and a couple of film screenplays out of what I consider to be a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Those that aren't deeply offended are probably just plain jealous."

I was starting to warm to Circe, she was blunt, to the point and she didn't pull any punches. It was actually quite refreshing.

"None of that changes the fact that they believe in what they're doing completely, and as such are not to be trusted. Your friend Shanty hasn't been completely honest with you. She should have told you straight away to be on your guard."

Circe dropped her voice as if afraid of being overheard and leaned closer to me, her perfume was heavy and quite overpowering close to.

"Have you ever heard of the name Cybele? More specifically the Sisterhood of Cybele? As she asked the question the sun dropped momentarily behind a cloud bringing a chill to the air. I pulled the sleeve on my sweater down to cover my wrist again,

"No."

"Cybele is an older, and darker manifestation of the Goddess Shanty introduced to you as Gaia. They are the two aspects of the Great Mother, which are constantly vying for superiority over one another. While Gaia is the richness of the harvest and the movement of the seasons, Cybele is nature in the raw, untamable, uncontrollable, and insatiable. Her sacred attributes are control over life, death and re-birth. In Roman times her worship involved a ceremony known as the taurobolium which took place in a pit beneath a slatted floor. A bull was driven onto the floor above the high priestess and the celebrants beneath, and was slaughtered, drenching them in its blood. Some historians even suggest that it was not only animal blood that was used within her rituals in the earliest days."

I mulled that one over and didn't like the conclusions I came to one little bit. As Circe went on the shadow cast by the cloud seemed to intensify, making the arbor gloomy and cold.

"The Sisterhood is a cult which grew out of the ancient so called _mysteries_ into a secret society that has existed for thousands of years. Nobody knows how strong they are, who they are or where they might be found."

"What do they actually believe?" I asked, suddenly wishing I'd brought a jacket.

"Like the majority of Wiccans they believe that the world is out of balance. For the Sisterhood though, the only way that it can be restored is by fulfilling an ancient prophecy inscribed on the walls of one of the oldest temples to Cybele high in the mountains of Anatolia. Nobody outside the Sisterhood knows exactly where it lies. Though of course Anatolia is in modern day Turkey."

I took a quick sip of tea to warm me, "what kind of prophecy?"

Circe considered this for a moment. "Sibyl Osgood's translation is probably the best know." She began chanting a rhyme in a low voice. "Mortal, fae, single, twain, blood of birth, got on Beltane, Meka Mater rise again."

Although I didn't understand a word of what she was saying I found the rhyme disturbing, frightening even. "Meka Mater?"

"Osgood left Cybele's title in the original Phrygian, it means Great Mother."

I nodded my head, "and Beltane?"

"An ancient fertility ceremony held on Mayday," Circe replied.

"What does it mean; blood of birth?" I asked.

Circe looked at me as if to assure herself that I was strong enough to take what she was going to say. She must have decided that I was because she began to tell me in a perfectly matter of fact voice that as far as she could make out the Sisterhood of Cybele believe that by sacrificing a male infant conceived during the feast of Beltane, and pouring its blood on the altar of the secret temple somewhere in Anatolia they can wake their goddess and revive her.

Once they've brought her back they think she'll appear on Earth in human form as a mighty Queen. She'll be endowed with superhuman powers, able to strike down anybody who dares to oppose her. The Sisterhood see this as providing the planet with a new Golden Age saving humanity from its inevitable ruin, whilst other commentaries speak of her return as heralding a dark and terrible reign lasting ten thousand years.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, I felt slightly nauseous, and had to gulp in some fresh air to settle my stomach.

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that these people think they can tackle global warming by murdering a baby? I nearly choked on the words I found it impossible to imagine that anybody could be stupid enough to think something so sick, so idiotic, so ridiculous and so absurd might even be the tiniest bit credible.

Circe looked puzzled. "No. Nothing like that, they don't care about rebalancing nature. They intend to shift the balance completely across the spectrum, to end the power and rule of men on this planet once and for all."

Just for a second I thought of Jem, and was sorely tempted to find out where I could join up - just for a second.

OK. I agreed in principal that men had screwed up royally so far, and that if things didn't change in some way we were all going to find ourselves in a sticky situation one day. But sacrificing babies, in order to bring an all-powerful Goddess back to life? Please! There were some seriously messed up people in the world. How, I wondered aloud, could any of this have anything to do with me?

Circe pointed at my wrist, "the faery's fork!" I looked at her blankly.

"Mortal _and_ fae. The prophecy says quite clearly that the infant will be born to a woman who belongs both to the natural, and the supernatural realms. She will be part mortal and part faery."

My mouth dropped open. "Are you trying to say.....?" I couldn't even finish the sentence the idea was so patently ridiculous.

"The mark on the back of your wrist looks exactly like a pattern known to Wiccans as the 'faery's fork', it's supposed to identify children with faery blood - what they call 'Tu'athain'; the child of a supernatural and a mortal parent. Their presence is supposed to lend enormous power to the casting of any spell or charm."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard !" I scoffed.

"But of course," Circle answered smoothly, "It's complete and utter nonsense. Unfortunately for anyone carrying the mark, the Sisterhood, and almost anybody else from the left hand path who wants to work a powerful spell can be a real danger. I heard of a case in Italy a couple of years ago where a young woman was kidnapped by a group of Occultists, and only managed to escape by opening the door to a moving car and rolling out onto the road; she could easily have been killed. These people's ideas may sound far-fetched, absurd even, but I can assure you they're no joke whatsoever."

The cloud was still blocking the sun and I was beginning to feel really cold. Circe tried to reassure me, mistaking my involuntary shiver for fear.

"I'm sure I am fussing over nothing my dear. I just wanted to warn you that hanging around in an occult shop probably isn't the safest option for a young woman like yourself. If you have to, then at least make sure you wear a long sleeved top. I have to admit that I'm surprised and concerned that Shanty didn't mention any of this to you herself. Perhaps she just didn't want to worry you either. I hope that I haven't given you too much cause for concern myself. I just felt it was better for you to know."

I completely agreed, and now she mentioned it, it did seem odd that Shanty had said nothing about the whole thing even though she'd obviously recognized the mark for what it was as soon as she saw it. I made a mental note to challenge her about it at work on Saturday.

Suddenly feeling very eager to get home I thanked Circe for her advice and got to my feet. The sun chose that moment to emerge from the behind the cloud and the garden brightened once more.

"You know, thinking about it the idea that I'm half faery's quite cool, though I think I'd know if I had any magical properties."

Circe smiled indulgently, "they're not supposed to emerge until after your sixteenth birthday."

"Which was last May"

"Ah, I beg your pardon. Then provided you don't have visions, see into the future or have an unusual ability with wild animals I imagine you can put the whole thing out of your mind." She patted my hand reassuringly.

I froze. Alarm bells were clanging in my head. Visions? I'd had more than my fair share of those. See into the future? Hadn't I predicted dad's car crash? And the last one; ever since I'd arrived in the New Forest I'd felt like a teenage version of Doctor Doolittle. I managed a weak half- smile. It must all just be a coincidence surely? Besides I knew who my parents were, and as far as I was aware neither of them were faeries! Something was nagging at me though, something to do with the prophecy.

"Single and twain" I asked, "what exactly is that supposed to mean?

Circe gave me an appraising look, extending her hand for me to shake, with a relaxed and elegant movement, like a ballerina. "Nobody's quite certain; perhaps it refers to the duality of the Tu'athain herself. I have my own ideas on the subject – nothing worthy of sharing as yet, though I may use it in my next novel."

I made ready to leave; half of me was glad that Jem hadn't returned from the house during our conversation, while the other half was secretly disappointed.

"Let me get Lechkov to run you home."

Protesting that I had my bike with me cut no ice; Circe said it would easily fit into the back of the 4x4. She insisted on going up to the house to fetch her giant manservant leaving me waiting in the arbour. As I sat there I pulled up my sleeve again and studied my birthmark intently. I'd never really paid it much attention in the past.

It was just a blotchy streak of brown pigmentation which looked like a hazy line running up the length of the inside of my wrist. There were three thin lines which did look a little bit like the prongs on a fork at the end nearest my hand.

There was nothing particularly strange about it to me. I'd had it all my life. Though now I found myself puzzling at it, wondering if it might have some other significance. I told myself to snap out of it, it was just a boring old birthmark like a million other birthmarks, whatever the Sisterhood or any other weirdoes might think.

A sudden shrill cry in the near distance seemed to drill right through me. I caught my breath and looked around to see if I could locate the direction it had come from. The sound came again, louder this time and more anguished than before.

It seemed to originate on the other side of the hedge, closer to the main building. I looked to see if Circe was about to reappear when the cry was repeated. There was something about it, a level of distress that I just couldn't ignore.

I set off in the direction of the noise, hurrying down the paths and through the hedges until I emerged at the rear of the house. There was a set of outbuildings capped by a clock tower ahead and to my right. The sound was definitely coming from one of them. Rounding a corner I realized that I was entering a stable block.

"Hold still you brute!"

A man's voice cut across the awful sound I'd heard from the garden. I found myself running through the stable, past empty stalls, almost falling on a patch of loose straw underfoot, until I saw the owner of the voice ahead of me brandishing a riding crop.

He was facing away from me holding a horse firmly by the halter, and as I watched he gave a vicious swing of the crop striking the horse's neck, and causing it to repeat the squealing cry that had drawn me there in the first place.

I was next to him in an instant, and without thinking about it, I'd grabbed the crop from his hand and shoved him backwards. He lost his grip on the halter, tripped over a bucket of feed and crashed onto the concrete floor.

Without bothering to see if he was badly hurt I immediately began to sooth the frightened horse, horrified by the angry weals I saw on its neck. At least he hadn't stuck hard enough to draw blood. They looked bad, but they probably would heal well enough given time.

Staring into its eyes I reached my hand out slowly towards the horse's neck. It surely couldn't do any harm for me to try to...

I sensed a movement behind me, and turning I gasped as I realized a riding crop was about to strike me across the face. My hands came up to protect my eyes and I waited for the blow to come, but after a few awful moments of anticipation nothing happened. I peeped nervously through a gap in my fingers.

Jem Masterson was standing as if he'd been frozen by the Medusa, with the crop still hovering in position ready to lash out. He gradually lowered it, a sullen expression remaining fixed on his face.

He was looking past me at something over my shoulder. I took a risk and glanced around. Lechkov's enormous moon face stared back at me. There was no expression that I could easily interpret in that great mass of flesh, he was just _there_. Still his presence alone seemed to be enough to make Jem back down.

Dropping the riding crop on the floor, he stalked off in a complete strop, looking as if someone had ruined his fifth birthday party. I gulped oxygen filling my lungs with a sudden gasp, I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath.

The horse was whinnying pitifully. I leaned over, and gently placed my hand on its head and after a few moments it began to calm. "You have to call the vet," I insisted, "right away!"

"Will be done,"the huge man replied, in his strangely high voice, so incongruous for such a giant. He held up a set of car keys that looked like they'd been made for a midget within his enormous hand.

"Come!"

It wasn't a request, it was a command. He turned and strode out of the stables leaving me to follow. I gave the horse's nose one last gentle stoke and whispered in its ear. "Jem Masterson? Talk about Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde. I thought I was supposed to be the crazy one!"

Chapter 9. All hallows eve

The horrific encounter with Jem in the stables and the confusing conversation I'd had with Circe unnerved me for the next couple of days.

Now that she'd put the idea in my head that Shanty hadn't been straight with me I couldn't shake it off. Why did she really ask me to work in the shop with her when there was obviously so little to do? Could it be related to my birthmark in some way, and could she even be involved with the Sisterhood? The other thing I couldn't shake off was the image of Jem striking that poor horse across the face, and then raising the whip to hit me. It kept flashing into my mind and distracting me from my college work. How could he be like that? I'd thought, when we'd talked together that night in the garden of Rose cottage, that I'd seen the real Jem Masterson. Obviously I was sorely mistaken.

The first thing I'd done when I'd gotten back to class was to offer a groveling apology to Millie, and spill almost everything I'd been through. I left out the part about potentially being a Tu'athain – I figured that was way too silly to bother her with - I just said that Circe was concerned Shanty hadn't mentioned that there was a dark side to Wiccan beliefs.

I told her all about the incident with Jem and said I had half a mind to call the police, there must be laws against hurting an animal that way. Although Millie agreed, she warned me that they might not be particularly keen to follow it up. Circe was the biggest donor to the local police benevolent fund; she'd practically paid for the new police social and sports club in Ringburg single-handedly. Besides they could easily have moved the horse somewhere else by now. It would be my word against theirs.

She was right of course, but the thought of the way that poor creature had been treated still upset me to the core. We both agreed that Jem must have serious issues, probably some sort of split personality for him to change so drastically from one minute to the next. He probably needed headzappers even more than I did.

I decided to see if I could pump Rebekah for a spot of professional insight - provided I could manage to do it without giving her all the gory details of my non-relationship with Jem.

I also found myself unable to resist trawling through the internet for any references to 'Wicca', 'Cybele,' 'Tu'athain' and the 'Witches Fork'.

From what I could see Wiccans worshipped a divine couple, two parts of a complete whole who, together in balance, make up the Cosmos; so far so Shanty. It was only when I started looking for links to the Goddess Cybele that I found more disturbing descriptions of a 'Great Mother, riding a lion-drawn chariot who would drive her followers into a wild ecstatic frenzy'.

On one site I found a passage which described how Cybele's male priests would emasculate themselves in her honour. Just in case you're not familiar with the word - I had to look it up myself to make sure - I can promise you it's not a pleasant thought. Just don't do an image search whatever you do!

A particularly gory site seemed to revel in the idea that her worshippers didn't stop at sacrificing bulls; the _taurobolium_ Circe had mentioned. It insisted that in one of their other fertility ceremonies a man was given the role of Cybele's male consort Attis, and at the culmination of the rite his throat was slit on the altar.

Beginning to wish that Rebekah had a child lock on the internet I typed in Tu'athain. I'd read plenty of myths and legends concerning encounters between the mortal and supernatural realms, I'd just never realized how many resulted in babies that were half-elf, half-nymph, half-dryad, or half-faery.

I suppose if Ariel had finally managed to marry her Prince, like she does in the movie, then her kids would have been Tu'athain – half-merperson and half human. The NG absolutely had to be a half-gnome!

According to the site the powers of a Tu'athain would only begin to show themselves once they'd passed their sixteenth birthday, and that they would need help from a shaman or a supernatural guide to learn how to control them. Each of the Tu'athain had slightly different powers, which were dependent upon what their parents could do. What they all shared was an affinity with and ability to heal animals, and one other thing; they all had 'second sight'.

I did another quick search and learned that 'second sight' is the name given to the ability to see elements of the faery kingdom. I read a long passage which caught my attention from its opening sentence. 'Mortals with the sight have been persecuted throughout history. Often treated as mad, those who can see, and sometimes hear the voices of the fae, rarely realize what their gift is, or seek training in its correct use. Instead, they have found themselves rejected by society, controlled with drugs, and confined to hospital wards.'

It explained that the Tu'athain didn't fully belong in the mortal world and that when they reached the right age to cross the border between the two worlds the land of the fae began calling to them. In olden times the links between the two realms, the 'visible' and 'invisible' worlds had been much closer, and mankind while not being able to see it, had been able to sense the nearness of the spirit world.

There were places where the kingdom of the Fae, and the land of the mortals physically touched one another. At one time it was relatively easy to cross from one to the other, but as the centuries had passed the skills had been lost, and now it was almost impossible to penetrate the barrier which had grown between them.

Whilst finding the whole faery thing fascinating, and just a little bit spooky considering my 'condition'. I wasn't naïve enough to start imagining it might be a good idea to throw myself out of the window to see if I could fly.

One thing Circe was completely right about though was my birthmark. It did look uncannily like the pictures I found on a bunch of fairly dodgy sites referring to the 'Witches Fork'. It seemed likely that anybody who did believe all this stuff might actually want to add me to their cooking pot or do something even worse.

By the time Saturday came round again I was itching to have things out with Shanty. However when I arrived at the shop, right on time as always, I was surprised to find the door locked and Shanty nowhere in sight. I waited around for twenty minutes and then popped into the Papermill. The NG told me he had no idea where she might be, though he did try to call her cellphone.

"Baint no reply, tis straight t'answerphone."

I told him not to worry, I'd cycle on over to her caravan and see if she'd overslept. When I got there the area in front of the van had been cleared. The old horsehair couch and the deckchairs were nowhere to be seen. The door to the caravan was closed and locked, and pressing my face against the grimy window from the outside I could see that nobody was at home. I looked around warily, just in case Grimalkin was in the bushes planning an attack, then seeing and hearing no signs of life I finally gave up, and headed for home.

Shanty didn't appear the following week, or the week after or the week after that. It seemed she'd gone away without saying a word. The NG wasn't over surprised. He said she'd done it before.

"There i'nt no use fussin' over it. She do allus come on back in er' own sweet toim."

That was as maybe. It was irritating that she hadn't even bothered to call to let me know she wouldn't need me anymore. Not that I really minded. I'd decided to quit anyway, mainly so that I could keep myself out of the Black Witch firing line. It was just the principle of the thing.

Jem didn't show up at college for a while either, which was a relief, and when he finally did I just made a point of ignoring him. He was the invisible man as far as I was concerned. Jayne was more than welcome to him. At least that's what I tried to tell myself.

I hung out with Lucy, Millie and Sim and got stuck into my course work, life carried on and I made up my mind not to have anything more to do with second sight, faeries, the occult, or witchcraft. Of course I'd forgotten one tiny detail. It was the end of October; Halloween!

It seemed that the one time in the year that Baring embraced its historical connection with the infamous Black Witch, Sibyl Osgood, was at Halloween. The village was transformed by cobwebs, Jack O'lanterns, broomsticks, and more black and orange bunting than I'd ever seen, even in the Big Apple. The inhabitants threw themselves into dressing up with a will.

The NG got himself a pair of huge pointed rubber ears, and wore a pixie hat for a week before the event - I guess he recognized the gnome thing in himself too - and even the miserable man in the Post Office joined in the fun by dressing up as a Zombie. At least I think he was dressed up.

The NG had a party with a book quiz one evening in the shop to promote a series of scary books for children which he invited me to. I took Rebekah along as my 'and guest'. I felt a bit guilty for the way I'd been hiding things from her, and not really being honest about what was happening in my life.

Though to be fair she hadn't really asked that many questions recently; she'd been too busy with work.

Rebekah had a couple of glasses of white wine and got quite giggly during the quiz. As we walked back to Rose Cottage under the stars she began weaving from one side of the road to the other, and asked in an almost comically drunken slur if I minded her being away for a couple of days over Halloween itself. There was a psychiatric conference in Manchester that she wanted to go to. Someone famous would be speaking, and it was too far to get there and back in one day. I said it was fine.

"Are you sure you can cope on your own?" she asked, wobbling unsteadily. There was a squelching sound. "Oh!"

Rebekah looked down. She was standing with one foot buried up to the ankle in a large cow pat.

A couple of days later I helped her stuff a suitcase into the boot of the little Renault she'd bought from a local car dealer while she fussed like a mother hen about whether I'd have enough to eat, and if I knew how to work the heating system. When she'd finally driven off up the road and I'd waved her out of sight I settled down to do some baking.

I'd recently gotten into a TV show I'd watched with Lucy one evening called the Great British Bake-Off. Amateur cooks competed against each other and were judged by a team of professionals on the quality of their baking. You know the sort of thing. Anyway I wanted to test myself against the classic chocolate brownie.

I had the ingredients lined up on the kitchen table and spent the next hour or so beating butter, caster sugar, and eggs, melting enough chocolate to coat the entire ceiling, and crushing a handful of walnuts before doing my best to get them all to gel together with some flour and a pinch of baking powder.

Thirty minutes in the oven and they were done. OMG! I was in choccy heaven. All I needed now was my Onesie, some fluffy slippers, and my laptop I was ready for an evening of slobbing out on the settee accompanied by some trashy romantic movie.

As I sat curled up on the couch, debating whether or not eating a third brownie was repulsively greedy, something moved outside the kitchen window. I looked up. It was already dark even though it was only five O'clock. I couldn't see anything clearly as the light inside the room meant that the window was merely a black rectangle. Even so, I was sure I'd seen something slip past.

Turning off the lamp by the settee I tiptoed over towards the window and pressing my face to the glass peered out into the twilight. A horrific ghoulish face appeared directly in front of me, its mouth a gaping twisted grimace.

Claw like hands grasped for me, pressing against the glass. I let out an involuntary scream, my heart knocking so hard in my chest it felt as if it would break free of my rib cage.

At the same moment there was a heavy pounding at the door as if a host of undead creatures were beating on it with their fists. I threw myself back from the window and grabbing at the poker, which was lying next to the Aga, held it ready to defend myself if the lock on the front door proved to be too weak to keep them out.

The ghoul face pushed itself against the window, distorting its features still further, and was quickly joined by two others. One had huge pointed fangs which seemed to be dripping blood whilst the other wore a torn white veil over pale blue skin like a corpse bride. I rubbed my eyes and tried to calm myself. Surely this must be a hallucination, this couldn't possibly be real, could it?....

Wait a minute, a ghoul, a vampire and a corpse bride?

I loosened my grip on the poker and took a second look. The ghoul was male and about twice the size of the two females. It had a large nose, and...yes ears like the handle on a mug. "Sim!" I yelled at the window, "I am so going to kill you for this."

Lucy the vampire and Millie the corpse bride had three brownies each while Sim the ghoul managed six. What they'd done to deserve them I couldn't for the life of me imagine.

"Why did you make so many if you weren't expecting us to show?" asked Lucy, replacing her false vampire teeth and pretending to bite Sim.

"She totally _was_ expecting us, can't you tell by the costume? What are you supposed to be, an undead baby?"

Sim was really pushing it. I was already annoyed about the way he'd scared me through the window. I wrapped my arms around myself tighter and scrunched up on the settee even more. It seemed that the minute I put my Onesie on everybody in the world wanted to pay me a visit.

"Leave her alone Sim," Millie chipped in, "she can look as rough as she likes when she's home alone."

Thanks for the support I thought, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.

"So are you coming now or what?"

This was Lucy, swinging a killer pair of legs up onto the couch in order to show off the fishnets she was wearing under her Vampirella mini-dress. I'd completely forgotten that I'd promised to join them for some Halloween do; I'd probably wiped it from my memory on purpose. It was the last thing I wanted to do, run around with a bunch of people dressed in stuff which could give you nightmares, I had enough of them as it was.

"I don't know," I hedged, "I've got nothing to wear."

"Sounds good to me," Sim joked, earning himself a punch in the arm from Lucy.

"Don't be lame Thea, we'll help you"

Millie nudged Lucy who nodded enthusiastically. "Come on!" she urged, "it's a Baring tradition, a rite of passage thing. You did promise."

They were all looking at me expectantly. I finally caved. Millie and Lucy threw themselves on top me in a massive bear hug while Sim punched the air with his fist repeating, "Thea! Thea! Thea!" as if he'd become the largest-ever member of the cheerleading squad.

When the girls began competing about which of them should do my make-up I decided to call time.

"Hold on guys!" I pushed my way out of the group love thing. "I'm only coming if I don't have to wear fancy dress."

Lucy groaned. Millie looked at me knowingly, and then pointed at my Onesie.

"If you don't want to dress up we can always take you there in that!"

Forty minutes later I was wearing what I can only describe as a slightly wicked Sabrina the Teenage Witch ensemble. I had on a red mid-length dress I'd had in the back of my wardrobe forever. I'd never worn it before because it showed too much of the cleavage I didn't have, though I guess things were changing since now I seemed to be able to fill it quite nicely thank you.

I borrowed a pair of heels from Rebekah's bedroom and let Lucy and Millie smear more makeup on my face than I'd ever normally use. Millie gave me dark smoky eyes and Lucy added a deep crimson to my lips. She also insisted on back- combing my hair so much I looked like a refugee from a1980s soap. They seemed pretty pleased with the results, and Sim even gave me a brief round of applause when I came downstairs; though it could have been ironic because we'd taken so long getting ready.

It was only once we were out on the street and walking away from the cottage that I actually asked where we were headed. Sim turned his ghoulish face towards me and grinned widely.

"Everybody stays in the glade overnight, and then we all walk up onto Godhill to watch the sunrise."

"We're going into the forest?" I asked, looking down at my feet in horror. Why on earth did I let them put me in high heels?

Chapter 10. The wild hunt

It appeared I wasn't the only one wearing the wrong footwear as we picked our way through the forest towards the faery glade. In fact I didn't see any of the girls in shoes or boots you could describe as remotely sensible.

It didn't matter quite as much as it might have, because someone had made a path of branches through the trees and lit it with hundreds of tee-lights in glass jam jars which lined our route. They made a beautiful winding pathway for what looked like the entire teenage population of the New Forest as they threaded their way into the woods.

When we eventually emerged into the glade it too had been transformed. Candles dotted the grass, and larger hanging lanterns made from colored glass threw an intricate pattern of light and shadow across the central pool, which moved as the gentle breeze rocked the lamps.

There were two log fires burning, one larger one directly in front of the pool, and a smaller one a little further off towards the stream. The larger fire gave off a welcome heat as the temperatures had been dropping over the past few days. The feeling of winter was in the air.

I looked around, suddenly realizing that although at first sight the twinkling candlelight made it seem welcoming the shadows from the knotted webs and the twigs hanging from the branches which surrounded the glade appeared ominous, threatening; as if they were waiting to tangle the unwary.

The gory Halloween costumes didn't help either. I began to feel a little edge of panic rising in my chest as I looked around at the assorted ghosts, demons, witches and ghouls I'd chosen to spend the night with.

My hand was trembling which was always a bad sign. I stuffed it into the pocket of the jacket I was extremely glad I'd thought to grab just as we were leaving. Did I take my headzappers before we came out? I tried to rack my brain. I couldn't remember. Perhaps I should go back?

Sim was leading us towards a fallen branch which had been dragged next to the larger fire. There was a group of teenagers sitting on it. I suddenly recognized someone I didn't want to be within a hundred miles of, let alone on the same log. I pulled on Millie's sleeve diverting her towards the smaller fire.

"What's up?"

"You didn't tell me Jem Masterson would be here," I hissed. Millie shrugged her shoulders dismissively. " _Everybody's_ here. I told you, it's a tradition."

In spite of the unpleasant shock of seeing Jem again I was sure I could manage to take it in my stride. There was a nice chilled atmosphere around the smaller fire. A guy I vaguely recognized from my history class was strumming on a guitar while someone else was cooking sausages on a metal skewer and passing them round to anybody who was hungry. There were even bread rolls to stuff them in and ketchup so we could make hotdogs.

A large metal pan was bubbling away on the main fire, and a guy in a Frankenstein costume was doling out some sort of warm punch which most people seemed to be drinking. I stuck to a bottle of Coke Millie brought with her not wanting to take any unnecessary chances.

I sat for a while talking with a couple of girls from Ringburg about whether black holes really led to alternate universes – we never did decide for sure- while Millie flirted with a boy dressed in a long black velvet cape who was sitting on the grass. His mother wouldn't be happy if he got mud all over the cape - that much was certain.

Thinking about messing things up I took a look at Rebekah's shoes, I was going to need to spend some serious cleaning time on them before she got back. I stood up to stretch my legs and was immediately knocked back down again by a stinging blow on my cheek.

Jayne Carter stood over me her face a twisted mask of hatred.

"You keep your filthy hands to yourself. Jem is mine. Do you understand? Mine!"

In spite of the emphasis she gave the words she sounded nervous, uncertain. I pressed my hand to my face; it felt numb where she had slapped me with her open hand.

"You're welcome to him," I told her, just managing to spit the words out in spite of the pain in my jaw, "he's all yours".

She looked down at me, like someone considering whether or not to squash an ant underfoot.

"Good. Just remember that."

She waited for a second or two as if to make sure that her words had sunk in, then the heavy chrome buckles on her black leather jacket jingled as she swung round, and stalked off back towards the main fire.

Millie rushed to my side immediately. "Oh my goodness Thea! Are you OK?

"I'm fine" I said through gritted teeth while rubbing my cheek, and secretly thinking to myself 'what goes around comes around.'

I was sure Sadie Adams would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that one. Her lawyer father would have made mincemeat of Jayne.

Millie was furious on my behalf. "What does she think she's on? I'm going to get Lucy and Sim, this isn't over yet!"

I held onto her arm to keep her from trying to set off after Jayne. "Forget it," I told her, "I deserved it."

"What?" Millie looked confused.

I looked over towards the other fire. I could just make out Jayne's slumped figure sitting alone, on the other side of the glade from the spot where I'd seen Jem earlier.

"I _was_ trying to mess with her boyfriend."

Millie shook her head angrily. "Even so, it still doesn't excuse slapping someone in the face. I'm going to give her a piece of my mind"

"Leave it. Please," I told her, "it's not worth it."

Still looking unsure Millie squatted down next to me and looked at my face."I don't think it's going to bruise. I'm sorry Thea. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. I just wanted to help you get out of yourself a bit, have some fun. My bad.... I'll take you back if you want."

I appreciated the offer especially as I could tell she didn't really want to leave. The boy in the velvet cape was hovering a few feet away and she'd accidentally looked towards him just before she'd asked.

I smiled at her. "Don't sweat it. I'm alright. Really."

"I don't know...are you're sure?"

"I am," I said, gesturing towards the boy in the cape. "You get back to Batman." She sniggered at that.

"He's supposed to be Count Dracula."

I gave her my brightest smile and a tiny shove. It was enough. Ten minutes later I saw them locked together in what was either him giving her a blood transfusion or a very smoochy kiss.

"Hey!" A male voice sounded next to me. It was the guitar player. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest," I replied, grateful for the chance to distract myself from Millie and her new Transylvanian boyfriend.

The guitar player – I never did get his name- was saving up to take a greyhound bus around the States the following summer. By the time we'd been through all of the places he wanted to visit, and the sites he was hoping to see the forest party was in full swing.

It seemed fairly clear that some of the teenagers rampaging up and down had been drinking. There was a raucous, chaotic- looking game of chase going on. Shrill screams and hoots of laughter echoed around the glade. One boy hung upside-down with his legs wrapped around the branch of a tree swinging back and forth.

As I watched he lost his grip and dropped about five feet onto a pile of bracken and leaves which, fortunately for him, prevented any serious injuries. There was a crash of glass as another boy hurled a bottle at a tree shattering it.

"You know what, I don't think this is really my sort of thing," I said to the guitar player, "I think I might just walk back to the village."

"You shouldn't go back through the forest on your own," he replied, "let me walk with you."

I said I was sure I'd be fine, but was secretly quite relieved when he insisted he didn't mind going back too, he had work in the morning. As I got to my feet an overpowering wave of dizziness clouded my vision making me stagger forwards a few steps.

Suddenly I wasn't in the grove any longer. I could see what looked like a large underground chamber, possibly the wine cellar of an old house as there were vast oak barrels enclosed within vaulted arches down either side.

I was standing behind a thick stone pillar, and could hear the murmuring chant of voices echoing through the space beyond.

Moving cautiously to one side I peered around the pillar to see a gloomy cavern-like space filled with masked figures dressed from head to foot in long black robes. There were several large candles guttering on cast iron stands, and the smoke they gave off filled the air with an acrid smell.

"Blessed be," a woman's voice intoned and a bell chimed, the deep tone resonating around the cellar. The droning chant stopped and the crowd of figures turned slowly to face the speaker.

The woman, hidden by her robes and mask held up a slim hand encased in a black lace glove. In it was a silver knife, the blade gleaming dully in the candlelight.

Another figure came forward carrying a black bag. The sides of the bag bulged as whatever was contained within it struggled to get free. Pulling back on a drawstring and reaching into the bag, the cloaked figure dragged a live cockerel from its depths. Thrashing in its wild attempts to escape, the bird, held firmly by its feet, was hauled aloft.

The knife rose. I squeezed my eyes tight shut as the knife plunged down, unwilling to witness the helpless creature's final moments.

When I opened them again the crowd of masked figures had closed in tightly surrounding the woman with the knife. She spoke again.

"All hallows een.' Let the shadow now be seen."

As the words left her mouth I could see the grove again and the guitar player's frightened face as he tried to get me to listen to him.

"What happened? I thought you'd passed out or something. You were just standing there, staring at nothing, you wouldn't answer me."

I shrugged him off and looked around. It could only have been a few moments, yet the party seemed even wilder, more out of control. I felt certain that something bad was about to happen.

I dragged my attention back to the guitar player who was still trying to get my attention. As I did so a girl staggered out of the woods into the light of the fire. There were long scratches down her face, like she'd been clawed by something and her dress was torn and ragged.

"It's blocked!" Her voice was breathless with panic making it hard to understand what she was trying to say. "I c..couldn't....couldn't get back!"

"What's blocked?" I asked her, fascinated by the thin trickle of blood forming along one of the scratches. "What happened to you?"

The words came out in fits and starts in between sobs.

"I just....I went into the bushes....I...I wanted a pee.... but the thorns...they wouldn't let me.... ..I couldn't get back!...It fought me...the forest!"

The guitar player muttered under his breath. "She's probably high as a kite, no idea what she was doing and fell in a blackberry bush."

I shook my head. "No," I told him firmly, "that's not it."

More and more cries of alarm started to come from the woods around the grove. Something was turning what moments ago had been screams of pleasure into screams of fright.

A mass of people began moving towards the main fire, as if wanting to congregate where the light was strongest. I grabbed the guitar player by the arm pulling both him and the hysterical girl behind me.

Sim was standing in the middle of the crowd towering over everybody. His ghoulish make up was a smeary mess, and he had a nasty looking scratch running up the length of his forearm.

"There's a bank of thorns out there and they're spreading. They're everywhere...blocking the path. There's no way out of here. How's that possible?" The sound of fear in his normally super-confident voice made things seem even worse than before.

The whole crowd seemed to be shuffling backwards, unconsciously forming into a huddle around the fire, and facing outwards towards the darkness which was seeping in as we watched it, slowly swallowing the glow of the fire until it was impossible to see your own hand in front of your face.

With the darkness came an eerie silence, nobody wanted to speak, though a few whimpering cries could still be heard as people tried to suppress their tears. Where the words came from I couldn't say, but I opened my mouth and whispered four words... "Get ready. They're coming."

As if on cue the trees began to rustle and then to shake violently as though a mighty hurricane was gusting through them, even though there wasn't so much as a breath of wind. Like a herd of antelope scenting a lion, the group shifted, and the screams began again.

There was something amongst us, darting in and out between our legs, scratching, pulling hair, and giving sharp, vicious pinches. In the darkness it was impossible to tell what was happening though I caught sight of the occasional flash of pointed teeth, of claw-like hands, and yellow gleaming eyes.

The group was quickly becoming an uncontrollable mob as everyone tried to get away from the biting, and clawing, and scratching. It was impossible to tell what was happening or where you were, there was just a tangled mass of bodies, pressing and struggling and crushing one another.

Suddenly a horn sounded a single clear brassy note which seemed to stretch longer than any I'd heard before. A glaringly bright beam of light cut through the darkness, and although it was almost too bright to keep my eyes open I saw one of the most extraordinary sights imaginable.

A massed crowd of huntsmen and women came galloping into the glade following on the heels of a pack of hounds. While this was surprising enough, what was truly remarkable was that the hunters' mounts were wild animals, great antlered stags, huge black bears, and shaggy haired wolves which snarled and champed at the bits between their teeth.

The pack might have looked like hounds at first glimpse, when they burst out of the woods, but they too were not what they first seemed. There were silver tailed foxes, striped badgers, an assortment of rabbits, stoats, weasels, squirrels, and pine martins. There was even a contingent of field mice which scurried in and out between the paws of this incredible menagerie of woodland mammals.

The huntsmen and women looked human, though their faces and bodies were wound around with ivy, and they wore crowns of leaves on their heads. Their leader, mounted on the largest stag, and holding a staff in the air which was the source of the overpowering brightness was the beautiful woman I'd seen when I first stepped into the pool.

Dressed in white robes, her golden hair swirling loose around her shoulders, she cantered around our group as the horn blew its ear-splitting note. Wherever she rode the biting, pinching and scratching stopped immediately.

Wanting to get closer to her I took a step forwards. The movement of the crowd had left me disoriented, and I must have misjudged where I was because I missed my footing – thanks no doubt to those stupid high heels- and plunged into the pool.

I immediately found myself under-water and with no real idea of which way the surface was. I'm normally a strong swimmer, but I swiftly found that I wanted to give in to a terrible lethargy which insinuated itself into my very being.

The water wasn't cold, it was warm, and felt soft, comfortable, like a feather bed urging me to sleep rather than to swim. There was a humming, vibrating tone, pulsing through the water which lulled me even further. Gradually I began to let the sound pull me, and started to sink down, and down, and down.

It was the scent which made me open my eyes, the glorious scent of a field of wild flowers. I was standing in a sunlit meadow which stretched away as far as I could see. Around me was every bloom you could possibly imagine in a riot of color. I began to walk, trailing my hand through the flowers as I went. After a few moments I saw a small clearing had been made where the flowers had been pressed down into a perfect circle.

Sitting in the center of the circle was the leader of the hunt. Her face was somehow ageless it had the smoothness of youth, while her emerald green eyes when she turned them on me seemed to contain the wisdom of centuries.

She stood as if to greet me and then stepped forwards drawing me into an embrace and kissing me on both cheeks. She smelled fresh, a mixture of salt spray from the ocean, the fruits of an orchard, and a perfect summer's day is the only way I can possibly describe it. Holding me at arm's length she stared deep into my eyes. I don't think I heard the words she spoke; they seemed to come from within my own head.

"It is not time yet child, you must return. Seek your destiny."

As the words echoed through my mind her eyes began to shine like two diamonds glittering with beams of light which momentarily dazzled me making me blink. In that instant I was awake. I was in a dimly lit room, lying on my back. I felt the touch of a hand on my face, a light shone into my eye, I twisted to try to move my head away.

Feeling a pillow under my cheek and the weight of blankets on my body I realized that I was in a bed, though it made no sense whatsoever. Rebekah was sitting on a chair next to me. She reached over and clasped my hand. I looked around and saw a nurse standing on the other side of the bed.

"I'll fetch the doctor," she murmured and moved out of sight.

My eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached to them, and although I tried really hard to keep them open they shut tight and I floated off into a deep sleep.

The following morning I woke to the sound of a nurse pulling aside the curtains that surrounded my bed. She handed me a breakfast tray containing a bowl of rather grey looking cereal and a piece of toast before bustling off somewhere else.

There were cards and flowers all over the side table next to the bed. I reached out to pick one up only to find that my right arm was attached to one of those drip stands you see in hospital dramas. At least there didn't seem to be one of those bleeping heart monitors on me. That had to be a good thing surely?

I looked up to see Rebekah standing at the door, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and looking at me with concern written all over her face.

"How are you feeling TT?" she asked sympathetically.

"I don't know. OK I think. What happened? How did I get here?"

Shaking her head Rebekah told me she wasn't certain of all the details. What she did know was that I had fallen into the pool in the grove, and nearly drowned.

"Only some quick thinking by that young man saved you. He got you out of the water, called an ambulance, and even gave you the kiss of life." I tried to sit up only to find I was as weak as a newborn baby.

"Who was it? Sim?"

"No, that wasn't his name. I think it began with a G or a J."

My heart flipped and sank both at the same moment. "Not _Jem_?

Rebekah smiled, "that's it. Jem. I'm sorry for being so vague. He took off after the ambulance arrived and I never had a chance to thank him." She hesitated for a moment before asking, "what were you doing Thea? Do you remember anything at all?"

I thought back over the events of the night, the thorns - the creatures biting, scratching and pinching, the arrival of the hunt. "What happened to the others?" I asked suddenly, "are they all right?"

Rebekah looked puzzled, "I'm not sure what you mean."

I managed to struggle into a sitting position. "There were thorns all around us, nobody could escape. Then we were attacked by something."

I could see by her face that Rebekah wasn't really buying this. "There was something out there, something with claws, and sharp teeth and..." I dried up realizing how crazy it all sounded.

"And?" Rebekah was looking even more worried than before. I knew it was pointless to go on so I just sat there saying nothing. Rebekah flopped down into the chair next to me, splashing some coffee onto her blouse which she dabbed at ineffectually.

"One of paramedics said that it was possible some teenagers at the party or whatever it was you were all doing out there had spiked the punch, some people had bad hangovers, but nobody could remember much about it. Did you drink any of the punch?"

I shook my head wishing in a way that I had that excuse.

"Thea, you did make sure you took your medication while I was away?"

I shrugged. I couldn't for the life of me remember if I had or if I hadn't.

Sighing Rebekah told me that she blamed herself for not looking after me better. After a couple of minutes of this I couldn't possibly have felt more miserable and guilty. I felt a heaving pain inside and suddenly found myself in floods of tears. Rebekah grabbed me and held me close while I sobbed my heart out.

"Help me!" I whispered to her. "Please help me! I don't want to end up as a patient in the Lodge."

Chapter 11. A bid for freedom

He was waiting. The excitement was almost too much to contain. He'd waited for this day to come for what seemed like an eternity. Patience...He must be patient. Only through patience would he finally achieve his goal. He'd learned that the hard way. He should have had more sense than to react when he saw the girl. It was such a shock though, such a shock. He'd known her the moment he'd seen her, in spite of the tranquilizers they filled him with each day.

He'd been clever there, pretending to be more drugged than he really was, building up his immunity, so that eventually he was almost able to function normally on them.... almost.

He looked around the room, noting its sparse furniture and bare walls, mentally bidding it farewell. No, don't do that....don't count your chickens before they're hatched. It would all depend, it would all depend on Miller. Was he really pinning all his hopes on a man whose grip on reality was quite so loose?

Poor mad Miller next door, whose one purpose in life was to care for a mouse he had hidden in a nest of newspaper in the back of his wardrobe. It was the mouse that had given him the idea. He'd spent weeks collecting scraps of food and giving them to Miller. Making a friend and building credit, building credit so that one day he could ask for a favor. That favor was to be given tonight.

The key turned in the lock. He scrambled into his bed and sat ready nerves jangling. The door opened and there he was as always his massive form filling the doorway, shoulders barely fitting between the frame. He waddled slowly towards the bed like a walking mountain.... would it work?

He barely dared to hope. The pills were there. He took them, put them in his mouth, showed his empty hand, and then opened his mouth. This was the tricky part, the pills nestled between his teeth and his lip unswallowed.

The moon face gazed at him, there was no tensing of muscles, no grabbing of wrists... nothing happened. The first step was taken. The second came immediately afterwards. There was the sound of shouting and banging. The door to the room thudded open, and Bingham the male nurse with the wart on his nose pushed his way in.

" _Hey_ _Lechkov, gimme a hand out here! I've got some trouble"_

The big man reacted at once. There was a man who was always happy to find trouble. He could hear Miller out in the corridor yelling and singing at the top of his voice. He was doing a brilliant job. Bingham and Lechkov had left and the key hadn't turned in his lock. He had hoped they would be too busy to bother with it right away.

Climbing from the bed he reached under it and pulled out his overcoat, and a small rucksack. He pulled the coat around his shoulders shucked the bag onto back and tiptoed towards the door. Pressing his ear against it he heard the sounds of Miller being dragged into his room. He would only have a few seconds.

He pulled the door open a crack and peeked out. All clear. In an instant he was in the corridor, and moving quickly towards the rear of the house. Passing through the darkened day room, he stopped. A pile of magazines and newspapers made the perfect material for his purposes. Pulling a box of matches from his pocket he struck one and placed it under a page of newsprint which swiftly leaped into flames.

He pulled open the window and a breeze came in, fanning the flames even further. As he jumped the few feet to the ground a fire alarm sounded with a raucous clanging.

Not bothering to look around he scurried through the bushes and then broke across the lawn running as fast as he could towards the road. It would only be a matter of time before Lechkov figured it out. The big man might look dim, but he was certainly not stupid.

Breaking out of the trees and onto the road he saw the lights of a car heading towards Ringburg.... he had to at least try. Stepping into the road he waved his arms at the approaching vehicle. He could say he'd broken down further back, needed a ride to town...then a train to London. The car was slowing. His luck was holding. It pulled up next to him; the windows were smoked glass blocking his view of the driver.

Pulling open the front passenger door he dropped into the seat letting out a sigh of relief. At least this way he was already in the car, it would be harder to refuse him a ride.

He turned in his seat to address the driver, and sucked in a horrified breath.

Chapter 12. The pony drift

When I finally got out of the hospital a couple of days later I made a promise to myself that this time I really would try to keep my life as stable, predictable and boring as possible. Rebekah helped to make sure I took my headzappers regularly and I gradually began feeling better again. I became a grade A student and a grade A party-pooper; spending every evening either doing homework or reading.

I also decided to put myself on a 'no myths or legends' diet. Nothing remotely fantastical made it onto my reading list I didn't want to stimulate my imagination with anything remotely supernatural. I have to admit it was a real wrench, since practically everything I enjoyed reading was no longer permissible.

I didn't throw any of my old books away or sell them or anything. I don't think any amount of money would part me from the Brothers Grimm or from my Norse legends, but I operated a strictly no magic policy in my new purchases.

I quickly became a fan of the historical novel, filling my time with medieval monks, Elizabethan ladies in waiting, and Victorian factory workers. Even so I missed re-reading my special favorites; they were all so much a part of my life it was hard to be without them.

Although I didn't want to see her I couldn't help wondering what had happened to Shanty. It was peculiar the way she had just disappeared from the village. Whenever I visited the Papermill to refill my stock of novels I took a quick glance at the Black Cat, but it remained firmly shut, and began to look quite neglected.

Millie dropped by to see me one evening shortly after I'd returned home to tell me rather shamefacedly that she couldn't remember anything about the evening in the Glade, and that she wanted me to fill in the gaps for her. I made some polite noises and avoided the question.

I knew none of it was Millie's fault. I just couldn't help resenting her and the others for prizing me out of the house that night. If I'd stuck with the Brownies and movie plan, none of the other stuff would have happened. She left promising that we'd get together soon, though we both sort of sensed that it probably wasn't going to happen for a while.

I suppose I became a bit of a recluse over the next few weeks. I went to college; I just didn't hang around the canteen over breaks, and took the early bus home whenever I could. I figured it was better to stick to what was safe than to take any further chances with my, obviously fragile, mental health.

The Jem thing was awkward of course. I knew I owed him a thank you at the very least for what he'd done, but I still couldn't stand the sight of him. Fortunately for some reason our paths never seemed to cross, and when they did I could see Jayne hovering close by just itching for another chance to slap my face.

It's funny how what you feel about someone on the surface, and what you feel about them deep down inside can be completely the opposite thing. Let me give you an example of what I mean. I knew that Jem was a nasty piece of work; I'd seen the evidence with my own eyes.

Even so he still managed to make an appearance in one of the hottest, sweatiest, dreams I'd had in a long time a week or so after the incident in the glade. Thinking about it still makes me blush. Let's put it this way when he rescued me he didn't just stop at the kiss of life!

Night time adventures aside, the only place I went to other than college was the village Post Office and that was generally only if Rebekah had forgotten to buy milk. Unfortunately she tended to do that a lot. It was during one such emergency milk incident that I bumped into Audrey Brakes and Caesar for the first time in months.

Caesar had grown a lot, and was almost big enough to wrench Audrey's arm clean out of her socket. He certainly made a good attempt when he saw me. His rough tongue nearly sandpapered a hole through my gloves as he licked my hands enthusiastically, whipping his tail around like a propeller.

"Ah! Thea, just the person I wanted to see."

Audrey's face was red enough to make a beetroot look pale, "I've been meaning to ask you to help out with the Pony Drift."

"The what?" I asked, trying to get Caesar's paws off my thighs.

"The Pony Drift. Just make sure you're up at the farm on Saturday, we'll need all the help we can get."

The Pony Drift turned out to be another one of the New Forest traditions Audrey was so keen on. Once a year the Commoners round up all of the ponies in the forest to check their overall health, and to make sure all of the new born foals have been branded. It's rather like a giant rodeo, and even though Audrey wasn't officially a Commoner herself most of her neighbors were so she always took part.

Just imagine having the chance to go charging around a forest on horseback yelling like a complete idiot, chasing wild ponies into corrals so that they can be counted. It was fantastic fun, one of the most enjoyable things I'd done in ages. Sharing the thrill of the chase with a group of other riders, was a great way to unwind. I didn't have time to think about anything except not falling off my horse!

We all had lunch together in the middle of the day, sitting in front of a roaring fire at the Handmaid's Arms, before mounting up once more and charging off in pursuit of the strays.

I was just trying to round up a pair of rather tricky mares which were leading me a merry dance when I caught a glimpse of something white in a brake off to my left. I wheeled Abacus around and cantered towards the bushes. There in front of me was the white coated pony I'd seen on the day we moved into Rose Cottage just peeping through the foliage.

I spurred Abacus hard with my heels and he sped forwards, charging across the rough turf like a knight's charger. The pony retreated a pace or two, and vanished behind a patch of evergreen. Although I reached the spot only a few seconds later I was disappointed to find it completely empty. There was no sign that the white-coated pony had ever been there.

I couldn't spare the time to hunt through the rest of the bushes to find it again so instead I headed back into the clearing, surprising the two mares by appearing behind them, and shooed them ahead of me all the way down to the pasture with the corrals.

By the end of the day we'd managed to collect dozens of ponies of all shapes and sizes. There was a large crowd of people around the corrals watching the branding, the hoof trimming, and teeth rasping as the horses got their annual wash and brush up.

Walking through the jostling farmers, commoners, and tourist trying to find Audrey, I ran slap bang into Jem Masterson. He must have been in his Doctor Jekyll phase because he smiled. I'm afraid I actually flushed with embarrassment. It was so confusing. I wanted to yell at him about the way he'd treated the horse in the stables at Draxton Manor, while on the other hand I owed him my life.

I tried to mumble my thanks in a way I hoped would make it clear that I wasn't forgiving him, while at the same time showing I was grateful for his help. I probably just sounded surly and aggressive because he winced slightly.

"I'm just glad I got to the glade when I did."

I was somewhat distracted by this; I was sure he'd been there the whole time. I tuned back into what he was saying.

"...saw your hair floating on the top of the pool, and waded straight in"

For the first time in my life I thanked providence for giving me masses of frizzy hair. I didn't want him to say anything about the kiss of life, as I knew I'd start thinking about that erotic dream again so I quickly interrupted him.

"When did you say you got there?"

"Sometime after midnight. Almost everybody there was completely wasted. If I hadn't shown up I don't think anybody else would have noticed you. What were you doing? Did you get drunk or something, lose your footing?"

"What?" I was really annoyed that he could be so obtuse. "Of course I didn't get drunk. I don't even drink alcohol."

"Oh, OK!" he backtracked quickly, "sorry."

I was still full of righteous indignation, and gave him a hard look.

"Um. I'll see you around I guess." He turned tail heading back into the crowd, obviously glad to get away.

"Whatever!" I said it under my breath, though I couldn't really be bothered about being polite anymore.

He hesitated, then came loping back to me slightly sheepishly. "You really shouldn't stay around here longer than you have to. It's just not a safe place to live. Trust me."

With that he slipped off into the crowd again leaving me shaking my head. Trust you? As if that could ever be possible. Jem Masterson, I thought to myself, must be so conditioned to lying he doesn't even know he's doing it. He'd just lied directly to my face even when he must have known that I knew he was lying. And it was a completely pointless lie too. I'd seen him in the grove much earlier than midnight with my own two eyes. OMG! I thought to myself; please just don't let such a complete bonehead into any more of my dreams.

Autumn turned to winter coating the forest in a blanket of hoarfrost, and before we knew it Christmas was upon us. It was the first Christmas without dad for both Rebekah and me so it was a tricky time. We both tried hard to make it fun. I made lots of paper chains to decorate the house, and constructed a door wreath from some holly and mistletoe I got from the trees at the end of our garden. I'd made up with Millie and took part in a 'secret Santa' with some other friends at college. I got a lovely set of scented candles and a corkboard for my bedroom which pleased me a lot. Now I finally had somewhere to stick my pictures.

On Christmas Eve we went carol singing out on the village green accompanied by the Brockbourne brass band, and followed it up with a party at Audrey's house. Audrey wore one of the most eye-wateringly floral skirts I have ever seen and a Christmas sweater that would put Bridget Jones to shame.

Rebekah organized for a company to come in to scrub out the kitchen Aga, and we both cooked Christmas dinner together using its oven. Audrey supplied us with a duck free of charge, and although I felt slightly guilty about eating an animal I'd probably thrown corn to six months ago, it tasted amazingly good. Admittedly the sprouts were too hard, the potatoes were overcooked, and we forgot to put the stuffing in, but none of that really mattered.

I think we were both rather proud of the fact that we had managed to get it all together without setting fire to the house. Rebekah gave me a beautiful silver ring with a Celtic design on it, and I gave her a gift basket of soaps, lotions and creams made from New Forest wild flowers. As we pulled our cracker together, listening to our traditional Nat King Cole Christmas CD, and tucking into a bowl of Christmas pudding with clotted cream things didn't seem too bad at all.

We saw the New Year in at the Handmaid's Arms. They had a 'disco', actually a man with a CD player and two colored lights, who played a variety of cheesy hits with maximum dance floor appeal. It turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable, particularly when he played a compilation of Abba's greatest hits followed by the best of Michael Jackson. My favorite bit of the evening was watching Rebekah try to moonwalk.

Singing Auld Lang Syne always makes me melancholy and this year was no exception. I tried not to get weepy, though it was a battle - it had been quite a year. I remember going outside into the pub garden on my own to get a breath of fresh air and standing there in the darkness for ages, looking up at the full moon, wondering what the New Year would bring. If only I'd known.Those sisters certainly weren't done with their weaving.

By the time Spring came around I was starting to forget all about my bad experience in the Glade. It's amazing how resilient human beings are really. The worst things can happen to people and for the most part, in the words of Nat King Cole, they pick themselves up, brush themselves off, and start all over again.

I was helped by the fact that springtime in the forest is truly special. A sea of Bluebells filled the woodland with a wash of color, so welcome after the greys of the winter months. The sun returned again, though being England you could always guarantee a shower, so there were glorious rainbows arching across the sky almost every day.

Our art teacher Miss Payne had a new project for us to work on through the Spring Term called 'hidden in plain sight'. The idea was that we often ignore the things that are right in front of us. We were allowed to make up our own minds how we wanted to approach the project, so I decided to look at the parts of buildings we don't tend to notice much even though we see them all the time. Things like drainpipes, chimney pots, door hinges etc.

I made some sketches of the light fittings in Rose Cottage, a funny little window on the side of the Papermill, the stairwell at College, and the cracked paint on the Post Office windowsill. It was interesting to try to see ordinary things from a new viewpoint, to try to take notice of what normally slides under your radar.

After a bit of persuasion I got Rebekah to agree to let me come with her up to the Lodge so I could draw one of the corridors. I know it might seem a bit strange considering what I said to her about not wanting to be a patient there, I just thought it would make a really strong image; an empty corridor.

Corridors aren't really destinations in themselves; they're just a way of getting from A to B. So although we see them, we don't really _see_ them.

Understandably Rebekah wasn't keen on the idea. She was concerned that there could be a repeat of the 'grabbing incident' that had happened the last time I visited her at work, though I assured her I hadn't been bothered by it.

She finally insisted that I was only allowed to go to one of the less-used corridors away from the wards, and then had to go straight to the staff common room, so that there was less chance of me bumping into any of the patients. I was perfectly happy with that arrangement and settled down to draw a long empty corridor at the heart of the building. I hardly saw a soul. A couple of nurses passed me about ten minutes in, then after that I was on my own.

I suspect that Rebekah might have been right to try to encourage me not to visit because I managed to spook myself slightly. I'd been completely engrossed in my drawing, hardly even moving to stretch my legs. After about an hour of hard work I realized I was stiff and tired. I put the pad down, and stood up to shake out my stiff limbs.

It was only when I looked back at my drawing that I realized I'd added the enormous eye from my nightmares to the picture. I'd drawn it in great detail right slap bang in the center of the double doors at the end of the corridor, and what's more I'd drawn it staring directly at me.

I quickly closed the book, and glancing at my watch decided to head for the staff common room. Rebekah would be breaking for lunch soon. I promised myself I'd erase the eye from the picture as soon as I got home.

The staff common room was towards the front of the building in what had once been a rather grand living space. There was an open fireplace, bookshelves, comfortable chairs, and a low coffee table with newspapers and magazines strewn over it. I picked one up, the Nursing Times, not exactly my favorite choice of reading material.

Throwing it down, a manila folder lying on the edge of the table caught my attention. It looked like a file of some kind. It was open and the corner of a document was peeping out. Curiosity and cats aside I couldn't resist taking a quick look.

I slipped the document further out and saw that there was a photograph attached to it. The picture was of a man in his forties. He looked vaguely familiar. I studied it more closely. Could it be the man in the wheelchair? The same man who had grabbed my arm in the garden? It certainly looked like him, though it must have been taken some time ago. In the picture he was nowhere near as thin as he was now, and looked quite a bit younger.

Was there a name to go with the picture? I scanned down the document which seemed to be a patient record sheet until I saw it. Doctor Daniel Masterson. Doctor _Masterson_? The same surname as Jem and Circe, it was a pretty big coincidence; if it was a coincidence.

The door handle rattled, someone was about to come in. I dropped the file, and jerked back from the table just in the nick of time. An enormous shape dressed in the white clinical coat of a psychiatric nurse entered the room - Lechkov. He looked at me, suspicion clouding his face as he took in the open file on the table. He crossed to it, picked it up, replaced the information sheet, and closed the file deliberately, watching me the whole time. I did my best to look as innocent and naïve as possible, though I didn't think he was buying it. His freaky high pitched voice broke the silence.

"Someone knows you are here?"

"Of course."

He nodded slowly, his solid bulk was between me and the door. Fortunately at that moment it opened and Rebekah came in. Lechkov shifted slightly to one side to let he pass, and then stood watching me like a sumo wrestler preparing for a bout.

"Ready to go TT?" said Rebekah ignoring Lechkov completely.

"You betcha!" I was across the room and out of the door before he had time to blink.

After lunch I made my excuses and skedaddled back to Rose Cottage. I couldn't bring myself to look at the drawing I'd done, it was too creepy. I just threw the sketchpad down on the couch, and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

A slight creaking noise from the ceiling made me look up. It was followed by a faint scraping. Was there someone upstairs? A thief ? Not that there was anything in the house worth stealing.

I debated calling the police. Though what if it turned out to be a pigeon or something equally stupid and I hadn't taken a look first? I'd never live it down. So dialing 999 into my cellphone, and letting my finger hover over the green button ready to press at a moment's notice I picked up the poker from the fire grate and crept out into the hallway.

"Hello," I called out, a tad nervously it has to be said. "Is there anybody there?"

I crept up the staircase wincing at every creak, and clutching the poker firmly in my right hand. There was a dull thumping sound as if a book had been dropped onto the floor, which sounded as if it had come from my bedroom. I reached out, put my hand on the doorknob ready to throw it open when it was suddenly snatched out of my hand and the door swung inwards revealing a looming figure silhouetted against the light from the window.

I drew back the poker ready to strike, and only just managed to stop myself from braining Shanty with it. She blinked at me through her purple lenses, a handful of my favorite books of myths and legends tucked under one arm. She was holding up the necklace with the amulet on it I'd left by the sink months ago and waving it at me.

"This is much better protection than a poker. Now put it on for goodness sake!"

Chapter 13.Fjorgyn's maer

In the time since I'd last seen her Shanty's fashion sense certainly hadn't gotten any better. She was wearing cowboy boots over a pair of crushed red velvet leggings embroidered with golden Chinese lions. A long cotton shirt partially covered with a lacy black shawl, and a knitted Rasta hat completed the ensemble.

I'd just about recovered from the shock of thinking I'd discovered a burglar, and we were both sitting at the kitchen table. I was wearing the necklace again, just to humor her, and Shanty was blowing on a hot cup of peppermint tea. The books she'd been carrying from my room were spread across the table.

The first thing I wanted to know was what had happened to Ozymandias and Grimalkin while she'd been away – apparently they'd been to stay on a Cider farm near Glastonbury run by a friend of hers – then I got down to the nitty-gritty and asked her where she'd been all this time, and what she'd been doing.

Trying to explain seemed to require a lot of thought because she hummed and hawed for ages, and then completely changed the subject.

"What do you know about your mother?" she asked me.

I was flummoxed. After vanishing for the best part of five months why should she suddenly show up now, asking about my mother?

"Apart from the fact that she died giving birth to me?" I asked bluntly; indicating this wasn't a subject I wanted to talk about. I've always felt awkward about any discussion of my mom. Dad always said the whole thing was too painful to talk about so I never pushed him. I guess it felt wrong to go there. After all in a manner of speaking I'd killed her. Though it's not really a nice thing to say, in some ways I'd been happy to let her fade away into the past.

We visited her grave once a year and laid flowers, the same grave my father was in now too, that was enough surely? What right did Shanty have to come here and ask me questions about her ?

Tapping nervously on the kitchen table with a long brightly varnished purple nail she looked extremely uneasy; as well she might. It didn't stop her from ploughing on though.

"I don't suppose your father told you he met her here?

"In the New Forest?" I asked. Shanty nodded. "That's not possible," I said bluntly, "dad met mom in New York, where I was born."

Shanty shifted in her chair, and looked at her hands. "Your birth was _registered_ in New York," she said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped.

Shanty let out a long breath before she answered. "I'm sorry Thea. I know all this will probably come as a shock to you. It's been a surprise to me, and I've suspected it for the last five months. You were born right here in Baring. The woman you have always thought of as your mother is not..."

"Look!" I interjected before she could finish the sentence. "I don't know what you think you know, or why you should even care where I was born, since as far as I know my family history has nothing to do with you. I've seen my birth certificate. I was born in New York. My mother's city. I grew up in the same neighborhood that she did, Brooklyn. The same place she's buried. The same place my dad is buried - period."

"I know this must be difficult for you. There's no easy way to say it. Just hear me out. Please?"

"No. I don't think I will as a matter of fact." I replied, standing up at the same time. "You vanished without a word five months ago, and now you burst in here, and expect me to sit quietly, and listen to some stupid story about my mother. Here!" I pulled the necklace from my throat, and threw it onto the table harder than I'd intended to. "You can take this back."

The amulet shattered, leaving small pieces of glass strewn across the surface of the table. Shanty sat watching me without reacting.

"You don't have any pictures of her do you?"

The question caught me off guard. "Of my mother? How did you know

that?"

I didn't. It was just a guess. But now that you've told me it's true will you let me tell you why?"

"You don't need to," I said, "I know why. Dad was so cut up when she died he couldn't bear to look at her picture so he got rid of them all."

Shanty gave a sad looking smile that infuriated me and shook her head.

"That would be as good an explanation as any I imagine. She had no living family did she? You don't have a grandmother, or a grandfather from her side do you?"

I'd listened to more than enough of this. I pointed to the door.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, and I'd like you to leave. Right now please, and don't come back."

Shanty didn't move. "You may not want to hear this Thea, but you have to. It's for your own safety."

I crossed the kitchen, opened the door and stood there next to it waiting for her to leave.

"Ever since I arrived in Baring I've heard nothing but warnings. Don't do this, don't do that. Look out for this, look out for that. I'm sick of it. It's messing with my head, so just go, will you?"

Shanty let out a sigh, then nodded agreement. "Alright," she replied, "I'll leave you be for now. But sooner or later you have to hear what I've got to tell you."

"If it's a lot of rubbish about me being a Tu'athain or whatever the word is, then you're too late," I said triumphantly, "Circe told me I could end up being hassled by black witches. Looks like she was right.

Shanty was on her feet now, "Circe Masterson? You've met her? Spoken to her?"

"Yes, I have," I said, pulling up my sleeve to reveal my birthmark, "she told me all about this; and all about the Sisterhood of Cybele as well."

"She can't have!" the words came out sharp as a knife, Shanty was frowning.

"She's been straight with me," I said, "which is a lot more than I can say for you. You knew the minute you saw my arm what some people would think, and you didn't say a word."

"I can't disagree with you," Shanty was looking at the remains of the

amulet sadly, I was beginning to regret breaking it.

"I'm sorry I haven't been completely honest with you. I didn't want to say anything at all, not until I was one hundred percent certain. You remember I read your cards the evening we first met?"

I did. I'd been surprised that she hadn't tried to tell me all about my life at the time. I'd thought she was after my money.

"The Wheel of Fortune, the Tower, and the High Priestess. All three cards told me that the mark wasn't just a coincidence; that I needed to learn more about you."

"So you gave me a job so you could spy on me? Thanks a lot. Could you leave now please? My stepmother will be home from work soon, and I need to do some cooking."

This seemed to stir a response and she moved away from the table towards the door.

"Before I leave," she said, stopping next to me, "just tell me this."

She looked at me intently. "Has anything happened to you recently? Have you seen anything? Felt anything? In the forest? Or the glade perhaps? by the pool? Or _in_ the pool?"

I wanted to say no and push her out of the door so that I wouldn't have to listen to another word, but I couldn't stop myself from asking her what she meant. She was really close to me now, almost whispering, "something difficult to explain. Because that's what this whole thing is. I've spent the last five months trying to fathom it out, and even I can hardly believe it. Though I still don't know the full story"

The anger came back with a rush. "You've spent five months snooping on me and my family?

"In a manner of speaking. I've been talking to friends, and colleagues of your father."

I gawped at her struggling to come to terms with it. Shanty had spent the last five months digging into my father's life... _why_? I left my post at the door and flopped into a chair by the Aga.

"It's been quite a trip. Iceland, Norway, then Germany, across to New York and finally back here right on my own doorstep."

"That can't have been cheap, what did you do, magic yourself some cash?" I said snippily.

"I've spent almost every penny I have," she answered with a wry smile.

"Don't expect any sympathy from me," I retorted.

She shrugged as if the money was unimportant. "Your father has some very loyal friends; Professor Lindmann in Oslo practically set his dogs on me. It's a good thing I was born in the year of the Ox. Stubbornness can have its uses. I managed to follow his trail well enough."

She crossed back to the table and held up a book. It was my copy of _Old Norse Tales_ by Sarah Powers Bradish.

"Be careful with that," I told her, "it's fragile."

"I'm not surprised. It's been read over and over again I imagine. Your father gave it to you?"

"He gave me most of my books."

"Of mythology and fairy tales?" she asked, picking up the complete edition of the Brothers Grimm from the table.

"Of course," I answered, "it was his job. Mythology and literature"

Shanty put the books down again.

"Can you tell me who Fjorgyn's Maer is?"

"That's easy," I said, puzzled by the question, "Frijja". It's from the Lokasenna, one of the poetic Edda; stories from the Norse Sagas. It means Fjorgyn's maiden, her daughter. Frijja's her Norse name. Some people think she is the same as the Saxon Freya. There's even a day named after her – Friday. Freya's day.

"And who exactly is Fjorgyn?" Shanty prompted.

"Fjorgyn?" I paused for a moment before continuing, I could see now where this might be going. "She's the goddess of the Earth..."

"Whose celestial partner Fjorgynn rules alongside her." Shanty completed the sentence for me.

"So what?" I demanded, "so it sounds like the Wiccan stuff you told me about, so what? It's a story." I indicated the books on the table with a sweeping gesture. "They're all stories."

Shanty left the table and squatted next to me."That's not what your father thought though is it?"

"He was an academic, not an idiot," I said, rudely.

"Then he never told you what happened to him when he was a toddler?"

I knew exactly what she was talking about but I wasn't falling for it. "He didn't really believe it. It was just a story too. Something he imagined happened when he was little."

"Tell it to me."

"Why should I?"

"Because I'd like to hear you tell it."

I clenched my fists tightly. "Will you leave if I do?" I asked her.

"Yes. If you still want me to."

I sighed. I had no idea why I was letting her make me go through all this.

"Dad told me that his parents brought him to Europe when he was a small child. He had this memory of a day out in a forest somewhere, his parents got distracted, he wandered off on his own, and somehow managed to fall into a pool of water, or a lake, or something...."

I stopped dead. Why hadn't I thought of this before? He'd told me it almost every night when I was a little girl yet somehow I'd blanked it out of my mind completely when the same thing had happened to me.

Shanty was watching me intently. I managed to get control of myself.

"And?" she prompted.

"And this beautiful woman lifted him into her arms, kissed him, and put him out on the shore again. He was soaking, but otherwise he was fine. He ran back to his parents and they hadn't even noticed he was missing. They couldn't understand how his clothes had gotten wet."

I didn't like the way I was feeling. I needed my headzappers. I had some spares in my bag. I pulled them out, popped the foil covers and went to the tap to get a glass of water.

"Don't do that!" The tone of Shanty's voice made me pause. "You don't need those, you never have. What you need is a guide to help you channel your powers properly."

I looked round at her, put the pills on my tongue deliberately, and swallowed them down with a gulp of water.

"You have no idea what I need. I'll tell you what I _don't_ need. I don't need someone like you to come here and try to persuade me that a pile of stupid stories have any basis in reality."

Shanty moved to join me at the sink, but I backed away to the other side of the table.

"You don't really think these stories are stupid any more than your father did. He firmly believed that some myths are rooted in facts. He followed one particular myth, across Europe for the early part of his professional career, and then mysteriously seemed to lose interest in it in later life. Perhaps you can tell me which one?

The answer came out as if she was trying to extract my teeth. I spat it at her. "The Huldra."

"The Huldra." She repeated the name back to me as if I'd performed a particularly clever trick in remembering it. "Magical creatures. Known to some as nymphs. Some stories say that they live in the sacred pools through which the souls of newborns enter the world... almost all agree they protect young children and infants from harm.

"I'm hardly an infant" I muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," I snapped, I wasn't even close to being ready to mention my own experience in the pool at the glade, not by a long shot.

"Though of course the Huldra could also appear as a seductive and alluring young woman to any handsome youth straying into her forest hideaway. Your father tracked every single hint, rumor, or whisper of a sighting for years all the way from the volcanic wastes of Iceland to the Black Forest in Germany. What he kept from most people, and what I've spent all this time confirming, was that he developed a theory about the Huldra. He believed that all of the legends, though they were spread far and wide, referred to a single creature, a woman; an eternal being who took refuge in the most remote forest pools in the deepest woodland.

He sought after her in the quiet places, the places where nature remains wild and untainted or where the ancient traditions of honoring her sacred site through gifts and worship have survived to the present. He visited every sacred grove in Europe, going anywhere he thought he might find a trace of evidence, a glimpse of what he was seeking. I think he finally found her. Right here in the New Forest.

"What makes you think that?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer, though a large part of me was intrigued. I remembered dad's bedtime stories so well, about the beautiful and secretive Huldra, the Lady of the Forest, Guardian of the Pool of Souls, and the Mistress of the Wild Hunt... the image of a golden haired woman riding a magnificent stag through the forest glade burst into my mind with such force I could barely stop myself from crying out.

Shanty noticed immediately that something was wrong, and tried to get me to tell her what it was. I shook my head and gestured to her to continue.

" _You_ make me think that Thea." I looked at her questioningly, feeling a mixture of dread and fascination in equal measure. "I told you your birth was registered in New York, though you weren't born there. There's no real record of your mother's life at all, nothing that stands up to close scrutiny.

"But...."

Shanty held up her hand, and then brushed away a frizzy dreadlock which had flopped over one eye. "Please let me finish. I think she's a smokescreen; an invention to hide the truth about your birth."

"Are you trying to tell me my father lied to me about my own mother my whole life? Because if you are...."

Shanty interrupted impatiently, "I've no real proof of what I'm about to say, and I know it'll seem far-fetched at the very least. But please Thea; look inside yourself. Don't let logic get in the way, let your intuition guide you."

I let her have the most scathingly sarcastic tone I could muster. "I hope you're not going to try to convince me I'm half fairy are you? Because if you are you can stop right there."

Shanty shook her head, her dreads rocked from side to side. "No, I'm not."

"That's a relief."

Shanty gathered the books on the table into a pile. "I believe the reason he gave you _these_ , and told you the stories he did was directly connected to woman he found in the glade here in Baring."

"And who was that then?"

"Your mother Thea. Fjorgyn's Maer. Frijja."

"The Earth's daughter Frijja?"

"Yes."

"The _Goddess_ Frijja?"

"Yes."

I stared at her in amazement, she looked deadly serious. "You're telling me that my mother was a _Goddess_?"

Before Shanty could reply another voice cut in. "I think she's heard quite enough from you!" Rebekah was standing by the door, her face a mask of barely suppressed anger.

"How you can have the audacity to feed a sensitive and vulnerable girl who's been through more than enough suffering over the past year, with such a pile of dangerous, delusional nonsense is beyond me. I'm not going to waste my time asking you to leave. I want you out of this house immediately. If you ever show your face here again then so help me I'll contact the police, the social services, the general medical council; anybody I can think of and you'll find yourself in so much trouble you'll wish you'd never been born."

She stood with her hands on both hips facing Shanty down like a mother bear that'd caught someone messing with her cub. She was magnificent, completely transformed from her normal, slightly ditsy, self. I could see how she'd managed to hold down such a super responsible job now. Shanty opened her mouth to say something, and found herself hauled by the arm to the door and shoved out through it unceremoniously.

When Rebekah turned back to me the anger on her face had changed to concern. I suddenly felt unaccountably guilty about letting Shanty stay as long as she did, and told her how I'd tried to force her to leave.

"Don't worry TT," she said, "I know it's not your fault. You know what the real truth is about your parents. Nothing can change that."

As I nodded slowly in agreement, I felt tears begin to run down my face in hot wet streaks. Rebekah reached her arms around me and pulled me close. The problem was that I _wasn't s_ ure anymore. Did I know the real truth about them or not?

Chapter 14. City lights

The nightmare about the eye visited me again that night. I dreamed that I was in a padded cell. The floor, walls, ceiling, and door were all the same neutral off-white color. There was nothing to break the monotony except a solitary spyhole set into the middle of the door. When I tried to walk across the room to look through the hole it was like wading through maple syrup. I felt as if my limbs were tied to lead weights. Finally as I reached the door and pressed my face against it I was able to peer out through a small circle of thick glass. It was then that I saw it; that terrible staring eye, on the other side of the window, watching me, controlling me, dominating me.

When I got up the next morning, after spending most of the night afraid to go back to sleep it was to some good news. Rebekah had called the Lodge, and told them she was taking some leave. She wanted us to take a short break together to give us a few days of quality time. She squared it with the college, and after breakfast we jumped onto a train heading towards London.

We spent most of the journey going through the guide book to pick out a list of 'must sees'. Rebekah voted for the crown jewels at the Tower of London, a boat trip up the Thames to Kew Gardens, and a visit to Madame Tussaud's. I chose a tour round Shakespeare's Globe, the British Library obviously, and then Camden Town's street market for some much needed retail therapy.

We tossed a coin, and the crown jewels won as our first stop. It was fun hopping on and off buses and tube trains on the way there. I got a serious case of the giggles at Charing Cross underground where a recorded voice kept on warning us to 'mind the gap' while we were waiting for the doors to close. Even so, I couldn't stop my mind from nagging me about some of the things Shanty had said. Why _didn't_ I have a proper picture of my mother? I remember dad showing me a faded snapshot he kept in his wallet once. Where was that now? If I could just get hold of it I could prove she was wrong.

Then there was the doubt in my mind about what I thought I'd seen in the grove, and later in the pool. Shanty didn't know anything about that. I hadn't told her. I'd had a whatever you want to call it, vision? hallucination? who knows? In it I'd seen a beautiful woman leading a bizarre hunt made up of wild animals. A woman who looked just like the 'mistress of the wild hunt' mentioned in myths about Frijja.

What had made Shanty pull that name out of her bag of tricks, when there were so many other legends, so many other Goddesses she could have chosen? And it was true; my father _was_ fascinated by stories of the Huldra. One of his most precious possessions was a nineteenth century watercolor miniature painting of a beautiful woman with long golden hair, tastefully arranged to hide the fact that she was stark naked, kneeling beside a woodland stream. It was sitting on Rebekah's desk back at Rose Cottage, right next to her computer. I used to tease dad by pretending I thought it was a picture of a mermaid.

And there was one other thing that was bugging me. I remembered now something that dad told me shortly before he died. He told me that he had something important to give me. Something he was going to give me on my birthday; something that had to wait until I was sixteen years old.

After we'd done the Tower of London, taking about a million pictures each, we took a boat upriver to Westminster, walked past Big Ben, more pictures, cut through St James' Park past the front of Buckingham Palace, a gazillion pictures, crossed Green Park and then stuffed ourselves on some very welcome burgers and fries at the Hard Rock Café.

Rebekah had booked us into one of those boutique hotels near the center which had a tiny spa, so we got into a couple of big fluffy dressing gowns, jumped into the sauna, and tried to sweat off the burger calories before climbing into our beds. I was so exhausted I don't think I had the energy to dream, anyway we both went out like lights, and slept in so late we almost missed breakfast.

Madame Tussaud's was to be our first port of call, followed by a visit to the British Library in the afternoon. Although I enjoyed looking the waxworks in the morning, though it was slightly creepy how real they looked, the genuine thrill for me was the chance to get up close and personal with some of the rarest books in the world after lunch.

The British Library is huge. There are over 65 kilometers of shelves and they have around 150 million items in the collection, I know because I read it in the guide book.

What I wanted to see most was the only copy of Thomas Mallory's _Morte D' Arthur,_ a manuscript from the middle ages about the knights of the round table and an original Anglo-Saxon version of _Beowulf._ Even though I was still on my magic-free book diet this was a once in a lifetime chance to see them for real. I'm afraid I have to admit I also had a bit of a secret mission.

Like I said, the library has an amazing collection, and these days a lot of it is digitized. I wanted to do some research of my own. I'd made up my mind to take a look at any references connected to legends of the Huldra, or the Goddess Frijja.

I'm not saying I actually believed anything Shanty had told me, not then anyway. I just wanted to do some digging of my own. I knew it wouldn't be easy to get any time alone in the library, and that Rebekah was unlikely to approve of me investigating any of this stuff if I told her what I was thinking about doing. So I came up with a fiendishly complicated plan to try to make her wait in the café while I went to the reading room that I wasn't at all convinced would work.

As it turned out I didn't have to use it because while we were in the library galleries she got a call on her cellphone. She had to go over to Gower Street, a couple of blocks away. The British Psychiatric Society had called saying that they needed her to come to re-register with them in person. She was really annoyed, she was sure she was already registered, but they were adamant. She asked if I minded being left on my own for half an hour or so. Hardly able to believe my luck I told her it was fine, and the second she was out of sight I sprinted towards the library reading room.

There was just one problem I hadn't anticipated. They wouldn't let me in. You had to have some stupid special readers' card that they only issue to scholars and academics if you apply months in advance in writing.

Frustrated and disappointed I made my way slowly back towards the main galleries. As I passed an alcove in the corridor a hand shot out and gripped my arm.

"Shanty!" I gasped, as I realized who had hold of me.

She put a finger to her lips pointed urgently towards the Ladies restroom a few yards away. Releasing my arm she walked swiftly over to the door, , opened it and disappeared inside trailing a scent of patchouli oil behind her.

I looked around. Should I follow her, or get the heck out of Dodge? I made up my mind and began to walk briskly in the opposite direction, towards the way out. Before I got to the end of the corridor I stopped dead, let out a massive sigh, then turned around and followed her into the restrooms.

When I got inside she was standing next to the mirror tugging at one of her dreadlocks anxiously.

"Bless the mother," she gasped, "we don't have much time. As soon as your stepmother gets to Gower Street she'll realize it was a hoax."

I gawped at her. "That was _you_ on the phone?" She didn't bother to reply. I wondered what Rebekah was going to think when she found out she'd been duped?

"I had to speak to you Thea," Shanty insisted, "I didn't get a chance to finish what I had to say to you the other day."

I folded my arms and stood my ground solidly. "Alright," I said, "tell me what you've come to say. I still don't promise to believe in any of it, though I have to admit my life has been pretty weird since I turned sixteen. Fire away!"

Shanty's eyes gleamed with urgency. "You're in terrible danger. I didn't realize how much before; terrible danger."

"Why?" I asked, "what from?"

"Beltane's approaching. The Sisterhood are seeking to fulfill the prophecy. You know the one I mean?"

"Mortal fae, blah,blah,blah?"

Shanty did her best to ignore my dismissive attitude. "If someone with the mark of the fae adds power to the ritual, then how much greater will that power be with the daughter of one of the immortals at its center?"

I shrugged, "so what do you recommend I do about it, blast them all with a thunderbolt?"

Shanty clutched my arm again tightly. "You must make sure you don't fall into their hands."

"And how do I do that?" I said, pulling away from her.

Shanty's expression was strained. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her yellow cheesecloth blouse.

"By joining a Wiccan circle on Beltane instead. By celebrating, honoring and waking Gaia, and letting Cybele sleep on."

There was an insistent buzzing noise which pulled my attention away from what Shanty was asking me to do. My cell phone was ringing. I pulled it out of my bag and looked at the display screen – Rebekah was calling me.

Shanty shook her head, but I pressed the green button and answered.

"Hi, what's up?" I said into the handset.

"Is everything alright TT?" Rebekah's voice sounded tight.

"Sure," I said.

"Can you meet me outside the library in five minutes?"

"Yeah, no probs. See you then," I closed the phone cover and looked over at Shanty.

"I'm not joining anybody for anything until I have a better idea of what's going on," I said evenly. "You'd better get moving Shanty. Rebekah's on her way back."

"Already?"

"Yep."

Shanty seemed torn between making sure Rebekah didn't see her and staying to try to persuade me to go along with her suggestion. Concern about being spotted by the mama-bear won out. She slipped past me and out into the corridor. By the time I'd washed my face and followed her out she was gone.

It was raining outside. Rebekah had decided not to bother with walking over to Gower Street after all. She said they could fax her something if they needed her signature. We hailed a black cab and twenty minutes later we were standing in the foyer of a West End theatre about to go in to watch a musical. I must admit I was just slightly surprised by Rebekah's choice of show considering everything I'd been through, and the whole point of this city break. It was _Wicked_.

Chapter 15. Seeing double

When I got back to college after our trip to London the big thing everyone was discussing were the preparations for the May ball, the pinnacle of the Brockbourne social calendar, except for graduation. Personally I was dreading the whole of May. Not only because it looked as though I was going to have to fend off a bunch of wannabe occultists on the first of the month, but also because on the third it would be the first anniversary of dad's car crash.

Over the last few days of April I noticed Shanty hovering nearby whenever I got off the college bus, or when I went down to the Post Office. She never approached me, too scared that Rebekah would spot her I imagine. I couldn't decide if she was watching to make sure no black witches from the Sisterhood tried to abduct me, or if she actually wanted to abduct me herself. Either way I'm afraid I ignored her completely.

I was determined to look into this thing in my own time and in my own way. If I could get through the next couple of months without anything untoward happening, then I planned to use the summer break when I'd have plenty of time on my hands to devote to the task of looking into my past.

In the mean time I decided to keep my eyes and ears open and see what happened. There wasn't much else I could do. I could hardly head off to New York, and demand that someone exhume my mother on the grounds that someone had told me I was actually the daughter of a Goddess – they really would lock me up in a lunatic asylum and probably throw away the key too.

In spite of all the excitement about it I wasn't planning to go to go to the Brockbourne May ball until the night before it was due to take place. Rebekah surprised me in the kitchen of Rose Cottage, handing me a large cardboard box wrapped up with a silk bow.

"It's an early birthday present TT."

I pulled the ribbon off and opened the box, peeling the tissue paper aside to reveal a beautiful emerald-green full length ball gown.

"Wow!" I exclaimed, holding it up against myself, "it's beautiful."

"I think I got your size right. Why don't you go and slip it on?"

When I finally came back downstairs wearing the dress I had a flashback to my thirteenth birthday party. At least this time I wasn't wearing orthodontic braces.

"You look lovely." Rebekah ushered me out into the garden for some photographs.

"I wasn't planning on going to the ball you know," I said, as she took her first shot.

"I know that," she said, giving me a serious look, "I just think it's important that you don't let yourself become a recluse. I want you to be able to have a normal life. You need to be around ordinary young people, like yourself"

"I don't have an escort to accompany me," I said, pointing out gently that she was blocking the camera lens with her thumb.

"Then you'll have to do a Cinderella and find one at the ball."

Not wanting to go completely alone I threw together some snacks and arranged for Millie, Sim and Lucy to meet at my place before we set off for the ball. Sim hoovered up the entrees in a single mouthful and was getting stuck into the crisps when the sound of a car horn outside made Millie and Lucy jump to their feet and rush to the window.

When we stepped out of the door there was a pink stretch limo parked in front of the house and a uniformed chauffeur standing next to it. We would certainly be making a nice subtle entrance. The others piled in and I was just about to follow them when I saw a figure standing in the shadows next to the cottage. It was Jem Masterson.

I knew it was a foolish thing to do, I don't even know why I did it; I just couldn't stop myself. I told the driver to wait a second and walked over to him.

Under his long dark coat I could see he was wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.

"Are you going to the ball?" I asked him. He seemed confused and then looked down at his clothes murmuring dismissively.

"No. My mother's holding a party."

"Well," I said backing away, "I hope you have a nice time."

"Thea!" The urgency in his voice stopped me in my tracks. "I need your help."

"What do you mean?" I asked uncertainly.

"I need you to come with me. Now... please!"

He sounded genuinely desperate. I began to shake my head, my friends were waiting, I was on my way to the May ball, I didn't have time for this.

As if to highlight the thought the horn on the limo sounded. I looked around to see Millie gesturing at me to hurry back.

"Sorry," I said, "gotta go."

"I saved your life," he whispered to me huskily, "don't you think you owe me something for that?"

He had me there, I couldn't deny it. Whether I liked it or not, whether I liked him or not, I did owe him. "You guys go on ahead. I'll catch up with you later," I called back to the limo.

Millie pulled a face and shook her head at me in disgust. She was right, I knew I was being stupid. I just couldn't stop myself. I turned back to Jem as the doors to the limo shut and the engine caught.

"This had better be important."

"It is," he replied, "I promise."

Even if I wasn't sure how much weight to give to a promise from Jem Masterson at least he seemed grateful I'd agreed to help him.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see," he responded, indicating that I should follow.

Parked in a lane a few hundred yards from the entrance to the cottage was a bright red sports car. Jem pointed a set of keys at it and the lights blinked as the locks released.

"This is yours?" I asked incredulously, "I didn't even know you could drive." He held passenger the door open and guided me into the seat with his hand.

"There's a lot you don't know about me Thea."

I instantly felt certain as he said it that there was a lot I didn't _want_ to know about him. However it was too late to get out now, the die was cast. The engine caught with a deep rumble and gravel sprayed behind us as Jem pressed hard on the accelerator and we swung out into the road.

I had never been so confused about a person in my life. Sneaking a glance at his profile as he focused on his driving I couldn't help feeling the familiar butterflies in my tummy. I'd always wondered how anybody could find someone attractive that they neither trusted nor liked. Now I knew.

After a few minutes I knew where we were headed and sure enough a couple of miles further on we sped through the gates to Draxton Manor. The driveway was decorated with hanging lanterns, and when we reached the house itself the meadow had been transformed into a parking zone for dozens of large expensive-looking luxury cars. A party was obviously in progress as I could see people dressed in long black capes and wearing Venetian style masks moving towards the house.

"What's going on?" I said, "why have you brought me here?"

Jem climbed out of the car and then leaned back in to answer me.

"I told you. I need your help. Please?"

Without saying another word he began to walk up the steps towards the house. I sat for a moment reviewing my options. At least if I didn't like whatever it was he wanted from me I could get his mother to call me a cab so I could get back to the ball. Sighing I slammed the car door and hurried after him.

Jem didn't enter the house by the main entrance. Instead he led me around to the side towards a set of ramshackle outbuildings. He stood waiting next to a pile of logs, in front of an iron barred gate which completely filled an alcove leading into what looked like a barn of some kind. Through the gate, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was a dingy stone corridor with what appeared to be store rooms on either side. Each of the doors had metal grille window set into them, making them look a little like old-fashioned prison cells.

I stopped a good distance away from the iron gate and watched Jem cautiously, there was something weird about this whole thing, I could sense it clearly. There were goose-bumps running up my spine. There was no way I was going in there with anybody. However it didn't seem as if that was what he wanted as he made no attempt to enter the building himself.

"Can I use your mobile?" he asked.

I dug in my bag and pulled out my phone, handing it to him. The instant the phone was in his hands I felt my breath being cut off, as if something was squeezing the life out of me. It took me a moment to realize that an arm had been clamped around my throat from behind.

"Get her inside quickly!"

As the words left his mouth I found myself being hauled like a sack of flour towards the iron gate. Jem pulled a key from his pocket, released the lock, and swung the gate back on its hinges. Throwing out my arms to either side I tried to resist, but the crushing weight against my neck was beginning to make me dizzy and my fingers couldn't maintain their grip on the crumbling stone around the gatepost.

I was on the point of collapsing unconscious when something bizarre happened. I heard Jem's voice shout "Lechkov!"

There was a dull thud and a groan of pain. The pressure round my neck loosened, and I was able to pull myself free. Gasping a breath of air into my lungs, I twisted around to see what was going on behind me.

I was faced with an extraordinary and confusing sight. The huge psychiatric nurse- cum-manservant Lechkov was clutching his massive head, a trickle of blood seeping through his fingers.

Jem, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, stood over him brandishing a log in his right hand. He had presumably struck out, forcing him to release me. What made the scene remarkable was that Jem was _also_ standing on the other side of the injured Lechkov looking furious.This Jem was wearing the evening suit under a dark coat I had seen him in earlier that evening. He was holding my mobile phone, and looking daggers at the other Jem.... there were _two_ Jems.

So that was the answer to the Jekyll and Hyde mystery. The thought passed through my head quite calmly even though I was on the verge of compete panic; they were identical twins.

T-shirt Jem, the one holding the log, spoke first taking a step towards me.

"Thea are you alright?"

I drew back into the corridor. I wasn't ready to trust any Jem Masterson again for the foreseeable future.

"What are you doing with her? Why is she here?" he said, aiming the questions at Evening-suit Jem, who gave a sneering smile.

"Mind your own business."

"This _is_ my business!" T-shirt Jem threw the words back at his mirror image, and moved to block the gate with his body glancing back momentarily in my direction. " _She'_ s my business."

The two Jems stood glaring at one another with the same face. Seeing them together at last it was possible to see some minor differences between them, aside from the clothes. T-shirt Jem seemed slighter, more delicate, while evening- suit Jem's features seemed a tiny bit thicker, and coarser; as if he had been over indulging his appetites. Evening-suit Jem was speaking now,

"Our darling mother needs the girl. You wouldn't want to disappoint her would you?

"I don't care what she wants." T-shirt Jem answered. "I never have. You know that as well as I do. And I don't see why you should all of a sudden either."

"Step aside big brother. I'm afraid you're not the Alpha twin anymore." As he spoke he gave a nod.

Lechkov, who had been quietly moving to around to flank the second Jem lumbered into action. Ducking under another swipe of the log aimed at his skull he grasped T-shirt Jem in a bear hug crushing both of his arms against his sides. Dragging him off his feet he hauled him aside and simply walked away carrying him towards the house, like a rag doll.

Evening-suit Jem watched until they were out of sight, before turning his attention towards me. There was a malevolent gleam in his eye which reminded me that it must have been him I'd run into in the stables brandishing a whip.

I retreated into the corridor as he started towards me. With a sudden rush of speed he darted past the gate and launched himself forward. I side stepped, causing him to lose his footing and slip. As he tried to recover his balance I heaved open the door to one of the store rooms, slipped inside and slammed it shut behind me fastening the bolt.

His face pushed up against the grille, I could smell slightly sour breath. He grinned nastily.

"Congratulations Thea Hartsong. You've put yourself exactly where I was going to put you myself." The sound of a key turning in the lock punctuated the statement with a chilling finality.

I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded, and I'd heard the Iron Gate at the end of the corridor clang shut before I ventured a look around my prison. It was a brick store room filled with an array of dusty boxes, garden tools, and wooden pallets. The walls looked damp and there were patches of mould growing on them, which made the air smell musty.

I sank down on a crate and put my head in my hands. One thing was crystal clear I was in big trouble. From what Evening-suit Jem had said it seemed that Circe Masterson needed me to be here. It was the first of May – the festival of Beltane. It was obvious that I was going to be the special guest star at a witches Sabbath.

At least my friends knew who I was with. They'd seen Evening-suit Jem pick me up from Rose Cottage. Perhaps they'd get tired of waiting for me at the ball and...and what? Ride to the rescue? Gatecrash a party at the home of one of the richest women in the district – a pillar of the community, and a close friend of the local police force?

I had to admit to myself that it wasn't a very likely scenario. With a sinking feeling I realized something else even worse. Evening-suit Jem had taken my phone. He could text anything he liked to Millie and the others and they would think it came from me.

I sank down against the wall and tried to rack my brains for a way out of all this. If this were only one of my mythological tales I'd be able to use my magical powers to free myself with a single bound. Unfortunately myths were myths and the reality was that, whatever nonsense Shanty and Circe believed about me, I was caught like a rat in a trap.

The instant I thought of rats I heard a scuffling sound from the back of the room. A shiver of horror went down my spine. I've never really been fond of rats, not since I saw a movie about giant mutant rats during a sleepover when I was twelve.

The noise came again only closer this time. Backing myself up against the door, and grabbing a rusty spade from a hook on the wall I stood watching the pile of cardboard boxes intently, ready to defend myself against an attack of killer rodents, when the figure of a man shuffled into sight. I recognized him right away in spite of the poor light.

"Doctor Masterson?" I asked tentatively.

He lifted his head and peered towards me. It was definitely him, the patient I had seen at the Lodge, and whose file I'd seen. This was Jem's father... _both_ Jems' father? Although his face was hollow and drawn his eyes twinkled in the darkness.

"Is that you Thea Hartsong?

I stepped forwards into the light which was seeping through the grille from the corridor. His face lit up.

"Ah! It is!"

He seemed on the verge of embracing me then, much to my relief, stopped himself, and shook his head sadly."I can't tell you how sorry I am to see you here."

A hacking cough suddenly racked his emaciated frame. Before I knew it I'd taken him by the arm and helped him to sit on the packing case. Squatting beside him I waited impatiently until the cough subsided. I had a million questions I wanted to ask him.

"How do you know who I am?" I asked.

He took in a wheezing breath before answering. "I recognized you the moment I saw you at the hospital. You look just like your father."

"You knew my dad?"

"We were colleagues...and friends. I was his technical support."

"Support for what?" I interjected.

"For his research project," he replied as if it were obvious.

"Here in the New Forest?" I asked.

"Of course."

"But he never told me anything about coming here," I argued, "I didn't even know he'd ever been to England."

Doctor Masterson shrugged his bony shoulders before answering. "He was going to tell you everything Thea. He prepared a package for you explaining it all."

"For my sixteenth birthday?" The words almost stuck in my throat.

He nodded and repeated the words back to me, his voice sounded as dry as sandpaper.

"For your sixteenth birthday," he looked at me closely, "though I can hardly believe you're that old." Lowering his voice still further I had to lean in to catch what he was saying, "...electronics. That was my field. Built up a successful business in it. It was my responsibility to get it all on tape you see?"

I didn't see at all and told him so.

"I set up the cameras in the grove and he, your father, went into the pool. The next thing I remember is that most of my equipment was wrecked. I saw something in the water. Something....Anyway suddenly there he was again and in his arms was a tiny baby."

He reached a hand out and touched my arm, almost as if he wanted to confirm that I was real.

"You."

We sat for a moment in silence as I took on board what he'd said. So Shanty had been telling the truth all along. My mother wasn't my real mother after all. My true mother was the woman I'd seen that day in the grove and in the pool. The Mistress of the Wild Hunt. The Goddess Frijja. I actually was what Shanty had tried to tell me I was. But how could that be possible, and what did it mean?

My mind was reeling as Doctor Masterson explained how he had helped to smuggle my father and me back into the States through contacts in the shipping industry. Together he and my father had laid a false trail by inventing a dead wife, and an empty plot in the graveyard.

"It's surprising what you can do when you have plenty of money," he

added, obviously aware of the irony as he looked around at the filthy dungeon we were both inhabiting.

"What happened to you? And why would you do something like that for my dad? For me?"

"First and foremost I'm a scientist," he said, as if this explained everything.

I waited. Eventually after a short silence he continued to speak.

"What I saw and experienced that night changed me forever. I learned that there are things in the world which cannot be explained rationally. I... I wanted to keep you both safe. I failed."

It was hard to tell in the poor light, but I thought he might have tears in his eyes.

"You asked what happened to me? The answer is love"

I waited again, but this time he needed prompting. "What do you mean?"

He sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped as if he was carrying a great weight on them.

"I promised your father never to speak a word of what happened to a living soul. It was a pact between us to guard the secret until you were old enough to know the truth. Unfortunately I'm a hopeless liar, particularly with anyone I care about. My wife Circe knew something had happened that night in the grove though I swore blind nothing had. She pried the whole story out of me bit by bit. She used every weapon in her armory. She even threatened to take the twins away, telling me that she couldn't be married to a man who kept secrets from her. When I finally did blurt out the story to her she pretended not to believe it, and told me I must have been drunk or that I'd read too many of her novels, so I showed her the only recording that survived.

There isn't much to it. Ten minutes of white noise fills the screen, then it finally clears and shows a grainy monochrome image of your father emerging from the pool holding you in his arms. I swear to you I had no idea that my wife was an Occultist, a follower of the left-hand-path, though Lord knows I should have suspected it when I look back on the way she brought up our children. Circe is a woman of infinite patience. She waited until the time was absolutely right before she showed her hand.

About three years ago when I was planning a business trip the States, so that I could meet up with your father to discuss his plans for you when you finally reached sixteen, my wife began putting hallucinogenic drugs into my food. Within a couple of months my behavior had become so erratic that she succeeded in having me sectioned, and locked up as a mental patient in the Lodge. It was all very convenient; she's on the board of governors there. Once I was under lock and key and she had control of my fortune, she had someone break into my computer so that she could track both you, and your father down."

I could barely believe what I was hearing, it was all so incredible. Yet why would this sickly shell of a man lie to me? What would he have to gain? What he said next shocked me to the core.

"Your father's death was no accident."

He looked at me imploringly, as if he needed my forgiveness for something. "It's my fault he's dead. If I'd kept my mouth shut...." His voice cracked and then failed.

I wrapped my arms around myself. I wasn't sure I could take much more of this.

"That's nonsense," I said trying hard to keep my voice level, "if it wasn't a genuine accident then whoever set it up is to blame, not you."

He smiled as if to thank me for my words whether he believed them or not.

"I'm certain the so called accident was the first in a chain of events designed to draw you to this very place at this precise time," he added. "The ceremony is tonight."

"Beltane" I said, encouraging him to continue.

"The celebration of new life. I'm sure this whole prophecy business Circe's so obsessed with is connected in some way to the twins. Jem and Jem."

I looked at him to see if I'd heard correctly. His face looked skeletal in shadowy room.

"They have the same name?"

He seemed slightly thrown by the question.

"No. Well yes. In a way. It's really Jeremy and James, but in the family we've always called them our two little Jems. Though as you may have noticed they're like chalk and cheese. Jeremy, the younger by two minutes, is truly his mother's son. He's been nothing but trouble since the day he was capable of opening his mouth to tell a bare-faced lie.

His older brother James took care of him for most of his childhood, making excuses for his behavior and protecting him, though I think a lifetime of taking punishments for a brother who doesn't seem to appreciate the sacrifice may finally be wearing thin. He's only stayed here in Baring because Circe used me to put pressure on him to return here. He's terrified she'll do something to hurt me, though what she could do to me that's worse than this I'm sure I can't imagine.

I almost succeeded in regaining my freedom a few days ago. I managed to escape from the Lodge only to hitch a ride with my own dear wife. Unfortunately she carries an unlicensed pistol in the car. Why she didn't just shoot me and have done with it I can't begin to guess."

There was something nagging at me, something I needed to remember. While I was searching for it I quickly asked another question.

"Why does nobody around here know that they're twins?"

"They've spent most of their time in boarding schools abroad. James narrowly avoided a prison sentence last year so when Circe brought them both back to Baring it seemed easier to let James register and keep Jeremy at home. Though of course Jeremy isn't the stay at home type.

"Single and twain" I said, "twins. Two and one at the same time. The prophecy. How does it run?"

An uncannily high man's voice grating like chalk on glass answered me.

"Mortal, fae, single, twain, blood of birth, got on Beltane, Meka Mater rise again."

Lechkov's moon face peered in at us through the grille on the door. How long had he been listening? The jingle of a key, and a grinding sound as it turned in the lock indicated that he had come for one of us.

As he stepped into the room I tried to grab for the spade in order to swing it at him, but I was too late. He held me firmly with my arms trapped behind my back and was already shuffling back out of the room and locking Doctor Masterson in.

"Courage Thea!" Doctor Masterson's fragile paper-thin voice carried after me as we moved back down the corridor towards the Iron Gate, and the night outside.

Chapter 16. Beltane

Under different circumstances I might have appreciated the magnificent oak paneling, and the heavy roofing beams above our heads, as Lechkov marched me around the house to the entrance and in through the doors to the main hall. As it was I was filled with impotent fury. Now I knew what it felt like to be a turkey at Thanksgiving.

We mounted a carved wooden staircase, our footsteps muffled by a thick runner of carpet. Rounding the corner we came face to face with Evening-suit Jem.

"It's alright Lechkov," he said, with that sneering smile he'd given me earlier, "I'll take her from here."

Lechkov hesitated, looking at him uncertainly.

"The High Priestess wants to see her before the ceremony." He stared the larger man down like an emperor would a slave, his blue eyes like chips of ice. "Do you want to be responsible for the delay?"

Lechkov released me, and I began rubbing my arm where he'd almost squeezed it flat. Turning on his heel, he wobbled off back down the stairs like a rubber tank.

Evil Jem reached out to take my arm, but I shook him off violently.

"You won't get away with this," I hissed at him, "this is kidnapping. My friends know I left the village with you. My stepmother will have the police round here if I'm not back soon."

He stepped past me, and looked down the staircase. Seemingly satisfied with whatever it was he saw he turned back to me, winked, and whispered conspiratorially into my ear.

"Then we'll have to make sure we get you home as fast as possible!"

I had no idea how to react, until a thought struck me. "Which Jem are you?" I looked at him more closely. His features were delicate, refined, without the slightly bloated appearance of his twin brother.

He smiled tentatively. "The one you want me to be I hope. Lechkov never could tell us apart. Not when we are dressed alike at any rate. He locked me in my bedroom, but he doesn't have a clue about the passage behind the tapestry that comes out in the kitchens. Come on"

He tried to take my arm again and I slapped his hand away. I didn't want to be touched by any Jem at all. He looked at me with a hurt expression, then nodded and pointed down the stairs. We hurried down them side by side, crossed the entrance hall and then stepped out into the garden.

As we made our way past the arbor Jem whispered to me urgently.

"I swear I had no idea Thea. I didn't know what my brother or my mother were planning. If I had..."

"What? I hissed back, "you would have told me everything? Just like you told me about your twin brother?"

"I couldn't. I'd promised."

"Or that your mother is.. what? High Priestess of a cult of black witches?"

"Thea...I..."

"Save it!"

I didn't want to hear his pathetic excuses. There wasn't time and I wanted to save my breath for running. Shouts of alarm were already coming from the house, and the next instant Lechkov appeared on the terrace. His size didn't seem to stop him from running, and running fast at that. He was powering down the stairs rapidly reducing the gap between us, as we sprinted away through the parked cars on the grass.

"You go on!" Jem panted, "I'll try to hold him off."

I kicked off my shoes and tore at my ballgown, sorry Rebecca, to try to make it easier to run in.

Darting into the woodland which led down towards the great wall that surrounded the estate I was hoping against hope that I'd be able to climb in a dress. I didn't dare turn to see if Lechkov was hot on my tail. The sounds of pursuit carried through the trees and I caught sight of flashes of torchlight strobing through the forest on either side of me; there must have been drivers waiting in some of those cars.

Sucking air into my lungs in great gasps I charged through the undergrowth tripping on roots and tearing my dress still further on sharp branches as I forced my way past them. There was the roar of an engine, and then a slow thudding sound built and built until it became a whining buzz, like a chainsaw. _Oh God! The helicopter!_

Gritting my teeth I burst out of the trees into a broad alley of grassland which ran alongside the wall. There would be no trees to help me climb over it and I'd be a sitting duck for anyone in the air, they'd be able to direct the hunters right to me. Trying to control my panic I dithered over which direction I should choose - left or right? A voice sounded in my head, _right._

I took its advice. I could see torches clearly now further down the alley and the hammering clatter of the helicopter was almost directly overhead, the beam of a floodlight illuminating the trees underneath it. It would be on me in a minute. Just as I was about to despair I realized that I was looking at a narrow gap in the wall. A vehicle of some kind must have come off the road and rammed it recently as there was metal debris and broken glass scattered around. Thank goodness nobody had had time to repair it as yet.

Scrambling over a pile of shattered bricks and up into the gap I forced my body through, and then dropped down to the ground. A sharp pain stabbed through my ankle. I tried to put my weight on it, but jagged waves of agony shot through my leg. Hobbling as best I could I managed to cross the road without incident, and drop down into a dry ditch just in time.

A beam of white illuminating the scene like daylight flashed over me and the sound of the helicopter became almost deafening. I prayed that the undergrowth in the ditch, and the green of my dress would be enough to camouflage me. My prayers appeared to be answered, as the helicopter banked and swung back over the road towards the estate grounds.

Crawling out into the forest on the other side of the ditch I felt sure my ankle was broken, or at least badly sprained. It was throbbing and had already begun to swell. Although the helicopter had gone, I hadn't thrown off everybody. I could hear voices on the other side of the wall from where I'd crossed over. No doubt they'd see the gap and realize it was the only place I could've gotten out. If they did I'd be an easy target. I could barely put any weight on my ankle let alone walk back to Baring.

As I tried to think what to do a sudden noise from the bushes next to me made me realize it was too late. It was all over. I huddled on the ground waiting for the cry of triumph and for a hand to pull me from my hiding place.

Instead I heard a snorting noise.

Looking up I was astonished to see the white-coated pony standing in front of me. It gave a whinny and tossed its head playfully. Remembering an old saying about gift horses I slowly pulled myself to my feet, sucking in and suppressing a cry of pain as I did. The pony nuzzled me with its soft head. I took the opportunity to clutch its mane and haul myself onto its back.

The pony barely stirred, it seemed content that I should ride it. Hearing voices on the road coming closer I clicked gently with my tongue, increased the pressure of my knees on the pony's belly and it began to trot, and then to canter through the woods towards home.

Although it wasn't easy riding through the forest by the weak light of the moon the thrill of escaping from Draxton Manor gave it a special magic all of its own, particularly given the nature of my mysterious mount.

The pony seemed to do most of the navigating itself and needed little help from me to bring us to the wooden fence at the back of Rose Cottage. I dismounted and leaned hard on the gate trying to protect my, now severely swollen, ankle.

When I turned to offer my thanks to the pony it had already melted into the forest again. I didn't have the strength to crawl along the garden path to the cottage, so seeing a light in the kitchen window I decided to let all of my pent up emotions go at once in a blood curdling cry for help.

Rebekah came rushing out of the back door in her dressing gown, and within a matter of seconds I'd been carried into the cottage and laid on the couch. Making a very satisfying amount of fuss Rebekah insisted we call an ambulance. It was all I could do to get her to listen to what I had to tell her.

I guess I should have realized how it would sound. Just picture it from her perspective if you will. I arrive back at the cottage late at night with a torn ballgown, and a suspected broken ankle, having ridden through the forest on a white horse, while escaping from an evil twin and being chased by a coven of witches. And why? Because I'm the daughter of a Goddess!

The whole thing must have sounded completely crazy. Which is why I wasn't really surprised that the first thing Rebekah did was get me a glass of water and a tranquilizer.

"Here," she said, "swallow this."

I held the pill in my hand. "If I take it will you promise to call the police?"

"This isn't a negotiation TT."

"I know," I told her, "please?"

I popped the pill into my mouth, and chugged it down with a swig of water. "Please!" I begged, I couldn't take the chance that Circe or Lechkov or any of them would see Rebekah as a serious barrier to getting what they wanted. Namely me.

She sighed heavily, and then nodded her head slowly in agreement. "If that's really what you want darling. I'll just get my mobile."

I flopped back on the sofa suddenly feeling completely exhausted. I hadn't realized how pent up I'd been until Rebekah had finally agreed to call the police. As I lay back against the cushions something under the kitchen table caught my eye.

I pushed myself up on one elbow so I could see it what it was. Lying on the floor was a pair of elegant black patent-leather high heeled shoes which looked as though they had been kicked off in a hurry. A dark patch of mud was stuck on the sole of one of them, and I could see traces of it on the kitchen floor.

However it was what was lying on the table itself in plain sight which finally convinced me the thought forming in my head wasn't another one of my delusional fantasies.

I looked up as Rebekah stepped back into the kitchen holding her cellphone.

"Don't worry. They'll be here in a few minutes."

"Will they?" I asked her, staring pointedly at the table.

Rebekah followed the direction of my eye-line. A Venetian carnival mask identical to those I'd seen the guests wearing at Draxton Hall lay discarded next to the tea pot. She gave a wry smile then looked back at me as if unsure how to respond before shrugging off her dressing gown, revealing the black velvet evening frock she had concealed beneath it.

"It's a pity you had to delay the party, particularly since you're supposed to be the special guest. But everything's under control now TT."

"Don't you ever call me that again!" I spat the words at her, unable to control the terrible tearing rift that was going on inside me. Rebekah was a traitor? Dad's Rebekah?.. _My_ Rebekah?

I tried to push myself up off the couch only to feel my head swimming with dizziness. I looked down at the water glass in my hand before dropping it. It smashed, scattering hundreds of glass fragments across the floor. They all seemed to be reflecting her face twisting it into a hideous grimace.

Rebekah walked over to the window, pushed the curtains back and looked outside. I was struggling to speak. My words slurred as the drug she'd given me, the drug I'd been stupid enough to take myself, began to take effect.

"You seduced my ffff father. It wwww.. It was you who killed him!

"It's too late for all that sentimental claptrap Thea. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. That's the only maxim that means anything. We needed you here. The whole earth needs you to be here. It's time to change things around once and for all"

The sound of someone knocking at the door reverberated through my head which felt as though it had been wrapped in cotton wool. My sight was beginning to fail. Everything seemed to be spiraling into a long tunnel that was spinning and swirling around me like a top.

When Rebekah came back into the kitchen she wasn't alone. I'm pretty certain I saw Circe Masterson, and I think I saw Jem too though it's hard to be sure since just as I recognized him his image split in two, and floated into the air and I was left with the sound of voices echoing through my head.

I thought I heard someone say, "the getting of a child tonight will fulfill the prophecy, and his blood will usher the return of the Great Mother. Cybele. The time approaches."

Then I heard no more.

Chapter 17. The eye

When I regained consciousness I didn't have to dream about the eye anymore. I could see it right in front of me every single morning. It stared in at me through the peephole in the padded cell that was my home for nearly nine months. What I'd been afraid of for so long had finally happened. I was a patient at the Lodge.

The owner of the eye, my beloved stepmother Rebekah, made sure she kept a close watch on me. She wasn't really watching _me_ of course, she was watching over what was growing _in_ me. My baby. The baby they were going to use to bring their evil Goddess back to life.

It sounds incredible even as I write it, looking out of my window at the mountains around my current home. Fortunately I don't really remember anything at all about the Beltane ritual. I'm glad, because what I imagine happened is bad enough.

After it was all over Circe and her cronies were able to lock me up in the Lodge for reasons you've probably heard about; Doctor Masterson's murder.

I imagine you've already read or seen on TV that I was found in the grounds of Draxton Manor the following morning drenched in Doctor Masterson's blood, and that he lay dead in the hall; his throat slit from ear to ear.

The story they told the world was that I'd been completely obsessed with Circe's son Jem. He had rejected me so I had broken into the house to find him. Encountering Doctor Masterson I'd supposedly given way to some psychotic fit, and killed him with a knife I'd picked up in the kitchens.

There was no real trial as such; it all took place in a private hearing. The court simply signed the necessary papers, and were grateful that somebody actually wanted to take care of me, - just so long as I didn't escape.

Of course, as you already know from the same newspapers etc., that's exactly what happened. I told you when I began writing this chronicle of my life so far, that I didn't do what they say I did. The idea that I could harm that sad, gentle man who witnessed the day of my birth is sickening to me and I won't rest until the people who are really responsible for it are brought to justice.

I'm afraid he paid the ultimate price to make Circe's twisted plan work, and that his life was sacrificed like the bull's in the taurobolium ceremony Circe described to me at our first meeting. I have no idea what happened to Jem, I mean James, I should get used to using their real names I suppose, but I don't doubt his horrible brother Jeremy was the one who..... I can't let myself think about any of this stuff too closely right now it's too upsetting.

One thing is certain I hate them both. I don't care if James did try to help me get away. As far as I'm concerned he's just as bad as his brother.

In spite of everything my story isn't over yet. The spinners are still spinning and the webs haven't all been fully woven. I can't tell you exactly _how_ I got free from the Lodge, though I will as soon as it's safe to do so.

What I _can_ tell you is that I'm somewhere safe, and that my child has been born; a beautiful baby boy. I can also promise you this much. I won't let _anyone_ or _anything_ bring him to harm.

********

Don't miss the next installment of the Thea Hartsong Chronicles.

The story continues in Land of the Fae, available to download soon.

