wonder what’s set them off? Still, it’s not as if they’re actually ringing.’
All the same, the threat of their chime was near, as close as an echo. Lucas seemed to feel the metal reverberate in time to the tingling in his head. Whatever happened, and for whatever reason, he knew he must not take a step closer to the bells. He must not pass under that threshold.
Meanwhile, the crowd on the patio continued laughing and smoking and drinking. The tea-lights flickered in the breeze. Yet the night had lost its peace, just as Philomena had lost her –
Her voice. Philomena’s lost voice.
How strange and abrupt, the way the noise had been choked out of her. It was almost as if she . . . as if he . . .
My God , Lucas thought wildly, we’ve been bewitched . He stared round at the rustling depths of the garden. Who knew what could be lurking here? With the fear, the throbbing heat returned, with a force that made him gasp. Bea looked at him curiously.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I’m feeling really – uh – ill. I have to go. Sorry.’
‘Wait,’ she called, but he was already stumbling away from her, towards the door in the wall at the bottom of the garden.
He had to get away.
The taxi driver eyed him suspiciously but Lucas told himself that it was perfectly natural; as far as this man was concerned, he was just another binge-drinking kid who might be sick in his cab. And Lucas really did feel sick now. Sick with shame. Leaving Bea, leaving Philly and the rest like that – what if there was indeed some evil-doer on the prowl? He’d fled, abandoned them. Abandoned everything . . . Deep down, however, he knew his fearfulness for the others was misplaced. It wasn’t even true. It had been fabricated to distract him from the other, unacknowledged dread. Because instinct told him that whatever threat had whispered in the breeze, and set the bells quivering, had already left the house.
The taxi pulled up almost before he knew it. Lucas thrust a twenty-pound note in the driver’s hands and stumbled out without waiting for change. The night-time guard, Andy, was on duty at the gate, and it took all of Lucas’s strength to look into the CCTV camera with his customary smile as he typed in the code for the main entrance. He approached the front door with a dry mouth and clammy hands, and when he passed through without alarm, was only partly reassured. Bells didn’t warn of all witches, only of those hexing banes.
The house was empty. Philomena was still at the party, Ashton and Marisa were out too. The silence was only broken by the throaty tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Yet the familiarity of home did not welcome him. Like an intruder, he avoided the portraits’ eyes.
Something dark moved in a corner. He paused, uncertain, and heard a long, low growl. ‘Kip? It’s all right, boy, it’s me.’ The growl intensified. But the next moment, there was a scrabble of paws on polished wood, and the dog had gone.
Lucas squared his shoulders. Then he went up to his bedroom and started pulling things out of the cupboard he used to store old books and files. He forced himself to make his haste orderly: there must be no panic here. He pulled out an essay from last term, Identifying Witchkind and Witchwork , and stared at his own writing, how the brisk black ink flowed confidently across the page.
It is estimated, the opening paragraph announced, that approximately one in a thousand people become witchkind.
Less than 0.1% of the British population. Lucas already knew that, of course. He already knew all the information he was searching for. He just needed to see it committed to paper, by his own hand.
Of these, female witches outnumber male ones by about three to one. The Seventh Sense (‘fae’) is usually developed between the ages of twenty and thirty . . .
So statistically speaking, his personal odds were much greater than a thousand to one. His mind raced to do the
All the same, the threat of their chime was near, as close as an echo. Lucas seemed to feel the metal reverberate in time to the tingling in his head. Whatever happened, and for whatever reason, he knew he must not take a step closer to the bells. He must not pass under that threshold.
Meanwhile, the crowd on the patio continued laughing and smoking and drinking. The tea-lights flickered in the breeze. Yet the night had lost its peace, just as Philomena had lost her –
Her voice. Philomena’s lost voice.
How strange and abrupt, the way the noise had been choked out of her. It was almost as if she . . . as if he . . .
My God , Lucas thought wildly, we’ve been bewitched . He stared round at the rustling depths of the garden. Who knew what could be lurking here? With the fear, the throbbing heat returned, with a force that made him gasp. Bea looked at him curiously.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I’m feeling really – uh – ill. I have to go. Sorry.’
‘Wait,’ she called, but he was already stumbling away from her, towards the door in the wall at the bottom of the garden.
He had to get away.
The taxi driver eyed him suspiciously but Lucas told himself that it was perfectly natural; as far as this man was concerned, he was just another binge-drinking kid who might be sick in his cab. And Lucas really did feel sick now. Sick with shame. Leaving Bea, leaving Philly and the rest like that – what if there was indeed some evil-doer on the prowl? He’d fled, abandoned them. Abandoned everything . . . Deep down, however, he knew his fearfulness for the others was misplaced. It wasn’t even true. It had been fabricated to distract him from the other, unacknowledged dread. Because instinct told him that whatever threat had whispered in the breeze, and set the bells quivering, had already left the house.
The taxi pulled up almost before he knew it. Lucas thrust a twenty-pound note in the driver’s hands and stumbled out without waiting for change. The night-time guard, Andy, was on duty at the gate, and it took all of Lucas’s strength to look into the CCTV camera with his customary smile as he typed in the code for the main entrance. He approached the front door with a dry mouth and clammy hands, and when he passed through without alarm, was only partly reassured. Bells didn’t warn of all witches, only of those hexing banes.
The house was empty. Philomena was still at the party, Ashton and Marisa were out too. The silence was only broken by the throaty tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Yet the familiarity of home did not welcome him. Like an intruder, he avoided the portraits’ eyes.
Something dark moved in a corner. He paused, uncertain, and heard a long, low growl. ‘Kip? It’s all right, boy, it’s me.’ The growl intensified. But the next moment, there was a scrabble of paws on polished wood, and the dog had gone.
Lucas squared his shoulders. Then he went up to his bedroom and started pulling things out of the cupboard he used to store old books and files. He forced himself to make his haste orderly: there must be no panic here. He pulled out an essay from last term, Identifying Witchkind and Witchwork , and stared at his own writing, how the brisk black ink flowed confidently across the page.
It is estimated, the opening paragraph announced, that approximately one in a thousand people become witchkind.
Less than 0.1% of the British population. Lucas already knew that, of course. He already knew all the information he was searching for. He just needed to see it committed to paper, by his own hand.
Of these, female witches outnumber male ones by about three to one. The Seventh Sense (‘fae’) is usually developed between the ages of twenty and thirty . . .
So statistically speaking, his personal odds were much greater than a thousand to one. His mind raced to do the
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