(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord by Kj Charles

chaos on the desk. A map was spread out on the faded green leather top. A couple of contorted needles lay by it, and a mess of twisted fragments of wood. There was a small pool of solid tin, the size of a fingernail, on the leather, a few pieces of broken needle stabbed randomly into the desk surface, some papers and a pen wiper. A tangle of needles lay like spillikins on the map.
    “Sorry.”
    “I’d got the location, at least. It was a phenomenally difficult piece of work. Everything in here is flowing in the most peculiar way. But I did get Nethercote. Definitely.”
    Crane was looking closely at him. “Is that a problem?”
    Stephen sighed. “My Aunt Annie lives just outside Nethercote.”
    “I see,” said Crane. “No, I don’t. So what? Unless she’s like my Great-Aunt Lucie, in which case you have all my sympathy—”
    “She’s a witch.”
    “Just like Great-Aunt Lucie.”
    “No,” Stephen said. “She’s a witch .”
    “Oh. I see. Oh, the devil—you don’t think—”
    “The jack? I can’t think so,” Stephen said. “Father’s been dead twelve years, why would she do it now? And she’s always been a stickler. It’s just, I only know of one other practitioner in Nethercote and I find it hard to believe it was her either—Mrs. Parrott, her name is, a respected craftswoman. But there may well be someone else. This is the devil of an area for the craft, you know, so much power. I can’t think why this house is so bad.”
    “So what do we do?”
    “Have some lunch, go to Nethercote, talk to Mrs. Parrott and see if she can lead us to the maker. And hope to God my aunt doesn’t turn up.”

Chapter Ten
    Nethercote barely earned the name of hamlet. There was a stagnant willow-hung pond around which stood a tiny, ancient, grey stone church, lit by the afternoon sun, and five cottages, two badly tumbledown.
    Merrick tied the reins of the dogcart as Stephen and Crane looked around.
    “Is this it?” Crane asked.
    “This is Nethercote, yes, my lord.”
    “God almighty. I want to go home.”
    “You give the word, I’ll book the boat,” said Merrick. “We could be drinking Shaoxing wine in, what, two months if you stopped mucking round here. What do we do now, sir?”
    “Don’t ask me,” Crane said.
    “I wasn’t,” said Merrick, with ineffable scorn.
    Stephen was still surveying the area. A dusty, patchwork-clothed boy of about seven was staring at them from behind a heap of stones. Stephen beckoned him over, and he came reluctantly, pausing about twelve feet away.
    “Hey,” Stephen said, holding out a tuppenny bit. “Can you tell me where Mrs. Parrott lives?”
    The boy stared, wide eyes fixed on the coin. He reached out a tentative hand, changed his mind and darted away.
    “He’s probably never seen anyone who wasn’t his first cousin,” Crane said.
    Stephen shrugged and strolled over to a rickety house front with a few bits of broken woodwork in front of it. There was a faint, tuneless whistling from inside, the kind hissed through a gap in the teeth, and a brief outbreak of hammering.
    “Hello?” he called. “Anyone in? Good morning,” he added, as a skinny man in fustian emerged, scowling. “Sorry to trouble you. Can you tell me where I can find Mrs. Parrott?”
    The man snorted. “Try the church?” he said. “Reckon you find her there.” He looked as though he was about to continue, but stopped, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on Crane. He blinked a couple of times and darted back into his dark workshop without a goodbye.
    “Charming,” Crane muttered.
    “Well, if you must wear a suit costing more than this entire village, you can expect to be stared at,” Stephen said.
    “Nobody could level that accusation at you.” Crane headed to the churchyard wall. The tiny building looked deserted, the roof as though it wasn’t far from collapse. The iron-grey aged oak door was firmly closed.
    “Could she be inside?” Stephen asked dubiously. He walked up to the