A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3) by Ruth Warburton

text. I dialled in and listened as I walked.
    ‘Hello?’ The voice somehow managed to be both croaky and yet chocolate-smooth. It was Caradoc and he plainly hadn’t quite got the hang of answerphones. ‘Hello? Is this Miss Winterson? … What?’ By the sound of it, that was over his shoulder to someone else. Then a tut. ‘Oh, a recording. Very well. Um, message for Anna Winterson.’ He spoke very clearly, as if giving dictation to the hard of hearing. ‘Caradoc Truelove speaking. I have found the text we were discussing, but I don’t really want to give too many details over the phone. We don’t want this translation going the same way as the original. Would you come to the shop and we can talk in person? Please call me. Thank you. Goodbye. Is that it? Oh, I have to press this …’
    I rang back, my fingers shaking, but the shop answerphone picked up in Jonathan’s voice.
    ‘Hello, and welcome to Truelove and Fox. Our opening hours are ten a.m. to five p.m., Tuesday to Saturday, and by appointment only on Mondays and Sundays. If you are calling outside these hours please leave a message. Thank you.’
    ‘Hi,’ I said, my words falling over each other. ‘Jonathan, I just got Caradoc’s message. I’m coming to London. I’ll be with you –’ I looked at my watch ‘– Elevenish. See you soon.’
    Looked like that Classics revision was going to be a wasted effort after all.
     
    The train was slow. The tube was slow. I ran from Leicester Square tube station through the slow crowds of slow people, slowly milling around. But at last I turned into Cecil Court and made my way across the stone flags, trying to calm my heaving chest. Truelove & Fox read the modest grey sign on the farthest shop and beneath, in smaller text, Antiquarian Book Sellers .
    The bell above the door jingled as I entered and I called, ‘Caradoc! Jonathan! It’s me, Anna.’
    No one answered.
    I stood for a moment at the counter, looking at the beautiful gilded grimoires in the locked display case, and then, feeling like an intruder, I stepped around the counter and put my head into the back room. There was no one there either, but a cup of black tea stood on the sideboard, curls of steam rising in the air.
    Odd. But at least it meant someone was here. They wouldn’t have gone out without locking up. Perhaps they were downstairs?
    Beneath the floor was a second room of books; a secret area for shadow books, known only to witches. It was accessed by a hidden door which I’d managed to find once – though whether I’d opened it by sheer willpower, or whether Caradoc had helped, I’d never known. I had no idea how to open it now. The floor was shining wood, without any obvious joins.
    ‘Caradoc?’ I called hopefully and then knelt on the floor, cupping my hands to the boards, ‘Caradoc, can you hear me? Can you open up?’
    And I heard – I don’t know what I heard. Something. A sound so faint it was hard to put my finger on. But suddenly my stomach was a tight knot and I knew I had to get into that cellar. I just had to.
    I backed against the wall and searched my memory for a spell.
    ‘ Ætýne! ’ I called, tentatively. A dark crack appeared in the middle of the shop, a sliver of blackness hanging in thin air, and a breath of air gusted out before the door blew shut again with a bang. My stomach clenched. The air smelled of … blood.
    ‘ Ætýne! ’ I shouted and the door flew open with a sound like a clap of thunder, leaving a gaping black rift in the centre of the shop, with stairs leading down into darkness. I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. The stench of blood was stronger than ever.
    ‘Caradoc!’ I called, trying not to let my voice shake, ‘Caradoc? Jonathan?’
    Silence. Broken only by my trembling breathing and the creak of the stair treads as I began to descend towards whatever was in that cellar.
    I could see almost nothing in the blackness, just something on the floor, glinting with a dull lustre.