. . . sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ She gave a brief, tight smile, before continuing down the hall. ‘And I’m going to have a drink.’ Her voice was back to its brightly social best, as if they were at a cocktail party.
A drink sounded like a good idea. The traditional response to disaster – to get steaming, roaring, crashingly drunk. Maybe he should try it.
But Lucas didn’t even have the energy to move. The hall mirror showed him a stranger, with shadowed eyes, and a streak of old man’s silver in his hair.
Chapter 10
‘Just a family supper,’ Uncle Charlie had said in his phone call on Sunday, while Glory grasped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. ‘Kez has been nagging me to get you over. It’s been too long.’
Now it was Monday, and Glory was on the bus to Hampstead and the Morgan lair. This time, it was her handbag she held in a white-knuckled grip.
When she was little, visiting her Morgan relatives had been like going to Disneyland. Everything at their mansion was sparkly-new. The two girls had a room each just for clothes, and more toys than anyone could ever play with. There was a cinema and a swimming pool, and dinners that didn’t come from the microwave or tins. What did it matter that Candice used to pull her hair, or that Skye laughed at her hand-me-down clothes? Their brother Troy would give her piggyback rides round the garden, and Uncle Charlie would slip ten-pound notes and sweeties into her pocket when Auntie Angel wasn’t looking.
The best visits were the special occasion ones, like Christmas and Easter or Balefire Night, when the house was draped in black and they said prayers for Guy Fawkes and the other witch martyrs, while outside the coven world, people burned the martyrs’ images at garden parties and let off fireworks. Witchkind’s own celebration was All Hallows’ Eve. It was as secret as the Balefire Night gatherings but much more fun. There was a big dinner with coven witches and their families, followed by dancing and competitive fae-tricks.
But Glory had had enough of being the poor relation. Last All Hallows’ she’d stayed in Cooper Street, playing drinking games with Nate’s crowd. She’d gone to bed before midnight, sodden with self-pity. And dreamed of the Burning Court again . . .
Since she’d come into her fae, everything had changed. She wasn’t a little girl to be petted and patronised and then forgotten again. Nor was she going to be bossed about like a coven drudge.
What did Charlie want? Did he know her secret? Even if Trish Warren had blabbed about the migraine, it was just a vague suspicion. And it was notoriously hard to prove someone was witchkind – even the Inquisition struggled. The first thing a witch learned was how to shrink the Devil’s Kiss to the tiniest of dots, and witch-ducking only produced results on someone who’d used their fae within the hour or so. If they had, prolonged and violent ducking in cold water would result in a telltale stain around the eyes and nose and mouth, as if the Devil’s Kiss was seeping out from under the skin. Auntie Angel and Kezia Morgan had both been witch-ducked by the Inquisition, emerging unstained and triumphant to tell the tale. Granny Cora, though, had not been so fortunate. She was one of those who drowned.
Thinking of the witch-prickers’ needles, and the long plunge under icy water, Glory shivered. These days, the Inquisition’s methods were supposedly constrained by law. Coven techniques were not.
Stop it , she told herself as the bus wheezed along the final stretch of road. You’re being paranoid . Even if – and it was only if – Charlie had his suspicions, he wouldn’t try anything at this point. He’d watch and wait, send out his spies. Meanwhile, Auntie Angel had a plan. She’d told Glory to trust her and not to worry. All she had to do this evening was act the innocent, and buy them some time.
Cardinal Avenue was home to a Premiership footballer,
‘I’m sure you are.’ She gave a brief, tight smile, before continuing down the hall. ‘And I’m going to have a drink.’ Her voice was back to its brightly social best, as if they were at a cocktail party.
A drink sounded like a good idea. The traditional response to disaster – to get steaming, roaring, crashingly drunk. Maybe he should try it.
But Lucas didn’t even have the energy to move. The hall mirror showed him a stranger, with shadowed eyes, and a streak of old man’s silver in his hair.
Chapter 10
‘Just a family supper,’ Uncle Charlie had said in his phone call on Sunday, while Glory grasped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. ‘Kez has been nagging me to get you over. It’s been too long.’
Now it was Monday, and Glory was on the bus to Hampstead and the Morgan lair. This time, it was her handbag she held in a white-knuckled grip.
When she was little, visiting her Morgan relatives had been like going to Disneyland. Everything at their mansion was sparkly-new. The two girls had a room each just for clothes, and more toys than anyone could ever play with. There was a cinema and a swimming pool, and dinners that didn’t come from the microwave or tins. What did it matter that Candice used to pull her hair, or that Skye laughed at her hand-me-down clothes? Their brother Troy would give her piggyback rides round the garden, and Uncle Charlie would slip ten-pound notes and sweeties into her pocket when Auntie Angel wasn’t looking.
The best visits were the special occasion ones, like Christmas and Easter or Balefire Night, when the house was draped in black and they said prayers for Guy Fawkes and the other witch martyrs, while outside the coven world, people burned the martyrs’ images at garden parties and let off fireworks. Witchkind’s own celebration was All Hallows’ Eve. It was as secret as the Balefire Night gatherings but much more fun. There was a big dinner with coven witches and their families, followed by dancing and competitive fae-tricks.
But Glory had had enough of being the poor relation. Last All Hallows’ she’d stayed in Cooper Street, playing drinking games with Nate’s crowd. She’d gone to bed before midnight, sodden with self-pity. And dreamed of the Burning Court again . . .
Since she’d come into her fae, everything had changed. She wasn’t a little girl to be petted and patronised and then forgotten again. Nor was she going to be bossed about like a coven drudge.
What did Charlie want? Did he know her secret? Even if Trish Warren had blabbed about the migraine, it was just a vague suspicion. And it was notoriously hard to prove someone was witchkind – even the Inquisition struggled. The first thing a witch learned was how to shrink the Devil’s Kiss to the tiniest of dots, and witch-ducking only produced results on someone who’d used their fae within the hour or so. If they had, prolonged and violent ducking in cold water would result in a telltale stain around the eyes and nose and mouth, as if the Devil’s Kiss was seeping out from under the skin. Auntie Angel and Kezia Morgan had both been witch-ducked by the Inquisition, emerging unstained and triumphant to tell the tale. Granny Cora, though, had not been so fortunate. She was one of those who drowned.
Thinking of the witch-prickers’ needles, and the long plunge under icy water, Glory shivered. These days, the Inquisition’s methods were supposedly constrained by law. Coven techniques were not.
Stop it , she told herself as the bus wheezed along the final stretch of road. You’re being paranoid . Even if – and it was only if – Charlie had his suspicions, he wouldn’t try anything at this point. He’d watch and wait, send out his spies. Meanwhile, Auntie Angel had a plan. She’d told Glory to trust her and not to worry. All she had to do this evening was act the innocent, and buy them some time.
Cardinal Avenue was home to a Premiership footballer,
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