Half Bad

My Mother

I am standing on my tiptoes. The photograph is on the hall table but I can’t get hold of it properly. I stretch and stretch and nudge the frame with my fingertips. It’s heavy and hits the floor with a clatter.

I hold my breath. No one comes.

I pick the frame up carefully. The glass hasn’t broken. I sit under the table with my back against the wall.

My mother is beautiful. The photograph was taken on her wedding day. She is squinting into the sun, sunlight on her hair, a white dress, white flowers in her hand. Her husband is beside her. He is handsome, smiling. I cover his face with my hand.

I don’t know how long I sit there. I like looking at my mother.

Jessica appears. I’d forgotten to listen for her.

She grabs hold of the frame.

I don’t let go. I cling onto it. Tight.

But my hands are sweaty.

And Jessica’s much bigger than me. She yanks it up, pulling me to my feet, and the frame slides out of my hands. She holds it high to her left and brings it down diagonally, slicing the edge of the frame across my cheekbone.

“Don’t ever touch this picture again.”

Jessica and the First Notification

I am sitting on my bed. Jessica is sitting on my bed too, telling me a story.

“Mother asks, ‘Have you come to take him away?’

“The young woman at the front door says, ‘No. Absolutely not. We would never do that.’ The young woman is sincere and keen to do a good job but really naive.”

I interrupt. “What’s naive mean?”

“Clueless. Dumb. Thick. Like you. Got it?”

I nod.

“Good, now listen. The naive woman says, ‘We are visiting all White Witches in England to notify them of the new rules and to help fill in the forms.’

“The woman smiles. The Hunter standing behind her has no smile. He is dressed in black like they all do. He is impressive, tall, strong.”

“Does Mother smile?”

“No. After you are born Mother never smiles again. When Mother doesn’t reply, the woman from the Council looks concerned. She says, ‘You have received the notification, haven’t you? It’s very important.’

“The woman flicks through the papers on her clipboard and pulls out a letter.”

Jessica opens out the parchment she is holding. It is a thick piece, large, and the folds make a deep cross shape. She holds it delicately, as if it is precious. She reads:

“‘Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches in England, Scotland, and Wales.

“‘It was agreed that to facilitate increased protection of all White Witches, a record of all witches in Britain should be made and maintained.

“‘A simple coding system will be used for any witches and whets (witches under age seventeen) who are not of pure White witch parentage, using the references: White (W), Black (B), Fain/Non-Witch (F). Thus Half Codes will be recorded as (W 0.5/B 0.5) and Half Bloods recorded as (W 0.5/F 0.5) or (B 0.5/F 0.5). The mother’s code will be the first code, the father the second. The 0.5 codes will be maintained for as little time as possible (and not past age 17) until an absolute code (W, B, or F) can be designated to the person.’

“Do you know what it means?” Jessica asks.

I shake my head.

“It means that you are a Half Code. A Black Code. Non-White.”

“Gran says I’m a White Witch.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She says I’m half White.”

“You’re half Black.

“After the woman has finished reading out the notification, Mother still doesn’t say anything but goes back inside the house, leaving the front door open. The woman and the Hunter follow her in.

“We’re all in the lounge. Mother is sitting on the chair by the fire. But the fire isn’t lit. Deborah and Arran have been playing on the floor but now they sit on either side of her on the arms of the chair.”

“Where are you?”

“Standing right by her.”

I imagine Jessica standing there with her arms folded, knees locked back.

“The Hunter positions himself in the doorway.

“The woman with the clipboard perches on the edge of the other chair, her clipboard on her tightly clenched knees, pen in her hand. She says to Mother, ‘It’ll probably be quicker and easier if I fill the form in and you just sign.’

“The woman asks, ‘Who is the head of the household?’

“Mother manages to say, ‘I am.’

“The woman asks Mother her name.

“Mother says she is Cora Byrn. A White Witch. Daughter of Elsie Ashworth and David Ashworth. White Witches.

“The woman asks who her children are.

“Mother says, ‘Jessica, age eight. Deborah, five. Arran, two.’

“The woman asks, ‘Who is their father?’

“Mother says, ‘Dean Byrn. White Witch. Member of the Council.’

“The woman asks, ‘Where is he?’

“Mother says, ‘He is dead. Murdered.’

“The woman says, ‘I’m sorry.’

“Then the woman asks, ‘And the baby? Where is the baby?’

“Mother says, ‘It’s there, in that drawer.’”

Jessica turns to me and explains. “After Arran was born, Mother and Father didn’t want any more children. They gave away the cot, the pram, and all the baby things. This baby isn’t wanted and has to sleep on a pillow in a drawer, in an old, dirty onesie that Arran used to have. No one buys this baby toys or presents, because everyone knows it isn’t wanted. No one gives Mother presents or flowers or chocolates, because they all know she didn’t want this baby. Nobody wants a baby like this. Mother only gets one card but it doesn’t say ‘Congratulations.’”

Silence.

“Do you want to know what it says?”

I shake my head.

“It says, ‘Kill It.’”

I chew my knuckles, but I don’t cry.

“The woman approaches the baby in the drawer, and the Hunter joins her because he wants to see this strange, unwanted thing.

“Even asleep the baby is horrible and ugly, with its puny little body, grubby-looking skin, and spiky, black hair.

“The woman asks, ‘Does he have a name yet?’

“‘Nathan.’”

Jessica has already found a way of saying my name as if it is something disgusting.

“The young woman asks, ‘And his father . . . ?’

“Mother doesn’t answer. She can’t because it’s too awful; she can’t bear it. But everyone knows just by looking at the baby that its father is a murderer.

“The woman says, ‘Perhaps you can write the father’s name.’

“And she takes her clipboard to Mother. And Mother is crying now and she can’t even write the name. Because it’s the name of the most evil Black Witch there has ever been.”

I want to say “Marcus.” He’s my father and I want to say his name, but I’m too afraid. I’m always too afraid to say his name.

“The woman goes back to look at the sleeping baby and she reaches out to touch it . . .

“‘Careful!’ the Hunter warns, because even though Hunters are never afraid, they are always cautious around Black witchcraft.

“The woman says, ‘He’s just a baby.’ And she strokes its bare arm with the back of her fingers.

“And the baby stirs and then opens its eyes.

“The woman says, ‘Oh goodness!’ and steps back.

“She realizes she shouldn’t have touched such a nasty thing and rushes off to the bathroom to wash her hands.”

Jessica reaches out as if she’s going to touch me but then pulls her hand away, saying, “I couldn’t ever touch anything as bad as you.”

My Father

I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my face. I’m not like my mother at all, not like Arran. My skin’s slightly darker than theirs, more olive, and my hair’s jet black, but the real difference is the blackness of my eyes.

I’ve never met my father, never even seen my father. But I know that my eyes are his eyes.

My Mother’s Suicide

Jessica holds the photograph frame high to her left and brings it down diagonally, slicing the edge of the frame across my cheekbone.

“Don’t ever touch this picture again.”

I don’t move.

“Do you hear me?”

There’s blood on the corner of the frame.

“She’s dead because of you.”

I back against the wall.

Jessica shouts at me. “She killed herself because of you!”

The Second Notification

I remember it raining for days. Days and days, until even I am fed up with being alone in the woods. So I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. Gran is in the kitchen, too. Gran is always in the kitchen. She is old and bony with that thin skin that old people have, but she is also slim and straight-backed. She wears pleated tartan skirts and walking boots or wellies. She is always in the kitchen and the kitchen floor is always muddy. Even with the rain, the back door is open. A chicken comes in for some shelter, but Gran won’t stand for that, and she sweeps it out gently with the side of her boot and shuts the door.

The pot simmers on the stove, emitting a column of steam that rises fast and narrow and then widens to join the cloud above. The green, gray, blue, and red of the herbs, flowers, roots, and bulbs that hang from the ceiling by strings, in nets, and in baskets are blurred in the fog that surrounds them. Lined up on the shelves are glass jars filled with liquids, leaves, grains, greases, and potions, and some even with jam. The warped oak work surface is littered with spoons of all kinds—metal, wooden, bone, as long as my arm, as small as my little finger—as well as knives in a block, dirty knives covered in paste lying on the chopping board, a granite pestle and mortar, two round baskets, and more jars. On the back of the door hang a beekeeper’s hat, a selection of aprons, and a black umbrella that is as bent as a banana.

I draw it all.

I’m sitting with Arran watching an old movie on TV. Arran likes to watch them, the older the better, and I like to sit with him, the closer the better. We’ve both got shorts on, and we’ve both got skinny legs, only his are paler than mine and dangle farther over the end of the comfy chair. He has a small scar on his left knee and a long one up his right shin. His hair is light brown and wavy, but somehow it always stays back off his face. My hair is long and straight and black and hangs over my eyes.

Arran is wearing a blue, knitted jumper over a white T-shirt. I’m wearing the red T-shirt that he gave me. He’s warm to lean close to, and when I turn to look up at him he moves his gaze from the telly to me, sort of in slow motion. His eyes are light, blue-gray with glints of silver in them, and he even blinks slow. Everything about him is gentle. It would be great to be like him.

“You enjoying it?” he asks, not in a hurry for an answer.

I nod.

He puts his arm round me and turns back to the screen.

Lawrence of Arabia does the trick with the match. Afterward we agree to try it ourselves. I take the big box of matches from the kitchen drawer and we run with them to the woods.

I go first.

I light the match and hold it between my thumb and forefinger, letting it burn right down until it goes out. My small, thin fingers, with nails that are bitten to nothing, are burnt but they hold the blackened match.

Arran tries the trick too. Only he doesn’t do it. He’s like the other man in the movie. He drops the match.

After he goes back home I do the trick again. It’s easy.

Me and Arran creep into Gran’s bedroom. It smells strangely medicinal. Under the window there’s an oak casket where Gran keeps the notifications from the Council. We sit on the carpet. Arran opens the casket lid and takes out the second notification. It’s written on thick, yellow parchment and has gray writing swirling across the page. Arran reads it to me; he’s slow and quiet as always.

“Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches in England, Scotland, and Wales.

“In order to ensure the safety and security of all White Witches, the Council will continue its policy of Capture and Retribution for all Black Witches and Black Whets.

“In order to ensure the safety and security of all White Witches an annual Assessment of witches and whets of mixed White Witch and Black Witch parentage (W 0.5/B 0.5) will be made. The Assessment will contribute to the designation of the witch/whet as White (W) or Black/Non-White (B).”

I don’t ask Arran whether he thinks I’ll be a W or a B. I know he’ll try to be nice.

It’s my eighth birthday. I have to go to London to be assessed.

The Council building has lots of cold corridors of gray stone. Gran and I wait on a wooden bench in one of them. I am shivering by the time a young man in a lab coat appears and points me to a small room to the left of our bench. Gran isn’t allowed to come.

In the room is a woman. She’s also in a lab coat. She calls the young man Tom and he calls her Miss Lloyd. They call me Half Code.

They tell me to strip. “Take your clothes off, Half Code.”

And I do it.

“Stand on the scales.”

And I do that.

“Stand by the wall. We have to measure you.” They do that. Then they take photographs of me.

“Turn to the side.”

“Further.”

“And face the wall.”

And they leave me there staring at the brush strokes in the cream-colored shiny paint on the wall while they talk and put things away.

Then they tell me to put my clothes on, and I do that.

And they take me through the door and point at the bench in the corridor. And I sit back down and don’t look at Gran’s face.

The door opposite the bench is paneled dark oak and is eventually opened by a man. He’s huge, a guard. He points at me and then at the room behind him. When Gran starts to get up he says, “Not you.”

The assessment room is long and high, with bare stone walls and arched windows above head height along each side. The ceiling is arched too. The furniture is wooden. A huge oak table reaches across almost the full width of the room, keeping the three Council members to their far side. They sit on large, carved wooden chairs like ancient royalty.

The woman in the center is old, thin, gray-haired, and gray-skinned, as if all the blood has been drained out of her. The woman to the right is middle-aged and plump and has deep black skin and her hair pulled tight off her face. The man to the left is a bit younger and slim and has thick, white-blond hair. They are all wearing white robes made of roughly woven material, which has a strange sheen when the sunlight catches it.

There is a guard standing to my left, and the one who opened the door is behind me.

The woman in the middle says, “I am the Council Leader. We are going to ask you some simple questions.”

But she doesn’t ask them; the other woman asks the questions.

The other woman is slow and methodical. She has a list, which she works down. Some of the questions are easy—“What is your name?”—and some more difficult—“Do you know the herbs that draw out poison from a wound?”

I think about each question, and each one I decide not to answer. I am methodical too.

After the woman stops her questions the Council Leader has a go herself. She asks different questions, questions about my father, like, “Has your father ever tried to contact you?” and “Do you know where your father is?” She even tries, “Do you consider your father to be a great witch?” and “Do you love your father?”

I know the answers to her questions, but I don’t tell her what they are.

After that they put their heads together and mutter for a bit. The blond-haired man tells the guard to bring Gran in. The Council Leader beckons her forward, as if she is reeling Gran in with her thin, pasty hand.

Gran stands beside me. We haven’t eaten or drunk anything since early that morning, so perhaps that is why she looks so drained. She looks as old as the Council Leader now.

The Council Leader tells her, “We’ve made our assessment.”

The woman has been writing on a piece of parchment and now she pushes it across the table, saying, “Please sign to confirm that you agree with it.”

Gran moves to the table, picks up the piece of paper, and comes back to stand by my side. She reads the assessment out for me to hear. I like that about Gran.

“Subject:

Nathan Byrn

Birth Code:

W 0.5/B 0.5

Sex:

Male

Age at Assessment:

8 years

Gift (if over Age 17):

Not applicable

General Intelligence:

Not ascertained

Special Abilities:

Not ascertained

Healing Ability:

Not ascertained

Languages:

Not ascertained

Special Comments:

The Subject was uncooperative

Designation Code:

Not ascertained”

I am grinning for the first time that day.

Gran walks back to the table, picks up the fountain pen of the female Councilor, and signs the form with a flourish.

The Council Leader speaks again. “As you are the boy’s guardian, Mrs. Ashworth, it is your responsibility to ensure he cooperates in the assessment.”

Gran looks up.

“Come back tomorrow, and we will repeat the assessment.”

I could go all year down the Not ascertained route, but the next day Gran says that I should answer some questions, though never the ones about my father. So I answer some questions.

They amend the form to show my General Intelligence as Low, and Languages as English. Special Comments says Uncooperative and Does not appear to be able to read. My Designated Code is still Not ascertained, though. Gran is pleased.

Jessica’s Giving

It’s Jessica’s seventeenth birthday. Mid-morning and Jessica is even more full of herself than normal. She can’t keep still. Can’t wait to get her three gifts and become a true adult witch. Gran is going to perform the Giving ceremony at midday, so in the meantime we have to put up with Jessica pacing around the kitchen and picking things up and putting them down.

She picks up a knife, wanders about with it, and then stops beside me, saying, “I wonder what will happen on Nathan’s birthday.”

She feels the point of the blade. “If he has to go to an assessment he might not be able to have a Giving.”

She’s winding me up. I just have to ignore her. I will get three gifts. Every witch gets three gifts.

Gran says, “Nathan will receive three gifts on his birthday. That is the way it is for all witches. And that is the way it will be for Nathan.”

“I mean, it’s bad enough for a White whet if something goes wrong and they don’t get three gifts.”

“Nothing will go wrong, Jessica.” Gran turns to look at her, saying, “I’ll give Nathan three gifts, just as I’ll give them to you and Deborah and Arran.”

Arran comes to sit by me. He puts his hand on my arm and says quietly just to me, “I can’t wait for your Giving. You come to mine and I’ll come to yours.”

“Kieran told me about a whet in York who didn’t get three gifts,” says Jessica. “He married a fain in the end and now works in a bank.”

“What’s this boy called?” Deborah asks.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not a witch now and never will be.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of such a boy,” Gran says.

“It’s true. Kieran told me,” Jessica says. “Kieran said that it’s different for Black Witches, though. They don’t just lose their abilities. If Blacks don’t get three gifts they die.”

Jessica puts the point of the knife into the table in front of me and holds it there, balanced on its tip, by her index finger. “They don’t die straightaway. They get sick, maybe last a year or two if they’re lucky, but they can’t heal and they just get weaker and sicker and sicker and weaker and then”—she lets the knife fall—“one less Black Witch.”

I should close my eyes.

Arran gently wraps his fingers around the handle of the knife and moves it away, asking, “Do they really die, Gran?”

“I don’t know any Black Witches, Arran, so I can’t say. But Nathan is half White and he will get three gifts on his birthday. And Jessica, you can stop this talk of Black Witches.”

Jessica leans close to Arran and mutters, “It would be interesting to see what happens, though. I’d guess that he’d die like a Black Witch.”

And I have to get out of there. I go upstairs. I don’t break anything, just kick the wall a few times.

Surprisingly, Jessica hasn’t chosen to have a big ceremonial Giving but a small and private one. Unsurprisingly, she has chosen to go so small and so private that although Deborah and Arran are invited, I am not. I heard Gran trying to persuade Jessica to invite me a few nights earlier, but it didn’t work, and I don’t want to go anyway. I have no friends to play with, so I’m left alone at home while Gran, Jessica, Deborah, and a glum Arran trudge to the woods.

Normally I’d be in the woods, but I can’t leave the house because I don’t want to be punished with one of Gran’s potions. I don’t want to go through twenty-four hours leaking yellow pus from boils the size of gobstoppers for the sake of Jessica.

I sit at the kitchen table and draw. My picture is of Gran performing the ceremony, giving Jessica three gifts. The gifts have just been passed to Jessica but she is dropping them, a sign of seriously bad luck. The blood from Gran’s hand, the blood of her ancestors that Jessica must drink, drips bright red on to the forest floor, undrunk. And Jessica remains in the picture, horrified, unable to access her Gift, her one special magical power.

I like the picture.

All too soon the ceremonial group are back home, and it is clear that Jessica has not dropped a thing. She walks in the back door, saying, “Now that I’m no longer a whet, I need to find out what my Gift is.”

She stares at the picture and then at me. “I’ll have to practice on something.”

And all I can do is sit there and hope that she never finds her Gift. And I hope that if she does find it, it’s something ordinary like potion-making, Gran’s Gift. Or that she has a weak Gift like most men. But I know there is no point hoping for that. I know she will have a strong Gift like most women, and she will find it and hone it and practice it. And use it on me.

I am lying on the lawn in the back garden watching ants building a nest in the grass. The ants look big. I can see the details of their bodies, how their legs move and march and climb.

Arran comes to sit by me. He asks me how I am and how school is going, the sort of stuff Arran is interested in. I tell him about the ants, where they are going and what they are doing.

Out of the blue he says, “Are you proud that Marcus is your father, Nathan?”

The ants carry on with their work, but I no longer care.

“Nathan?”

I turn to Arran, and he meets my gaze with that open and honest look of his.

“He’s such a powerful witch, the most powerful of all. You must be proud of that?”

Arran has never asked me about my father before.

Never.

And even though I trust him above anyone, trust him completely, I’m afraid to answer. Gran has drummed into me that I must never talk about Marcus.

Never.

I must never answer questions about him.

Any answer can be twisted or misinterpreted by the Council. Any indication that a White Witch sympathizes with any Black Witch is seen as treacherous. All Black Witches are tracked down by Hunters under the direction of the Council. If they are captured alive they suffer Retribution. Any White Witch who aids a Black is executed. I have to prove to everyone, at all times, that I am a White Witch, my loyalties are to Whites and my thoughts are pure White.

Gran has told me that if anyone asks me how I feel about Marcus I must say I hate him. If I can’t say that, then the only safe answer is no answer.

But this is Arran.

I want to be honest with him.

“Do you admire him?” Arran presses.

I know Arran better than anyone, and we talk about most things, but we have never talked about Marcus. We have never even talked about Arran’s father. My father killed his father. What can you say about that?

And yet . . . I want to confide in someone, and Arran is the best and only person I can trust with my feelings. And he is looking at me in that way he has, all kindness and concern.

But what if I say to him, “Yes, I admire the man who killed your father,” or “Yes, I’m proud that Marcus is my dad. He is the most powerful Black Witch and his blood runs in my veins.” What will happen?

Still he presses me, “Do you? Do you admire Marcus?”

His eyes are so pale and so sincere, pleading with me to share my feelings.

I have to look down. The ants are still busy, evacuees carrying huge loads to a new home.

I answer Arran as quietly as I can.

“What did you say?” he asks.

I still keep my head down. But I say it a little louder.

“I hate him.”

At that moment a pair of bare feet appears by the ant’s nest. Arran’s feet.

Arran is standing in front of me and he is sitting beside me. Two Arrans. The one sitting down scowls and then transforms before my eyes back into Jessica, looking cramped inside Arran’s T-shirt and shorts.

Jessica leans across and hisses at me, “You knew. You knew all along it was me, didn’t you?”

Arran and I watch her stomp off.

He asks, “How could you tell it wasn’t me?”

“I couldn’t.”

Not by looking at her anyway. Her Gift is impressive.

After that first attempt at using her Gift to trick me, Jessica doesn’t give up. Her disguises are flawless, and her determination and persistence equal to them. But her problem is a fundamental one that she is incapable of understanding: Arran would never try to get me to talk about my father.

Still, Jessica keeps trying. And whenever I get suspicious that Arran is really Jessica I reach out to touch him, to stroke the back of his hand or take hold of his arm. If it’s Arran, he smiles and grabs my hand in both of his. If it’s Jessica she flinches. She never manages to control that.

One evening Deborah comes into our bedroom, sits on Arran’s bed, and reads her book. It’s just the sort of thing Deborah does; she crosses her legs like Deborah does, has her head to one side like Deborah does, but still I’m suspicious. She listens to Arran and me talk for a minute or two. She seems to be reading the book; she turns a page.

Arran goes to brush his teeth.

I sit next to Deborah, not too close. But I can smell her hair isn’t right.

I lean toward her, saying, “Let me tell you a secret.”

She smiles at me.

I say, “Your smell is so revolting, Jessica. I’m going to be sick if you don’t leave. . . .”

She spits in my face and walks out before Arran comes back in.

I do have a secret, though. A secret so dark, so hopeless, so absurd that I can never share it with anyone. It is a secret story that I tell myself when I’m in bed at night. My father is not evil at all; he is powerful and strong. And he cares about me . . . he loves me. And he wants to bring me up as his true son, to teach me about witchcraft, to show me the world. But he is constantly persecuted by White Witches who give him no opportunity to explain. They hound him and hunt him but he only attacks them when he has no alternative, when they threaten him. It’s too dangerous for him to risk having me with him. He wants me to be safe, and so I have to be brought up away from him. But he is waiting for the right time to come for me and take me away with him. On my seventeenth birthday he wants to give me three gifts and give me his blood, the blood of our ancestors. And I lie in bed and imagine that one night he will come for me and we will fly away through the night together.

A Long Way off Seventeen

We are in the woods near Gran’s house. The air is still and damp; the autumn leaves lie thick on the soft, muddy ground. The sky is flat and gray like an old sheet laid out to dry over the black branches of the trees. Jessica is holding a small dagger, her hands flat in front of her. The blade is sharp and bright. Jessica is smirking and trying to catch my eye.

Deborah stands slightly hunched, but she is smiling and calm, her empty cupped hands held out in front of her. In Gran’s hands are a brooch that had been her grandmother’s, my mother’s engagement ring, and a cufflink that belonged to Deborah’s father. Gran slowly lowers her hands over Deborah’s. Their hands touch. Gran carefully passes the gifts to Deborah, saying, “Deborah, I give you three things so that you can receive one Gift.” Then Gran takes the knife and cuts the palm of her own hand into the fleshy pad below her left thumb. Blood runs down her wrist; a few drops fall to the ground. She holds her hand out and Deborah bends forward, puts her mouth round the cut, her lips tight on Gran’s skin. Gran leans toward her and whispers the secret words in Deborah’s ear, and Deborah’s throat moves as she swallows the blood. I strain to hear the spell, but the words are like the sound of wind rustling leaves.

The spell ends. Deborah, eyes closed, swallows one last time before releasing Gran’s hand and standing straight.

And that is it. Deborah is no longer a whet; she is a true White Witch.

I glance over to Arran. He looks solemn but smiles at me before turning to hug Deborah. I wait my turn to give my congratulations.

I say, “I am pleased for you.” And I am. I hug Deborah, but there is nothing else I can say, so I walk off into the woods.

Another notification arrived that morning, before Deborah’s Giving.

Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

It is forbidden to hold a Giving Ceremony for a whet of mixed White Witch and Black Witch parentage (Half Code: W 0.5/B 0.5) or mixed White Witch and Fain parentage (Half Blood: W 0.5/F 0.5) without the permission of the Council of White Witches. Any witch disobeying this Notification will be considered to be working against the Council. Any Half Code accepting gifts or blood without permission of the Council will be considered to be defying the Council and corrupting White Witches. The penalty for all concerned will be imprisonment for life.

Gran read the notification out and then Jessica started to speak, but I was already heading out the back door. Arran grabbed at my arm, saying, “We’ll get permission, Nathan. We will.”

I couldn’t be bothered arguing with him, and I pushed him away. There was an ax by the pile of wood in the garden and I hacked and hacked and hacked until I couldn’t lift the ax any more.

Deborah came to sit with me among all the broken bits of wood. She put her head on my shoulder, resting her cheek on it. I always liked it when she did that.

She said, “You’ll find a way, Nathan. Gran will help you, and so will I, and so will Arran.”

I ripped at the blisters on my hand. “How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You shouldn’t help me. You’d be working against the Council. They’ll lock you up.”

“But—”

I jolted her off my shoulder and stood up. “I don’t want your help, Deborah. Don’t you get it? You’re so bloody clever, but you still don’t understand, do you?”

And I left her there.

And now Deborah has received her three gifts and Gran’s blood, and in three years Arran will go through the same ceremony, but for me . . . I know the Council won’t let it happen. They are afraid of what I’ll become. And if I don’t become a witch I’ll die. I know it.

I have to be given three gifts and drink the blood of my ancestors, the blood of my parents or grandparents. But apart from Gran there is only one person who can give me three gifts, only one person who can defy the Council, only one person whose blood will turn me from whet to witch.

The woods are silent. It feels like they are waiting and watching. And suddenly I know that my father wants to help me. I know the truth of it so well. My father wants to give me three gifts and let me drink his blood. I know it like I know how to breathe.

I know he’ll come to me.

I wait and I wait.

The silence of the woods goes on and on.

He doesn’t come.

But I realize that it’s too dangerous for him to come to me and take me away. So I must go to him.

I must go and find my father.

I’m eleven. Eleven is a long way off seventeen. And I have no idea how to find Marcus. I don’t have a clue how to begin to find him. But at least now I know what I have to do.

Thomas Dawes Secondary School

Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

Any contact between Half Codes (W 0.5/B 0.5) and White Whets and White Witches is to be reported to the Council by all concerned. Failure by the Half Code to notify the Council of contact is punishable by removing all contact.

Contact is deemed to have been made if the Half Code is in the same room as a White Whet or White Witch or otherwise within a close enough distance that they are able to speak to each other.

“Shall I go and lock myself in the cellar now?” I ask.

Deborah takes the parchment and reads it again. “Removing all contact? What does that mean?”

Gran looks uncertain.

“They can’t mean removing contact with us?” Deborah looks from Gran to Arran. “Can they?”

I’m amazed at Deborah; she still doesn’t get it. It can mean whatever the Council want it to mean.

“I’ll just make sure that we keep a list of witches Nathan has contact with. It’s easy enough. Nathan hardly meets anyone and certainly not many White Witches.”

“When he starts at Thomas Dawes school, there’ll be the O’Briens,” Arran reminds her.

“Yes, but that’s all. It’ll be a small list. We just have to make sure we follow the rules.”

Gran is right; the list is small. The only witches I come into contact with are my direct family and those I meet at the Council Offices when I go for assessment. I never go to any festivals, parties, or weddings, as my name is always missing from the invitations that arrive on our doormat. Gran stays at home with me and sends Jessica, and, when they are old enough, Deborah and Arran as well. I hear about the celebrations from the others, but I never go.

White Witches from anywhere in the world are welcomed into witches’ homes, but visitors to our house are thin on the ground. When anyone does stay with us for a night or two they treat me as either a curiosity or a leper, and I quickly learn to keep out of sight.

When Gran and I traveled to London for my first assessment, we turned up late in the evening on the doorstep of a family near Wimbledon, and I was left staring at the red paint of the front door while Gran was taken inside. When she reappeared a minute later, white in the face and shaking with anger, she grabbed my hand and dragged me away, saying, “We’ll stay in a hotel.” I was more relieved than angry.

Before going to Thomas Dawes Secondary School, I attend the small village school. I’m the slow, dumb kid at the back, the one with no friends. Like most fains the world over, the kids and teachers there don’t believe in witches; they don’t understand that we live among them. They don’t see me as special—just especially slow. I can barely read or write and am not quick enough to fool Gran when I skip school. The only thing I learn is that sitting in class bored stiff is better than sitting anywhere else with the effects of Gran’s punishment potions. From the start of each day, all I do is wait until it’s over. I suspect secondary school is not going to be any better.

I’m right. On my first day at Thomas Dawes I’m wearing Arran’s cast-off too-long gray trousers, a white shirt with a frayed collar, a stained blue-gold-black striped tie, and a dark blue blazer that is absurdly oversized, although Gran has shortened the arms. The one item I have been given that is not a cast-off is a cheap phone. I have it “in case.” Arran has only just been allowed one, so I know that Gran expects there will be an “in case” situation.

I put the phone to my ear and my head is filled with static. Just carrying it around makes me irritable. Before I leave for school, I put the phone behind the TV in the lounge, which seems a good place, as that too has recently started to set off a faint hissing in my head.

Arran and Deborah make the journey to school and back bearable. Thankfully Jessica has left home to train as a Hunter. Hunters are the elite group of White Witches employed by the Council to hunt down Black Witches in Britain. Gran says they are employed by other Councils in Europe more and more as there are so few Blacks left in Britain. Hunters are mainly women, but include a few talented male witches. They are all ruthless and efficient, which means Jessica is bound to fit right in.

Jessica’s departure means I can relax at home for the first time in my life, but now I have secondary school to worry about. I plead with Gran that I shouldn’t go, that it is bound to be a disaster. She says that witches must “blend in” to fain society and should “learn how to conform,” and it is important for me to do the same, and that I “will be fine.” None of those phrases seem to describe my life.

Phrases that come to mind, phrases that I’m expecting to hear, to describe me are “nasty and dirty,” “pond life,” and the old favorite “dumb ass.” I’m prepared to be teased about being stupid, dirty, or poor, and some idiot is bound to pick on me because I’m small, but I don’t mind too much. They’ll only ever do it once.

I’m prepared for all that, but what I’m not prepared for is the noise. The school bus is a cauldron of shouting and jeering, simmering with the hiss of mobile phones. The classroom isn’t much better, as it is lined with computers, all emitting a high-pitched whistle that gets into my skull and is not reduced one bit by sticking my fingers in my ears.

The other problem, and by far the biggest, is that Annalise is in my class.

Annalise is a White Witch, and an O’Brien. The O’Brien brothers also go to my school, apart from Kieran, who is Jessica’s age and has now left. Niall is in Deborah’s year and Connor is in Arran’s.

Annalise has long blonde hair that glistens like melted white chocolate over her shoulders. She has blue eyes and long pale eyelashes. She smiles a lot, revealing her straight, white teeth. Her hands are impossibly clean, her skin is the color of honey, and her fingernails gleam. Her school shirt looks perfectly fresh, like it has been ironed just a minute before. Even the school blazer looks good on her. Annalise comes from a family of White Witches whose blood has been uncontaminated by fains as far back as can be remembered, and its only associations with Black Witches are her ancestors who have either killed or been killed by them.

I know I should steer clear of Annalise.

The first afternoon the teacher asks us to write something about ourselves. We are supposed to fill one page or more with writing. I stare at the paper and it stares blankly back. I don’t know what to write, and even if I did I know I wouldn’t be able to write it anyway. I manage to print my name on the top of the page, but even that I hate. My surname, Byrn, is that of my mother’s dead husband. It is nothing to do with me. I cross it out, scratching it away. My palms are sweaty on the pencil. Glancing around the room I see the other kids are busily scribbling and the teacher is walking around looking at what they are writing. When she gets to me she asks if there is a problem.

“I can’t think of anything to write.”

“Well, perhaps you could tell me what you did this summer? Or tell me about your family?” This is the voice she uses for the slow ones.

“Yeah, okay.”

“So, shall I leave you to it?”

I nod, still staring at the piece of paper.

Once she has moved far enough away and is bent over some other kid’s work, I do write something.

i hava bordr and sisser my bordrs Arran

he is niss and Debsis clvrer

I know it’s bad, but that doesn’t mean I can do anything to improve it.

We have to pass our essays in, and the girl who collects mine stares at me when she sees my piece of paper.

“What?” I say.

She starts to laugh and says, “My brother’s seven, and he can do better than that.”

“What?”

She stops laughing then and says, “Nothing . . .” and almost trips over in her rush to get to the front of class to hand the papers in.

I look to see who else is sniggering. The other two at my table seem to be fascinated by their pencils, which they are gripping. The table to my left are grinning away one second and then staring at their desk the next. The same happens with the kids on the table to my right, except for Annalise. She doesn’t look at the table but smiles at me. I don’t know if she’s laughing at me or what. I have to look away.

The next day in maths I can’t work anything out. The teacher, thankfully, has quickly realized that if I’m ignored I’ll sit quietly and not be any trouble. Annalise is hard to ignore. She answers a question and she gets it right. She answers another, correct again. When she answers a third one, I turn slightly in my seat to glance at her and I am caught again by her looking at me and smiling.

On the third day, in art, someone brushes my arm. A clean, honey-toned hand reaches past me and selects a black rod of charcoal. As the hand moves back, the cuff of her blazer grazes the back of my hand.

“That’s a great picture.”

What?

I stare at my sketch of a blackbird that has been pecking at crumbs on the deserted playground.

But I have stopped thinking about the blackbird and the sketch. Now all I can think is, She spoke to me! She spoke to me nicely!

Then I think, Say something! But all that happens is Say something! Say something! booms in my empty head.

My heart is banging on my chest wall, the blood in my veins throbbing with the words.

Say something!

In my panic all I come up with is, “I like drawing, do you?” and “You’re good at maths.” Thankfully Annalise has wandered away before I say either of them.

She’s the first White Witch outside of my family to smile at me. The first. The one and only. I never thought it would happen; it might never happen again.

And I know I should steer clear of her. But she has been nice to me. And Gran said we should “conform” and “fit in” and all that stuff, and being polite is part of those things too. So at the end of the class I manage to direct my body enough to walk over to her.

I hold out my picture. “What do you think? Now it’s finished.”

I’m prepared for her to say something horrible, laugh at it or at me. But I don’t think she’ll do that.

She smiles and says, “It’s really good.”

“You think so?”

She doesn’t look at the picture again, but continues to look at me and says, “You must know it’s brilliant.”

“It’s okay. . . . I can’t get the tarmac right.”

She laughs, but stops abruptly when I glance at her. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s great.”

I look at the picture again. The bird isn’t bad.

“Can I have it?” she asks.

What?

What would she do with it?

“It’s okay. That’s a stupid idea. It’s a great picture, though.” And she sweeps her own drawing up and walks away.

From then on, Annalise contrives to sit next to me in art and to be on the same team as me in phys ed. The rest of the school day we are split into graded groups. I am in all the lowest ones and she is in all the highest, so we don’t see a lot of each other.

We are in art the following week when she asks, “Why don’t you look at me for more than a second?”

I don’t know what to say. It feels like more than a second.

I put my paintbrush in the jar of water, turn to her, and look. I see a smile and eyes and honey skin and . . .

“Two and a half seconds at most,” she says.

It felt a lot longer.

“I never thought you’d be shy.”

I’m not shy.

She leans in close to me, saying, “My parents said I shouldn’t talk to you.”

I do look at her then. Her eyes are sparkling.

“Why? What did they say about me?”

She blushes a little and her eyes lose some of their shine. She doesn’t answer my question, but whatever they said doesn’t seem to be bad enough to put Annalise off.

Back at home that evening I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I know I’m smaller than most boys my age, but not a lot smaller. People always say I’m dirty, but I hang out in the woods, and it’s hard to keep clean, and I don’t see what the problem with dirt is. Though I do like it that Annalise is so clean. I don’t know how she does it.

Arran comes in to brush his teeth. He’s taller than me but he’s two years older. He’s the sort of boy I imagine Annalise would like. Handsome and gentle and clever.

Debs comes in as well. It’s a bit crowded. She’s clean too, but not like Annalise.

“What you doing?” she asks.

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like Arran’s brushing his teeth and you’re admiring your beautiful face in the mirror.”

Arran nudges me and smiles a frothy smile.

My reflection tries to smile back and puts toothpaste on its brush. I look at my eyes as I brush. I have witch’s eyes. Fain eyes are plain. Every witch that I have seen has glints in their eyes. Arran’s eyes are pale gray with silver glints; Debs’s are darker green-gray with pale green and silver glints. Annalise has blue eyes with silver-gray shards in them that twist and tumble, especially if she is teasing me. Deborah and Arran can’t see the glints and neither can Gran; she says it’s an ability few witches have. I haven’t told her that when I look in the mirror I don’t see silver glints, but that my black eyes have dark triangular glints that rotate slowly and aren’t really glints at all. They aren’t shiny black, but a sort of hollow, empty black.

Annalise’s brothers Niall and Connor have blue eyes with silver glints. They are also instantly recognizable as O’Brien brothers by their blond hair, long limbs, and handsome faces. I avoid Annalise at breaks and lunchtimes, as I know if her brothers see us together she will be in trouble. I hate it that they might think I’m afraid of them, but I really don’t want to cause trouble for Annalise, and in this huge school it’s easy to avoid people if you want to.

At the end of the first month it’s drizzling that fine misty rain that quickly covers your skin to let you wash yourself clean. I’m round the back of the sports hall, leaning against the wall and considering the alternatives to an afternoon of geography when Niall and Connor turn the corner. From their smiles it seems that they have found what they are looking for. I don’t move from the wall, but I return their smiles. This is going to be more interesting than the Mississippi delta.

Niall starts with, “We’ve seen you talking to our sister.”

I can’t understand when or where, but I’m not going to bother asking, and I give him one of my “so what” looks.

“Just keep away from her,” Connor says.

They both hang back looking uncertain what to do next.

I almost laugh, they are so inept, and I don’t say anything, wondering if that is it.

It may well have been but then Arran appears behind them and blusters in with, “What’s going on?”

As they turn to him they change. They’re not afraid of Arran, and they’re not about to let him see they have been a little cautious with me.

They say, “Piss off,” in unison.

When he doesn’t, Niall advances on Arran.

Arran holds his ground, saying, “I’m staying with my brother.”

The bell marking the end of lunchtime starts to ring, and Niall shoves Arran on the shoulder, saying, “Piss off back to class.”

Arran is forced to step back, but he then takes a step forward, saying, “I’m not going without my brother.”

Connor is looking at Arran and has half turned away from me, and it is just too tempting seeing the side of his face like that. I hit him hard with my version of a left hook. Before Connor’s body touches the tarmac I sink down low to the ground behind Niall and jab him hard in the back of his knee with my elbow. He falls too, and so dramatically that I only just get out of the way. I am still low, so I punch Niall twice in the face, but I know I have to be quick to go to cover Connor. I rise, kick Niall in the side as he rolls away from me, and get Connor with a boot to his shoulder as he is getting up. Niall, though, is more of a danger, being bigger and much the tougher of the two, and he knows enough to roll away again as I start a run at him. I don’t connect my kick, though, as Arran has grabbed my shoulders, surprisingly powerfully, and is dragging me away. I don’t resist much. I’ve done enough.

Arran’s arm is round me as we walk back to the school building. He is holding me tight, pulling me to him, but as we near the entrance he shoves me away. It’s an angry shove.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Why are you laughing?”

Was I laughing? I hadn’t realized.

Arran carries on into school, his arms out as if he needs to fend me off. The door slams shut behind him.

More Fighting, Some Smoking

I don’t go back into school that afternoon. I go to the woods and from there make my way home, timing my arrival to coincide with Arran’s and Deborah’s. I wait for Arran to say something, but he is giving me the silent treatment. It goes on all evening. I think he will relent when we go to bed, but he is already tucked up and switching the light off as I come into the room. I put the light back on and stand with my back to the door.

“I’ll tell Gran about the fight tomorrow.”

The lump under the bedclothes doesn’t respond.

“You know fighting’s normal, don’t you? Most boys do it. It would be weird if I didn’t do it.”

Still nothing.

“I laughed because we’d beaten them. I was relieved. Let’s face it, I had you on my side; we were at a disadvantage.”

He still doesn’t react.

“It doesn’t mean I’m the Devil.”

Finally he stirs and sits up to face me. “You know they’ll say you started it.”

Of course I know. I know that even if I don’t fight, even if I avoid Annalise, even if I get on my knees and lick Niall’s and Connor’s boots, it will make no difference; they will do what they like and say what they like, and what they say will be believed. Arran still hasn’t accepted that there is no hope for me. He looks miserable, though.

I sit on my bed and ask, “Do you get a lot of stick for being my half-brother?”

“I’m your brother.” And he gives me that look of his, the most-gentle-person-in-the-world look.

“Do you get much stick for being my brother, then?”

“Not much.”

He’s pretty hopeless at lying, but I love him more than ever for trying.

“Anyway,” he says, “I’ve lived with Jessica all my life. Those jokers are amateurs.”

I wonder when Niall and Connor will come back at me. My main concern is that they will go for Arran, but they don’t. Maybe they realize that is stupider than just getting their revenge on me.

After the fight I leave school at lunchtimes and hang out in the streets nearby, avoiding the O’Briens and everyone I can, but it’s a miserable existence and within two weeks I’ve had enough of hiding.

I’m leaning against the wall in the same spot as for the first fight when Niall and Connor round the corner. I know they’re going to be more prepared this time, but I think that if I get Niall down first I have a decent chance against them.

They run at me and I see that they are more prepared; Niall is holding a brick.

The best form of defense is attack. I’ve heard that somewhere. So I run at them, shouting as loud as I can—bad stuff, swear words.

Niall is surprised enough to hesitate and I push him away, swerve past him and land a poor punch on Connor, who is a pace behind. But somehow Niall reaches back and grabs my blazer. I pull away from him, but Connor gets his arms round me, pinning my left arm to my body. I try to punch him with my right, but it’s all over.

Niall catches me on the side of the head with the brick and Connor is clinging on to me.

Then I get rammed in my back, which must be with the brick again. But still I’m okay.

Then

T

H

U

D

It reverberates down my spine and stops me dead.

I’ve been hammered into the tarmac like a nail.

Connor’s hands push him away from me.

He’s staring at me. He looks pale, mouth open. Afraid.

Then he isn’t there.

And slowly, slowly the tarmac rises up to my face and I have time to think that I’ve never seen tarmac do that before and wonder how . . .

My body is cold . . . and lying on something hard. My cheek is squashed into something hard. I taste blood.

But I feel okay. Strange but okay.

When I open my eyes everything is gray and fuzzy.

I focus. Oh, right the playground . . . I remember . . .

I don’t move. The brick is there, lying on the tarmac. It doesn’t move either. The brick looks like it has had a bad day as well.

I close my eyes again.

I’m in the woods near home. I vaguely remember walking here. I’m lying on my back looking at the sky and aching everywhere. I don’t sit up but feel my face with my fingers, millimeter by millimeter, slowly daring to work my way to the bits I know are bad.

I have a fat lip that is numb and a loose tooth, my tongue is sore for some reason, I have a bloody nose, my right eye is swollen, and a cut above my left ear is oozing blood and a sort of sticky mucus. A dome has grown on the top of my head.

Gran bathes my face and puts lotion on the bruises that have appeared on my back and arms. My scalp starts to bleed again and Gran shaves the hair around the cut and puts some of her lotion on that too. She does all this in silence once I’ve told her whom I’ve been fighting.

I look in the mirror and have to smile despite my fat lip. Both my eyes are black and there are other colors too—purple, green, and yellow—coming out. My right eye is swollen shut. My nose is puffy and tender but not broken. My hair is shaved above my left ear and the skin covered with a thick yellow lotion.

Gran allows me to miss school until my eye heals. Thankfully by then my bald patch has begun to grow over.

On my first day back Annalise sits next to me as I paint. She whispers, “They told me what they did.”

I have been thinking about Annalise and her brothers a lot in my days at home. I know it would be sensible to ignore her, and I’m fairly sure that if I ask her to she will avoid me. I have a little speech about it worked out, something along the lines of, “Please, don’t talk to me anymore and I won’t talk to you.”

But Annalise says, “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

And the way she says it—the way she sounds like she is sorry, like she is genuinely upset—gets me angry. I know it isn’t her fault and it isn’t even my fault. And I forget my crummy speech and all my crummy intentions and instead I touch her hand with my fingertips.

Annalise and I spend the art lessons whispering and looking at each other, and I build up to well over two and a half seconds. I want to stare in private, though, and so does she. We begin working out how we can spend time together, alone.

We devise a plan to meet at Edge Hill, a quiet place on Annalise’s way home from school. But every time I ask if today is the day that we can meet, Annalise shakes her head. Her brothers are guarding her, sticking close to her whenever she is out of classes and out of school.

Annalise isn’t the only one being guarded. Once I am back at school, Arran and Deborah make a point of staying with me from the bus to the classroom. Arran escorts me home and misses lunch to be with me.

School is becoming unbearable, despite Annalise. The noises in my head are still there, and although I do my best to ignore them, sometimes I want to rip them out of my head and scream in frustration.

A few weeks after my beating, my head is hissing. It is Computer Technology and I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing, I’m not interested, I don’t care. I make an excuse that I need the toilet, and the teacher doesn’t seem to mind as I walk out of the classroom.

The quietness of the corridor is a relief, and with nothing better to do I amble to the toilet.

I walk in just as Connor is coming out of a stall.

I take less than a second to register my chance and launch at him, landing a flurry of punches, and when he sinks to the floor I put in a few kicks.

Connor does nothing but try to protect himself. He never even tries to hit me. My attack isn’t stopped by him but by Mr. Taylor, a passing history teacher. He drags me off Connor and I am swamped in Mr. Taylor’s sweaty chest, where he keeps me tight while Connor writhes on the ground, whimpering for all he’s worth.

Mr. Taylor tells Connor, “If there’s something seriously wrong with you, stay still. If not, get up and let’s have a look at you.”

Connor stays still for a few seconds before getting up.

He doesn’t look too bad to me.

“Come with me. Both of you.” It isn’t a request or even an order, more of a resigned comment.

Mr. Taylor has a grip on my wrist so tight that blood is cut off from my hand. We head down lots of empty, squeaky corridors at speed and abandon Connor at a medical room I never knew existed. Then Mr. Taylor swerves me in the direction of the headmaster’s office and we come to a carpeted stop in front of the secretary’s desk.

Mr. Taylor explains the situation to the secretary, who nods, knocks on the headmaster’s door, and disappears inside. We only have to wait a minute before she reappears and tells us we can go in.

Only when I am standing in front of Mr. Brown’s desk does Mr. Taylor let go of my wrist and sit down heavily in the chair by me. The chair creaks.

Mr. Brown taps on his keyboard and doesn’t look up.

Mr. Taylor explains that he has found me fighting.

Mr. Brown continues to tap on his keyboard throughout the story of my fight and then for a while more. He seems to be reading what is on his screen. Then he takes a deep breath, turns to Mr. Taylor, and thanks him for his vigilance.

Mr. Brown takes another deep breath and looks at me for the first time. He gives me instructions about acceptable behavior, instructions about my detention, and instructions to go back to my class. He’s obviously done this before and rattles through the whole procedure in less than five minutes.

I have to go back to class. Computer Technology will still be going on.

“No.” The word comes out of my mouth before I even think it.

Mr. Brown says, “What?”

“No. I’m not going back to that class.”

“Mr. Taylor will escort you back.” Mr. Brown says this with finality, and turns back to his computer.

Mr. Taylor starts to grunt as he rises from the chair.

I shove him back down.

“No.”

I turn and snatch Mr. Brown’s keyboard from under his hands, which are left poised above the bare desk. I smash the keyboard into the side of the computer and push the whole lot of it onto the floor.

“I said, ‘No.’”

Mr. Taylor is still sitting down, but he grabs hold of my wrist again and pulls me to him. I don’t resist but use his momentum to turn and slam into him, and we topple backward. Mr. Taylor flaps his arms in an attempt to fly us back upright. It isn’t going to happen. But I am now free and, unlike Mr. Taylor, I have a soft landing.

I get to my feet and walk out of the office.

I’m not sure that I’ve done quite enough for expulsion, so I grab the secretary’s chair and throw it through the window then head to the front exit, setting the fire alarm off on my way out. Just to make sure, I smash the windshield of the headmaster’s car with the secretary’s chair that has handily landed nearby.

The police are waiting for me when I get home.

I have to go back to the school, but only once, when I have to formally apologize to Mr. Brown and Mr. Taylor. For some reason, I don’t have to apologize to Connor. Gran complains about paperwork and the visits from the Community Liaison Officer. I have to do fifty hours of community service.

There are four of us doing community service, cleaning the sports center. I think the days might pass more quickly if we do something—even clean—but Liam, the oldest and most experienced in terms of repaying the community, won’t have any of that. We spend the first hour pretending to look for mops and brushes; at least I pretend but Liam just wanders around. Then we go outside for a break and a smoke. I have never smoked before, but Joe is an expert and can blow rings, and rings through rings. He teaches me all he knows.

Occasionally the muscular young man who works on reception at the sports center comes out and tells us to go back inside and clean. We ignore him and he goes away.

I spend most of the time sitting out the back, smoking and listening to the others talk.

Liam has been caught stealing many times. He takes anything, valuable or valueless, useful or useless. Stealing is the point, not the thing being stolen. Joe has been caught shoplifting, and Bryan crashed while joyriding and still has his neck in a brace.

When we aren’t sitting smoking, we wander the sports center. I sometimes carry a mop. Saturday mornings are the busiest. Joe and I like to watch the karate class. It’s for children, from beginners up to black belts. Afterward we go out back to practice our smoking.

One Saturday, after karate finishes, we see that Bryan has an expensive-looking pair of Nikes on. He says, “I might get fit now. Now I’ve got the neck brace off.”

Liam says, “Too right, mate. Just do it, that’s my motto.”

Joe and I lie on our backs on top of the low wall and get out our Marlboros. I am working on a series of three rings with a small one going through the center of them all. I have nearly got this to work when someone comes out of the emergency exit and shouts, “Which one of you shits has taken my trainers?”

I finish blowing smoke and look over at the boy. He is one of the black-belt kids, but he is in jeans now, though still barefoot.

Liam and Bryan have disappeared.

“I want them back. Now!” Black Belt Boy advances on me and Joe.

I don’t get up but lift my feet in my scruffy boots, saying, “I haven’t got them.”

Joe sits up and bangs the heels of his old gray trainers on the wall, but doesn’t say anything. He blows a smoke ring and then a beautiful cigar-shaped missile of smoke that sails through the middle of the ring into the boy’s face.

I sit up and say, “We saw you practicing kung fu.”

“Karate.”

“Right . . . karate. You’re a black belt, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“If you can knock me down I’ll get you your shoes back.”

Joe laughs. “Oh yeah, a challenge.”

“But if I knock you down you let whoever’s got them keep them.”

Black Belt Boy doesn’t need to think about this for more than a second. He is a head taller than me and at least ten kilos heavier, and I guess he’s fairly sure I am no black belt. He gets straight into his fighting stance and says, “Come on then.”

I take the cigarette out of my mouth and reach across as if to pass it to Joe, but at the same time I raise my legs to put my feet on the edge of the wall and launch myself at the boy, jumping on to his shoulders with my knees. He is on the floor in a second and I manage to land on my feet.

I keep clear of him. He looks pretty mad.

I realize I have dropped my cigarette and move to pick it up but then, like in some kung fu movie, out of nowhere the karate teacher appears. This guy is short, probably in his fifties and not to be messed with. Unlike the kids in his class, he looks like he’s hit more than a few things that have hit him back.

However, he says to Black Belt Boy, “A deal’s a deal, Tom. He won. And you should have been faster.”

Joe sniggers.

Mr. Karate pulls Black Belt Boy to his feet and steers him away.

Casually as I can, I pick up my cigarette and drag on it.

Mr. Karate calls back to me, “Those things’ll kill you.”

Joe blows out a huge smoke ring, but it’s a strange shape because he can hardly stop grinning.

When the karate pair have disappeared, Joe asks, “You planning on living long enough to die of lung cancer?”

The Fifth Notification

About a week after my expulsion Gran says that she is going to homeschool me. It sounds great. No school. No “conforming,” no “fitting in.”

She says, “It is school, but it’s at home.”

She gets Arran’s old books and pens and papers and we sit at the kitchen table. We work through some exercises, very slowly. I struggle to read the questions and Gran paces around the kitchen while I write out the alphabet for her. After she’s looked at what I’ve written, she puts all Arran’s books away.

In the afternoon we go for a walk in the woods, and we talk about the trees and plants and have a look at some lichen with a magnifying glass.

When Arran gets home Gran asks him to sit with me while I read. Arran is always patient, and I’m never ashamed when I’m with him, but it’s slow and exhausting. Gran stands and watches. Later she says, “Books will never work for you, Nathan. And I certainly haven’t the patience or ability to teach you to read. If you want to learn, Arran will have to try.”

“I’m not bothered.” Though I know Arran will insist I don’t give up.

“Fine by me. But you’ve got lots of other things to learn about.”

The next day Gran and I go on our first field trip to Wales. It is a two-hour journey by train. It’s cold and windy, though not actually raining. We walk in the hills, and I love seeing where the wild plants and animals live, how they grow, where they are at home.

On the first warm day in April we stay overnight, sleeping outside. I never want to sleep inside again. Gran teaches me about the stars and tells me how the moon’s cycle affects the plants that she collects.

Back at home, Gran teaches me about potions, but compared to her I’m clumsy and don’t have her intuition about how the plants will work together or counteract each other. Still, I learn the basics about how she makes her potions, how her touch and even her breath add magic to them. And I learn to make simple healing lotions for cuts, a paste that draws out poison, and a sleeping draught, but I know that I won’t ever make anything magical.

I have maps of Wales, and I get to know them well. I can read maps easily; they are pictures, and I can see the land in my head. I learn where all the rivers, valleys, and mountains are in relation to each other, the ways across them, the places I can find shelter or water, where I can swim, fish, and trap.

Soon I travel to Wales on my own, often spending two or three days away from home, sleeping outside and living off the land.

The first time I’m away by myself I lie on the ground. Lying on a Welsh mountain is special. I try to work it out: I am happy when I’m with Arran, just being with him, watching his slow and peaceful nature. That’s a special thing. And I’m happy with Annalise, really happy, looking at how beautiful she is and forgetting who I am for the time she’s with me. That’s pretty special too. But lying on a Welsh mountain is different. Better. That’s the real me. The real me and the real mountain, alive and breathing as one.

My twelfth birthday and another assessment comes round. I hate them, but I control myself, make myself put up with one day of the Council, the Councilors, the weighing and measuring, so that I can be free again. At the end of this assessment they question Gran about my education, though it is fairly obvious that they know I have been expelled from school. Gran tells them little and doesn’t mention the field trips. The assessment seems to go okay. My Designation Code is still Not ascertained.

A week later another notification arrives. We are sitting round the kitchen table and Gran reads it out.

“Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

“In order to ensure the safety of all White Witches it was agreed that any and all movements of Half Codes (W 0.5/B 0.5) away from their recorded place of residence must be approved by the Council before journeys are undertaken. Any Half Code found in a place that has not been approved will have all movements restricted.”

“This is too much. He’s going to end up under house arrest,” Deborah says.

“Do you think they know that Nathan is going to Wales?” Arran looks worried.

“I don’t know. But, yes, we have to assume that they do. I thought they allowed it because . . .” Gran’s voice tails off to silence.

I know the rest of her thoughts. The Council may be using me to lure Marcus in, to tempt him to see me, and if he does appear they will swoop in and kill him . . . kill us. But now they seem to want to restrict me.

Deborah has obviously been thinking of Marcus too. She says, “It might be something to do with the family that Marcus attacked up in the northeast.”

We all look at her.

“You haven’t heard? They were all killed.”

“How do you know this?” Gran asks.

“I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground. We all have to, don’t we? For Nathan’s sake . . . and our own, for that matter.”

“How exactly have you kept your ear to the ground?” Arran asks.

Deborah hesitates but then holds her chin up and says, “I’ve made friends with Niall.”

Arran shakes his head.

“I just hang on his every word and tell him how handsome and clever he is and . . . he tells me things.”

Arran leans toward Deborah to warn her, I think, but before he can say anything she insists, “I’ve done nothing wrong. I talk to him and listen to him. What’s wrong with that?”

“And when he says bad things about Nathan? What do you say then?”

Deborah looks at me. “I never agree.”

“Do you disagree?” Arran is as close to sneering as he can get.

“Arran! I think it’s a great idea,” I interrupt. “The Council uses spies all the time, Gran says. It’s okay to use their own tactics against them. Besides, Deborah’s right, she’s not doing anything wrong.”

“She’s not doing anything right.”

I go to Deborah, kiss her shoulder, and say, “Thank you, Deborah.”

She hugs me.

“So, Deborah, what did you find out?” Gran asks.

Deborah takes a breath. “Niall said that Marcus killed a family last week, a man, woman, and their teenage son. Niall’s father had been called to an emergency Council meeting about it.”

“I can’t believe he told you all this.” Arran is shaking his head again.

“Niall loves bragging about his family. He must have told me ten times that Kieran is training to be a Hunter and coming out on top all the time in the trials they have—unless Jessica is beating him, of course. Apparently Kieran is desperate to be sent on this investigation as his first assignment.”

“Who were the family?” Gran asks.

“Niall said they were called Grey. She was a Hunter and he did something for the Council. Do you know them?”

Gran says, “I’ve heard the name.”

“Niall said that the Greys were custodians of something called the Fairborn, and the Fairborn was what Marcus was after. I don’t know what the Fairborn is; I’m not even sure Niall knows. When I asked him, I think he realized that he’d said too much, and he’s hardly said a word to me since.”

I don’t say anything. For whatever reason, my father has just killed three more people, including a boy only a few years older than me. Was this a misunderstanding? He was trying to explain to them that he wasn’t really evil, he didn’t want to hurt them . . . He just wanted the Fairborn. Maybe he needed the Fairborn, whatever it is, but they wouldn’t give it to him, they wouldn’t listen . . . They attacked him and he was defending himself and . . .

Gran says, “I’ll write to the Council and request permission for you to travel to Wales.”

“What?” I’d not really been paying attention.

“The notification says you’ll need approval to travel. I’ll write to the Council and get permission.”

“No. I don’t want them to know where I go. I don’t want their permission.”

“You intend to go without me informing them?”

“Please, Gran. Just ask for permission for me to go to the local woods and the shops and stuff like that. Stuff that I don’t really care about.”

“But Nathan, it says”—Gran looks at the parchment— “‘Any Half Code found in a place that has not been approved will have all movements restricted.’”

“I know what it says. And I know what I want to do.”

“You’re twelve, Nathan. You don’t understand that they—”

“Gran, I understand. I understand it all.”

Later that night, when I am getting undressed, Arran has a go at talking to me. I guess Gran has asked him to try. He says I should “rethink,” “perhaps ask permission to go to one place in Wales,” and some other stuff like that. Adult stuff. Gran’s stuff.

I just say, “Can I have permission to go to the bathroom, please?”

He doesn’t say anything, so I throw my jeans on the floor, get on my knees, and say, “Can I have permission to go to the bathroom? Please?”

He doesn’t say anything but drops to his knees with me and hugs me. We stay like that. Him hugging me and me still stiff with anger at him, wanting to hurt him too.

After a long time I hug him back, just a little.

My First Kiss

The Council grants me permission to go to places within a few miles of our home, including not much more than some local shops and our woods. A year goes by and then another. My thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays are the only blots on the landscape, but I get through the assessments and still have the Not ascertained Designation Code. Gran continues to teach me about potions and plants. And I continue to go to Wales on my own. I learn how to survive outdoors in the winter, how to read the weather, and how to cope with the rain. I never stay away from home for more than three days, and I am always careful to move around discreetly. I leave and return by different routes, always on the lookout for potential spies sent to watch me.

My thoughts are often of my father, but my plans to join him remain vague. My thoughts are also more and more of Annalise. I have never stopped thinking of her, her hair, her skin, and her smile, but after my fourteenth birthday these thoughts become more persistent. I want to look at her again for real, and my plans to see her rapidly become less vague.

I’m not stupid enough to go near her house or school, but between them is Edge Hill, the place where we had said we would meet one day.

I go there.

The hill is shaped like an upturned bowl, flat on top with steep sides and a path round the base. On its south side is an outcrop, from the top of which is a view out across the plain, a green expanse of farmland broken up by a network of hedge-lined country roads and spotted with a few houses. The hill is wooded, and the trees are straight and tall and widely spaced. The outcrop is coarse sandstone cut by deep horizontal and vertical clefts. At the cliff’s base is a flat patch of bare earth. It is brick-red and sandy and dusts my shoes as I walk across it.

Climbing the outcrop is simple, as the handholds and footholds are large and open. When I sit at the top on a flat slab of the sandstone I can’t see the path at the bottom for the slope of the hill but I can hear the voices of occasional dog-walkers and the shouts and calls of a few children making their slow way home after school. If anyone other than Annalise were to approach the outcrop, I’d have plenty of time to disappear up and over the hill.

I wait every school day on the outcrop. I once think that I hear her voice talking to one of her brothers, so I climb over the hill and make my way home.

It’s late autumn when the shine of Annalise’s blonde hair appears over the curve of the slope.

I concentrate on making my legs swing casually over the edge of the outcrop.

Annalise doesn’t look up until she is over the steepest part of the hill. She slows when she sees me and looks around but carries on walking until she is almost directly below me. She looks up, smiles, and blushes.

I have waited so long to see her and I know what I want to say, but everything that I have thought of opening with seems wrong. I realize my legs have stopped swinging, and I concentrate on them again. My breathing has gone funny too.

Annalise climbs up the rock face. She does even this elegantly and in a few seconds is sitting next to me, swinging her legs in unison with mine.

After a minute I manage to speak. “You’ll have to inform the Council that you’ve had contact with me.”

Her legs stop swinging.

I remind her, “According to the Resolution of the Council of White Witches any contact between Half Codes and White Whets is to be reported to the Council by all concerned.”

Annalise’s legs start to swing again. “I haven’t had contact.”

I can now feel each thud of my heart; each beat seems like it is going to break open my chest.

“Besides I have a terrible memory. My mum’s always on at me about forgetting things. I’ll try to remember to tell her about seeing you but I’ve got a feeling it’ll slip my mind.”

“I’m glad I’m forgettable,” I mumble as I watch her school shoes, covered in red dust, swing into and out of view.

“I’ve never forgotten you. I remember all the drawings you did, all the times you looked at me across the classroom.”

I almost fall off the escarpment. All the times?

“How many times did I look across the classroom then?”

“Twice on the first day.”

“Twice?” I know it was once. I can feel her eyes on me, but I continue to watch her shoes.

“You looked so . . . miserable.”

Great.

“And sort of in pain.”

I blurt out a laugh. “Yeah well, that’s probably fairly accurate.” It all seems like a long time ago.

“Ten times on the second day,” she says.

It was once, and now I know she is teasing me.

“But only twice on the third day, which was the day I sat next to you in art and even then you didn’t look at me but kept on looking at that sparrow.”

“It was a blackbird, and I was drawing it.”

“After that I thought we’d got over your shyness, but you still haven’t looked at me now.” She stops swinging her feet and holds them up, knocks her shoes together and lets them fall.

“I’m not shy, and I have looked at you.”

“This bit of me, I mean.”

I can tell she is pointing at her face, but I am still staring at the space where her feet have been swinging. I turn and swallow. She is as beautiful as ever. White chocolate hair and clear honey skin, slightly tanned and slightly flushed. She isn’t smiling, though.

“Do you know how amazing your eyes are?” she asks.

No.

She nudges me with her shoulder. “Don’t be so glum when I’m saying nice things to you.”

She leans closer, peering into my eyes and I look into hers, watching the silver glints tumble in the blue, some moving fast, some slow, some looking as if they’re moving toward me.

Annalise blinks and leans back, saying, “Maybe not so shy.” She pushes off the escarpment and lands softly on the ground below. It’s a long drop.

I follow her down, and as I land she runs off like a gazelle and we chase around the hillside for too short a time before she says she has to go.

Alone, I lie back on the slab of sandstone and relive it all. And I try to work out what to say to her the next time. A compliment, like she has given me about my eyes: “Your eyes are like the sky in the morning,” “Your skin looks like velvet,” “I love the sunshine on your hair.” They all sound so pathetic, and I know that I could never say them.

We meet a week later, and it’s Annalise’s turn to look glum and stare at her shoes.

I guess the problem. “Do they say lots of bad things about me?”

She doesn’t answer straightaway, possibly counting all the things.

“They say you’re a Black Witch.”

“I’d be killed if that was true.”

“Well, they say that you are more like your father than your mother.”

And that’s when it hits me how dangerous this is. “You should go. You shouldn’t see me.”

She catches me out, turning to look me straight in the eyes, saying, “I don’t care what they say. I don’t even care about your father. I care about you.”

I don’t know what to say. What can you say to that? But I do what I have wanted to do forever, and take her hand and kiss it.

From then on we meet every week and sit on the outcrop and talk. I tell her about my life, but only in part, the bits about Gran, Arran, and Deborah. I never tell her about Wales and the trips I make there, even though I want to. But I’m afraid. And I hate that. Hate that I can’t be honest because of my sick, horrible fear that the less she knows, the safer it will be for her.

She tells me about her life. Her father and brothers sound like male versions of Jessica, while her mother is an unusually powerless White Witch. Annalise’s life sounds miserable, and it makes my home life seem free and relaxed. She has never heard of assessments and doesn’t believe me until I describe the blond Council member who sits on the left of the Council leader. Annalise says that sounds like Soul O’Brien, her uncle.

I ask her one question that has always intrigued me. How many Half Codes are there? She doesn’t know but will try to find out from her father, who works for the Council.

The following week she says his answer was, “Just the one.”

Another time she asks, “Has Deborah found her Gift yet?”

“No. She’s struggling. She’s too logical.”

“Niall is frustrated too. He’s desperate to be able to become invisible, like Kieran and my uncle, but I don’t think it’s him at all. He didn’t want Mum to perform the Giving ceremony; he said he’d have more chance of getting invisibility from Dad. But I don’t think it would make any difference. Kieran drank Mum’s blood, not Dad’s. I think the Gift relates to the person: it’s in you from birth and the magic of the Giving allows it to come out. Niall’s just too open to have invisibility.”

“Yes, I think it works like that too. Jessica can disguise herself. She’s always been a natural at lying. Her Gift suits her down to the ground. But she drank Gran’s blood and there’s no one on Gran’s side of the family with that Gift.”

“I think I’ll have potions.”

“My Gran has potions. She’s clever but instinctive as well. I think that’s why she’s good with them. You’re like her. She has a strong Gift.”

“I don’t think my Gift will be very strong. I think I’ll be like my mum.”

Annalise is not often wrong, but she’s way off the mark with this. I pick her hand up and kiss it. “No, you’ll have a strong Gift.”

Annalise blushes a little. “I wonder about you. Sometimes you seem wild and mad and I think you’ll have the same Gift as your father. But then other times you’re so gentle and I’m not so sure . . . maybe you’ll be like your mother. It won’t be potions, though.”

We continue to meet once a week during the school term through winter, spring, and early summer. We are careful to meet only for a short time, and we vary the days. We don’t meet in the holidays.

I’m stroking Annalise’s hair, watching how it falls from my fingers. And she studies the palm of my hand and smoothes her fingertips across my skin. She says she can tell my fortune by reading the lines.

She says, “You will be a powerful witch.”

“Yeah? How powerful?”

“Exceptional.” She smoothes my hand again. “Yes, it’s quite clear. I can see it in this line here. You will have an unusual Gift. Few have it. You will be able to turn into animals.”

“Sounds good.” And I’m holding her hair back and watching it fall.

“Only insects, though.”

“Insects?” I let go of her hair.

“You will only be able to become insects. You will make an especially good dung beetle.”

I snicker.

She carries on smoothing out my palm. “You will fall deeply in love with someone.”

“Human or dung beetle?”

“Human. And that person will love you forever, even when you’re a dung beetle.”

“And what’s this person like?”

“That I can’t see . . . there’s a patch of mud on that bit.”

And I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. She stays still, letting me touch her. My fingers move over her cheeks and round her mouth, over her chin and down her neck and then back up again to her cheek up to her forehead, slowly down the center of her nose over the tip and down to her lips, where my finger stays. And she kisses it once. And she kisses it again. And I reach forward and only dare take my finger away when my lips replace it.

And we are pressed together, my lips, my arms, chest, hips, my body desperate to get closer to her.

I can’t bear to take my mouth from her skin.

It feels like just a few minutes but it is getting late, getting dark, when we finally manage to part.

As we say good-bye she takes my hand and kisses the side of my index finger, her lips and tongue and teeth on my skin.

We have arranged to meet in a week’s time. The next day seems to take forever to pass. The day after that is worse. I don’t know what to do with myself; all I can do is wait. I am physically aching to see her. My guts are in turmoil.

Finally, the day of our meeting crawls into the light and then takes a year to drag itself to the afternoon.

I wait on the sandstone slab, lying on my back, looking at the sky and listening for Annalise’s footsteps. I am straining at each sound, and when I hear her scrambling up the slope I roll on to my side and sit up. Her blonde head appears over the curve of the hill and I spring down from the outcrop, landing in a crouch with bent legs, the fingertips of my left hand on the ground and my right hand out to the side, showing off a little. I straighten up and step forward.

But something is badly wrong.

Annalise’s face is distorted . . . terrified.

I hesitate. Do I go to her? Do I run? What?

I look around.

It has to be her brothers, but I can’t see them or hear them. It can’t be the Council . . . can it?

I step forward. And then the figure of a man appears, standing next to Annalise. He has been there all the time, his hand on Annalise’s shoulder, steering her up the slope and holding her still. But he had been invisible.

Kieran.

Annalise’s eldest brother is tall like the rest of the family, but he has huge shoulders, and rather than white hair his is red-blond, thinner and cut close to his scalp. His eyes don’t leave me as he bends forward slightly and says something I can’t hear in Annalise’s ear.

Annalise’s body is rigid. She nods her head jerkily in response to Kieran. Her eyes are staring ahead, not looking at me, looking at nothing. Kieran takes his hand off her shoulder and she runs off, stumbling down the slope.

BW

Kieran has the lower routes of escape covered. And now, approaching high to my left, is Connor; to the right is Niall. I could get up some good speed running down the slope but Annalise has told me that Kieran is fast. I could swerve down to the left or right but he is quite a bit below me and if he is fast he’ll . . .

Kieran grins and beckons me forward.

No, forward doesn’t feel like a good option.

I turn and run up the sandstone escarpment. I have made the climb numerous times before and know each handhold and each ledge. I can do it blindfolded. There is no way that Kieran can catch me from his position farther down the slope. But the few seconds’ delay have given Niall and Connor the advantage, and by the time I clear the top Connor is running toward me, not stopping until he stretches out his arms and plants his hands on my chest to shove me back over the edge.

I fall backward, turning in the air to land in a crouch on the bare ground below, back in the position I had been in a minute earlier. It’s a good landing, and now my only option is to barrel down the hill. I have only lifted my hand, though, when a boot wallops into me from the side and my stomach lifts into the air and then I am flat on the ground, winded, face-down.

I start to crawl. Another kick thumps into the side of my ribs. And another. The boots scuff around, kicking up dust and sand into my eyes, and one stomps on the back of my head, pushing my face into the ground.

“Sit on his legs,” Kieran instructs Connor. “Get his arms, Niall.”

Niall gets my arms and holds them down with his hands and feet while sitting on my head. I’m struggling to breathe underneath his sweaty trousers. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t see a thing except gray wool but I can hear Niall panting and Connor’s gasping, nervous giggle. I can’t move.

Kieran says, “You know what this is, Connor?”

Connor has to think about it, but eventually says, “A hunting knife.”

Now I squirm and grunt and curse them.

“Hold him still, Niall. To be exact, it’s a French hunting knife. They make great knives, the French. Look at that blade. It folds away beautifully into the handle. Great design. The Swiss go for all the fancy gadgets in their knives, but all you need is a good blade.”

I hear the rip of my T-shirt and feel the cool air on my back. I buck and shout curses again.

“Hold him still and shut him up with this.”

Niall’s legs move and my T-shirt is pushed into my mouth and I’m trying to bite him but then the blade brushes over my back and I try to shrink from it but it follows me and the point stops in the middle of my left shoulder blade.

“I’ll start here, I think. This half is the Black half, I’d say.”

Then the point goes in. And slowly the pain cuts down my back and I scream and swear into my T-shirt, the sounds muffled.

Kieran hisses in my ear. “Niall told you to stay away from our sister, you Black piece of shit.”

He puts the point back into my left shoulder blade and I clench my jaw and scream while he makes another cut.

He stops again and says, “You should have listened to him.”

He makes another slow cut.

And I am going mad screaming and praying for someone to make him stop.

But he makes another cut and then another and all I can do is scream and pray.

“Time for a break.”

No one makes a noise. But it’s not silent in my head. My head is full of the noise of prayer. Praying and praying to please, please not let him do any more.

Kieran says, “Nice here, isn’t it, Connor? Good view.”

I stop praying to listen.

Connor doesn’t answer.

Niall says, “Kieran, he’s bleeding a lot.” He sounds worried.

“I almost forgot. Thanks for reminding me, Niall. I got some powder from camp.” His voice is closer to me. “They use it in Retributions.”

And I’m praying again, praying louder than ever to please not let him do it, please.

“It stops the bleeding. Can’t have Black Witches bleeding to death. I have heard that it hurts a bit. We’ll find out, won’t we?”

And then I start begging. Just in my head, but I am begging. Please don’t, please don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—

“Hey. Wake up.”

I can breathe better. Niall is off my head. The T-shirt is out of my mouth.

“Wake up.”

A black boot, polished but flecked with sand and a few drops of blood is all I can see. I close my eyes again.

Kieran’s voice is in my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath.

“How you feeling? Okay?”

I’m feeling frightened.

The pain in my back has faded. But I don’t want any more. I would do anything to stop him doing more. I would beg and plead, and in my head I’m saying, Please don’t do any more. Please. I can’t speak the words, no words come out, but in my head I’m begging, Please, don’t do any more.

“You’re crying. Hey, Niall! Connor! He’s crying.”

Silence.

“Do you think he’s sorry, Connor? Sorry that he beat you up?”

Connor mumbles something.

“Maybe. But I’m not sure. What do you think, Niall?”

“Yes.” I can just hear Niall. He sounds angry.

“Okay . . . Well, that’s good.” And Kieran’s mouth is close to my ear as he says, “So are you sorry you beat up my pathetic brothers?”

And I want to say yes. I do want to say it. In my head I’m saying sorry. But nothing will come out of my mouth.

“And are you sorry you met my sister?”

And I know as soon as he says that, the way he says it, that he hasn’t finished. It isn’t over. He has no intention of stopping there. And nothing I can say will make any difference. All I can do is hate him.

“I said, are you sorry you’ve been seeing my sister?”

And I hate him with all my tears and screams and begging.

“What else have you been doing with her?”

And I want him to know what we did, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him anything.

“I don’t think you’re sorry at all . . . are you?”

And I’m not. I’m not sorry about any of it. I’m too full of hate to be sorry about anything.

“Let’s try again, shall we? On this side. This must be the White half.”

The T-shirt is stuffed back in my mouth and I feel the blade across the right side of my back, close to my spine. All the cuts he has made so far are on my left side and I know what is coming. That was the whole point of his talking; it was just so that I would know what to expect.

The cuts are bad, but all the time I think about the powder. That’s what I fear. Kieran is in no rush, though . . .

“Wakey, wakey.” A slap on my cheek. “Nearly finished. We still have my favorite bit left. Leave the best till last, that’s what they say, isn’t it?”

I’ve given up thinking; given up praying a long time ago. I look at the sand. The small grains: orange, brick orange, red, some tiny black ones.

“Do you want to put the powder on him, Niall?”

“No.”

“No? So it’s up to you, Connor.”

“Kieran.” Connor sounds really quiet. “I . . .”

“Shut up, Connor! You’re doing it.”

Kieran kneels close to my face and says, “Make sure there isn’t a next time, you Half Code heap of shit, because if there is I’ll cut your balls off before I rip your innards out.”

And I hate him and curse him and scream at him into the T-shirt.

It’s dark. The ground beneath me is cold. And I am cold inside, but my back’s on fire. I can hardly move but I have to put the fire out. I roll on the ground. Someone, somewhere far off, screams.

Shouting . . .

Arran’s voice . . .

The trees are like sentries, but they’re moving past me.

Blackness.

“Nathan?” Arran’s voice is soft in my ear.

I open my eyes and his face is close to me. I think we’re in the kitchen.

I’m on the table. Like a chicken served for dinner. Gran has her back to me; she is making gravy. Deborah is carrying a bowl that steams. Maybe it has potatoes in it.

“You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” Arran says. But he says it in a strange way.

Deborah puts the bowl beside me and I know it doesn’t have potatoes in it, and I’m afraid, so afraid. She is going to touch my back. And I beg Arran not to let them touch me.

“They have to clean the cuts. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

And I beg him not to let them touch me. But I don’t think the words come out.

He holds my hand tighter.

I wake again. Still a chicken on the table. Arran’s hand locked on mine. My back is hot inside but cool on the outside.

Arran asks quietly, “Nathan?”

“Stay with me, Arran.”

The sun is warm on my face. My back is tight and throbs fast with my pulse. I don’t dare move anything except my fingers. Arran is still holding my hand.

“Nathan?”

“Water.”

“Move your head really slowly. I’ll put the straw in your mouth.”

I blink my eyes open. I am lying at an angle on my bed with my head on the edge of the mattress. Below me is a glass of water with a long straw.

After I drink I doze for a few minutes then I wake as my stomach churns. I throw up into a bowl that has replaced the glass of water, terrified because each lurch of my stomach sends tight spasms across my back.

When I next wake up Arran is still by my side. He says, “Gran’s made a drink for you. She says you have to take small sips.”

The drink is disgusting. It must have a sleeping potion in it as I remember nothing else until I wake again in the evening.

I move my fingers, but Arran isn’t beside me. It’s dark in the room, but I can see the shape of him in his bed, asleep. The house is quiet, but then I hear subdued voices and I move my head a little to see through the crack in the door. Gran is on the landing with Deborah. They are talking and I strain to hear what they are saying and then I realize that they aren’t talking; they are crying.

The next morning I wake up thirsty once again. There is a glass of water beneath me; at least I don’t have to have more of the potion. I suck hard, making a slurping noise as I empty the glass.

“You’re only supposed to sip.”

I tilt my head up to see Arran sitting sideways on his bed, leaning on the wall. He is pale and has dark circles beneath his eyes.

“How you feeling?”

I think about it and move my head. The tightness in my back is bad. “Better. And you?”

He rubs his face and says, “A bit tired.”

“At least you’re not crying,” I say. “I’ve never seen Gran cry before.”

I suck at the straw again, even though there is no drink left, and then I look at him as I ask, “Is it that bad?”

He meets my look. “Yes.”

We are silent for a while.

“Did you come looking for me?”

“When it got late, I went looking in the woods; that was about ten o’clock. You weren’t there so I checked all the back streets. Debs rang me at midnight. Someone had phoned here telling us where you were. Debs thinks it was Niall.”

I tell Arran what happened and about my meetings with Annalise.

He doesn’t say anything, so I ask, “Do you think I’m stupid for seeing her?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“You like each other. She’s nice to you and she’s . . . you know . . . beautiful.”

We are silent again.

“Promise me you won’t see her again.”

I stare at the floor, thinking of Annalise and her smile, her eyes, and the look on her face when I last saw her.

“Nathan. Promise me.”

“I’m not that stupid.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise that I’m not that stupid.” I still stare at the floor.

Arran slides across the floor to sit by me. He strokes my hair back from my face and kisses my forehead, whispering, “Please, Nathan. I couldn’t stand it.”

I heal quickly, even for a whet, but it’s still five days before I have the bandages off. I stand in the bathroom with my back to the large mirror and a small mirror of Gran’s in my hands. Arran asked me on the second day if Kieran had said what he’d done. I knew then that it was more than just cuts.

The scars stretch from my shoulder blades to my lower back: a “B” on the left and a “W” on the right.

Post-Trauma

I know I have to stay away from Annalise. I’m not stupid; I won’t try to see her again, at least not at the moment, but I want to know if she’s all right.

Since Deborah finished school she has had no contact with Niall, apart from the phone call telling her where I was. But even if they were in touch I wouldn’t trust what Niall said about Annalise anyway. I ask Arran if he can get a message to her. He tells me that Niall has warned him off: “You will get what your brother got if you go near her.” I suspect Niall didn’t say “your brother” but the message is clear, and I tell Arran to forget it.

Arran says, “Don’t blame yourself.”

I don’t. Kieran and his dumb brothers are to blame.

And I know that Annalise would think the same way, and she will know that I never meant to cause her problems . . . but I screwed up. I was naive. I knew there would be serious trouble for both of us if we got caught, and I ignored that. But so did she.

Gran sits at my bedside and cleans her creams off my back. She runs her fingers over my scars, and I reach around to touch them too. They are uneven, shallow grooves.

Gran says, “They’ve healed well. They look like they’ve been there for years.”

I arch my back, bend forward, and then roll my shoulders. There’s no pain there now; the tightness has gone.

“The creams have done some of the work but so have you. Your healing abilities have begun.”

All witches can self-heal faster than fains. Some a lot faster. Some instantly. And I know Gran is right. I feel so good. Buzzy, on a mini high . . .

But the healing has finished now. The first night after the creams are off I curl up in bed, at last able to lie in any position I like. It feels good, but not for long. I start to sweat, and the headache I have been ignoring grows until my skull feels like it is going to break open. I go to the kitchen for a drink of water, but that makes me feel sick, so I sit on the back doorstep, and the relief is instant. I stay there in the open doorway, leaning against the wall. The sky is clear, and the full moon seems heavy and huge. It’s quiet and still, and I don’t feel tired. I look around and see that my shadow lies long and dark across the kitchen floor. I get a small knife from the drawer, taking my time, feeling the nausea build again while I’m in the kitchen, but as soon as I return to my spot on the back step it disappears.

I balance the knife in my hand, wondering where to try first.

I make a small cut with the point of the knife in the pad of my index finger. I suck the blood and then look at the cut, pulling the skin apart. More blood, another suck, and then I stare at the cut and try to heal it.

I think, Heal!

More blood appears.

I relax, look at the moon, feel the cut, the throb of my finger. Feel it. Keep my awareness on it and on the moon. It takes I don’t know how long. A while. But I know something is happening because I’m smiling, can’t stop it. The buzz is there. This is fun. I push the point of the knife into my fingertip again.

The next night I try to sleep in my bed but am sweating and nauseated soon after it goes dark, so I go outside and instantly feel better. I sleep in the garden and go back to the bedroom before Arran wakes up.

I do the same the third night, this time only going back inside when Arran is getting dressed.

“Where did you go last night?”

I shrug.

“You’re not seeing Annalise?”

“No.”

“If you are . . .”

“I’m not.”

“I know you like her, but—”

“I’m not! I just had a bit of trouble sleeping. It was too hot. I slept outside.”

Arran doesn’t look convinced. I walk out and Deborah is there on the landing, brushing her hair, pretending not to have been listening in.

When we are in the kitchen having breakfast Deborah leans toward me, saying, “It wasn’t hot last night. I think you should tell Gran about not being able to sleep.”

I shake my head.

So Deborah announces to us all, “I’ve been reading up on post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Arran rolls his eyes. I stab my cereal with my spoon.

“The reaction to shock can be delayed. Nightmares and flashbacks are typical. Anger, frustration . . .”

I glare at her as I put a huge mound of cereal in my mouth.

Gran asks, “What are you talking about, Deborah?”

“Nathan has suffered a terrible trauma. He isn’t sleeping. He’s sweating.”

“Oh, I see,” Gran says. “Are you having nightmares, Nathan?”

“No,” I insist through the cereal.

“If he is having nightmares, and certainly if he is suffering from stress, then bringing it up at the breakfast table is not very thoughtful,” Arran says.

“Gran can probably give him a sleeping potion, is all I’m thinking.”

“Do you need a sleeping potion, Nathan?” Arran asks.

“No, thanks,” I say, stuffing more food in my mouth.

“Did you sleep well last night, Nathan?” Arran puts on a tone of extreme mock concern.

“Yes, thanks.” I speak through the cereal.

“Yes, but why didn’t you sleep in your own bed, Nathan?” Deborah looks from me to Arran as she asks.

I stab at the mush in my bowl. Arran glares at Deborah.

“You’re not sneaking off to see Annalise?” Gran asks.

“No!” Bits of cereal spray on to the table.

Gran stares at me.

Why does no one believe me?

“You still haven’t said why you didn’t sleep in your own bed last night,” Deborah says.

Arran says, “We all know he likes to sleep outside, Deborah.”

I bang my spoon hard on the table. “I didn’t sleep in my own bed ’cause I felt sick, okay! That’s all.”

“But that—” Deborah starts.

“Please be quiet. All of you,” Gran interrupts. She massages her forehead with her fingers. “I need to tell you something.” Gran stretches her hand out to hold my arm and says, “There are many different rumors about Black Witches and their affinity with the night.”

I stare at her, and her eyes are concerned and old and serious, and locked on mine. Black Witches and their affinity? Is she trying to tell me that I’m some kind of Black Witch because I’ve slept outside for a couple of nights?

I pull my arm out of her grasp and get up.

Arran says, “But Nathan isn’t a Black—”

“There are stories about weakness too,” Gran says. “Some Black Witches can’t stand to be indoors at night. They are stories. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.” Gran massages her forehead again. “Being indoors at night drives them mad.”

Arran looks at me and shakes his head. “This isn’t happening to you.”

Gran continues, “I should tell you one of the stories. It’s important for Nathan.”

By this time I’m backed into the corner of the kitchen. Deborah comes to stand with me. She puts her arm round me and leans on my shoulder whispering, “I’m sorry, Nathan. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

The Story of the Death of Saba

Saba was a Black Witch. She had killed a Hunter and was on the run. Virginia, the leader of the Hunters, and a group of her elite were on Saba’s trail. They had tracked her across England, through countryside, cities, and towns, and they were closing in.

Saba was exhausted, and in desperation she hid in the cellar of a large house on the edge of a village. She must have been desperate or she wouldn’t have tried to hide. It doesn’t work, hiding from Hunters. She must have known that they would track her there. And they did. The Hunters found the house and quickly surrounded it. There would be no escape for Saba. Some of the Hunters wanted to charge into the cellar, but Virginia didn’t want to lose anyone else. There was only one way into the cellar, through a trapdoor, and Virginia ordered that the entrance be blocked up for a month, by which time Saba would be either dead or so weak that she could be captured with no losses on the Hunters’ side.

Virginia knew that most of her Hunters weren’t happy about this. They wanted revenge, glory, and a quick end to Saba and this hunt. Virginia set a guard on the entrance to the cellar to stop Saba escaping but also to ensure none of the Hunters disobeyed her orders.

Night fell, and the Hunters found places in the house and its gardens to sleep. But no one slept, because soon after dark, terrible screams came from the cellar.

The Hunters ran to the trapdoor, thinking that one of their number had disobeyed Virginia’s orders, had entered the cellar, and was being tortured by Saba. But, no, the guard still stood at the blocked-up entrance. The screams came from the cellar and carried on until dawn. The Hunters tried to sleep and covered their ears or plugged them with bits of material from their clothes but nothing would stop the sounds from piercing their heads. It felt as if each one of them was screaming too.

The next morning the Hunters were exhausted. These were all tough men and women, the toughest, but they had been hunting Saba for weeks, and now they were drained.

The second night the screaming returned and again no one slept.

This carried on every night, so that by the end of the first week the Hunters were arguing and fighting among themselves. One Hunter had stabbed another, and one had deserted. Even Virginia was desperate: she had not slept, and she could see that her elite group was descending into anarchy. On the eighth night, when the screaming started again, she ran to the cellar in a rage and began to strip back the barricade from over the trapdoor. The Hunters gathered around her but they were unsure what to think. They all wanted to go in and end the torture, but seeing their leader, normally the epitome of control, tearing at the trapdoor made them wonder if she had lost her mind.

One Hunter stepped up and dared to remind Virginia that she had ordered that Saba should be shut up for a month, and it had been only one week. Virginia pushed the Hunter back, saying that she was willing to risk her life and theirs to end the torment.

Virginia opened the trapdoor and descended into the cellar with her Hunters crowding behind her.

The cellar was dark. Virginia used her torch to throw light on to the floor and pick her way between crates, boxes, an old chair, bottles of wine, and a sack of potatoes. There was a doorway to another room. The screaming was coming from there. Virginia made her way to the door and the Hunters followed.

The second room appeared to be empty. But in the farthest corner, barely discernible, was a low pile of rags.

Virginia strode up, lifted the rags back and there was the body of Saba. She was half dead, totally mad, and still screaming. She had clawed at her face, which was a mass of scars. She couldn’t speak, as she had bitten off her own tongue. But still she screamed.

Virginia could have killed her there, but she said Saba should be taken to the Council for interrogation. Saba was barely alive, but she was a powerful Black Witch, so Virginia ordered her to be tied up before she was carried out.

It was now the middle of the night, but outside, the light from the moon made it seem almost like day. As the Hunters bore her body out of the house, Saba began to hum and then she began to writhe. Too late, Virginia realized that Saba’s strength was returning now she was outside in the night air. Saba sent flames from her mouth, setting on fire the two Hunters carrying her. She fell to the ground and used her flames to burn through her bonds. Virginia drew her gun and shot Saba in the chest, but Saba had enough life in her to grab hold of Virginia and set fire to her too. They were both in flames when Virginia’s son, Clay, shot Saba in the neck. She fell, silent at last, on the lawn of the house.

Virginia died from her burns, and Clay became the next leader of the Hunters. He’s still their leader today.

Gran rubs her face with her hands and says, “A Hunter told me that story a long time ago. We were at the wake of her partner, another Hunter. She was upset and very drunk. I took her outside and gave her a potion to calm her. We sat on the grass and talked.

“She told me that her partner was the Hunter who had deserted. Clay had tracked her down and had her executed. This girl, the drunk one, had been made to pull the trigger on her partner.”

Debs is shaking her head, “They’re all monsters. The Hunters are as bad as—”

“Deborah! Don’t! Don’t ever say that,” Arran cuts in.

I ask, “Who was Saba?”

Gran takes a breath and says, “She was Marcus’s mother.”

Somehow I’m not surprised. I push myself away from Deborah and go to sit on the back step.

Arran comes and sits next to me. Leaning close he says, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Saba was my grandmother.”

“None of this means that you are like that.”

I shake my head. “It’s happening to me, Arran. I feel it. I’m a Black Witch.”

“No, you’re not. That’s your body, not you. The real you is nothing to do with being a Black Witch. You have some of Marcus’s genes in you, and some of Saba’s. But that’s physical. And the physical stuff, the genes, your Gift, they are not what makes a Black Witch. You have to believe that. It’s how you think and how you behave that shows who you are. You aren’t evil, Nathan. Nothing about you is evil. You will have a powerful Gift—we can all see that—but it’s how you use it that will show you to be good or bad.”

I almost believe him. I don’t feel evil, but I’m afraid. My body is doing things that I don’t understand, and I don’t know what else it will do. It feels like it has a will of its own and it’s leading me down a path I have to follow. The night tremors are taking me outside, forcing me to move away from my old life. The noises in my head also seem to be driving me away from people.

Whenever Jessica used to say I was half Black, Gran would say, “Half White too.” And I had always thought of my mother’s genes and my father’s mixing in my body, but now it occurs to me that my body is my father’s and my spirit is my mother’s. Perhaps Arran is right, my spirit is not evil, but I have to put up with a body that does weird things.

I leave for Wales that morning, intending to stay away for a day or two. It feels good sleeping outside and living off the land, and after my talk with Arran I’m feeling more positive, more like I know who and what I am. It’s a different way of looking at things, nothing more than that, but it allows me to watch my body and learn what it’s capable of. I observe it in a more detached way, testing its healing capabilities and working out how the night affects me.

I stay in Wales one more day, and then one more, and then one more. I find an unused barn and try sleeping in it, and discover that the moon has an effect on how I feel. A full moon is worst for being indoors at night, and I can’t help but shake and vomit. A new moon and being in the barn is bearable with nothing worse than slight nausea. At the full moon my healing ability is enhanced. I test this by cutting my arm. A cut in the day during a new moon takes twice as long to heal as a similar cut at night under a full moon.

The days go by and I learn a lot, but I know that I can’t share what I’ve learned, not even with Arran. Everything that is Black has to be kept secret, and I know my body is that of a Black Witch.

Mary

I spend over a month in Wales. I feel good learning about my body, but I’m also self-conscious. I have this idea that somehow my father is watching me. He sees everything I do. He nods his head wisely at the discoveries I make about my body, smiles approvingly when I catch a rabbit, skin and cook it, but he shakes his head at the bad decisions I make, when I end up cold in a poor shelter or cross a stream in a bad place. Everything I do is with an awareness of him judging me, and every day I think that maybe he will appear.

Of course my father never comes. I sometimes wonder if it’s because I’m half White, not Black enough. But then I tell myself that these aren’t real tests; the true test will be that I can find my way to him, and I’m ready to do that now.

My fifteenth birthday is three weeks away; I don’t want to risk going to another assessment. I am sure that the Council will see what is happening to my body, that I’m changing, and my Designation Code won’t be Not ascertained any more. Nobody has told me what will happen if I am designated as a Black Witch, but as all Black Witches in Britain are captured or killed on sight, I’ve got a good idea.

I have to leave. But first I have to see Arran. It’s his seventeenth birthday in a week’s time, and I want to be with him for his Giving. After that I will go in search of my father.

On my first morning at home Deborah passes me an envelope that arrived a couple of weeks earlier. It’s addressed to me. I have never received anything through the post before. Notifications are always sent to Gran. I expect some new Council decree, but inside is a thick, white card on which is beautifully scripted writing.

I pass it to Arran.

“Who’s Mary Walker?” he asks.

I shrug.

“It’s her ninetieth birthday. You’re invited to her birthday party.”

“Never heard of her,” I say.

“Do you know her, Gran?” Arran asks.

Gran is frowning but she nods cautiously.

“And?”

“She’s an old witch.”

“Well, I think we worked that out for ourselves,” Arran says.

“She’s . . . I . . . I haven’t seen or heard from her in years.”

“Since?”

“Since I was young. She used to work for the Council but she went a bit . . . odd.”

“Odd?”

“Unusual.”

“She’s mad, you mean.”

“Well . . . she went a bit strange, making accusations left and right. Only dangerous to herself at first, but then it was clear she was mad. Apparently she would dance around in meetings or sing love songs to the Council Leader. She left the Council in disgrace. There wasn’t much sympathy for her.”

“Why would she invite Nathan to her birthday party?”

Gran doesn’t answer. She reads the invitation and then busies herself making more tea.

“You going to go, then?” Arran asks.

Gran holds the teapot, ready to fill it. I say, “She’s a mad old witch. No one else in the family has been invited. I don’t know her, and I’m not supposed to go anywhere without the Council’s permission.” I grin for Arran’s benefit. “So of course I’m going.”

Gran puts the teapot down and doesn’t fill it.

The birthday party is four days away. In those four days I learn nothing more about Mary from Gran, whose only concern when I bring up the subject is that I memorize the directions to Mary’s home that are written on the reverse of the invitation. There is a tiny map with instructions that give times when I should be at certain points. Gran says that I have to follow the map and the timings precisely.

I set off early on the morning of the party, heading for the railway station in town. I catch a train, followed by another train, then a bus, followed by another bus. The journey is slow—in fact I could catch two earlier buses—but the instructions are clear, and I stick to them.

Then I have a long walk. I make my way to the points in the woods that are shown on the map and wait for the allotted times to pass before moving on to the next place. The woods are more forest than woods and the farther I go the quieter it becomes. As I wait for the final leg of the journey I realize that there are no noises in my head, and all around me it is beautifully silent. I almost miss the time to leave as I’m trying to work out what noises aren’t there any more. But I keep to the schedule and eventually come to a ramshackle cottage in a small clearing.

There’s a vegetable patch to the left side of the cottage, a brook to its right, and some hens pecking around in front of it. I skirt around to the right and scoop up some water to drink. It’s sweet and clear. I don’t have to change my stride to step over the clear running water. I make a circuit of the cottage, which is so rundown that it is actually falling down at the back and I can see into a bedroom where a chicken is pecking around. I carry on around to the small, green front door and knock lightly in case the rotten wood gives way.

“It’d be a waste to be indoors on a day like this.”

I turn.

The strong, loud voice doesn’t seem to fit the stooped old witch with a floppy, big-brimmed hat, baggy, holey wool jumper, baggy, holey jeans, and baggy, muddy wellington boots.

“Mary?” I’m not sure; the person in front of me, with a wispy white mustache, could be a man.

“No need to ask who you are.” The voice is definitely female.

“Umm. Happy birthday.” I hold the basket of presents out toward her but she makes no move to take them.

“Presents. For you.”

She still says nothing.

I lower the basket.

She makes a noise that is a cackle or maybe a cough, sending saliva dribbling down her chin, which she wipes away with her sleeve.

“You never met an old witch before?”

“Not many . . . well, not . . .”

My mumbling tails off as she peers closer at me.

She is bent almost double and has to lean back and turn sideways to look up at me. “Maybe you’re not so much like your father as I first thought. You certainly look like him, though.”

“You know him . . . I mean . . . you’ve met him?”

She ignores my question and now takes the basket from me, saying, “For me? Presents?”

It’s as if her hearing isn’t too good, but I think she can hear fine.

She walks to the brook and sits on a patch of thin grass. I sit beside her as she pulls a jam jar out of the basket. “Is it plum?”

“Apple and bramble. From our garden. My gran made it.”

“That old bitch.”

My jaw drops.

“And this?” She holds up a large earthenware tub, sealed with wax and tied with ribbon.

“Umm . . . a potion to soothe aching joints.”

“Huh!” She sets the tub on the grass, saying, “She was always good at potions, though. I take it she still has a strong Gift?”

“Yes.”

“Nice basket too. You can never have too many baskets, I’ve found.” She studies the basket, turning it round. “If you learn nothing else today, at least remember that.”

I nod stupidly and again stumble out my question: “Have you met Marcus?”

She ignores me and pulls out the final present, a rolled-up piece of paper tied with a thin strip of leather, which she slides off and puts into the basket, saying, “And a leather shoelace too. I am doing well, aren’t I? Not had a birthday like this for . . . for oh so long.”

Mary unrolls the paper, a pen drawing that I made of trees and squirrels. She studies it for some time before saying, “I believe your father likes to draw. He has a talent for it, as have you.”

Has he? How does she know this?

“It’s polite to say thank you when someone pays you a compliment.”

I mumble, “Thank you.”

Mary smiles. “Good boy. Now, let’s get tea and some cake . . . ninety candles will be interesting.”

Much later we are sitting on the grass in silence with a picnic of tea and cake. The candles, ninety of them, counted out slowly by Mary, were placed on a small cherry cake by me, although I don’t know how they all fitted on. The candles were lit with a muttered spell at the snap of Mary’s fingers. Her spittle-laden blow wasn’t powerful enough to put out the candles so I smothered the flames in a tea towel. During all that I learned nothing from Mary apart from the ingredients of the cake, where she kept her candles, and how she wished someone would come up with a spell that kept slugs off her vegetable garden.

Now I ask her why she has invited me to her birthday party.

She says, “Well, I didn’t want to spend it on my own, did I?”

“So why didn’t you invite my gran?”

Mary slurps some cold tea from her teacup and lets out a resonating belch.

“I invited you because I wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t invite your gran because I didn’t want to talk to her.” She belches again. “Oh, that cake was good.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The Council and your father. Though I don’t know much about your father. But I do know about the Council. I used to work for them.”

“Gran told me.”

Silence.

“What do you know about the Council, Nathan?”

I shrug. “I have to go for assessments and follow their notifications.”

“Tell me about those.”

I stick to the facts.

Mary doesn’t ask any questions while I speak, but she nods and dribbles occasionally.

“I think they’ll kill me if I go to the next assessment.”

“Maybe . . . but I think not. There’s a reason they haven’t so far. And it’s not because they’re feeling kind and generous, you can be sure of that.”

“Do you know the reason?”

“I have an idea what it may be.” She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and then pats my arm, saying, “You will have to leave soon.”

The sun was behind the trees now. “Yes. It’s late.”

She grabs my arm in a tight clawlike grip. “No, not leave here. You must leave your home soon. Find Mercury. She will help you. She will give you three gifts.”

“But my father . . .”

“You mustn’t try to find your father. Mercury will help you. She helps many witches who are in trouble. Of course she will expect some payment in return. But she will help you.”

“Who is Mercury?”

“A Black Witch. An old Black Witch. Ha! You think I’m old. She is old. Her Gift is strong, though, very strong. She can control the weather.”

“But how can she give me blood? She’s not my parent or grandparent.”

“No, but she is a very astute businesswoman. Ironically, the Council is the source of Mercury’s success. You see, they decided years ago to keep a bank of blood of all White Witches, so that if a child should be orphaned the Council would be able to step in and arrange the Giving ceremony.”

“And it worked?”

“Yes, perfectly. The spell is modified, I believe, but the blood is of the parent or grandparent and three gifts are given.”

“Let me guess . . . Mercury stole some of the blood.” And so she must have some of my mother’s.

“Well, it isn’t hard to guess that. Any fool could have told the Council that this was bound to happen, and many did. And while they were warning the Council, and the Council was assuring everyone that the blood was secure, Mercury was stealing parts of the store. Never whole bottles, just enough to ensure that if any whet fell into bad books with their parents or the Council they could run to Mercury for help.

“There are many potions requiring witches’ blood. White Witches go to Mercury when they can’t get help within their own community. Black Witches go to her when they need White Witch blood for a potion. Mercury does not help people for free, but she doesn’t get paid in cash; she gets paid in kind. She exchanges the blood for potions, spells, rare ingredients, magical items . . . You get the idea. She has learned how to make potions and cast spells even though that is not her Gift. She has access to strong magic, and she has grown into a very powerful witch.”

“And how do I find her?”

“Oh, I don’t know where she is. Not many people do. But there are a few White Witches who don’t agree with the Council’s methods or for some reason or other have fallen out with them. Mercury uses such people. And one of them I do know.”

“And I can trust this person?”

“Yes, you can trust Bob. He has his own reasons for despising the Council. He’s a good friend.”

We’re silent. I think I can trust Mary, but Mercury doesn’t sound like a good solution to my problems. And I want to see my father.

I say, “But I think my father—”

Mary interrupts, “Yes, let’s talk about your father. Of course, I don’t know him at all well, and your gran knows him better than I do.”

I’m not sure that I heard that right.

“I take it from that look on your face that she’s never mentioned that.”

“No! How does Gran know Marcus?”

“We’ll come to that shortly. First tell me what you know about your father.”

My head is spinning. Gran knows Marcus. That means . . .

Mary prods me on the arm. “Tell me what you know about Marcus. We’ll get back to your gran soon enough.”

I hesitate. Gran said never to talk about Marcus, and she never talked about him. But all the time she’s kept this secret from me. . . .

I say it loud and clear. “Marcus is my father. One of the few Black Witches left in England.”

I was always afraid to talk about him because the Council might be listening, but now it feels like he is listening.

And then I’m angry at him, and angry at Gran, and I say, “He’s powerful and ruthless. He kills White Witches and takes their Gifts. He mainly kills members of the Council, and Hunters too, and their families. His Gift, the one he didn’t steal from other witches, is that he can turn—transform—into animals. This means he can eat the hearts of witches whose Gifts he wants. He becomes a lion, or something like that, eats their beating hearts and steals their Gifts.”

I’m breathing heavily.

“His mother was Saba; she was killed by Clay. Saba killed Clay’s mother, Virginia. Saba struggled with being indoors at night. So do I. And I guess Marcus is the same.

“I’m good at drawing, and Marcus is too. I’m rubbish at reading, and I guess that’s one of the few things Marcus is bad at. I have weird noises in my head, and I bet that runs in the family as well.

“Marcus hates White Witches. I’m not fond of most of them either. But I don’t go around killing them!” I shout that last bit at the treetops.

“He leaves no survivors. He kills women, children, everyone, except he didn’t kill my mother. He would probably have killed Jessica, Deborah, and Arran, but they were with my gran the night he attacked my mother. He killed their father.”

Silence.

I look at Mary and speak quietly now. “He didn’t kill my mother. He didn’t kill Gran either, though you say they’ve met. You say Gran knew him better than you did, so I guess they met more than once . . .”

Mary nods.

“So Marcus knew my mother. And Mother didn’t hate him . . . or fear him, or despise him?”

“I don’t believe so.”

I hesitate. “But they couldn’t be . . . friends . . . or lovers . . . That would be . . .”

“Unacceptable,” Mary says.

“If they were, they would have to keep it secret. . . . Though my Gran found out?”

“Or knew from the start.”

“But either way it wouldn’t make any difference; Gran couldn’t do anything except try to keep it secret too.”

“That was the best way, the only way, in which she could protect your mother. I admit she did well, considering. I believe your mother and father met once a year.”

“So, Marcus and my mother . . . they wanted to see each other . . . they arranged to meet, sent the kids to Gran’s . . . but the husband turned up unexpectedly . . . and Marcus killed him.”

Mary is nodding to each one of my statements.

“But my mother killed herself because of the guilt. . . .” I sense Mary is shaking her head.

“Because she couldn’t be with Marcus?”

Mary is still shaking her head.

I hold my gaze away from her, eventually saying what I have always known. “Because of me?”

Mary’s hand is on my arm and I turn to look at her pale eyes, watery with age. “Not in the way you think.”

“How many ways can there be?”

“I suspect she hoped that you would look like her, like her other children. You didn’t. It was clear once you were born that your father was Marcus.”

So it was because of me.

Mary pushes me on. “What would the Council want your mother to do?”

I remember Jessica’s story and the card she said had been sent to Mother. I say, “Kill me.”

“No. I don’t think the Council has ever wanted that. But your mother was a White Witch; she loved a Black Witch and had his child. And, because of her relationship, her husband—a White Witch, a member of the Council—was killed.”

The truth leaves me hollow. They would want her to kill herself. They made her do it.

Two Weapons

The next morning Mary makes porridge. She sucks hers up slowly, making disgusting noises. I haven’t slept, and the slurping sets me on edge.

Between spoonfuls she says, “Your gran has done the best she can with you.”

I scowl at her. “My gran has lied to me.”

“When?”

“When she didn’t tell me that she had met Marcus, that she knew Marcus. When she didn’t deny that my mother was attacked by him. When she didn’t tell me that the Council was responsible for my mother’s death.”

Mary pokes me with her spoon. “If the Council ever found out where I was and what I’d helped you discover, what do you think they’d do to me?”

I look away.

“Well?”

“Are you trying to tell me that they would have killed Gran?”

“And will do.”

I know she’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Mary gives me a string of chores to “help me get out of my morning grouchiness.”

As she supervises my scraping out of the chicken house, I say, “Gran told me that you left the Council in disgrace.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of describing it.”

“How would you describe it?”

“A lucky escape. Finish that and close it all back up. Then make some tea and I’ll tell you.”

I boil water on the stove in the cottage and Mary sits outside in the sun. When I bring the tea she pats the grass beside her. We lean back against the wall of the cottage.

“Remember, Nathan, the Council is dangerous. They will not allow anyone to show the slightest weakness toward Black Witches. I was foolish enough to once voice a concern I had. I worked as a secretary for the Council. My job was to keep the records. They have many files and I kept them well, but one day when I was tidying up I had a few minutes of free time and I decided to read one. It described the Retribution delivered to a Black Witch. It was horrific.

“I stupidly told one of the Council members that the Retribution was terrible. This was not a problem. Retribution is terrible, it’s supposed to be, and if I had stopped there nothing would have happened. But I didn’t. It bothered me greatly. I couldn’t sleep. I had always known about Retribution but somehow I hadn’t realized how much suffering was inflicted. A month of torture before they let the witch die. I worked for the Council because I believed White Witches were good, superior, and I was now faced with the fact that they were as bad as Black Witches, as bad as fains, as bad as them all.

“There was a Black Witch in the cells and I knew what they would be doing to him.

“It was stupid to even try to help him. He would never be able to escape. But I was full of righteous anger. And so I did what I could.

“I pretended that I was mad with hate at the Black Witch. He had killed the family of one of the Council Members so it wasn’t hard, though in truth they were a stuck-up snotty bunch who always treated me like muck.”

She slurps her tea.

“I made an excuse to get into the cells. I didn’t really have a plan, I had no weapon, but by the door was a table and on that were knives and . . . other things. Instruments of torture, I suppose you’d call them. I picked up a knife and started screaming and shouting and pretending to attack the prisoner. It was pointless as an attack. There was no possibility that I could have killed him. But in the struggle with the guard I made sure that the knife landed within the reach of the witch who was chained in the cell. He stabbed himself in the heart within a second of picking it up.”

Mary put her teacup down.

“I pretended that I was mad. I got off. But there were doubts. Some thought I was faking it. So now I try to . . . Oh, what’s that phrase? Stay off-grid.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, I’m often surprised at what I did. But I don’t regret it. I saved that man from weeks of torture.”

“Who was he?”

“Ah, a good question at last.”

She puts her hand gently on my arm.

“He was Massimo. He was Marcus’s grandfather.”

Later that morning Mary makes me memorize the instructions for my departure. They are similar to the ones for my arrival.

“Is this a spell to ensure that I’m not followed?”

“One of my specialties and, though I say so myself, quite tricky to accomplish well. Most witches don’t have the patience for it. You have to take time over each step. And, if you do, even Hunters can’t track you.”

“Hunters would follow me here, I suppose.”

“Hunters follow you everywhere, Nathan, and always have. Apart from your journey here. And your journey away from here, if you follow the instructions.”

“They always follow me?”

“They’re Hunters, Nathan. The clue is in the name. And they’re very good.”

I nod. “Yeah, I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Never underestimate the enemy, Nathan. Never. Hunters follow you everywhere and could kill you at any time. They want to, Nathan. But they work for the Council and the Council manages to keep them in check, just.”

“So I should be grateful to them?”

Mary shakes her head. “The Council is more dangerous than the Hunters, remember that too. They use the Hunters. They use everything they can.”

I’m not sure what she means by “everything.” I say, “Gran has told me they use spies.”

“Yes, spying is one of their favorite methods. Trust no one, Nathan. Not friends, not even family. If they’re White then the Council will use them as spies if they can. And they usually can.

“The Council and Hunters are united in one aim: they want Marcus dead. And all his bloodline too.”

“Yesterday you said that you thought the Council has never wanted to kill me.”

“Not yet. At the moment they think that you are more use to them alive.”

“So they want to use me to trap Marcus?”

“I’m sure they have considered it, probably tried it. But there’s more than that. Don’t go to any more assessments. Find Mercury. She will hide you until your Giving. Go as soon as you can.”

I nod again, but I can tell she is building up to tell me one last thing. But she goes quiet again.

I say, “There’s something else I’ve remembered about Marcus. A few years ago there was an attack on a family of White Witches, the Greys. Marcus killed them. But I think he was trying to get something that they had. Something called the Fairborn. Do you know what that is?”

Mary nods. “Yes, I do. It’s a knife.”

“Why would Marcus want it?”

“It’s a special knife. A vicious thing. Fairborn is the name of the man who made it, over a hundred years ago, I believe. He engraved his name on the blade. I came to know the knife very well during the investigation that the Council made into my attack in the cells: it’s the same knife that I threw to Massimo. It was Massimo’s knife.”

“I see why Marcus would want it back.”

“No. I don’t think you do, Nathan.”

Mary rubs her forehead with the back of her hand and sighs.

“Marcus visited me a few weeks ago. He came to ask me a favor. He sees glimpses of the future . . . possible futures. I think it’s a burden more than a Gift. He told me one of his visions, one that he first had many years ago and still sees today. He wanted me to tell you about it. He thought if you knew, you might understand him better.”

“He has a message for me! And you’ve waited till I’m leaving to tell me?”

“If it was up to me I wouldn’t tell you at all. You must understand, Nathan, this is a vision. A possible future. It is only that. But the more store you set in visions the more they have a habit of coming true.”

“Do you have any idea how much I want to hear from him?” I walk away from her and then back again, leaning close to her face. “Tell me.”

“Nathan, there are many White Witches who see visions of the future. If Marcus has seen this vision, you can be sure that the Council will know of it too. Marcus wants you to understand him but also understand the Council.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“There are two weapons that together will kill your father. Both are protected by the Council, until they are ready to be used.”

“What are they?”

“The first is the Fairborn.”

“And?”

“The other weapon is—”

But then I don’t want to hear it. I know what she is going to say, and there is a sound in my head like thunder and animal growling and I want it to stay, grow louder, because this message is not the message I have been waiting for. It has to be wrong. Mary is saying it, but maybe I haven’t heard it right with this noise in my skull. And if the noise carries on I won’t have—

“Nathan! Are you listening?”

I shake my head. “I won’t kill him.”

“That is why you must leave. If you stay any longer with White Witches, the Council will make you do it. You are the second weapon.”

The Sixth Notification

It’s just one possible future.

That’s the mantra I repeat to myself. There are millions, billions, of possible futures.

And I won’t kill him. I know that. He’s my father.

I won’t kill him.

And I want to see him. I want to tell him. But he believes the vision. He won’t want to see me. Ever.

And if I try to see him he’ll think I want to kill him. He’ll kill me.

Mary has given me the address of Bob, her friend who will help me find Mercury. She says that I should leave immediately and I tell her that I will, though I’m just saying words. I don’t know what I will do.

I head home.

I want to talk to Gran. I need to ask her about Marcus. She has to tell me something. And Arran’s Giving is now only a day away. I want to be with him for that and then I’ll leave.

I arrive in the evening. It’s still light. Gran is in the kitchen making a cake for after the Giving ceremony. She doesn’t ask about Mary’s party.

I don’t say “hello” or “missed you” or “how’s the cake coming on?” I say, “How many times have you met Marcus?”

She stops what she’s doing and glances at the kitchen door saying, “Jessica’s come home for Arran’s Giving.”

I move close to Gran and say quietly, “He’s my father. I want to know about him.”

Gran shakes her head. She tries to persuade me that she’ll tell me tomorrow but I threaten to shout for Jessica to come and hear the story too. Even though Gran must know I’d never do that, she slumps down in the chair and, in a voice that’s only a murmur, she tells me all she knows about Marcus and my mother.

In our bedroom I open the window. It’s dark now and a thin sliver of moon is rising. Arran gets out of bed and hugs me. I hug him back for a long time. Then we sit on the floor by the window.

Arran asks, “How was the birthday party?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“You tell me about tomorrow. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit nervous. I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

“Jessica’s come back for the ceremony.”

“Gran told me.”

“Will you come?”

I can’t even shake my head.

He says, “It’s okay.”

“I wanted to.”

“I’d rather you were here now. This is better.”

Arran and I talk for a bit, reminiscing about the films that we watched together, and eventually talking more about his Giving. I say I think his Gift will be healing, like our mother’s. She had a strong Gift, and she was exceptionally kind and gentle; Gran has told me that. I think Arran will be like her. He thinks it will be a weak Gift, whatever it is, but he doesn’t mind, and I know he’s being honest.

Much later he goes to bed and I draw a picture for him. It’s of him and me playing in the woods.

I sit on the floor through most of the night, my head by the open window, watching Arran sleep. I know that I can’t stay for the Giving, not if Jessica will be there. And I can’t tell Arran where I’m going. I can’t even tell him good-bye.

I’m still trying to make sense of my mother and father’s relationship, and why Gran hid it from me, but in the end it’s easier not to think about it at all.

It’s still dark when I leave. Arran is sprawled across his bed, one foot over the side. I kiss my fingertips and touch them to his forehead, put the picture on his pillow, and scoop up my rucksack.

In the hall I switch on the table lamp and pick up the photo of my mother. She looks different to me now. Perhaps her husband loved her—he looks happy enough—but she looks sad, trying to smile but squinting instead.

I put the photo down and walk quickly through the kitchen.

As soon as I’m outside I feel the relief of fresh air. I take a step, two at most, before I hear the hiss of mobile phones rushing at me. Two black figures appear and their hands are on my arms and shoulders, turning me and slamming me into the house wall. I struggle and am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again. My wrists are cuffed behind my back and I am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again.

I’m back in the assessment room. My restraints had been removed after the journey down, which was in the back of a car with a Hunter either side of me. I gathered from their conversation that Gran was in another car that was following behind.

I think about Arran’s Giving ceremony. Gran will not be there, and I realize Jessica came back not to attend the ceremony but to conduct it. The Council will have given her the blood. Arran will hate it. And that’s all part of it too. They love to twist the knife.

I stand before the three Council members. The Council Leader speaks first. “You have been brought here today to answer some serious questions.”

I make an effort to look wide-eyed and innocent.

The woman to the right of the Council Leader gets up from her chair and slowly walks around the table to stand in front of me. She’s shorter than I expected. She’s not in the white robe that Council members normally wear for my assessments; she’s wearing a gray pinstriped suit with a white blouse underneath. Her high heels click sharply on the stone floor.

“Pull up your sleeve.”

I’m wearing a shirt over a T-shirt, and the cuffs are undone as the buttons have been lost long ago. I raise the arm of my left sleeve.

“And the other one,” the woman says. Now that she is close to me I can see that her eyes are dark brown, as dark as her skin, but they contain silver shards that spiral slowly, almost fading and then reappearing brightly.

“Let me see your arm,” she insists.

I do as she says. The inside of my arm is marked by a series of faint thin scars, twenty-eight of them, one for each day that I had tested my healing ability.

The woman takes my wrist between her forefinger and thumb, gripping hard and raising my arm so that it’s directly in front of her eyes. She holds it there and I can feel her breath on my skin, then she lets me go and walks back to her seat. She says, “Show your arm to the other Council members.”

I step forward and hold my arm out over the table.

Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, hardly gives it a glance. His hair is slicked back in a yellow-white sheen. He bends to the Council Leader’s ear and whispers.

I wonder if they know about the scars on my back. Probably. Kieran would have bragged about what he’d done.

“Step back from the table now,” Soul says.

I do as I’m told.

“Can you heal cuts?” he asks.

Denial seems ridiculous but I never want to admit to anything here.

He repeats his question and I stand silently.

“You must answer our questions.”

“Why?”

“Because we are the Council of White Witches.”

I stare at him.

“Can you heal cuts?”

I carry on with the staring.

“Where have you been for the last two days?”

I don’t take my eyes off him but I answer this one. “I was in the woods near our house. I camped out for the night.”

“It is a serious offence to lie to the Council.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You were not in the woods. You were not in any area that the Council has given you approval to be.”

I try to look innocently surprised.

“In fact, we could not find you anywhere at all.”

“You’re mistaken. I was in the local woods.”

“No. I am not mistaken. And, as I said before, it is a serious offence to lie to the Council.”

I’m still holding his gaze, and I repeat, “I was in the woods.”

“No.” Soul doesn’t sound angry, more bored and unimpressed.

The Council Leader holds her hand up. “Enough.”

Soul looks from me to his fingernails and reclines in his chair.

The Council Leader calls to the guard at the back of the room, “Bring Mrs. Ashworth in.”

The latch rattles and Gran’s footsteps approach slowly. I turn to look at her when she is standing beside me, and I’m shocked to see a small and frightened old woman.

The Council Leader speaks. “Mrs. Ashworth. We have asked you here so that you can answer the accusations leveled against you. Serious accusations. You have failed to comply with notifications of the Council. The notifications clearly state that the Council must be informed if there is any contact between Half Codes and White Witches and White Whets. You failed to do this. You also failed to prevent the Half Code from moving to unauthorized areas of the country.”

The Council Leader looks down at her papers and then up again at Gran. “Have you anything to say?”

Gran is silent.

“Mrs. Ashworth. You are the Half Code’s guardian and it is your responsibility to ensure that the notifications are followed. You have failed to ensure that the Half Code remained in certified areas and you have failed to inform the Council of meetings between the Half Code and the White Witches Kieran, Niall, Connor, and Annalise O’Brien.”

“My grandmother doesn’t know about anything. And I had no intention of meeting Kieran, Niall, and Connor. They attacked me.”

“Our understanding is that you attacked them,” the Council Leader replies.

“One attacking three. Yeah, right.”

“And Annalise? Did you intend to meet her?”

I go back to staring.

“Did you intend to meet Annalise? Or attack her? Or something else?”

I want to kill her with my stare.

The Council Leader turns back to Gran. “Mrs. Ashworth, why did you ignore the notifications?”

“I didn’t ignore them. I followed them.” Gran’s voice is shaky and small.

“No. You did not follow them. You have failed to control the Half Code. Or perhaps you knew of his trips to unauthorized places and decided not to inform the Council of these infringements?”

“I followed the notifications,” Gran repeats quietly.

The Council Leader sighs and nods to Annalise’s uncle, who pulls out a piece of parchment from under the desk. He reads out times and dates of when I left home, where I went, and when I returned. Every trip to Wales.

I feel sick. I was so sure that I had not been followed. But there is no mention of the trip to see Mary. Her instructions worked, but clearly my disappearance aroused suspicion.

“Do you deny that you made these trips outside authorized areas?” the Council Leader asks.

I don’t want to admit anything still, but denying it seems pointless now. “My gran didn’t know what I was doing. I told her I was going to the woods, where I am authorized to be.”

The woman says, “So you admit you failed to comply with the notifications. You lied to the Council. You deceived your own grandmother, a pure White Witch.”

Annalise’s uncle says, “Yes, it is clear that he has tried to deceive us all. But it is Mrs. Ashworth’s responsibility to ensure compliance with the notifications. And”—he pauses now to look at the Council Leader who inclines her head slightly—“as Mrs. Ashworth has clearly failed to do that, we will have to appoint someone who can.”

At that moment a huge woman steps forward from the far corner of the room. I had noticed her before but I thought she was a guard. She comes to stand to the left of the table. Despite her size she moves with grace, and though she stands straight, almost to attention, she has a poise that is strange, as if she’s a cross between a dancer and a soldier.

The Council Leader produces another parchment from beneath the table saying, “We agreed to a new resolution yesterday.” She reads slowly:

“Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

“All Half Codes (W 0.5/B 0.5) are to be educated and supervised at all times only by those White Witches who have the approval of the Council.”

“He is educated under my supervision. I am a White Witch. I am teaching him well.” Gran’s voice is timid. It is almost as if she is talking to herself.

The Council Leader says, “Mrs. Ashworth, it is clear that you have failed to comply with at least two of the notifications of the Council. Punishments have been considered.”

Considered? What does that mean? What would they do to her?

“But the Council agrees that we are not here to punish White Witches. We are here to assist and protect them.”

The Council Leader starts reading from the parchment she holds. Annalise’s uncle is looking bored and studying his fingernails; the woman in the gray suit is looking at the Council Leader.

I can’t dodge past the guards behind me, but there is a door in the far wall through which the Council members enter the room.

The Council Leader reads on, but my attention is not on her. “. . . and we realize that the task . . . too onerous. The new notification . . . relieve you of the burden . . . the education and development of a Half Code . . . not to be taken lightly . . . monitored and controlled.”

I run for the far door, leaping onto the table between the Council Leader and the woman in gray. I jump from the table to shouts from the guards and the Council Leader reaches a hand out too late to grab my leg. It is five or six strides to the door and I’m clear of them all. Then the noise hits me.

A high-pitched whirring sound fills my head so suddenly that I’m unable to do anything but clamp my hands over my ears and scream. The pain is excruciating. I am on my knees, staring at the door, unable to move. I scream for the noise to stop, but it carries on to blackness.

Silence.

I’m on the floor, snot running out of my nose, my fingers still in my ears. I must have been unconscious less than a minute. The big guard/dancer woman’s black army boots are near my face.

“Get up.” Her voice is quiet, soft.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and shakily get to my feet.

The woman is wearing green canvas trousers and a heavy army-style camouflage jacket. Her face is so plain that she can only be called ugly. Her skin is pockmarked and lightly tanned. She has a wide mouth and fat lips. Her eyes are blue, with a few small silver glints. She has short, white eyelashes. Her blonde hair is short, spiky, and thin, barely covering her scalp. She is, I guess, about forty years old.

“I’m your new teacher and guardian,” she says.

Before I can react she turns from me and nods to the guards, who lift me up by my arms and carry me out of the room. I fight as best I can but my feet don’t even touch the ground. Between my struggles and the thick arm and chest of a guard I catch a glimpse of Gran. Tears are in her eyes and her cardigan is off one shoulder as if someone pulled her or held her back. Now she is just standing alone, looking lost.

I’m carried off down the corridors and outside into a paved courtyard where a white van is parked, its rear doors open. I’m thrown inside. Before I can scramble to my feet a knee is in my back pinning me down and my wrists are being handcuffed behind me. Then I’m dragged farther into the van and thick fingers, her fingers, put a collar round my neck. I spit and curse and receive a hard slap on the back of my skull. My head swims. The collar is chained closely to a ring in the van’s floor.

Still I struggle and kick and swear and scream.

But the noise hits me again.

This time I can’t protect my ears. I scream in panic and kick and fight my way into black silence.

When I come to, the van is moving and I’m being bounced around on its rusting metal floor. The journey goes on and on. I can see the back of the big woman’s head. She is driving the van, but there don’t seem to be any guards or Hunters with us.

I shout that I need to pee. I think there may be a chance of escape with her alone.

She ignores me.

I shout at her again. “I need to pee.” And I really do.

She half turns her head and shouts back, “Then shut up and have one. You’ll be cleaning the van tomorrow.”

Still she keeps driving. When it gets dark my guts are in turmoil from being inside as well as from the motion of the van. I fight not to throw up but don’t manage to hold it off for more than a few minutes.

Because of the collar and chain, my head is resting in my own vomit. She doesn’t stop until we arrive at our destination many hours later and by then I’m lying in a brew of my own sick and piss.