‘A freak event. They happen everywhere.’
‘In the same spot, Jonathan Jones got hit by lightning; then exactly a year later his son got hit by lightning.’
‘They should avoid that spot then.’
‘They put it down to coincidence and a year later…’
‘Don’t tell me, his wife got hit by lightning.’
‘No, his dog.’
‘Oh, that’s awful.’
‘It survived, but it went from a red setter to white.’
I hate it when bad things happen to animals.
‘And, as you know, the legend says that in the end the town will be plagued by a terrifying heat and everyone will die. I don’t know if you’ve noticed Wilde but it’s pretty hot at the moment.’
The curse sounds more convincing than I’d expected, but I’m not going to admit it.
Vera starts up the lane, then stops. The engine rattles and groans like my stomach.
‘I hope you like the house.’ Mae struggles out and retrieves my case from the back seat. I take it from her. The clasp is fragile and I don’t want it to pop and scatter my belongings all over the lane. There isn’t much in the case. I’ve just brought the important things: a seagull’s skull, the Complete Works of Shakespeare, a photo of my mum and me when I was a baby, two sticks of rock, a folder of my favourite future travel destinations, basic clothes and a broken raven brooch I never leave behind.
We pant up the last bit of the hill and turn the corner. The house scrutinizes me. I feel smaller than a toddler under its inspection.
‘It’s OK. Witch Point House has been waiting for you.’
Gulp.
Craning my neck, I take it all in. It’s imposing. It has three chimneys and a weathervane in the shape of a stretching cat. The windows are all slanted, as if the house is leaning, and there are lanterns and bells hanging from every ledge.
‘It’s different.’ I’m doing my best.
‘Different is good.’ Mae strides ahead and I trot the path behind her, holding my suitcase together.
‘Why are the windows wonky?’
‘They are witch windows. Slanted to stop a witch from flying in. Hilarious, really.’
‘Stupid.’ I laugh. I’m glad we agree it’s ridiculous.
‘As if a witch can’t fly sideways.’
The arched-back weathervane cat moves without a breath of wind, then springs off, and I realise it is Mrs Danvers, Mae’s cat. The weathervane she has been sleeping in front of is a girl riding a bear.
‘She’s being a bit of a sourpuss, because she likes to have all the attention. She’ll calm down in a bit.’ Mae flip-flap-flops up the steps and adjusts a telescope on the porch. I hang back.
Home.
The witch windows throw out diagonal sky sapphires. In the Victorian conservatory, healing plants wilt. Heady scents of lavender and jasmine, saffron and rambling rose swirl out. Colourful homemade potions sparkle like rock pools. Mae makes cosmetics and remedies with natural ingredients. She cured me of whooping cough when I was a baby and mended Dad’s broken leg when he fell off his bike. Or so the story goes.
Further across the garden I can see a treehouse. Now that is something to be excited about.
‘Your room is right at the top.’ Mae hangs over the balustrade and points to a slanted window at the very tip of the house. ‘You can see the sea in the distance from there.’
‘Perfect.’ I am already planning my nights in the treehouse.
Mae pushes open the door. ‘Welcome, Wilde. We’ve been expecting you.’
Shadows skitter and still. Pentacle tiles, blue against silver, nestle under my feet. A breeze tickles the back of my neck.
I turn and something flies up the stairs.
‘I’ve told the animals to give you a chance to settle in before they welcome you. They can be a bit overwhelming en masse.’
‘I’d like to meet them all now.’ The only animals I can see are the birds painted on the walls. ‘Why haven’t I been here since I was a baby?’
‘That, Wilde, is complicated.’
Mae’s phone makes a noise like a werewolf howling at the moon and she goes outside to answer it.
The hall is gloomy cool with the blue stained-glass panels filtering the light. Almost like swimming. Drowning.
I watch the shadows shuffle. Something moves in the mirror, in the corner of my eye. I feel the shiver of strange all over me. I plunge down into the azure depths, searching for a slippery-fish memory I can’t quite catch. Mae brings me back to the surface.
‘That was Mrs Lee informing me of how you left. What a stupid and dangerous thing to do, Wilde.’ Mae puts her phone on the hallstand and I prepare myself for an argument. Instead she turns around and extends her hand for my phone. ‘At least you aren’t grounded.’
I give it over and sulk.
‘Don’t worry. Your dad has given me the times he’ll call, so you’ll be able to speak to him.’
As if that’s the only thing people use their phones for.
Mae takes my suitcase and I snatch it back.
‘The clasp is a bit faulty. It’s an old one. I just want to make sure nothing falls out.’ I don’t like people having my things, in case I need to run. ‘I’ll take it up.’
‘Just keep on going till you can’t go any further. It has a picture of a llama on the door so you can’t miss it.’
‘Why a llama?’
‘Why not?’
I start the Everest stairs.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. No, wait. You’re young. I’ll make us lemonade. I’ve never done it before, but it can’t be that difficult.’ Mae’s flip-flops slap away then stop. ‘Wilde?’
I halt mid-flight.
‘I’m not very good at this but I’m going to give it my very best shot.’
I nod to show I’m going to do the same.
At the top of the stairs there is a photo of Mae acting. She is wearing a tiara and impossibly high heels. Along the threadbare carpet, up another flight, followed by another – smaller for servants who didn’t get as much to eat, so didn’t need fat stairs.
The door creaks open. Laid out on a chair is a school uniform in green and gold. Bleurgh. Mae and Dad want me to go to Witch Point Primary, even though the term is almost over, so I can make some friends before the summer holidays. It’s the most ridiculous idea anyone ever had. I can’t really argue because Dad is already livid with me. I meant it when I promised him I’d be on my best behaviour while he was away working. He’s researching cures for diabetes, so other people won’t die of it like Mum did. It’s important. Dad is the best dad and I’ve let him down. I should have stuck it out, but the bullies were just too much. Again. Is it my fault? If I could be normal, would they stop picking on me?
I put my suitcase near the door, where I can grab it quickly if necessary, and sit on the bed. The springs squeak, so I bounce a bit for fun and make a horrendous noise.