this world, nor reveal the purpose of the Ultimate Powers (if there was one). Bartlemy saw only the kaleidoscope of quick-change images, the clues that led and misled. A blue-eyed schoolboy with a soft mouth, and Hazel watching him, covertly, from behind her hair – a star that wasn’t a star, looking down on Annie’s bookshop – a phantom in a mirror, too vague to have form or face but slowly solidifying, gone before he could make it out. And then they were inside the bookshop, and a man with an anxious forehead was leafing through a book, a very old book with handwritten notes at the back, in an ink that wasn’t black but brown with age. An ink, Bartlemy thought, that might once have been red. The man bought the book – Bartlemy heard Annie’s murmur of thanks – and the picture followed him out of the shop, and down the street, and somewhere in the background there was a little sound like a sigh, the released breath of an archer who sees his arrow hit the bull’s eye at last. But there was nobody there to breathe …
Lastly a dark figure in a dark room, long-robed, his back to the watcher, presumably Josevius again. He was dribbling powder through his fingers to form a magic circle – there was a hiss: ‘Fiumé!’ and a gleam of fire ran round the perimeter. And then came the muttered rhythm of an incantation, and a slow pale form coalesced at the circle’s heart. The magister, Bartlemy thought, summoning one of the Old Spirits – the Hunter, the Hag, the Child, the One We Do Not Name – in the deal which cost him his soul. But Bartlemy had used few fire-crystals, and as the last one crumbled to a smoulder the image faded into smoke. He unblocked the chimney, and the air cleared, and Hoover came and rested his chin on his master’s knee.
‘Well,’ Bartlemy said, ‘was that helpful, or wasn’t it? Do we know anything we didn’t know before? Or – at the risk of sounding like Donald Rumsfeld – do we only know things we don’t know?’ The dog made a whiffling noise. ‘Who was the man in the bookshop? Would Annie have any idea? It might be worth making a little drawing, and showing it to her. It’s a pity I’m not a better artist, but my creative skills are usually confined to the kitchen. Still, I can always cheat. Magic is about cheating, after all.’
Hoover gave a short, sharp bark.
‘Yes,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I take the point. If I can cheat, so can others. I’ll bear it in mind.’
He poured himself a glass of something that smelt of raspberries and blackberries, of cinnamon and cardamom, of Christmas cake and summer spice – but most of all of alcohol. When he had taken a sip or two he remarked with uncharacteristic force: ‘I wish I knew what the hell was going on.’
Hoover thumped his tail by way of agreement.
The summer term had begun badly for Hazel. Maths, never her favourite subject, had taken a turn for the worse, and although Nathan usually helped her with it he was busy with his own commitments and somehow, when they did meet, they always had better things to talk about. George was quite good at understanding maths, but less good at explaining what he understood about it. Now, she was floundering in a quagmire of incomprehensible numbers, struggling with the feeling, long familiar to her, that there was no point in trying to think during lessons because it wouldn’t get her anywhere, so she might as well give up before she started. Her own stupidity made her angry, and she turned the anger outward on others. She was used to the idea that Nathan was cleverer than her – Nathan was cleverer than everybody – but it was galling to find herself taking second place to George, whom she had always slightly despised, in a friendly sort of way.
But far more serious was the Jonas Tyler situation. Of course, he didn’t know she liked him – they’d only ever exchanged a few words – she didn’t want him to know, or anyone else – but that was beside the point. She’d seen him twice talking to Ellen Carver, not ordinary talking but the low-voiced, intimate kind of talk that people do when they are close to each other, and Ellen’s friend Sarah said he’d asked Ellen out to a coffee shop. Jason Wicks, already six foot two, went to pubs and terrorized the older villagers of Eade by drinking beer on street corners and throwing the cans into people’s gardens, but Jonas, though he probably drank beer, only did it in the privacy of his own home. Nonetheless, to Hazel a coffee shop represented a possible venue for seduction – the seduction, that is, of Jonas by Ellen, rather than vice versa. She spent her maths lessons brooding about it, and went home on the school bus sitting alone, wrapped in silence. Safe in the lair of her bedroom, she fought with frustration and inchoate rage, feeling herself ugly, undesirable, with a brain that wouldn’t work and a body that let her down. She remembered her great-grandmother – Effie Carlow with her raptor’s eye and witch’s nose, living in an isolated cottage, frightening people, frightening Hazel, drowned in river-water after a spell too far. You too have the power … She didn’t want to be like that, she didn’t want to be old and mad and scary, dabbling in charms and cantrips and other illusions. But the thought of Jonas with Ellen was gall and wormwood to her – it seemed to her, in the blackness of her heart, that she had nothing to lose.
She got out the bottles she had already selected, Effie’s notebook with its peely cover and scratchy writing, the beeswax candle she had bought the day before. Effie’s notes said nothing about a candle, but Hazel felt it was appropriate. (In Buffy, Willow always lit candles when she was doing magic.) She ought to go into the attic – Effie had used the attic sometimes – but the lock was broken and anyway, she had once seen something there she didn’t like. The bedroom was her place, private and secure. She wedged a chair under the door handle and cleared the dressing table by dint of shoving things onto the floor, fixing the candle in place in front of the mirror. Then she remembered the matches were in the kitchen and had to un-wedge the door to fetch them. Finally, she was ready.
She had drawn the curtains but it wasn’t dark and the candle-flame looked dim and unimpressive, a tiny gleam against the many-coloured chaos of her room. The theme music from Lord of the Rings filled the background; she had hoped it would be suitably atmospheric. In fact, atmosphere seemed to be lacking. She read out the words Effie had penned, fortunately in block capitals for clarity, unfortunately in an unknown language with no guidelines as to pronunciation. Words – as far as she could tell – intended to summon a spirit to her assistance. There was something about drawing a circle, setting boundaries to confine the spirit, but the clutter of her bedroom offered little scope for magic circles, and anyway, she looked on this as a trial run, believing nothing would happen. She had faith in science, in Nathan’s alternative universes, but not in magic, despite experience. Not in her magic.
Nothing happened.
She tried the words again, attempting a French-style pronunciation which seemed to go well with them. (Her French wasn’t great but it was better than her maths.) Her voice sounded more confident now – if nothing was going to happen, it was safe to be confident about it.
The candle-flame stretched out into a thin spool of brilliance. The room seemed darker, even if it wasn’t. Behind the flame, the mirror clouded. Hazel became aware of her heartbeat, pounding at her ribs. Thought stopped; she couldn’t tear her gaze from the mirror. Mist coiled behind the glass, slowly resolving itself into a face – a face that wavered at first, as if unable to decide how it should look, then settled into a slim, pale oval, with silver-blue eyes and silver-blonde hair that fanned out in an intangible breeze. A face curiously resembling one on a magazine cover that stared up from the floor – but Hazel didn’t notice that.
‘You have called me,’ said the face, in a voice that echoed strangely for a second, then grew low and soft. ‘I have come.’
‘Who are you?’ Hazel whispered. She had once seen the spirit with whom her great-grandmother had had dealings – the same malignant water spirit whom both Annie and Bartlemy had encountered – but it had looked nothing like this.
‘I am Lilliat, the Spirit of Flowers,’ said the face, and scattered petals seemed
