had closed his eyes but when his ears were covered again he reopened them. And he knew that if he endured another thousand years, he would never forget what he saw.
There was a mist pouring past him along the beam of light—a mist of dim shapes, formless as amoeba, empty faces with half-forgotten features, filmy hands wavering like starfish, floating shreds of clothing and hair. Even though his ears were blocked he heard a buzzing in his head, as if far-off cries of desperation and despair had been reduced to little more than the chittering of insects. He wanted to listen but he dared not, lest he respond to the summons and lose himself in that incorporeal tide. He saw the topless torso of Sir William grasping his own head by its wispy locks: the eyes met his for an instant in a fierce, helpless stare. He glimpsed the tonsure of a priest, slain in the Civil War, a coachman’s curling whip and flapping greatcoat, the swollen belly of a housemaid, impregnated by her master. And amongst them the fluid gleam of water-sprites and the small shadowy beings who had lived for centuries under brick or stone, no longer able to remember what they were or who they had once been. Even the imp from the Aga was there, trailing in the rear, clutching in vain at the door-frame until he was wrenched into the vortex of the spell.
When the stream of phantoms had finally passed Dibbuck plucked out the splinter and limped forward, still blocking his ears, until he could just see into the room. The pain of his foot went unregarded as he watched what followed, too petrified even to shiver. Within the circle, the ghosts were drawn into a whirling, shuddering tornado, a pillar that climbed from floor to ceiling, bending this way and that as the spirits within struggled to escape. Distorted features spun around the outside, writhing lips, stretching eyes. The witch stood on the periphery with her arms outspread, as if she held the very substance of the air in her hands. The spell soared to a crescendo; the tornado spun into a blur. Then the chant stopped on a single word, imperative as fate: ‘Uvalé!’ And again: ‘Uvalé néan-charne!’ Blue lightning ripped upwards, searing through the pillar. There was a crack that shook the room, and inside the circle the floor opened.
The swirl of ghosts was sucked down as if by an enormous vacuum, vanishing into the hole with horrifying speed. The goblin caught one final glimpse of Sir William, losing hold of his head for the first time since his death, his mouth a gape of absolute terror. Then he was gone. What lay below Dibbuck could not see, save that it was altogether dark. The last phantom drained away; the circle was empty. At a word from the witch, the crack closed. On the far side of the room he registered the presence of Nehemet, sitting bolt upright like an Egyptian statue; the light of the spellfire shone balefully in her slanted eyes. Slowly, one step at a time, he inched backwards. Then he began to run.
‘We missed one,’ said the woman. ‘One spying, prying little rat. I do not tolerate spies. Find him.’
The cat sprang.
But Dibbuck had grown adept at running and dodging of late, and he was fast. The injury to his foot was insubstantial as his flesh; it hurt but hardly hindered him. He fled with a curious hobbling gait, down the twisting stairs and along the maze of corridors, through doors both open and shut, over shadow and under shadow. Nehemet might be swifter, but her solidity hampered her, and at the main door she had to stop, mewing savagely and scratching at the panels. Outside, Dibbuck was still running. He did not hesitate, nor look back. Through the Wrokewood he ran, and up Farsee Hill, and in the shelter of three trees he halted to rest, hoping that in this place his wild cousins of long ago might have some power to keep him from pursuit.
The conservatory was completed; the gypsy and his co-workers had been paid and dismissed. ‘You have not found him,’ Morgus said to the sphinx-cat. ‘Well. It is not important. He was only a goblin, a creature of cobwebs and corners, less trouble than a dormouse. We have greater matters in hand.’ It was four days since the exorcism, and the house grew very still when she passed: the curtains did not breathe, the stairs did not creak. Somewhere deep in its ancient mortar, in the marrow of its walls, it felt lonely for its agelong occupants, lonely and uncomprehending. It sensed the invasion of alien lights, the laying down of new shadows, the incursion of elementals lured by the force of dark magic. It missed the familiar ghosts, as a stray dog given a well-meaning bath misses its native fleas. Inside, the atmosphere changed, becoming bleak and watchful, though no one was watching any more.
The prisoner in the attic felt it, if only because there was nothing else to feel. Morgus rarely visited him any more, even to gloat, so he would talk to himself, and the house, and a moth which was slight enough to slip past the spells, until he grew impatient with it, and crushed it in one vicious hand. He had the strength to wrench the iron bars from their sockets and snap the chains that bound him as if they were made of rust, but magic reinforced both chain and bar, and though he tugged until his muscles tore it was futile. ‘What is she doing?’ he would ask the house, and when it made no answer he could sense the new silence and stillness permeating from below. He lay long hours with his ear to the floor, listening. He knew when the ghosts were gone, and he heard the padding of Nehemet’s paws as she hunted, and the softest rumour of Morgus’ voice grated like a saw on his thought. Sometimes he would howl like a beast—like the beast he was—but nobody came, and the sound bounced off the walls of his prison and returned to him, finding no way out. Sometimes he wept, hot red tears of frustration and rage which steamed when they touched the ground. And then he would curse Morgus, and the attic prison, and the whole world, until he was hoarse with cursing, and in the silence that followed his lips would shape the name of his friend—his one friend in all the history of time—and he would call for help in a moth-like whisper, and crush his mouth against the floor in the anguish of the unheard.
In the reconstructed conservatory, Morgus was planting the Tree. It was midnight, under the pale stare of an incurious moon. The triangular panes of the roof cast radiating lines of shadow around the stone pot in which Morgus placed the sapling. Here was a different kind of magic, a magic of vitality and growth: the air shimmered faintly about the bole, and the leaves rippled, and the sap ascended eagerly through slender trunk and thrusting twig with a throb like the beat of blood. Morgus crooned her eerie lullabyes, and fed it from assorted vials, and the cat sat by, motionless as Bastet save for the twitch of her tail. ‘We are on the soil of Britain: my island, my kingdom,’ said the witch. ‘Here, you can grow tall and strong. Fill my flagons with your sap, and bring forth fruit for me—fruit that will swell and ripen—whatever that fruit may be.’ She gathered up the discarded wrappings and left the conservatory, Nehemet at her heels. Behind them, unseen, the heavy base of the urn began very slowly to split, millimetre by millimetre, as the severed taproot forced its way through stone and tile, flooring and foundation, down into the earth beneath.
‘I wish you’d stop giving me advice,’ Will Capel complained. He and his sister were returning from Great-Aunt Edie’s funeral in the West Country, an event that many of her relatives felt was long overdue. She had ended her days in a retirement home near Torquay, but this had not prevented her from descending on hapless family members for Christmas, Easter, weddings, anniversaries and christenings, not to mention the funerals of those less hardy than herself. Since she had been ninety-one when she died, Fern felt excessive grief was not called for. While she drove, she found she was remembering her own aborted wedding, and Aunt Edie’s hovering presence there, usually clutching a copita of sherry.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, I wish you would stop giving me advice.’
‘I didn’t,’ Fern said serenely. ‘I never give advice.’
‘It’s the way you never give advice,’ said Will. ‘I can feel the advice you’re not giving me radiating out from your brain in telepathic pulses. And there’s your expression.’
‘I haven’t got an expression.’
‘Yes you have. It’s your favourite cool, you-can’t-guess-what-I’m-thinking expression. If we were playing poker,
