style="font-size:15px;"> This was hardly unique, Fern reflected. Most witches favoured long hair. Perhaps that was why she kept hers so short.
She groped for the right questions to ask. ‘Do you know when she came to the house?’
Dibbuck was largely oblivious to dates. ‘The party,’ he said. ‘Big party.’ A faraway echo of remembered mischief brightened his face. ‘I added things to the drinks. Salt. Red pepper. There were many people in many clothes. Long clothes, short clothes. Masks.’
‘Fancy dress?’ Fern said quickly.
Dibbuck looked bewildered.
‘Never mind. So the witch was there?’
‘Didn’t see her. Too many people. But she was there after.’ He added: ‘The hag came later, and the cat, and the gypsy.’
Fern tried to elicit further details, with limited success. The hag appeared to be some kind of servant, the gypsy maybe a temporary worker. ‘Tell me about the cat.’
‘It was a goblin-cat,’ interrupted the queen. ‘A sallowfang. He was afraid of it.’
‘What’s a goblin-cat?’
‘They were the cats of the king of the Underworld,’ Mabb explained, with the complacency of a child who has access to privileged information. ‘They have no fur, and their skin is black or white, sometimes striped or piebald. They are bigger than normal cats, and very cunning.’ She concluded, with a narrowing of the eyes: ‘They used to hunt goblins.’
‘A sphinx-cat,’ suggested Gaynor. ‘I’ve never seen one, but I know they’re hairless.’
‘These sound as if they’re magical, or part magical,’ said Fern. ‘Could be a relative.’
‘This one chased him,’ said Mabb, indicating Dibbuck. ‘He was lucky to escape. A sallowfang can smell a spider in a rainstorm.’
‘What about the household ghosts?’ said Fern. ‘Skuldunder said something about an exorcism.’
‘She made the circle,’ Dibbuck said, ‘in the spellchamber. I saw them all streaming in—they couldn’t resist—Sir William—the kitchen imp—little memories like insects, buzzing. I pinned myself to the floor with a splinter, so I couldn’t go. They were trapped in the circle, spinning round and round. Then she…’ His voice ran down like a clockwork toy, into silence.
‘She opened the abyss,’ Mabb finished for him. ‘I thought my servant told you.’
‘You mean—Limbo?’ hazarded Gaynor.
‘Limbo is a place of sleep and dreams,’ Mabb responded impatiently. ‘It is a part of this world. The abyss is between worlds. It is—emptiness. They say those who are cast into it may be swallowed up forever. When mortals die they pass the Gate. We go to Limbo, until this world is remade. But no one may return from the abyss until all worlds are changed. I thought even humans would know that.’
‘We have our own lore,’ said Fern. ‘It must take a great deal of power, to open a gap between worlds…’
‘And for what?’ Mabb sounded savage with indignation. ‘A few ragged phantoms—an imp or two—a handful of degenerates. So much power—for so little. She is mad, this witch, mad and dangerous. She might do anything.’
For all her eccentric appearance and freakish temperament, thought Fern, the goblin-queen showed a vein of common sense. ‘Can you recall her name?’ she asked Dibbuck, but he shook his head. ‘The name of the house, then?’
‘Wrokeby.’ His face twisted in sudden pain.
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
Dibbuck looked confused. ‘The prisoner,’ he said eventually. ‘In the attic.’
‘What kind of prisoner? Was it a girl?’
‘No…Couldn’t see. Something—huge, hideous…A monster.’
Not Dana Walgrim, Fern concluded. ‘What else?’
Dibbuck mumbled inaudibly, gazing into corners, seeking inspiration or merely a germ of hope. ‘She had a tree,’ he said. ‘In the cellar.’
‘A tree in the cellar?’ Fern was baffled. ‘How could a tree grow in the dark?’
‘Seeds grow in the dark,’ said Mabb. ‘Plant-magic is very old; maybe the witchkind do not use it now. You take a seed, a fortune-seed, or a love-seed, and as it germinates so your fortune waxes, or your lover’s affection increases. They used to be popular: mortals are always obsessed with wealth or love. If the seed does not sprout, then you have no fortune, no love.’
‘Not a seed,’ said Dibbuck. ‘It was a tree, a young tree. It was uprooted, but it was alive. I smelt the forest, I saw the leaves move. She wrapped it in silk, and fed it, and sang to it.’
‘Does this ritual mean anything to you?’ Fern asked Mabb, inadvertently forgetting to give her her royal title.
But Mabb, too, had forgotten her dignity. Possibly the vodka had affected her. ‘I have never heard of such a thing,’ she said. ‘A woman who wraps a tree in swaddling clothes, and lullabyes it to sleep, sounds to me more foolish than magical. Perhaps, if she is besotted with these fancies, she may not be dangerous after all. When I wanted to play at motherhood, I would steal a babe from a rabbit’s burrow, or a woodman’s cradle, not pluck a bunch of dead twigs. Of course,’ she added with an eye on Fern, ‘that was long ago. I have outgrown such folly. Besides, human babies scream all the time. It becomes tiresome.’
‘So I’m told,’ said Fern. ‘I need to think about all this. Your Highness, may I have some means of calling on you and your servants again, should it be necessary? This witch may indeed be mad or foolish, but I fear otherwise. I must make a spell of farsight, and then I may know what further questions to ask your subject.’
‘I will have the royal burglar pass by here othernights,’ Mabb decreed, magnanimously. ‘If you wish to speak with him, pin a mistletoe-sprig to your door.’
‘It’s out of season,’ Fern pointed out.
‘Well,’ Mabb shrugged, ‘any leaves will do.’ She waited a minute, beginning to tap her foot. ‘You mentioned gifts…’
Fern went into her bedroom for a hasty trawl through makeup drawer and jewel-box.
‘Can you make a spell of farsight?’ Gaynor asked when they were alone.
‘I could light the spellfire,’ Fern said, ‘if I had any crystals. That might tell me something. Do you want a G and T?’
‘Actually,’ said Gaynor, ‘just tea would be good. I’ll make it.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Fern headed for the kitchen.
‘Are you—are you going to tell Will about this?’
‘Probably.’ There was a pause filled with the
