The Language Of Spells

When you are ready, seek, and you shall find. It is your gift.

Gwen Harper left Pendleford thirteen years ago and hasn’t looked back. Until an inheritance throws her into the mystical world she thought she’d escaped. Confronted with her great-aunt’s legacy, Gwen must finally face up to her past.

The magic she has long tried to suppress is back with a vengeance but, gift or burden, for Gwen it always spells trouble. She has to stay – she has nowhere else to go – but how can she find her place in the town that drove her out after branding her a witch…?

The Language of Spells

Sarah Painter

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Sarah Painter 2013

Sarah Painter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9781472017062

Version date: 2018-10-30

Sarah Painter has worked as a freelance journalist, editor and blogger for the last thirteen years, while juggling amateur child-wrangling (aka motherhood) with her demanding internet-appreciation schedule (aka procrastination).

Born in Wales to a Scot and an Englishman (very nearly a ‘three men walked into a bar’ joke), she now lives in Scotland with her husband, two children and two cats. She loves the work of Joss Whedon, reading in bed, salt and vinegar crisps, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.

Sarah gives writing advice at www.novelicious.com and writes about craft, books and writing at www.sarah-painter.com

A book is not a solo effort and this novel would not exist without the support and guidance of the Best Agent in the World; Sallyanne Sweeney.

Huge thanks, also, to Sally and Victoria, and the rest of the team at HQ Digital.

And, finally, thank you to my friends for believing in me, encouraging me and keeping me (mostly!) sane. Special thanks to the We Should Be Writing crew for their wise words, thoughtful critiques and boundless enthusiasm.

For my mum and dad for bringing me up with love, laughter and books.

For Holly and James for their all-round brilliance.

And for Dave. For everything.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

The voices in the living room were getting louder. Suddenly the man’s voice wasn’t just loud, it was shouting. A big, frightening sound that sent Gwen out from under her quilt and into her sister’s bed. Ruby was awake. Her eyes were shining in the light that came in under the door. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Ruby whispered.

‘Who is it?’ Gloria had at least two boyfriends at any time and an endless stream of people came to have their cards read. Gwen felt Ruby shrug.

Gloria’s voice had risen. She sounded really angry. Gwen shrank down until the duvet covered most of her face.

There was a burst of noise as the shouting people moved into the hallway. ‘Tell me a story,’ Ruby said.

Gwen stretched her legs. She shut the angry voices out and thought for a moment. ‘Once upon a time, there were two sisters, Rose Red and Snow White, and they were walking through a thick forest—’

‘Not that one,’ Ruby said. ‘One with a prince. A really handsome prince. With loads of money.’

The front door slammed. ‘My story does have a prince.’ Annoyance broke through Gwen’s fear. Ruby was always complaining.

‘It has a bear,’ Ruby said.

‘That turns into a prince.’

The bedroom door opened. ‘Girls?’

Gloria was framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. ‘You have to get up.’

‘I’m tired,’ Ruby said.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Gloria didn’t sound sorry. She never did. ‘We’re moving on. Get your things together. Don’t leave anything—’

‘Because we don’t look back,’ Gwen and Ruby joined in. ‘We know.’

Chapter 1

Gwen Harper had been brought up in the sure knowledge that everything in life came as a pair. Every coin had two sides, every person had an angel and a devil lurking inside, and every living thing was busy dying. Gwen couldn’t imagine a good side to returning to Pendleford but, since she had no choice in the matter, she hoped that Gloria had been right about all that ‘light and dark’ business. She crested the hill and Pendleford spread out beneath her. The town was caught in a basin of land as if cupped by giant green hands, and the yellow stonework glowed softly in the winter sunshine. The dark river cutting through the centre was like a worm in an apple.

Gwen passed a sign that had ‘Pendleford: Historic Market Town’ in smart black lettering and then a smaller yellow one that said ‘Britain in Bloom’. Slung in front of this was a collection of broken-looking dolls, their long hair tied together in a big knot. Gwen slowed down to take a closer look at the creepy faces with their dead eyes and pink Cupid’s bow mouths.

She shuddered, trying not to think about broken things, dead things, or the icy water of the river. Her Nissan Vanette made a crunching engine noise which she decided to interpret as sympathetic nerves. She patted Nanette’s dashboard reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t be staying.’ Gwen glanced at the legal documents on the passenger seat that said otherwise but, before she could start worrying in earnest, her thoughts were derailed by the sight of Pendleford. The town looked eerily the same as it had when she’d left thirteen years ago.

Gwen took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. There was no need to panic. Her mother was on the other side of the world and Pendleford was a full eight miles away from Bath and her exasperating sister. Not even Ruby could shout over that distance.

Navigating her way out of the town centre, past rows of Edwardian villas with tasteful ‘bed and breakfast’ signs, Gwen turned to logic. She was going to spend one night in her great-aunt Iris’s house. Take a bath. Get one decent night’s sleep before she headed to the solicitor’s office in the morning and found a way around the stupid ‘can’t sell for six months’ clause. Then she’d be out of Pendleford. Again.

Gwen carried on with the pep talk as she drove. She had a dodgy moment when she thought she saw Cam and nearly drove up onto the pavement. It was a tall man with messy dark hair, but as soon as she passed him and looked in the rear-view mirror, her heart in her mouth, she saw that it wasn’t him at all. Cameron Laing was long gone. Probably in London. Or prison.

The big houses gave way to row upon row of traditional stone cottages and a town hall with a triangle of grass outside. A man in head-to-toe tweed was changing parish notices on the board outside. Pendleford’s surface was as pretty and as tame as she remembered. If it hadn’t been for the daily taunting at school and a very bad memory that began with the river and ended at the local police station, then perhaps she wouldn’t have hated the place quite as much.

At the very edge of town, there was a row of box-type houses. Council – or more likely ex-council – houses, with neat gardens and freshly painted windows that did nothing to hide the brown pebbledash and the nineteen-sixties municipal architecture. Then the town petered out into farmland and Gwen almost missed the turning for Iris’s road; the small wooden sign was weathered and only the word ‘End’ legible. After four hundred yards up a single track road, Gwen turned a corner and the house came into view. Stone-built, square and bigger than she expected. Gwen got out of the car and pulled on her fleece. The sky was pearl-grey and the weak November sun drooped in the east. It was quiet. ‘Too quiet,’ she said aloud, trying to make herself laugh. It didn’t work.

Gwen hesitated at the front gate, her body rebelling against setting foot inside the boundary of the property. Which was ridiculous. She was homeless and she’d been given a house. It was crazy to be anything except insanely grateful. Crazy.

The front door had once been dark green, but was sorely in need of a paint job. To her left, fields stretched out to the horizon and a flock of black birds swooped down to the frozen earth.

Gwen spent five minutes attempting to unlock the door before realising it was already open. The porch was cleanly swept and a neat pile of mail sat on the windowsill.

The inner door opened and a woman wearing narrow black trousers and a yellow blouse looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes?’

‘Um, is this End House?’

‘Yes.’ The woman’s pale blonde hair was cut in layers and she shook her head slightly to flick her fringe away from her eyes.

‘This is my great-aunt’s house. Um. That is, I think this might be my house.’

The woman’s face changed and what could charitably be described as a smile appeared. It displayed a disturbing number of teeth. They were small and white, like baby teeth; alarming in an adult-sized mouth. ‘You’re Gwen Harper. I wasn’t expecting you yet.’ She took a step back. ‘I’m not ready for you, but I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwen stepped over the threshold. The hall was large and square, floored in red quarry tiles. The walls were whitewashed, but patterned with tiny black cracks, like something dark was trying to break through.

‘I’ll show you around.’ The woman turned to go, but Gwen stopped her.

‘I’m sorry, but … Who are you?’

‘Oh, bless you. I’m Lily Thomas. I’ve been helping out your poor auntie for years.’

‘Helping?’

‘Cleaning and cooking, that kind of thing.’ Lily frowned at Gwen. ‘She was very old, you know.’

Gwen looked at the woman’s frosted-pink fingernails. They didn’t look like they’d scrubbed anything in their lives.

The woman followed her gaze. ‘Falsies.’ She waggled them. ‘Aren’t they brilliant?’

The doors off the hallway were all shut, but the staircase of polished dark wood curved invitingly and Gwen took an involuntary step towards it.

‘She needed help with all kinds of things towards the end, bless her.’

Lily’s voice seemed to be coming from far away and Gwen could hear a rushing in her ears. I must be holding my breath, she thought. Good way to faint. She made herself take a lungful of air, but the rushing continued and the stairs seemed to be glowing just for her. She walked towards the bottom step, confused when yellow silk appeared in her vision, eclipsing the lovely warm wood. It was Lily, barring her way.

‘The upstairs isn’t ready. I’ve not had a chance to clean. I wasn’t expecting you—’ Lily hesitated. ‘Not yet, I mean. I wasn’t told—’

‘That’s okay.’ Gwen stepped around Lily and took the stairs at a jog.

Weird, she decided, already on the landing. The door on her right was wide open, like someone had come out in a hurry. Through the gap she saw a double bed with a flowered wash bag lying on the quilt.

Lily appeared behind her, puffing slightly. ‘It’s a mess. I haven’t had a chance—’

‘Don’t worry.’ Gwen opened the other doors from the landing and discovered a small bedroom with a single bed and a desk underneath the window and another double with a brass bedstead suffocated by layers of blankets and a patchwork quilt.

‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ Lily said firmly.

Gwen allowed Lily to usher her back down the stairs and into a long room lined with 1950s cream cabinets with pale green trim and lemon Formica worktops. A red enamel coffee pot and an electric kettle were the only things visible on the spotlessly tidy work surface. A small table with two chairs tucked in was at the end and the small window above the stainless-steel sink was cracked.

‘What’s through there?’ Gwen gestured to the door behind the table.

‘That’s the pantry. It’s very small.’ Lily smiled again. ‘Go and take a look at the garden. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

‘Right.’ Gwen left Lily moving comfortably around the kitchen and walked into the cold, dead air. Place must be well sheltered; there’s no wind at all. The garden was separated from the fields by a stone wall on one side and a line of trees at the bottom. Gwen identified rhododendrons in the corner, a giant spreading conifer thick with cones, holly, ash and hornbeam. A few fruit trees were dotted about the lawn. A lot of work, she found herself thinking. Around the corner was an untended vegetable plot. It had been cared for at one time, though, that was easy to see. Stone paths led along rows and the edges were defined with old red bricks. There were willow wigwams for peas or beans and fruit canes, but one was half pulled down by a mutant rhubarb that had clearly got ideas above its station.

The front garden offered more grass, many bushes, and wide borders filled with the seed heads and brown plants of a dead summer.

The crisp evening air cleared Gwen’s mind. What was Lily Thomas doing in her aunt’s house? The way she seemed so at home wasn’t that odd – especially if she’d been working for Iris for years – but why on earth was she here now? She hesitated, wondering whether she was overreacting, when some bundles of greenery caught her eye. Half-tucked behind the water butt, three tied-together collections of foliage. She recognised branches of ash and broom, and remembered her mother fixing something similar above the door to their flat; to ward off malignant forces, she’d said. Gwen dropped the bundle as if it were hot, and went back inside.

Lily was squeezing a tea bag against the side of a mug as if it had personally offended her.

Gwen sat down at the table, feeling slightly dazed.

‘I’ve made you a casserole but it’s down at my house. I’ll bring it up later.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Gwen said, ‘but I’m not sure—’

‘No need to thank me. Least I can do for Iris’s niece.’

‘Great-niece.’

‘Right.’ Lily popped open the lid on a plastic tub and arranged slices of fruitcake on a plate. ‘So, are you from the area?’

‘Not really.’ It was true. They’d lived in Pendleford for three years, but had moved around a lot before that. Gwen had never really felt like she was ‘from’ anywhere.

Lily frowned. ‘Somerset?’

Gwen shook her head.

‘Where do you live?’ Lily pressed on.

‘I’ve been in Leeds for the last six months.’ Gwen had a rule for dealing with people: Never give away more than strictly necessary.

‘But where do you come from? Originally.’ Lily’s inquisitive tone reminded Gwen of every bitchy queen bee at every new school she’d ever had to start. ‘We moved around quite a bit.’

‘Oh you poor thing,’ Lily pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have liked that.’

‘It was fine,’ Gwen said automatically.

‘I didn’t see you at the funeral,’ Lily said. ‘Were you close to Iris?’

‘No.’ Gwen didn’t feel like explaining that she’d barely known her great-aunt and had no idea why on earth she’d been given her house. She tried to gain control of the conversation. ‘Do you live in Pendleford?’

Lily nodded. ‘Just on the corner. I’m your nearest neighbour.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t be staying, but Lily was still talking, listing names of neighbours that Gwen knew she would instantly forget even if she were paying proper attention.

Lily stopped listing and said, ‘You look tired out, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Gwen felt a yawn coming on. She put a hand to her mouth and then apologised. ‘This is all quite sudden.’

Lily shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. She’d been poorly for ages.’ She took a generous bite of cake before adding, ‘Bless her,’ through a mouthful of crumbs.

‘Why are you…?’ Gwen stopped. ‘I mean, did you have some sort of contract with my aunt? For this, I mean.’ She waved a hand, taking in the freshly cleaned kitchen, the tea, her presence.

‘A contract?’ Lily laughed, a bizarre high-pitched laugh. ‘We didn’t need anything like that. She was more like a sister – well…’ she wrinkled her nose ‘…a mother – to me than an employer. I know she’d want me to keep an eye on the place. Welcome you properly.’ She paused, giving Gwen an appraising look. ‘I’d be very happy to stay on and clean for you, too.’

So she was angling for a job. Fair enough. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not sure what I’m doing about the house yet. And even if I did stay, I wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for cleaning.’

Lily shrugged. ‘No problem. Just offering.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll let you get settled in and pop back later with that casserole.’

‘Well…’ Gwen thought about navigating the winding road back to the nearest shop and realised how tired she felt. Plus, she’d been surviving on cheap takeaways and supermarket sandwiches; a home-cooked meal sounded wonderful. ‘That would be lovely, thank you very much. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘We’re neighbours now. That’s what it’s like around here.’

Gwen opened her mouth to say she wouldn’t be staying, but yawned instead.

After Lily left, Gwen took her tea and wandered through the house, opening doors and getting her bearings. There were two large front rooms, both with big bay windows. One was a living room, complete with overstuffed brocade sofa and a riotous carpet of flowers, vines and leaves. The vast dining room looked forlorn and unloved by comparison. An oak dining table with twisted spindle legs and six chairs was marooned in an otherwise bare room and covered in a thick layer of dust.

Behind the kitchen there was a downstairs bathroom, tiled in black and white and with what was probably the original washbasin and tub. A small back bedroom completed the downstairs, with three bedrooms upstairs.

Big house, she thought, looking around at the triple wardrobe, dressing table and chest of drawers that fitted comfortably in the master bedroom. Something was missing, though. The flowered wash bag. Either she was imagining things or Lily Thomas had swiped it while she was in the garden. Odd.

Gwen got her suitcase from the van and lugged it upstairs. She was bone-tired. She wanted to run a bath and get clean. She’d been making do all week – taking her toothbrush and flannel into public bathrooms and splashing out for a shower at a motorway service station just the once. But she was so tired. So tired that she actually felt sick.

Although that could be nerves. Being in the house felt so wrong. Illicit. Growing up with her free-spirited mother, Gloria, there had only been one rule: stay away from Great-Aunt Iris. Her mother had described Iris as ‘evil’, and since she herself was known around town as ‘Crazy Gloria’, Gwen had seen no reason to disobey her. She’d always figured that Iris didn’t want to know them, either. The thought gave her a jolt of guilt.

Gwen yawned again and lay on the bed, meaning to test it for just a moment. It was gloriously comfortable and after five nights on a camping mat it felt like heaven. She pulled the quilt over herself and closed her eyes. Just for five minutes.

Gwen woke up disorientated and very hot. She executed an ungainly quilt-wrestle and went downstairs. The curtains had been drawn and a casserole dish sat warming in the oven. Lily had clearly been and gone. Gwen ignored the creepy feeling that gave her. She was being a suspicious modern urbanite; things were different in the country. People obviously still looked out for each other. Gwen still felt disorientated from her nap. The week of sleeping badly and the weirdness of the situation had caught up with her and she couldn’t summon up enthusiasm for food. Gwen turned off the oven and went back to bed. Tomorrow she would visit the legal people and straighten out the will. If she could sell the place straight away, she’d have the deposit to rent a flat and could get her business back on its feet. The money would save her life and she’d be duly grateful to Iris. She just wasn’t going to live in Pendleford. Not even for six months.

She dragged herself back up the stairs, every step an effort, and by the time she’d unpacked her overnight bag, she was yawning so long and so hard it was difficult to brush her teeth.

Some time later, she sat bolt upright. The room was pitch-black and her eyes strained with the effort of trying to see. Her heart was thudding as she struggled to work out what had woken her. A scratching noise almost made her cry out until it happened again and she realised it was the sound of a tree branch against glass. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to snuggle back down into the bed. Silence. No traffic, no sirens, no late-night revellers vomiting or fighting outside her window. It was probably the quiet that had spooked her. And the scratching. She clicked on the bedside lamp and climbed out of bed. The window was open and a brisk stream of night air flowed inside. Gwen swallowed. She had closed that window earlier. She had definitely closed it. Forcing herself forward, Gwen approached the window, feeling the cool air on her bare arms. She pushed the window open further and leaned out. The moon was riding high in the clear sky. She couldn’t see the offending branch, but there was plenty of greenery along the side of the house. She shut the window and latched it before getting back into bed and falling instantly asleep.

The next day, Gwen awoke to the sound of hammering on wood. She stumbled downstairs, trying to shake off the fug of sleep.

Her sister’s voice cut through two doors like a razor blade through trifle. ‘Gwen? I can see your van!’