She cut off as Morag held up her hand for silence, beaming at the mention of the puzzle book.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said creakily, gesturing to the table near the kitchen window. “There’s plenty of time for that. Sit down. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Tanya sat down, scratching behind Oberon’s ears as he rested his heavy head on her lap. Morag sat opposite.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Tanya began. “Not me this time, but someone who has my ability. He thinks his mother has been switched for a changeling, and we need something… some kind of potion, I suppose you’d call it, to destroy the glamour the fairy is using, so it will leave.”
Morag nodded slowly, massaging her temple with her fingers.
“I see. And when would you need such a potion?”
Tanya swallowed, her voice sheepish when she spoke. “Today. Now.”
The old gypsy woman’s birdlike eyes widened in surprise, and Tanya was reminded of how mesmerizing, and how very blue, they were.
“I know it’s short notice,” she hurried on. “And I understand if it’s not possible. But I had to try. You’re the only one who can help us.”
Morag got up, shuffling to her wooden dresser. Locked inside the glass cabinet were numerous jars and glass bottles of strange and sinister-looking ingredients, and all with tiny labels tied to their stoppers. The old woman surveyed the contents thoughtfully, then peered at a small calendar hanging on the wall next to the dresser.
“What you ask for cannot be prepared in such a short time. A potion to dispel a glamour is complex and needs days to develop properly.”
Tanya nodded, her disappointment too great for her to speak. Even though she had guessed it would be too late, she had hoped that Morag might have some solution up her patched and raggedy sleeves.
“But,” the old woman continued, “there may be something I can do. It’s not as powerful a spell, but it’s simple to prepare and may be enough to reveal the real nature of whatever the changeling is.”
“Anything,” Tanya said, nodding vigorously. “I’ll take anything, if you think it might work.”
Morag tapped the little calendar on the wall. “It’s largely down to luck, you see. The timing is just right for this spell, for the moon is on the wane.”
“On the what?”
“Wane,” Morag repeated. “The moon waxes and wanes; grows bigger and smaller. Any time you cast a spell, it will be more powerful if the cycle of the moon is on your side. Some spells cannot work without it. When you are trying to bring something into your life, then it helps if the moon is waxing. If you are trying to banish something, the moon must be on the wane.
“What I’m going to give you is a truth spell, to cast out any lies and secrecy. Did you know that the moon is also linked to secrets and deception?”
Tanya shook her head. “So… if the moon is waning, it will be easier to see through any deceptions?”
“Correct. It may not alter the changeling’s appearance, but its true nature will rise to the surface if it comes into contact with this potion,” Morag continued. “Here is what you need.” From her dresser she took two empty bottles, one of clear glass and the other of dark green. She set them on the table in front of Tanya and went back to the cabinet, returning a moment later with a velvet bag, a scrap of red cloth, and a jar crammed with small, reddish-brown objects. Tanya leaned closer to the jar, trying to discern what its puckered contents were.
“Amanita muscaria,” said Morag. “A type of mushroom. You know the ones—red with white spots—they’re always shown in children’s books, though I’ve no idea why.”
“They don’t look like mushrooms,” Tanya said doubtfully.
“That’s because they’re dried,” said Morag. “There aren’t any fresh about at this time of year.”
“They come out in the autumn,” said Tanya, recalling the ring of red mushrooms that Warwick and Nell had been forced to dance a fairy dance in last October.
Morag nodded. “They’re also poisonous, sometimes fatal, if eaten. So never touch them unless you can help it, and if it’s unavoidable always wash your hands afterward. Now, in this spell, the amanita mushroom symbolizes deceit. Mushrooms are among the worst of nature’s tricksters. If one kind is mistaken for another, it can have deadly consequences.”
She opened the jar, reached in with a small wooden stick, pointed at one end, and hooked one of the mushrooms out. With her other hand she lifted the green glass bottle and pushed the mushroom inside it, poking it down through the neck until it fell to the bottom. She pushed a cork stopper into the top of the bottle and set it aside.
Next she reached into the velvet bag and drew out an object the size of her palm, passing it to Tanya. Tanya took it and found that it was a flat, gray pebble, rough and misshapen, and with a hole through it that was slightly off center.
“A wishing stone,” said Tanya. “I’ve got one of these at home in London. I found it at the seaside when I was little. My mum told me that you can make wishes on stones with holes in them.” She smiled faintly, remembering the wishes she had made: for the fairies to leave her alone, then later, for her parents not to go through with their divorce. Neither had come true.
“That’s poppycock, as I’m sure you’re aware,” said Morag briskly. “These stones have about as much power to make wishes come true as a moldy old sock. What they do do is purify, and flush out untruths.”
She paused, rubbing at her temple again with her fingers. Tanya watched her, noting a flicker of something cross her face. She seemed distracted.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Hm? Oh, yes. Just… I’ve forgotten something,” said Morag, tapping her head with a spindly finger. “Yes, that’s it.” From another cupboard she pulled out a bag of something and shook it into her mortar. Coarse white granules came tumbling out, and she began pounding at them with her pestle.
“Salt,” she explained when the grains were ground into fine powder. “Another means of purification.” She scoured the caravan until her eyes rested on a brown paper bag. She tore a small piece from it and shook the salt into it, twisting the edges together to keep the salt contained.
“That’s everything you need. I’ll tell you what to do, but the rest is up to you.”
“What if it goes wrong?” Tanya asked. “I’ve never cast a spell before. I don’t know what I’m doing—”
“There’s no reason it should fail,” said Morag. “You have everything you need. The most important ingredient in any spell is your belief in it. But remember this: you alone must cast it. Your friend cannot have any direct contact with this spell.”
“Which friend?” Tanya asked, puzzled. “Fabian?”
“Not the boy,” said Morag. “Although now you mention it, it’s probably best if he has no contact with it either. I know he believes, but he has a tendency toward a scientific mind, which muddles things. No, I mean the girl… the one you brought here. Red, is it?”
Tanya nodded. “Well, her real name is Rowan. Rowan Fox. She doesn’t go by Red anymore.”
“Ah,” said Morag, nodding. “That’s her. Rowan. I felt there was something about her. Now it makes sense.”
“Why?”
“She should not come in contact with this spell. Though she may not realize it, or intend to, there’s a chance she could taint it, just by being who she is.”
“How?” Tanya asked. “I know her name is a barrier to evil magic, but—”
“It’s also a barrier to her casting magic,” said Morag. “Rowan as a plant is very powerful. Powerful enough to stop other spells from being cast. And as you obviously know, that power can transfer to the power of a name.”
“But she can cast a glamour,” Tanya said, confused. “She has a coat that turns her into a fox.”
“But you tell me that her surname is Fox,” said Morag. “Which, again, lends her power. Had it been any other name, I think it would be quite different.”
“I’ll make
sure I’m the only one who handles the spell,” said Tanya, digesting this information.
“Very well,” said Morag. “This is what you must do. It’s very simple. Take the stone to the brook and hold it in the running water for a minute or two. The running water will charge it with energy. Afterward, wrap it in the red cloth. Next take the green glass bottle and fill it with water. Not just any old water from a tap, mind. Full of nasty impurities, that stuff. You need pure water, and for this, the stream won’t do. It must be absolutely untouched.”
“The well?” said Tanya, remembering the old stone well up by the church.
“Yes,” said Morag. “Well water will do nicely. You then need to add the salt to the green bottle after the well water.”
“After the well water, right.”
“Unwrap the stone from the cloth and hold it over the clear bottle so that the hole is directly above the opening. Pour the liquid from the green bottle into the clear bottle through the stone, then cork the bottle. Finally, wrap the stone and the green bottle containing the mushroom in the cloth and bury it in blessed soil.”
“Blessed soil? That’s consecrated ground, isn’t it?” Tanya asked. “I can bury it in the churchyard.”
“The mixture is then ready,” said Morag. “But it must be used within one day. After the sun goes down it will be worthless.”
“I understand,” said Tanya. She started to gather up the things on the table. Morag stayed unmoving, her eyes shut and her hand rubbing at her head again.
Tanya stopped what she was doing. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look pale. Is there something I can get you?”
Morag opened her eyes. Even they seemed faded.
“I’ve got one of my headaches coming on,” she said quietly. “I think something is trying to get through.”
“You mean a vision? Do you want me to leave?”
Morag’s clawlike hand shot out and grabbed Tanya’s arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “No. Whatever I’m about to be shown has been trying to get through since you arrived today.” She looked at Tanya, grimacing, and massaged her temple.
“Whatever it is, it’s linked to you.”
Upon Morag’s instructions, Tanya collected a wooden bowl and three candles from the cupboard in the kitchen. She filled the bowl with water and set it in front of the old woman, who was now moaning softly, then pulled the drapes and lit the candles.
Morag whispered something to herself that Tanya did not quite catch—some kind of incantation. As she uttered the final words, she sat up straighter, her eyes clearing and the pain leaving her face.
The candlelight took on a murky blue glow, making Tanya think of freezing underwater caves. It was not difficult, for the temperature in the caravan had dropped drastically, forcing goose bumps to rear up along her arms. She spied Morag’s shawl draped over her armchair by the window. She picked it up, hesitating. Morag sat motionless, staring into the wooden bowl, where shadowy images swirled in the water. Tanya was reluctant to disturb her. Apart from the curse-induced trance she had witnessed last October with Rowan, she had never seen Morag experience one of her visions, and it unnerved her.
Morag shivered, pushing the doubt from Tanya’s mind. She edged closer and threw the shawl around the old woman’s shoulders—then froze as she saw the image in the water.
The water showed a familiar face: Rowan’s. Tanya heard herself gasp, but then Rowan’s face was replaced with another that she recognized. It was that of the old man who had given her and Fabian the warming raw ginger when they had been cold in the barn the other night. Nosebag. The old man morphed into the homeless boy Rowan was friends with: Sparrow. His face vanished and was replaced by Tino’s, followed by Suki, Crooks, Victor, Samson, toothless old Peg, and the dark-skinned Merchant.
Another face loomed into view; the tattooed woman, Fix. She lay slumped over a table. Her eyes were open and a fat fly crawled across her face. It flitted to her forearm, settling on another of her tattoos: an ornate dagger. Tanya choked back a cry, wanting to look away, yet finding she couldn’t. Two more lifeless faces loomed into view. The first was a deathly white girl. Dark shapes flickered across her face like sunlight through leaves. The last was that of a man, slack-jawed, his hair matted with a dark, clotted substance.
Though Tanya did not recognize these last two faces, it brought no comfort, for she guessed that they must be the two missing Coven members: Dawn and Cobbler. And as Merchant had rightly guessed, it was now certain—through the vision Morag had summoned—that they had met with harm.
“Thirteen secrets,” Morag hissed, glassy-eyed. Her voice sent a tremor through Tanya. “The thirteen secrets have been found out…”
The water cleared. Tanya sank to the floor by Morag’s side, trembling. Oberon nuzzled her, and she clutched at him for comfort. Without warning, Morag snapped out of her motionless daze, shivering. Slowly, Tanya got up and tugged the shawl, which had slipped down, back around the old woman’s shoulders.
“Pull the curtains,” Morag whispered, her voice dry.
Numbly, Tanya did as she was told, but even the late morning light flooding back into the caravan could not chase the dark images from Tanya’s mind. Morag got up and hobbled into the kitchen, pouring the water into the sink and putting the candles on the side.
“You were not meant to see that,” said Morag.
“But I thought you said—”
“The message is for you, yes,” the old woman cut in. “For you to tell your friend, Rowan. But forgive me… you should not have had to see those poor souls.”
“I know those people,” said Tanya.
“You must tell Rowan what you saw,” said Morag, her lips blue with cold. She rubbed at her arms, pulling the shawl tighter about herself. “And what you heard.”
“The thirteen secrets have been found out,” Tanya repeated, shuddering. “Did you see anything else, or sense anything about what these secrets might be?”
“I see only what I’m shown,” said Morag. “But something tells me that message will be understood by your friend.” She pushed the potion ingredients toward Tanya. “It’s time for you to go now,” she said, her voice distant.
“I know,” said Tanya, reluctant. “But I don’t like to leave you like this, so soon after a vision like that. I don’t like the idea of you being out here all alone.”
A half-smile turned up the corners of Morag’s mouth, but it did not go up to her eyes. “That’s kind of you. But don’t you worry about me. I’ve been alone for most of my life. I’ve grown used to it.”
Though there was nothing sentimental about Morag’s manner, her words brought sharp and bitter tears rushing to Tanya’s eyes. She turned her head away, blinking. “If you’re sure,” she muttered.
“Go on,” said Morag. “You’ve got work to do.” She got up, leading Tanya to the caravan door, and opened it.
Grimalkin lurked on the steps. He weaved past their ankles, ignoring Oberon, and went into the caravan. Before Tanya had even reached the bottom of the steps, however, he shot past her again, heading for the trees.
“What’s wrong with him?” Tanya asked.
Morag gestured to the caravan. “Needs some time to clear the air after a vision like that. The atmosphere… he senses it, you see. He’ll likely stay out for the rest of the day now.”
Tanya stared after the cat. Even Morag’s pet had abandoned her.
“You remember what to do?” Morag asked.
“Yes.”
There was no more to say. Tanya set off, turning at the edge of the glade to see Morag watching her from the doorway. She did not look back again, knowing that Morag would be out of sight in a few more footsteps, and something within her clung to the image of the old gypsy woman. She imagined Morag watching over her to see her safely out of the woods.
By the time she had reached the smaller of the two catacombs she was past pretending. The vision of the fly crawling over Fix’s face swam in front of her eyes. She started to run. Aside fr
om Oberon, keeping pace beside her, she was now alone in the woods.
Almost as alone as Morag.
Crashing through bracken and undergrowth, she forgot the need to go quiet and unnoticed. Above her, fairies and birds chittered and squawked in the trees. When the edge of the forest finally came into view, she sprinted for it, somehow finding a last burst of energy that propelled her forward, lending her the speed to almost clear the brook in a single leap. She landed a few feet short of the other side, sending water spraying across the bank. Crawling out, she flopped onto the grass, heart pounding. She lay there gasping while Oberon drank from the stream, unperturbed.
She allowed her heart to slow before sitting up. Looking into the sky she saw that the sun was directly above her. It was almost noon. Hastening a glance at the house, she emptied her pockets and stared at the objects Morag had given her.
Focusing on them, she pushed the memory of the vision from her thoughts. Lifting the pebble, she took a firm hold of it and plunged her hand into the icy flow of the brook.
Whatever the thirteen secrets were, they would have to wait, for now.
Mrs. Beak’s tiny tea shop heaved with customers. Good weather always brought the people of Tickey End out, and that afternoon was no exception. Every table in the place was taken, from the alcoves and nooks tucked inside to the little whitewashed benches and seats lined up on the outside terrace.
On one of these tables, beneath the red-and-white awning, sat Sparrow. A well-thumbed newspaper covered most of the table, in addition to an empty teapot, sandwich crusts, the dregs of an ice-cream sundae, cupcake wrappers, and three drained glasses with slices of lemon in them.
He stood up quickly when he saw them, knocking into the table. He grabbed a glass and stopped it from falling just in time. “Well?” he said.