Then she froze as she heard something in the darkness, like the soft hiss of a snake—or was it slithering? Something was sliding slowly along with precision, with caution. It was the noise that had woken her, she was sure of it.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Trapped by fear, a prisoner in her own body, she could only listen as the slithering continued. She couldn’t even work out where it was coming from. It seemed so close that it had to be in the room with her… and yet something told her that it wasn’t. But wherever—whatever—it was, it was close. Very close.
Something snapped in her then, pulling her out of the frozen state she was in. Choking back a cry of terror, she threw back the bedclothes and leaped up. A small noise stopped her in her tracks. She froze a second time—but this time it wasn’t with fear. It was to listen. For what she had heard had been unmistakable. The slithering had stopped. But she had heard something—something distinctive.
Someone had sneezed.
In that instant, Tanya understood. She strode over to the wardrobe, opened the doors, and swept aside the few clothes that were hanging up, then gave the back of the wardrobe a sharp tap. It was hollow.
She took a step backward as her suspicions were confirmed.
Her wardrobe had been constructed in front of the old doorway to the servants’ staircase. Where, right now, someone was creeping along the passage on the other side. Suddenly, Tanya had a very good idea of who that someone was. She banged on the back of the wardrobe again, hard.
“I know you’re there, Fabian,” she hissed. “And let me tell you—”
Her words stuck in her throat as a horrible noise started from behind the wardrobe: a high-pitched, desperate mewling, like a kitten being slowly strangled. It chilled Tanya’s blood to hear it. Then there was a gurgle and the noise seemed to muffle and grow lower, before stopping altogether. Then the slithering began again, accompanied by the barely audible footfall of someone who was trying to be very, very quiet. It faded as the passage continued past the room and by the next.
Tanya never remembered how she ended up on the opposite side of the room, backed up against the wall as far as she could go. When she woke at four to the bleak morning light, she was huddled cold and stiff in the corner, and as she crawled back into bed all she remembered was thinking one solid thought.
Perhaps the person on the servants’ staircase wasn’t Fabian.
9
At six o’clock the following morning Amos’s ranting woke the entire household. Tanya shielded her ears from several clatters and clangs from above—the old man had either dropped his breakfast or thrown it. The latter was confirmed when Warwick stomped past her room swearing under his breath.
Moments later, the events in the night came flooding back. In the daylight, the fear she had felt from hearing the noises seemed ridiculous, funny even. It must have been Fabian, she decided. It was too coincidental that the two of them had discovered the old staircase only a short while before, and their quarrel would have been reason enough for Fabian to want to get back at her. But she had foiled him—and would relish pointing it out the first chance she got.
She hauled herself out of bed and got dressed, pondering over what to wear. Her red T-shirt was in the wash and the beaded scarf she had bought from Tickey End made her neck itch. Instead she had wrapped it around the shoebox containing the list of fairy deterrents, the compass, and her one remaining diary that was hidden beneath the floorboards. For now, she decided to try another method of protection from the fairies from the book in the library; she turned her socks inside out, figuring that no one would see them under her sneakers anyway.
When she went downstairs her grandmother was seated at the breakfast table opposite Warwick, grumbling about the amount of food the household was getting through. A huge pot of porridge was steaming on the stove. As Tanya passed by, deliberately ignoring it to spite her grandmother, the hearthfay skittered out from under the pot and hid behind the toaster.
“Good morning,” said Florence.
“Is it?” said Tanya. “My mornings don’t usually begin for at least another hour. I should still be in bed.”
Warwick looked up, acknowledging her presence for the first time.
“Then why aren’t you?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Tanya said pointedly.
Florence lifted her teacup from the saucer.
“Perhaps we could put you in another room if Amos is causing a disturbance. I’m sure Warwick wouldn’t mind clearing one of the rooms on the opposite side of the landing for you.”
“It’s fine,” Tanya muttered. “I wouldn’t want to cause you any further trouble.” She deliberately placed an emphasis on the final word, looking her grandmother directly in the eye as she did so. She was gratified to see the teacup in Florence’s hand wobble a little. Her grandmother averted her eyes.
“It’s no trouble,” she said quietly.
Liar, Tanya thought. Outwardly she said nothing. She helped herself to a slice of toast cooling in the rack and began to spread it with butter.
“There’s hot porridge, freshly made—” Florence began.
“I don’t like porridge.”
“Funny,” said Warwick, gruffly. “I seem to remember you eating bucketloads of it last year.”
“Well, maybe that’s why I can’t stand it now.”
Silence.
“So would you like to do that, then?” said Florence, eventually. “Change rooms, I mean?”
Tanya munched noisily and took her time in replying. She was beginning to enjoy herself in a twisted sort of way. If her grandmother and Warwick had thought her a pest up until now, then they had a shock coming to them. For at that moment Tanya made up her mind to be as much trouble as possible. With a bit of luck she might even get sent back to London; then her mother would have to deal with her. She had to stop herself from grinning at the thought.
“No, don’t bother,” she said finally. She swallowed the last mouthful of her toast and took another bite. Much as she would have savored making Warwick clear out one of the dusty old rooms, she decided against it on the basis that she might end up with something even worse than she already had. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Warwick visibly relax and fought the rising urge to giggle.
She helped herself to a second piece of toast and headed for the kitchen door, half expecting her grandmother to call her back to the breakfast table. But the room behind her stayed silent.
Later that afternoon Tanya caught sight of a movement in the back garden through the kitchen window. She got up from the table and stepped outside the back door, trying to see past the overgrown bushes and shrubs.
Brunswick was sitting in the rock garden alone. Tanya edged over slowly and sat down. The goblin was sitting with his head in his hands, staring miserably at the ground. She reached over and gently touched his arm.
Brunswick jumped. Evidently he had not heard her approaching. He glanced up at her, and then put his head back in his hands. The glimpse at his face revealed that he had been hit again, even worse this time than the last. His right eye was a swollen, purple bruise, completely closed. One of his earlobes looked as if it had been bitten. As she watched, a tear rolled onto his bulbous nose.
Tanya pulled her notebook out. She’d had the sense to write down a few questions that she wanted to ask the goblins, if and when she got the opportunity.
Another fat tear slid down Brunswick’s cheek. He mumbled something that Tanya did not catch, and she noticed then that he was missing a few of his teeth. Before she could ask him to repeat himself, he lunged toward her feet and seized something.
She caught sight of a caterpillar wriggling frenziedly between his thumb and forefinger before he dropped it into his mouth. There was a slight squelch as his jaws chomped down, then he swallowed noisily and coughed. She watched in pity and revulsion as he picked caterpillar hairs out of his remaining teeth, now tinged with green.
“Wait a minute, stay right there,” said Tany
a. “Perhaps we’ve got some food to spare.” She ran back into the kitchen, raiding the cupboards and fridge for anything that wouldn’t be missed. Her grandmother had been right; there was hardly any food left. She made do with a little bread, some cheese, and a handful of grapes.
As she closed the fridge door she became aware of a lapping sound and turned to catch a flash of movement as the hearthfay scurried behind one of Warwick’s boots. Curious, she drew nearer to where it had darted from and saw a shallow bowl on the quarry-stone floor. It held milk swimming with matted clumps of ginger fur and a chewed-up spider. The surface was still rippling slightly, and a few telltale drips leading to Warwick’s boot belied the culprit.
Full of pity for any creature who braved the wrath of Spitfire for a few drops of milk—for even Oberon stayed well away—Tanya took a clean saucer and poured fresh milk into it before setting it down by the coal bin—the hearthfay’s favorite place—then hurriedly slunk back out to the garden.
Brunswick looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he fell upon the food. Tanya watched as he shoveled every last crumb into his mouth then settled back and burped contentedly. It was clearly the most substantial meal he had eaten in days. She waited patiently, wondering how, or indeed if, he would respond to her questions.
The goblin eyed her expectantly.
“Brunswick, may I ask you, please, what’s to fear within those trees?” she said, pointing in the direction of the forest.
Brunswick shuffled his feet. “With regret, all I can say is protect yourself and stay away.” He hopped off the rock and headed toward the bushes.
“Where are you going?” Tanya called. “You can’t leave me not knowing!”
Brunswick turned back to her, his eyes full of tears.
“You have treated Brunswick well, but there’s no more that he can tell.”
With that, he darted into the bushes.
“Don’t run away!” Tanya waded into the nettles. “Brunswick! Please stay!”
The goblin had vanished. Tanya winced as she inspected the sore red lumps on her ankles where the nettles had stung her. She stared gloomily at the rock garden, stooping to pick up a cracked tooth lying amongst some breadcrumbs; it had obviously belonged to Brunswick. She pocketed it and then started to walk back to the house. The goblin’s warning was all very well, but how was she supposed to protect herself if she didn’t know what she had to protect herself from?
“Who were you talking to?”
“When?”
“You were talking to someone over by the rock garden earlier.”
As usual, Fabian had sneaked up on her when she least expected it. It was late afternoon, and Tanya was outside walking Oberon by the brook. This time she carried his leash with her, and jangled it every now and then so as to warn him not to run off again. She was not willing to get lost in the woods a second time, nor to ask for Warwick’s help.
“I wasn’t talking to anyone.” She peered at Fabian’s brown leather book, in which it appeared he had been sketching something. He saw her looking and snapped the book shut.
“You were. I saw you.”
Tanya shrugged. She was annoyed by his whole stance—the way he was so secretive about his silly book, and more so that he always seemed to be watching her.
“I was probably just talking to myself.”
Fabian raised his eyebrows, as if she were some deranged animal that needed to be put out of its misery.
“Whatever you say.”
He strolled off, book in hand.
“Well, it’s better than talking to you!” Tanya yelled. “And by the way, if you must insist on sneaking around in the servants’ staircase in the middle of the night, then at least have the decency to be quiet. It’s bad enough being woken up every morning by Amos!” She stalked after Oberon, jubilant as she imagined Fabian’s smug face falling.
“What are you talking about?”
Tanya stopped and spun around. “You know exactly what I mean. Slithering through the servants’ staircase by my room last night like a little snake, making weird noises. It’ll take a bit more imagination than that to scare me!”
Fabian shook his head. “Whatever you heard, it wasn’t me.”
Tanya stared after him as he walked away. Even though he had sounded truthful, she had no choice but to disbelieve him. For if it wasn’t Fabian, then who else could it have been?
The day dragged on with little improvement. Out of sheer boredom, Tanya decided to have a snoop up on the second floor. After poking around a couple of empty rooms she eventually found something of interest: a box of photographs wedged into a cupboard full of junk. She transferred the box to her own room, groaning under the weight of the thing, before tipping its entire contents out messily.
She picked up a handful of pictures and began leafing through. There were a great many of her mother and herself, at various stages through their lives. She smiled to see herself as a chubby toddler, her face smeared with ice cream, and then years later waving to the camera from a carousel at a fairground.
There were several pictures of her parents’ wedding day. Tanya put them all to one side. She scowled when she came across photos of Fabian and Warwick, immediately tossing them back into the box. Soon she fell into a routine of filing the pictures into categories, and only then did she notice a significant majority in one particular area: herself. For the first time, she realized that she couldn’t remember ever seeing a picture of herself on display at her grandmother’s house. None of them had ever been framed and mounted on the wall in the sitting room alongside Fabian’s or her mother’s. They were all here, in a box that had been hidden away in a musty old cupboard.
An hour later the carpet was strewn with photographs. Tanya found herself distracted each time she came across one of the many photographs of her grandfather, who had died before she was born. He looked like a happy, jolly man with twinkling eyes, and Tanya wished again that she had had a chance to know him.
She sighed and picked up the next dog-eared picture, uninterested until she saw that it was of her grandmother, taken when she was not much older than Tanya was now. But Florence was not alone in the photograph. The sepia picture was of two girls, standing side by side in front of the gate in the back garden. A young Florence smiled into the camera, happy and carefree. Next to her stood a strikingly pretty girl of about the same age with long black hair. Tanya stared into her dark eyes and recognized her immediately. She flipped the photograph over. Something was written on the back.
Florence and Morwenna, age fourteen.
Her heart began to pound and her breathing became shallow. There was no mistaking it. The girl in the photograph was the same girl that she and Fabian had seen in Hangman’s Wood the day they were lost. It didn’t make sense.
The girl in the forest was Morwenna Bloom… her grandmother’s childhood best friend who had been missing for more than fifty years.
Tanya scrambled to the door, sliding on the piles of photographs scattered everywhere. She ran downstairs and outside into the back garden. The night air was warm and balmy, yet her teeth had begun to chatter.
“Fabian! Are you out here?”
For a few seconds she heard nothing, then there was a faint rustle from the oak tree.
“Fabian!” she called, louder this time. “I need to speak to you.”
“So now you want to talk!” crowed Fabian, popping his head out from the branches. “I thought you preferred talking to yourself?”
“I’m serious! This is serious!”
The urgency in her voice told Fabian she was not messing around. He climbed down lazily, by which time Tanya was shivering uncontrollably.
“What is it?” he asked.
Wordlessly, she handed him the photograph.
“So? It’s Florence… only less wrinkly.”
“Not her. The other one,” said Tanya.
Fabian’s face went white. “The girl… that girl… in the woods… but we spoke to her…”
“There’s more.” Tanya snatched the photograph and pointed to the name on the back. “It’s her. The missing girl.”
“It can’t be,” said Fabian. “It was fifty years ago. It’s impossible. There must be some logical explanation.”
They stared at the photograph. There was no doubt in Tanya’s mind that the girl standing with her grandmother was the same girl they had seen in the woods, and the expression on Fabian’s face told her he was just as convinced as she.
Fabian looked troubled. “There’s… there’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?” she asked weakly.
“Fabian!” Warwick’s voice echoed in the hallway.
“Not here,” Fabian said. “Meet me on the second-floor landing in half an hour.”
10
The next thirty minutes seemed the longest of Tanya’s life. After Fabian left to find his father, she slipped the photograph into her pocket and walked to the stairs in a detached, trancelike state, feeling as if she were trapped in a dream that she couldn’t wake from. Only it wasn’t a dream. It was real, and it was scaring her.
Her mind was racing. Who was Morwenna Bloom? What had really happened to her that night in the woods? And what else did Fabian know about her disappearance?
As she crept up the stairs she heard her grandmother cough over the sound of the television in the living room. She went to her room and sat in silence, the time crawling immensely. After twenty minutes had elapsed, the floorboards outside her door creaked as someone stepped over them. Tanya edged toward the door and listened. There was nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Opening the door just a tiny crack, she peered out onto the empty landing.
“Fabian?”
Only silence answered her. She slipped out of the room, deciding to head up to the second floor. Fabian should be along any minute now.