Also by Michelle Harrison
The Thirteen Treasures
The Thirteen Curses
The Thirteen Secrets
For older readers
Unrest
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2014 Michelle Harrison
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Michelle Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47112-165-4
EBook ISBN: 978-1-47112-166-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.simonandschuster.com.au
For my son, Jack
A wish come true
As always, I’m grateful to my family for their support during the writing of this book, but in particular to Mum whose cooking and cleaning provided me with valuable hours to write. Thank you, my little house elf! Thanks also to Janet for talking through plotlines and making suggestions, yet again.
To my agent, Julia Churchill: you’re the best. Thank you for going above and beyond, and for always believing in fairies.
Thank you to my editor, Elv Moody, whose observations and insights have made this a much better book, and to Ingrid, Elisa, Kat and the rest of the children’s team at S&S whose endless enthusiasm spurred me on long after the chocolate had run out.
Finally, to every Thirteen Treasures fan who pestered asked me for another book: I’m glad you did. I know it goes backwards instead of forwards, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless . . .
Contents
Prologue
1. The Wishing Tree
2. The Second Sight
3. Ratty
4. Nessie Needleteeth
5. Protection
6. The Telltale Twitch
7. A Jar of Odds and Ends
8. The Memory Weaver
9. Gone
10. A Tricksy Magic
11. The Chase
12. Brussel Sprouts and Baths
13. The Grudge-keeper
14. In the Dungeons
15. The Prisoner
16. The Rift
17. Gretchen and Griselda
18. The Bearded Sisters
19. The Sleep of the Dead
20. The Missing Ingredient
21. The Hidden Memory
22. Tempus Fugit
23. Captives
24. The Sacrifice
25. Promises
Prologue
IN A BUSY SIDE STREET OF LONDON, A hooded figure let itself into a small shop. Once inside, the person locked the door and checked that the CLOSED sign was displayed, then threw back the hood. A thin-faced, bespectacled man with shaggy grey hair, he appeared ordinary at first glance. Yet look a little closer and the tips of two pointed ears were visible beneath his hair – to those who were able to see such things at least.
Stepping over a pile of untouched letters on the doormat, the man hurried through the shop to a door at the back marked PRIVATE, a large, brown package in his gloved hands. Surrounding him on both sides were tables and shelves of the shop’s wares: clocks, watches and time-keeping devices of every description. In his haste, he bumped against one of the tables, knocking a small carriage clock to the floor and shattering its glass face. He did not stop, or even pause, however. None of the items in the shop, save for the contents of the brown package, held any value to him.
Pushing through the door, he entered a little room, the shelves of which were lined with yet more clocks in various states of repair. He set the package gently on to the table and, with trembling hands, began to unwrap it.
‘Please,’ he muttered. ‘Let this be the one. Let the search be over.’ From the brown paper wrappings, he removed an object and set it on the table. It was a golden hourglass, with two glass globes at either end, and fine, pale sand that flowed from the top to the bottom. The man peeled off his gloves and, holding his breath, laid his hands gently upon it.
Nothing.
Another dead end. This wasn’t the one he was searching for after all. With a cry of rage, he flung it aside. It shattered in a flurry of sand and glass and landed on a pile of broken hourglasses he had previously checked and discarded. His face twisted in temper, the man stormed from the room and descended a narrow set of stairs to the cellar below.
He barely noticed the damp, musty smell of the place any more. At first, it had bothered him, but since taking over the shop several months ago he’d grown used to it; the cold and dark, too. He spent most of his time down here.
He stepped over a stack of books to a row of candles lined up on a shelf. With a click of his fingers, their wicks burst into flame, sending a golden glow through the dark space. Every surface was cluttered; yet more books mouldered away in damp corners; grisly ingredients glistened in glass jars. Strange apparatus occupied several tables, and scribbled notes and diagrams were scattered at every turn. And at the centre of it all stood a large, black cauldron.
The man crossed to the cauldron, treading carelessly over a balled-up note he’d long since tossed aside. From a beam above the huge, black pot, a lacy dress hung like a corpse. The man lifted his hand to caress the faded white fabric, regret and longing etched into his face.
‘Some day, Helena,’ he whispered. ‘Some day, I’ll find it. And I’ll bring you back.’
Behind him, in a darkened corner of the cellar, something shifted in the shadows. Something used to being quiet and going unseen. The man half turned his head, and an unspoken question passed between them.
‘I’ve been watching, Master.’
‘And?’ The man’s voice was sharp.
The figure remained in the shadows, reluctant to step into the candlelight. It did not like to be seen, for good reason. Its face – if it could be called that – was terrible to behold.
‘I see the boy, but not how to find him. Protection keeps him hidden; it’s too strong for the vision to break through.’
The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Even for me.’ He stared into the cauldron, brooding. There, reflected in the cauldron’s depths, was the watery image of a child, but it was so blurred it was impossible to see his features or any of his surroundings clearly. The man scowled, chewing his lip. And then the scowl left his face as a thought struck him.
‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t I think of it sooner?’
‘Master?’ the creature intoned.
The man stood up a little straighter, then scanned the cellar, looking for a particular ingredient. Once he’d located it, he plucked a small glass bottle from a shelf and dusted it off, then removed the stopper. From it, he allowed a single drop of liquid to fall into the cauldron. Then from a nearby table he took an old pocket watch and carefully wound its hands forward. Into the pot it went with a soft splash.
‘I’ve been doing it all wrong,’ he said, his eyes lit with feverish excitement. ‘Wasted years trying to track the object, and months trying to trace the bo
y, with no luck. But now . . .’
He peered into the cauldron. ‘Show me,’ he commanded. ‘Reveal the face of the next person the boy will meet.’ The cauldron bubbled in response. In the murky depths, the water cleared and then the vision changed. As it did so, the man’s expression changed also. For the first time in a very long while, he smiled. There, in the water, the face of a girl he had never seen before appeared. He watched as she walked up a path, arriving at the door of a quaint little cottage.
‘The girl,’ he breathed. ‘This girl will lead us straight to him. She just doesn’t know it.’ His smile broadened, giving way to a low chuckle. ‘Find the girl . . . and we find the boy.’
1
The Wishing Tree
TANYA FAIRCHILD SENSED THERE WAS something wrong with the place from the moment they walked in.
‘This is it.’ Her mother unlocked the door to Hawthorn Cottage and pushed it open. ‘What do you think?’
Tanya followed her mother into the dark space beyond the door, dragging her suitcase and her heels. Her eyelids had begun to twitch. She rubbed at them, wondering if some dust had flown up, or if it was perhaps the effect of the darkness after coming in from outside. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It smells . . . funny in here.’
Oberon, her plump, brown Doberman, clearly agreed. His claws clicked over the wooden floor as his large, wet nose took in the scent of the unfamiliar surroundings.
‘Well, of course it does.’ Her mother set down her own suitcase and reached for the nearest window, throwing the shutters wide open. Bright sunshine streamed in. ‘We’re the first booking of the season. It’s bound to smell a bit musty – the place has been closed up all through the winter.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Tanya looked around the holiday cottage, trying to figure out what it was that was bothering her.
Her mother continued to open all the windows, flooding the place with light and fresh air.
‘Look how sweet it is,’ she exclaimed, pointing to the tiny kitchenette, where an old-fashioned whistling kettle sat on a gas hob, and mismatched floral teacups, pots and pans were arranged on brightly painted shelves.
Opposite, a living-room area held an inviting blue sofa, a small coffee table and a larger, white painted table with three chairs.
‘These must be the bedrooms,’ her mother said, moving to two doors at the back. She opened one of them. ‘Oh, Tanya, they’re lovely. Come and see.’
‘In a minute,’ Tanya replied distractedly. It was clearer now, the sound she had picked up on as soon as she had entered the cottage: a light scuffling that seemed to be coming from underneath the floorboards. She knelt down and put her ear to the floor, trying to locate the source. It was difficult to hear, for her mother kept calling out with every new discovery. ‘Mine’s a four-poster bed . . . and just look at the Victorian bathtub!’
Tanya covered the ear that wasn’t pressed to the floor and listened harder. There it was again . . . scuffle, scuffle, scratch. The smell was stronger here, too: an earthy, outdoorsy sort of smell. Oberon trotted over, his head tilted to one side, listening.
Maybe it’s just a mouse, she thought, realising as she did so that her stomach was tensed into a hard knot. ‘Please, please, let it be a mouse. Or even a rat. Anything but that . . .’
The scuffling paused, became a rustle. Then, alarmingly close to Tanya’s ear, came another sound: a busy sniffling, snuffling noise that was far too concentrated to be coming from the nose of a mouse. Her eyelids twitched again; a warning sign. Still she hoped that she was mistaken, that it was not really one of them that she was about to see.
She didn’t have to wait long before a crabby little voice growled up through the floorboards.
‘Summer already? It must be summer, because every summer they come. Horrible, stinking humans! With their noise and their chatter, and their dirt and their disgustable, rancidious food smells!’
A sharp tap by Tanya’s ear made her jump. Something had struck the underside of the floor. She shifted position, peering down through a gap in the floorboards. A tiny, bloodshot eye, half hidden beneath a bushy, grey eyebrow, glared back at her through a plume of dust. Oberon gave a yelp of surprise, then sneezed violently.
‘I can see you, you little maggot!’
‘Who are you calling a maggot?’ Tanya said indignantly. ‘We’ve only just arrived. We haven’t done anything to you!’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ The glare deepened. ‘You’re all the same. A nuisance, that’s what.’
‘I could say the same thing about you,’ Tanya retorted. ‘Always getting me into trouble for no good reason. It’s not my fault I can see you – I wish I couldn’t, you know!’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ the horrid little voice said. ‘I could easily stamp out your eyes while you sleep.’
The words sent a chill over the back of Tanya’s neck, but the stubborn streak in her would not allow herself to be bullied.
‘And I could easily stamp you out altogether,’ she whispered. ‘I should think you’d fit quite nicely under the heel of my shoe.’
She held her breath. The bloodshot eye widened, then narrowed.
‘Insolent wretch!’ The eye vanished from the gap and was replaced by a glimpse of jagged, yellowing teeth. ‘You wait. Just you wait!’
A low growl rumbled in Oberon’s throat. He couldn’t understand what was being said, of course, but he knew that his beloved Tanya was being threatened – and he didn’t like it one bit.
‘Tanya?’
Her mother’s voice nearby startled her. She sat up, banging her head on the corner of the coffee table. ‘Ouch! What?’
Her mother was watching her carefully, a puzzled look on her face. It was a look Tanya had seen many times.
‘What are you doing?’
Tanya rubbed the sore spot on her head. ‘Nothing. I . . .’ She hesitated, tempted, as she so often was, to simply tell the truth. ‘I mean, I thought I saw a . . .’
Her mother’s expression was changing, from puzzled to impatient.
‘Tanya, please don’t say “a fairy”,’ she said. Her voice was suddenly weary and very quiet. ‘You’re twelve, much too old for all that nonsense now.’
‘A . . . spider,’ Tanya finished, her shoulders slumping. It was no good. Her mother had never listened before. Nobody had. Why should things be any different now?
‘Oooooh! A spider, am I?’ crowed the voice from beneath the floorboards. ‘So, the daughter can see me, but the mother can’t . . . Oh, I’ll have some fun with this, you see if I don’t!’
Tanya got up from the floor and sank miserably on to the sofa, the fairy’s gleeful laughter ringing in her ears. The relief on her mother’s face did little to make her feel any better. It wouldn’t last. The fairy had promised trouble, and Tanya knew only too well that she would get it. It was just a question of when.
‘Why don’t you make a start on unpacking and I’ll put together some lunch?’ her mother suggested.
Tanya nodded glumly. She got up and collected her case, then trudged to the back of the cottage. The first bedroom was larger, with the four-poster bed her mother had described, and a quaint, old-fashioned bathtub just visible through another door into the bathroom.
The second bedroom was simpler and smaller, but bright and cheerful with crisp lemon bedding and matching curtains. She heaved her suitcase on to the bed and unzipped it, pulling out her clothes and shoes into a higgledy-piggledy pile, then went over to the tiny, criss-crossed window and stared out. A rambling flower garden with a narrow stone path lay before her like something from a picture book. As she watched, a little brown hedgehog ambled across the grass and two robins perched on a crumbling birdbath. She smiled faintly, then almost tripped over Oberon who had crept in and settled on the rug behind her. He thumped his tail as she scratched his chocolate-brown head, before gathering an armful of clothes to put away. Oberon settled down for a snooze.
She worked quietly, listening out for any telltale scratches
or muttering from under the floorboards, but none came. She hoped that this was the only fairy in the house. In the countryside, she knew, fairies were never very far away. Tanya had endured many a stay with her one surviving grandmother, Florence, who lived in an old country manor in Essex.
Tanya had never liked the house and dreaded it every time her mother sent her there, for it was crawling with fairies. In the kitchen alone, there were two: a funny little creature in a dishrag dress who hid behind the coalscuttle, and an ancient, grumpy brownie who lived in the tea caddy and was fond of rapping her over the knuckles with its walking stick every time she reached in for a teabag.
Then there was the unseen clan that had invaded the grandfather clock and who were the reason the blasted thing never worked. Their sly insults rang in Tanya’s ears every time she passed it. Worse still, a froggy-looking creature with rotten-egg breath lived in the bathroom pipes. Much like a magpie, it stole anything it could lay its clammy little fingers on that happened to be shiny. Despite the unpleasant idea of spending her holiday sharing a cottage with whatever it was that was lurking under the floorboards, Tanya had to admit that it was better than going to her grandmother’s house.
Before long, the last item had been put away and her mother was calling her for lunch. She returned to the living-room area and helped her mother carry the dishes and bowls to the table. Once seated, she poured some orange juice and helped herself to salad, bread, ham and a hard-boiled egg, munching in earnest as she suddenly realised how hungry she was.
Unsurprisingly, Oberon had awoken from his nap and was now resting his head on Tanya’s knee, his long, brown nose sticking out from beneath the tablecloth. She smuggled him a piece of ham, and would have got away with it had he not wolfed it down so noisily, prompting a sigh from her mother.
‘Oh, Tanya. I’ve told you about feeding Oberon titbits – you know he’s becoming an awful scrounger. And besides, he’s getting rather plump.’
‘He’s not plump,’ Tanya muttered, but all the same she couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty. Oberon was a dreadful beggar at the dinner table and a thief, too, when he thought he could get away with it. ‘It’s just . . . puppy fat.’