13 Secrets (4 page)

“So what do you think?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

“About what?” Tanya replied.

“The animal sanctuary.”

“It’s great,” Tanya replied. “I think it’ll be good for the manor if people know what’s being done here. Maybe it’ll go some way toward helping people to forget all the bad stuff that happened here… with Amos and Morwenna and everything.”

Fabian nodded. “I helped Warwick build the fence, you know. And I painted the chicken coop.”

Tanya nodded, only half-listening. Her eyes were drawn to the various charms and deterrents that were placed around Rowan’s room. Salt; dried rowanberries and leaves; an iron horseshoe on the wall above her bed. Fabian had told her about them on the phone, but Tanya hadn’t been able to visualize it. Even now, seeing it with her own eyes, she couldn’t believe it. Nor could she get used to the new Rowan, with her neat hair and clothes and her quiet manner. Was this really the fearless girl who had trekked around the countryside with only a knife and a meager bag of belongings just a few months ago? It seemed impossible.

Tanya went to the window, looking past the unbroken trail of salt to the sprawling forest beyond the garden. Her mind swam with possible words, some way of broaching the subject gently. But before she settled on something she was comfortable voicing, Fabian interrupted.

“We haven’t seen much of Mad Morag recently. I wonder if the compass she gave you is still working?”

“I don’t know,” said Tanya, thinking of the old gypsy woman who had helped them in the past. “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”

“We saw her in Tickey End in the spring, didn’t we?” Fabian said, looking over at Rowan, but she was staring into space, gnawing her lower lip.

“Didn’t we, Red?” Fabian persisted.

Rowan’s head snapped up. “Don’t call me that anymore!”

“Sorry,” Fabian muttered, looking baffled and more than a little hurt. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just… an old habit. It just came out.”

Rowan’s fierce expression softened. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“Anyway,” Fabian continued uncomfortably, “we saw her in town. I spoke to her for a few minutes. I was hoping she’d let me have some more of that tonic to see fairies, but she said it wasn’t to be used lightly.” He sighed. “Warwick’s being really stingy with his too. Says I’ve got no business messing with it.”

“He’s right,” said Rowan shortly. “Here’s me trying to keep them out”—she gestured around the room—“and you’re positively looking to encourage them in!”

Fabian’s face began to flush. “I’m not encouraging them. I just want to be able to
see
them.” He flicked the book open and hunched over it again, muttering to himself. “I’ll find my own way to see them. Plenty of ideas in here.”

Rowan made a noise of exasperation, and Tanya decided to take the plunge.

“Why are you being so cautious?” she asked. “Do you even need all these charms to keep the fairies out? I mean… now that we know about your name….”

Rowan didn’t look at her. “It’s not a case of
whether I need it. I
want
it. And yes, being named after the rowan tree protects me from harmful magic, but what if that’s not enough?” She lifted her feet up onto the chair and hugged her knees to herself.

“I don’t understand,” Tanya said. “How can it not be enough? You’ve faced the worst and won, surely? You defeated the fairies after they took James. They let you go! You’re here, with us. You’re safe!”

“Am I?” Rowan turned to face her. “Am I really? It’s not easy to let go of the past. Not easy to start fresh, even when you want to, more than anything.”

“But you already have,” said Fabian, putting the book down again.

Rowan gave a short laugh. “Some things aren’t easy to put behind you. I’ve done things, bad things. I can’t help feeling that somehow, someday, they’re going to catch up with me.”

Tanya felt a chill at her words. “What things?”

But Rowan’s face had changed, closed off. Whatever was on her mind was not about to be shared.

“Come on,” Tanya said firmly. “Let’s take all these deterrents down.”

“We can help,” Fabian said eagerly. He got up and reached for the horseshoe above the bed.

But Rowan shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

Fabian lowered his hand, and then Tanya saw him lean closer to the calendar on the wall.

“You’ve circled the thirteenth,” he commented, a forced brightness in his tone that told Tanya he was
trying hard to change the subject and lighten the mood in the room. “That’s today. What’s the big event?”

His words seemed to have completely the opposite effect from what he had intended. Tanya glanced at Rowan and saw a look of panic and fury sweep across her face.

“Nothing! Mind your own business and stop poking around my stuff!”

“I wasn’t exactly poking around,” Fabian retorted. “I just saw it!”

The emotion left Rowan’s face suddenly. It became unreadable.

“If you must know, I circled the date because I knew Tanya was coming today,” she said smoothly. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Huh,” said Fabian. “Then why didn’t you just say so, instead of biting my head off?” He snatched his book and, looking decidedly grumpy, headed for the door. “I’m going back to my room.”

“I think I’ll go back to mine too,” said Tanya. “I’ve still got some unpacking to do.”

“All right,” said Rowan, meeting her eyes. The look in them was challenging, as though she knew Tanya had lied about the unpacking.

Tanya shut the door behind her and stood in the hallway. She did not enjoy lying, but it was something she had grown accomplished at over the years. Consequently, she had also learned to recognize when she was being lied to.

So, standing in the cool, dark hallway with her back to the door, she trusted her own judgement enough to know that Rowan had just lied about the meaning of the date on the calendar.

She just didn’t know why.

The cottage had been without an owner for several months. For a long time it had been a feared place, but news of its owner’s death had spread, and the deserted woods surrounding it began to stir once more.

Inside, cold ash was all that remained in the grate of the fireplace. Jars and bottles cluttered the surfaces, their contents untouched, and around the edges of the cottage, cages stood empty, doors open. Animal skins of all kinds hung from the rafters, stiff and dried and no longer dripping. Below them the stone floor was dotted with old, dark stains, but the tangy scent of blood no longer filled the air.

Rowan stepped into the center of the cottage, her heart drumming a familiar beat of fear. She kicked aside the animal pelt on the floor, revealing the
trapdoor beneath. Slowly, slowly, she descended the staircase into the cellar, not wanting to, but unable to fight the need to know what the cellar held.

The stench hit her a few steps down, sending her reeling. It was the smell of dead, rotten things. Covering her nose with her hand she urged herself to the bottom. Blindly stumbling in the darkness, she felt her feet hit something solid on the floor. A body. Suppressing a scream, she recoiled, allowing herself a moment of composure. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and she was able to make out the dark shapes littering the cellar. Only one remained upright. As she edged toward it, her breathing quickened. It was slumped forward, one wrist encircled in an iron manacle. Greasy black hair fell over the face. There was no movement.

She moved closer. Things crunched under her boots, glinting in the light filtering down. Fragments of mirror, eggshell, and a curse that had gone horribly wrong. She remembered it all. She stopped in front of the motionless figure, trembling. Only then did she realize she had something clenched in her sweating hand. She looked down and found a key there.

Reaching forward, she jammed the key into the iron manacle and jiggled it around, trying to unlock it. Something was in there, some wedge of dirt perhaps, preventing it from turning.

The hand in the manacle sprang to life, grabbing her wrist. Rowan screamed, dropping the key as the
head snapped up. Two black eyes burned in a waxen face, emanating hatred.

“I’m sorry…” she babbled in terror. “I’m sorry—”

The lips in the face parted, breaking a thin seal of crusted spittle. The face loomed as the hand pulled her nearer… nearer… and three words were spat into her face.

“YOU… LEFT… ME…!”

Rowan awoke, trembling and soaked in perspiration. The dream clung to her like a cobweb. It was the same dream she’d been having for months now. Everything about it felt so real: the memory of the hanging animal skins, the trapdoor, the cellar… the stench. She threw the covers back, sniffing at herself self-consciously. All she could smell was her own sweat. She shook herself, forcing it out of her mind. She would not think about it. Not now. She had other things to attend to, and drifting off to sleep hadn’t been part of the plan.

She glanced worriedly at the clock but found that she had only dozed off for about ten minutes. It was late now, past eleven o’clock, and gradually the manor was going silent. Only Warwick was yet to go to bed, his heavy footsteps clumping through the house as he locked up for the night. Finally, she heard his boots on the stairs, then the sliver of light beneath her door vanished as Warwick turned off the light in
the hallway. She heard his door close, and then silence.

She waited another twenty minutes to give him the chance to drop off to sleep. Silently, she drew back the covers and slid out of bed, fully clothed, and then padded silently to her bookshelf. From there she removed the slip of paper tucked into one of the books and cast her eyes over it again in the moonlight from the window. There was a map, roughly drawn in pencil, and a few lines of writing—a scrawled instruction. Committing both to memory, she crossed to the fireplace, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, and lit one. In the darkness of the room the yellow light glowed brilliantly, the hiss of the flame loud. She held the piece of paper to it until it caught, then put it carefully in the empty grate. By the time she had collected her fox-skin coat from the wardrobe and slipped her knife into her belt, the paper had curled and blackened and fallen away to ash.

With a final glance around the room, Rowan crept to the door and opened it, stooping to collect her boots on the way out. In the hallway she paused for a split second outside Tanya’s room, half-wishing she could knock. Swallowing down her regret, she continued onward, down the stairs and toward the front door. All was well until she reached the little table upon which the telephone stood. Something warm and soft moved beneath her right foot. An angry yowl pierced the silence.

Spitfire shot out from under the table and fled to
the grandfather clock, stopping to lick his matted tail where it had been stepped on. His single eye glowed through the darkness in a demon glare.

Rowan remained still, alert for signs that anyone had awoken. There were none. Edging down the hallway, she took her key from the hook and quietly opened the front door. Stepping outside, she pulled the door to and inserted her key to hold the latch back until the door was closed. On the porch she slipped her boots on and laced them. Then, standing up, she drew the fox-skin coat around her shoulders and fastened the clasp. The transformation, as always, was instant. Every hair follicle twitched, as though red-brown fur really was growing all over her. The night loomed large as she shrank into it, yet all her senses magnified and became pin-sharp.