13 Treasures (21 page)

Not knowing what else to do, Tanya left the bathroom, dragging her hair behind her. She sat down on the bed. Red was her only hope. Somehow, she had to get to her, but deep down she knew she hadn’t a chance. It was just a matter of time before her grandmother forced the door open. She did not want to think what would happen beyond that.

Breakfast time drew ever nearer. Tanya’s stomach felt as though it was turning itself inside out as she waited for the inevitable call from her grandmother. She did not have to wait long before Florence was hollering up the stairs, and by the fourth time she was sounding very annoyed indeed.

Tanya pictured her thin mouth twisting in anger, and suddenly felt strangely detached. She would be taken away when they opened the door and saw her, of that she was sure. Taken away… and asked questions and experimented on by people in white coats. Just like a changeling.

Footsteps clomped up the stairs. Tanya drew in a slow, deep breath. Someone tapped on the door.

“Tanya? What are you playing at? Florence wants you downstairs now—she’s had enough! And so have I. My breakfast is going cold!”

“Fabian?” Tanya whispered.

“Yes,” came the impatient reply. “What are you doing in there? Open the door.”

“I can’t. I’m not coming down.”

“You have to. Florence knows something’s wrong. She says if you don’t come down now she’s coming up and letting herself in with the skeleton key.” Fabian lowered his voice. “Is it something to do with last night? Warwick hasn’t said anything—I think we got away with it.”

“No… it’s not that.” Tanya got up off the bed and shuffled to the door. “I can’t tell you. You might as well go downstairs.”

“Just tell me. I might be able to help.”

“Trust me, you can’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you open the door and I see that you’re all right.”

“No!”

“Fine.”

There was scrabbling from the other side of the door.

“I hope you’re dressed,” Fabian said. “If you’re not, then now’s the time to get back in bed!”

“What? Fabian—”

There was a distinctive sound of a key being inserted into the lock, and the key on Tanya’s side popped out and fell to the floor.

“Fabian, how
could
you!” she cried. She hurled herself against the door as the lock clicked. “How dare you do this? I’ll… I’ll tell Warwick you’ve been using his skeleton key to look all around the house!”

“It’s not Warwick’s.” The doorknob began to turn. “It’s mine. I found it in one of the old servants’ rooms.”

Fabian began to push the door from the other side. Tanya pushed back with all her might, but already she knew she was not strong enough to hold him off for long. The hair on the floor was impeding the grip of her bare feet as it was.

“I mean it, Fabian!” Tanya shouted. “I’ll never forgive you if you do this!”

The door began to inch open. She shoved back, panic fueling her supply of strength.

“It’s… for your own… good,” Fabian panted. “Once I see… you’re all right… I’ll go. Florence… is going to… come up here… anyway!”

“I don’t care!” Tanya roared. “You’re not coming in!”

But whether she liked it or not, Fabian
was
coming in. He had gained another two inches in the last few seconds, and Tanya’s stance was weakening. Already, it was clear he could see something was very wrong.

“What’s that? On the floor… what is it? It looks like… like…”

Tanya’s strength was all but spent. She managed a few more seconds before she slid backward into the room and Fabian fell clumsily but quickly through the door, skidding on the piles of hair like a newborn foal. He landed in an awkward heap beside the bed.

Tanya jumped forward and grabbed the skeleton key from the outside, and then closed and locked the door from the inside. She turned to face Fabian, sensing that he had been stunned into silence.

He was sitting rigid on the floor, with one ankle at an uncomfortable-looking angle from where he had fallen—and was too shocked even to move. He stared at a fistful of hair in his palm, then slowly flexed his fingers and followed the strand of hair with disbelieving eyes until his gaze met with Tanya’s.

Strangely, she felt calmer now that Fabian was actually in the room than she had at the thought of him being in the room. She felt oddly out of control, like her life was no longer her own, and yet somehow she accepted that whatever happened next depended entirely upon Fabian’s reaction. She was too tired to fight, too tired to lie. Bizarrely, all she wanted now was to tell the truth—and now that he had seen her, Fabian
had
to listen.

“I need to tell you something, Fabian.” Her voice was quiet, and calmer than she anticipated. “You were right about me. I
was
hiding something. All those things you noticed about me, the strange things that happen when I’m around… well, they all happen for a reason. You might find it hard to believe at first—”

She stopped speaking as she noticed that Fabian hadn’t heard a word. His mouth was moving slowly, although no words seemed to be coming out. His eyes were wide, and still fixed on her in horror and utter confusion.

“Witch,” he said quietly, but clearly enough for her to hear this time.

“What? No, Fabian, listen to me—”

“The gypsy witch,” said Fabian. His eyes trailed from her head, following her hair around the room for the umpteenth time. “She did this. She’s cursed you! She cursed you when she gave you that compass!”

Tanya was struck dumb by his words. In a split second she considered Fabian’s theory. It was one she had not even entertained: that this could be the work of the old gypsy woman. Certainly it seemed she would be capable of it. Yet somehow Tanya doubted that the old woman would go to the trouble of pretending to help her only to do something like this.

It seemed unlikely… and yet it was still possible. And Fabian’s absolute conviction that this had been the turn of events also gave her an easy way out. She would no longer need to go through the humiliation of trying to convince him of the fairies’ existence if this was what he believed.

“I think… I think you could be right,” she said slowly.

“Of course I’m right!” Fabian spluttered. “The old hag has hexed practically everyone in Tickey End at some point, and you’re next on her list! We should have sold the compass to that man on the bus!”

“What am I going to do?” Tanya gestured helplessly. “I can’t let anyone else see me!”

“I don’t know… I don’t
know,
” Fabian muttered. “But you’re right. We can’t let them see you like this. We’ll have to get something to cut it. Haven’t you got any scissors?”

Tanya shook her head.

“I’ve only got nail scissors. They didn’t work.”

“Well, what about if I can get the kitchen scissors… or Warwick has some garden shears… or an axe, maybe?”

“It’s not just about a sharp object,” Tanya said. “We need to do something that will break the spell.”

“Oh,” Fabian said gloomily. “Any suggestions?”

“I once read… somewhere… about a list of things that are supposed to… break spells and curses,” Tanya said carefully. “The list was: being near running water, like a stream or a brook, the color red, salt, turning clothes inside out, and iron. So if we can think of something that links to one of those things, then maybe there’s a chance it will work.” She lifted her hand to her hair subconsciously. The movement caused a dazzle of light to shimmer off one of the charms on the bracelet. The dagger.

“Can you think of an object, say, a knife, with a red handle?” she asked.

Fabian brightened. “Florence has a letter opener with a sort of orangey handle. That’s nearly red. And it’s sharp. Maybe that would work.”

Tanya shook her head. “It has to be
red
. Bright red.”

They stared at each other in silence, dismal expressions mirrored in one another’s face.

“A knife,” Fabian repeated slowly.

Florence screeched up the stairs, making them both start.

“Will you both come down this instant! This is the last time I’m going to tell you before I come up there and drag you both down by the scruffs of your necks!”

“Well, that’s it, then,” said Tanya. “The game’s up.”

But Fabian had the start of a frown on his face; the kind of frown he wore when he had an idea… or when he was about to do something devious.

“Hold on.” He sprang to his feet, barely wincing at his twisted ankle. “I’ve just remembered something that may or may not work, depending on whether or not I can actually get hold of it.”

“What is it?” Tanya asked, her face lit with hope.

“Something that’s going to be tricky to get to,” said Fabian. He unlocked the door and slipped into the hallway. “So don’t get your hopes up. And whatever you do, don’t open the door to anyone else but me.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something? My grandmother is bound to have a skeleton key!”

Fabian grinned slyly. “She does. Only, she doesn’t realize yet that she’s
mislaid
it.” He reached around the door and gave the key in the lock a gentle stroke.

“You said you found that in one of the old servant’s rooms!”

Fabian’s smile widened. “I know what I
said
. But I lied.”

In the kitchen, Warwick was kneeling by the hearth, scraping mud from his boots. Fabian watched him carefully. His father looked haggard today: old and tired. His skin was gray and his hair hung in tangles, evidence that it had been rained on and dried before he’d had the chance to comb it. His eyes were bloodshot and dragged down by the dark shadows beneath them. He had not shaved in a couple of days.

Florence stood with her back to them, washing up. From the amount of noise she was making it was clear she was in a temper. On the table two untouched cooked breakfasts were wafting heavenly smells into the air. Oberon sat under the table, the tip of his nose protruding guiltily from beneath the checkered cloth. Twin strings of dribble hung from his chops. Fabian’s stomach growled. He understood exactly how the dog felt, but he forced away his hunger and walked casually to the sink to stand beside Florence.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“Can I get a glass of water?” he asked meekly.

Warwick glanced up and gave him a sharp look. “There’s a jug on the table. Eat your breakfast.”

“I will in a minute,” Fabian said. He filled a tumbler with water and set it on the side. “It’s for Tanya. She’s been sick. I think she’s got some sort of… bug.”

“Then why didn’t she just say so?” Florence said, her eyes narrowing.

Fabian shrugged and moved toward the back door. He had spied what he was looking for. His father’s coat hung from the middle peg—limp and very, very damp.

“Come on, boy,” he said to Oberon, and whistled. The dog reluctantly squeezed out from under the table and lumbered outside as Fabian opened the door.

“The dog’s already been out,” said Florence, exasperated.

“Oh, sorry,” Fabian replied. His hand brushed against the hunting knife in the belt of the coat. It was Warwick’s prize possession—and the entire thing was specially crafted from iron. He had seen his father use it to gut rabbits that he had caught in the woods more times than he cared to remember.

As the door was pulled back, shielding Fabian’s hand from view, he slipped his fingers nimbly under the belt and unsheathed the blade. It was cold, heavy, and brutal, certain to cut through the hair. Deftly, he slipped it into his sleeve and held it there, his trembling fingers curled over at the ends, and then shut the back door. His other hand nearly knocked over the glass of water he had poured as he snatched it up in his haste to get out of the kitchen.

“Back in a minute,” he mumbled.

“Do be quick,” said Florence, wringing out her dishcloth with the kind of relish that told Fabian she was imagining it was his neck.

By the time he reached the bedroom Fabian was out of breath. He placed the glass of water carelessly on the mantelpiece and drew the knife out from his sleeve.

“This should work,” he said.

Tanya eyed the knife apprehensively.

“What is that thing?”

“It’s made from iron,” said Fabian. “It should break the spell.” He knelt at her side and began hacking at the hair. “Warwick’s coat was by the door. His boots are caked with mud and the coat was soaked. It was definitely him we saw last night.”