13 Curses (46 page)

The village had little to attract outsiders. Parts of it were even older than Tickey End, though here the
tumbledown buildings were mainly cottages, and there was a distinct lack of the shops and inns that kept Tickey End thriving. At a public drinking fountain, Red consulted a small freestanding map of the village, and after working out which way to go, headed off.

After a wrong turn and a lengthy backtrack she eventually found the street she was looking for—Magpie Lane—and began making her way along it. The cottage she was seeking had a name rather than a number, and though Fabian had warned that it was likely to have changed over the years, he had helpfully noted that, on the old maps at least, it had been the only cottage to be completely detached. The others on the street were married in pairs or huddled together in little terraced rows.

“Honeysuckle Cottage,” she murmured to herself. “Where are you?”

She was less than halfway down the street when things began looking familiar. She stopped, taking in a small pond adorned with ugly little gnomes in one garden, and a weathered swing seat in another. She stared at it, noting the flaky remnants of paint that had been bright, fresh blue the last time she’d seen it. She knew this street. She had been here before. A figure moved in the window behind the swing seat, and the net curtain twitched. Red moved on, keeping her head down. Memories stirred in her head: herself, five, maybe six years old, swinging her legs in the back of her parents’ car as it drove down this very road.

“An hour, and then we’re leaving,” her father had
said. “And if she asks for Rowan to stay over, just tell her we’ve got plans.”

“But you know she’ll just keep asking,” Rowan’s mother had answered, with a fretful glance back at her daughter. “She always does.”

“Then we’ll just keep telling her no,” her father said. “She’s got to understand.”

“Why can’t I stay at Auntie Primrose’s?” Rowan asked absently. She had just seen two children on a swinging garden seat. It looked fun, and Rowan longed to have a go, but soon the car had driven past and she forgot it, her child’s mind looking for the next distraction.

“It’s Rose, darling,” her mother corrected. “She doesn’t like being called Primrose, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rowan. “I like Auntie Rose. She’s got red hair, like me.”

“Of course you can stay at Auntie Rose’s,” her mother replied. “Just not tonight. Another night, perhaps.”

“That’s what you always say,” Rowan whined. “I like her house. I like all the animals. Why can’t we have a pet?”

Her father muttered something that she did not hear.

The memory ended there, and Red stopped a little way in front of the only cottage that stood completely alone, a cottage that looked no different from the last time she had seen it, many years before. A wooden gate, painted crimson, opened onto a stone path leading up to a door of the same color. The walls were white, though in the shade of the heavy thickets and trees that surrounded the cottage, it appeared almost
blue. A sign on the door, painted with familiar red berries to match those in the garden, read
ROWANWOOD COTTAGE
. It was Aunt Rose’s house.

The knowledge filled her with a heavy dread. Her aunt had lived here ever since Red could remember, yet all the while it had been the cottage that Elizabeth Elvesden had lived in. The coincidence was extraordinary, yet Red was aware that it had to be more than that. The bracelet had led her to this point, to this place, for a reason.

The curtains were all open, yet Red did not dare to knock at the door. Somehow she had to get into the house without being seen, but she did not know whether her aunt was even in or not. Taking a chance, she slipped through the gate and headed around the side of the house, where there was a second, larger gate of wrought iron that led to the back garden. Fixed to it was another sign, and this one read, B
EWARE OF THE DOGS, GOAT, AND GEESE!

Rowan cursed aloud. It was not the dogs she was worried about, but rather the geese her aunt kept. They were vicious creatures that delivered bruising pecks at every opportunity, and she had feared them a great deal when she was little. Now, as she peered into the overgrown garden, she could see two geese at the far end, one a great white thing called Boris, and another gray one that she remembered as Tybalt, which was ferociously chasing a little brown duck across the garden.

Nearer to the house, next to the shed, was an old
gray goat with only one horn. Thankfully it was tethered on a long piece of rope and was preoccupied with chewing something.

There was no sign of the dogs, and as she lifted the latch she realized that they were not in the garden or the house, for had they been, they would have barked. Immediately she guessed that Rose must have taken them out for their morning walk, and that this was a perfect opportunity to get into the house. She sneaked into the garden, closing the gate quietly behind her.

The garden was so sheltered from the house and from the nearest neighbors that she did not need to worry about being seen. Ducking under the washing line, she made her way to the back door. It was, of course, locked, but this did not deter her. She scouted around the garden, lifting plant pots, looking under the mat and for any place her aunt would have stashed a spare key, but she found none.

A hissing noise sounded from behind her, and she turned to see the fat white goose waddling toward her.

“Buzz off, Boris,” she muttered, skirting around him, but the creature would not be deterred. He lunged for her shin, delivering a painful peck, then backed off, honking as if with laughter.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Red began, rubbing her shin vigorously—but then a marvelous idea struck her. “Let’s see how funny you think this is!”

Pulling her bag off her shoulder, she opened it and removed the fox-skin coat. Tucking her bag safely
beneath a nearby bush, she put the coat on and buttoned it up, letting the glamour take effect. The result was very pleasing indeed, and she couldn’t help but give a few little warning yaps, just to make up for all the pecks of the past.

At the sight of the fox, Boris honked again, but this time it was with fear, as he retreated hastily to the other end of the garden. Tybalt, who had finished terrorizing the duck and had been considering launching his own attack on Red, rapidly changed his mind. Only the goat looked nonchalant, munching on the white thing that looked suspiciously like a pair of knickers. Red sat in the center of the lawn feeling pleased with herself, but the feeling faded as she remembered why she was there. She had to get into the house.

The answer hit her as she heard the side gate opening. Her disguise was the perfect solution, for Rose would never know the difference. All she had to do was to play on her aunt’s sympathy.

As her aunt’s dogs came around the side of the house, panting heavily and worn out from their walk, their hackles went up at the sight of her and they started to bark. Red froze with fear until she saw they were still on their leads, and however much they stretched and strained, her aunt was holding them back. She came into sight a moment after the dogs, her pale, pointed face in a frown as she sought to find what the commotion was about.

“Whatever is the matter with you lot—” she began,
then stopped as she saw Red cowering on her lawn. “Quiet, boys,” she said, tethering the dogs’ leads to a drainpipe.

Red turned away and limped in what she hoped was a convincing way.

“Oh,
dear
,” she heard Rose say in distress, and her shoes scuffed the patio as she came nearer.

Red took a few more steps and then collapsed on the grass, closing her eyes. She smelled her aunt’s perfume, something lavendery mingled with the scent of dog, as Rose knelt by her side. Something soft and fluffy was being tucked around her: her aunt had taken a towel from the washing line.

Red gave a little whine.

“Hush, now, I’m not going to hurt you,” Rose murmured, lifting her expertly into her arms.

Red felt herself being shifted gently into one arm as Rose felt in her pocket with one hand. Then there was the jangle of keys and the sound of the back door being unlocked. She was in.

Rose threw her keys onto the kitchen counter. Red opened her eyes a crack and saw that they had landed next to a plump cat scavenging on the work surface. The familiar smell of the house washed over her: the ever doggy odor mixed with the smell of fishy cat food. The entire house was dominated by its animal occupants, yet the smell was strangely comforting. It brought back other memories: Red’s first taste of ice cream soda one hot summer (complete with cat hair garnish); splashing in the washing-up bowl in
the back garden as a toddler (along with her aunt’s excitable puppy); and being read to in Rose’s living room (animal stories, of course). There was not one bad memory among them and, not for the first time, Red wondered what her parents’ aversion to Rose had stemmed from.

Her musings stopped when Rose brought her into the living room and set her down on the rug in front of the wood burner. Unwrapping the towel, she ran her hands lightly over Red’s fox coat, applying light pressure here and there as she checked for injuries. Rose’s long red hair tickled Red’s nose as she leaned over her.

“I can’t see any injuries,” she muttered. “How odd… unless it’s poison. Good grief, that might just be it.” She tucked the towel around Red again, then got up and went back out into the hall, returning a moment later with her keys. “I won’t be long,” she said worriedly. “I’m going to get the vet. He’ll make you well again, I’m sure of it.” She left the room, closing the door behind her, and a moment later Red heard the front door open and close. She was alone in the house.

In a flash she was up, throwing the fox-skin coat off. Her plan had worked better than she could have hoped. Now she just had to find the charm, and hoped that her aunt wouldn’t return at the wrong moment and be endangered.

Despite the generous amount of land that came with it, the cottage had no upstairs, existing only on
one level. Red knew her way around perfectly, and with the exception of the wallpaper and some furniture, little had changed. There were only three rooms: the kitchen, the sitting room, and one bedroom, plus a tiny bathroom that had been added on in recent years, for in Elizabeth’s time there would have been no bathroom, just an outhouse. For this reason, she dismissed searching the bathroom and decided to concentrate on the rest of the house.

The kitchen was not dissimilar to that of Elvesden Manor, though on a smaller scale. The ceiling and doorways were low, and dark beams ran the length of the room. She rummaged in the cupboards and drawers, finding countless tins of pet food and animal care manuals, charity stickers, and vet bills. The walls were adorned with framed pictures of the numerous pets, and several of Red herself, before James had been born. After that she had not seen much of her aunt at all. Red frowned as she studied the pictures, for all of them were crooked on the wall, at angles.

The cat on the counter eyed her lazily before stretching and turning its back on her. In the moments that it got up, she saw that it was lying on a stash of unopened letters, and suddenly she remembered how her aunt disliked opening letters—in fact, disliked any real contact with the world outside her little cocoon of animals. She did not even have a telephone. No wonder the children’s home had struggled to contact her, she thought in disgust.

She ducked out of the kitchen, beneath an iron
horseshoe hanging above the doorway. There was one above the door of every room, and she recalled Rose telling her that it was for luck.

She went into her aunt’s bedroom. A single bed was heaped with cushions and two more snoozing cats. Above the bed was another crooked picture. Halfway down the chimney breast was a thin mantelpiece with trinkets and knickknacks, all of which she peered into. In the center was another picture of Red, taken when she was about six years old, in a frame that she had made herself from lollipop sticks as a gift to Rose. She picked it up, and as she did, another photograph slid out from behind it and fluttered away from her, landing in the empty fire grate.

Except the grate was not quite empty. Though it had been swept out, there was a small pile of ashes that the brush had not managed to reach. And in those ashes was a tiny, blackened mask. Unthinkingly she picked it out of the ash and rubbed it between her fingers. The soot came away, revealing silver beneath. The mask of Glamour.

Delving into her pocket she shakily removed the bracelet, connected the charm, then shoved it back into the drawstring pouch. She had what she had come for, and it had been the easiest one of all, yet the knowledge only made her more
un
easy. She picked the photo out of the grate and reached for the frame it had fallen from. For the first time she registered what the picture was of, and it shocked her.

A much younger Rose had been snapped in a hos
pital bed, looking tired and wan. Her auburn hair billowed around her head in a wild cloud, and in her arms was a tiny baby. Far from looking happy, however, Rose looked troubled and vulnerable.

Red slowly slid the picture back behind the image of herself, not knowing what to think. She knew that she had stumbled on some secret in her aunt’s past, but she could not begin to imagine what might have happened. She had never heard her mother saying anything about Rose having a child; yet it was clear from the photo that this was indeed the case, and Rose had always seemed to like children. Had something happened to the baby?