Chapter Three

 

I was tempted to stay away from the square and the Christmas tree and whatever problems were occurring there but avoiding it meant taking a circuitous route which added at least half a mile to my journey back to the safety of my sofa. In for a penny, in for a pound, I reasoned. After playing the role of Santa, dealing with Christmas tree problems would be simple. Perhaps I’d even manage to snarf a candy cane or two while I was at it.

I picked up speed in case Maidmont decided to come after me with a foolproof manipulation that would see me back as a living, breathing torture device for toddlers. I only stopped when I reached a cluster of worried witches, all gazing upwards at the towering tree.

I stared up. The tree was impressive. I’d never been able to boast about having an artist’s eye but I could certainly appreciate effort. And Abigail and the other Neophytes who had been tasked with putting the tree together had certainly put in plenty of energy and labour.

The tree had to be at least twenty feet tall. Not only had they gone all out with the usual tinsel, baubles and glittery frou-frou things that I couldn’t name, there were also several spells set up to add to the overall effect. There wasn’t any of the snow that Abigail had been hoping to achieve but I counted at least two dozen tiny elves, created through some sort of elaborate illusion magic. They danced round the branches of the tree, flitting between the green and looking for all the world as if they really were Santa’s helpers. I could have done with some of them back at the grotto.

‘You know what I think?’ I said to no one in particular. ‘I think you should leave this up all year round. That way you don’t need to worry about doing this every twelve months. It’s pretty to look at and will distract visitors from the ugly Order buildings nearby.’

I eyed the carefully wrapped presents at the foot of the tree. Once upon a time, when I was young and foolish, I’d wasted many hours trying to create beautifully wrapped gifts. The trouble was that a gorgeous exterior not only took considerable time to achieve but also established unrealistic expectations. When the present looked as if it were an expensive toy but actually contained several pairs of socks, the ensuing disappointment could be considerable. At least that was what I’d told myself when I realised that it wouldn’t matter how much care and attention I took over my presentation skills; my gifts would always look as if they’d been wrapped by a clumsy clawed bear with defective vision. These days I counted it a success when I bothered to drop my gifts into handy bags. Usually I just thrust them into the hands of the lucky recipient with some muttered excuse about saving paper and therefore the environment.

From the other side of the crowd of witches, Abigail was wringing her hands. She stumbled over to join me. ‘I’m glad you like it. But there’s a massive problem.’ She bit her lip and looked as if she were about to cry. That concerned me; she hadn’t struck me as a weeper before.

At that moment, some of the branches towards the top of the tree quivered in a way that had nothing at all to do with the light breeze gusting around us. I frowned and squinted up, then leapt backwards just a flicker of a heartbeat before a massive glass bauble came crashing down onto the spot where I’d been standing.

‘What the hell?’ I yelled, ready to blame whoever happened to be near me, whether it was white-faced Abigail or not.

‘Bitch.’ Brutus’s face appeared several feet above me from within the branches of the tree. Peering out from some tinsel, he blinked down at me – and I could swear the bugger grinned. The Cheshire Cat must have taken lessons from my damned feline familiar.

Without so much as a request for food, Brutus vanished back into the dark green needles, causing several more of the upper branches to shake dramatically.

If Brutus were a delicate creature like Princess Parma Periwinkle, who was Winter’s familiar, then it probably wouldn’t have been an issue. But he’s a hefty cat who likes his food so, as he picked up speed and more and more branches began to sway, I realised that the trunk of the huge tree was wobbling. It tilted alarmingly to one side and there was a series of alarmed shouts.

Brutus’s familiar voice could be heard above them all. ‘Timber, bitches!’ He leapt from on high, landing just to the side of a group of terrified looking red robes, and darted out of sight. At the same moment, it became clear that the tree was going to slam right down to the ground. Bloody cat. I could swear he also had a pretty snowflake decoration in his mouth as he ran off. He certainly was a special sodding snowflake.

I hissed under my breath and raised my hands, sketching out a stabilising rune in the nick of time. The tree creaked and heaved as if in complaint before finally, thankfully, righting itself. I breathed out. That was close. I might have a lot of leeway these days as far as the Order witches were concerned but if Brutus caused the destruction of their Christmas centrepiece I was fairly certain I’d lose a lot of goodwill. It didn’t bother me per se but I’d only been half kidding when I’d talked about Caesar’s wife to Maidmont. The last thing I wanted was for any of my actions to reflect badly on Winter. He never complained but I knew he had enough to deal with these days with his stresses from work. I didn’t want to add to his burdens if I could help it.

‘That was close.’ I turned to Abigail. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him and make sure he doesn’t do it again.’ I didn’t tell her that Brutus never listened to a damn word I said, and that he was contrary enough to climb the gigantic Christmas tree as often as he could if he thought it would annoy me. Right now, with her bottom lip still trembling, the young witch needed reassurance.

‘It's not the cat,’ Abigail said, her voice shaking. ‘He's fine. He's not the problem. It's...’ She seemed unable to finish her sentence.

Vaguely alarmed, I looked at her more closely. ‘What is it?’

From behind me there was a loud snort. Abigail didn't react and I knew without turning who had made the noise.

‘Well, it is obvious, isn't it?’ Grenfell bellowed in my ear. ‘Cutting down perfectly fine trees and then throwing glitter all over them did not exist in my day but even I am fully aware of what the problem is.’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘If you're so clever, why don't you tell me?’

Abigail gazed at me with wide, tremulous eyes. ‘Is this another test?’ she asked. ‘Because to be honest, Ivy, I don't think this is a very good time.’

‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I wasn't talking to you.’

Her brow furrowed, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. ‘Then who...’ She hesitated ‘Oh. You're talking to a ghost.’ A flash of interest crossed her eyes despite her anxiety. ‘Is it someone famous?’

Grenville preened. ‘Why, yes.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘I am rather famous actually.’

‘Like,’ Abigail said, ‘John Lennon or someone like that?’

‘John Lennon!’ Grenville shrieked, his good humour vanishing. ‘Who in the blazes is John Lennon? Who cares about John Lennon? Could he do magic? Was he a magnificent witch like me?’

I sighed. ‘I rather think we’re getting away from the crux of the matter,’ I said. ‘Why don't we stop faffing around and one of you tell me exactly what the problem is?’

‘Work it out,’ Grenville snapped. ‘You're supposed to be some kind of genius. Work it out for yourself.’

Given the time and inclination, I was quite sure I could work it out for myself. However, when there were two people standing next to me who could tell me within the blink of an eye what the issue was, I had no idea why I should set my own brain cells to the matter.

Fortunately for all of us, Abigail was far more obliging than Grenville. ‘It's the Angel,’ she said. ‘It's missing.’

‘Huh?’ I responded stupidly.

‘From the top of the tree,’ she explained. ‘It's always been there. It's some kind of special antique. We collected all the decorations from Antiquities, including the Angel. We were all set to put it on last and make a bit of a big deal about it. The Angel is special, you see. She grants wishes and protects...’ Her bottom lip began to tremble again and her head dropped.

‘What the little witch is apparently unable to say,’ Grenville piped up, ‘is that the silver Angel, which your lot insist on putting on top of a tree but which deserves far better treatment, is not only lost but has several curses attached to it. And it’s also a protective emblem for the whole Order.’

I took a step back, fixating on one word. ‘Curses?’

Abigail's body shrank; it seemed that all her breath left her lungs all at once. ‘The ghost has told you,’ she said. She twisted her fingers round and round in her lap, pinching them so tightly that I was surprised she still had normal circulation. ‘I thought you'd have known about the Angel already. It's quite famous.’

‘This is my first Christmas with the Order,’ I answered testily. I was still finding it hard to move past the mention of curses. I was as superstitious as the next witch and any mention of anything that might bring bad luck terrified me.

Abigail coloured. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I forgot that you were...’

‘Kicked out for cheating and for assault,’ I finished for her. ‘It's all in the past now. Let's get back to what this Angel is supposed to do. Tell me about the curses.’ I did my best to sound business-like and professional. It was either that or turn round and run screaming for the hills.

Grenfell folded his arms and smiled as if he were enjoying all this tremendously. He turned his attention to Abigail and both of us waited for her to speak.

An over-eager witch who had been listening to our conversation sidled up. ‘I don't mean to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I couldn't help hearing what you were talking about. I've been told the curses will bring death and destruction upon the entire Order. That if the Angel is lost and not given pride of place at least once a year, we will all die in a fiery volcanic explosion.’

I gave him a long, hard look. Okaaaay. Yes, I believe in superstitions and curses. However, the idea that a volcano was going to appear out of nowhere in middle England was stretching even my credulity. We don't have volcanoes. We don't have earthquakes. We have lots of rain, some nasty wind which has the habit of sneaking down the back of your neck along with icy drips when you’re not paying attention, but no tsunamis or hurricanes or real attacks from Mother Nature. The natural occurrences we experience in this part of the world happen with whimpers rather than with screams.

I wasn't the only one who seemed to think that this new witch was being ridiculous. Another Neophyte, who to my eye looked as if she were about twelve years old, butted in. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It's not a fiery volcano that the loss of the Angel will incur. It’s the plague.’ Her eyes widened almost gleefully and she gestured to her bare skin. ‘First of all,’ she declared, ‘there will be pustules.’ She paused. ‘Pus-filled pustules.’

I frowned. ‘Aren’t pustules by their very nature filled with pus?’

She looked at me. ‘Uh, I don't know.’ Medical specifics were clearly not her forte. ‘But,’ she returned, moving on from my interruption, ‘the pus will be very green and very icky.’

I raised an eyebrow. When was pus not icky? Rather than interrupt again, however, I let her continue. When it doesn’t terrify me, I rather enjoy melodrama.

‘The affected will have all their hair fall out,’ she breathed, ‘and then all their teeth.’ She shuddered for extra effect. ‘And all their fingernails and toenails will drop off. Once that has happened their very bones will begin to disintegrate within their bodies. They will become like jellyfish, flopping around uselessly on the pavements of Britain.’

‘Utterly spineless?’ I asked. I hated the thought of losing my backbone – in more ways than one.

She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes! That's exactly what will happen.’

Her version didn't sound any more believable than the previous suggestion of volcanoes. What was apparent was that neither scenario was very pleasant. I looked askance at Abigail, who was now so pale she was giving Grenville a run for his money. Perhaps she would be more sensible. I crossed my fingers tightly.

‘The truth is,’ Abigail whispered, ‘nobody knows what will happen. We know that the Angel is vital for the well being of the Order. We know that it’s an object to be treated with reverence. We know that there is a curse attached to it should it ever be lost or broken. But we don't really know what will happen if it doesn't turn up.’

Grenville slowly unfolded his arms and swept his gaze across us. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘you are about to find out. You will suffer the consequences of losing the Angel of the Order. This is what happens when you mistreat such a valuable object and throw it on top of ugly trees.’ His voice rose with every sentence. ‘There will be fire and brimstone and plague and disaster and—’

I held up my palm. ‘I get the point, Grenville,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to go on about it.’

He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to make it clear that you understand what is about to happen. I think you should go back to Winter and tell him that you need to be released from these other silly duties immediately. There is no time to spare. If you're going to die in a brutal and agonising fashion, we need you to get back to releasing as many ghosts as possible before the pain overtakes you and you can’t perform.’

‘Gee,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your worry and concern.’ I stared at the tree. Why couldn’t the Order just keep the objects that had the potential to cause death and destruction locked away safely? It was hardly rocket science. ‘Find a star for the top of the tree instead,’ I said. ‘Maybe no one will notice the Angel is missing.’ Then I turned on my heel and started to march away.

‘Ivy!’ Abigail called out in alarm. ‘Where are you going?’

Timbuktu preferably, I thought. ‘To check the train timetables,’ I said aloud.

I ignored the worried murmur from the assembly of witches and wrapped my arms around myself. Grenville was right about one thing: I had to find Winter.