“You made your bed,” I replied, my grin smug.

  “Mmm.” She held up a colourful canvas bag. “Look. This is a bottomless tote! It doesn’t matter how much shopping you do, it never gets any heavier or fuller!”

  “That’s pretty cool,” I admitted. I picked up a cut-glass goblet from a display of a dozen or so in bright colours. “These are pretty.”

  “Honestly, this is genius. It automatically refills. You buy one of these, take it to the marquee and link it to the payment machine there. Choose your cider or your ale, then you can wander around the festival willy-nilly and the goblet automatically refills and charges your payment card!”

  I stared at the goblet in horror. “People will die.”

  Charity extracted the glass goblet from my hand. “You can set a limit.”

  “Don’t let Silvan anywhere near these,” I said.

  Charity laughed. “Can I interest you in a badge then?”

  I sifted through the badges. Old favourites like Witch, please and Compost Happens were displayed alongside Save the Trees (They’re Listening) and I Hugged a Dryad and I Liked It and Hex the Patriarchy!

  I chose one that said My Broomstick Runs on Herbal Tea and pinned it to my cardigan.

  “That’s two pounds, please,” said Charity.

  “Two quid?” Scandalous!

  “Or … I have that same slogan on a t-shirt if you’re interested? Twenty-two pounds. Recycled bamboo—”

  “I’ve left my purse upstairs,” I told her, and fled from her tent before she ‘bamboo-zled’ all my money off me.

  Making my way to the bandstand, I paused, waiting for Charity to catch up. Behind me, a herbal elixir cart hummed softly to itself, to its right was a stall entirely made of woven vines, and beyond that, I saw a suspicious set-up guarded by a disgruntled weasel in a waistcoat.

  To be fair, I did look twice at that.

  But for a few moments I was distracted.

  Glancing back the way we’d come, beneath the rising boughs of the freshly planted Heart Tree, the ring of stones had started to pulse—barely visibly in the bright morning light, but I could feel it in my fingertips, like a tremor beneath the surface of the earth.

  A gust of wind blew hair into my eyes.

  “Too magickal,” I murmured. “Far too magickal.”

  “What is?” Charity asked, joining me.

  Before I could answer, I spotted one of the pixies releasing a banner above the cake stall. The moment it was unfurled, the banner began chanting. Yes, a chanting banner. I cocked my head to listen. “The Verdancy Festival, once a year! Unfortunately for Alf, this time it’s here. Approved by witches, wizards and sprites—Eat more cake, avoid bar fights!”

  With perfect timing, somewhere near the bandstand, something exploded in a puff of lavender glitter.

  I sighed and folded my arms. “This is all going to go horribly wrong, isn’t it?”

  Charity beamed at me. “Only a little bit.”

  Chapter Two

  The Heart Tree had grown to around three metres but, at its widest, it was probably no more than thirty centimetres in diameter.

  Charity had been called away—that’s what comes of being the person in charge—and I’d been left to my own devices. I stood beside the tree, gazing up at the pale green leaves, so delicate and fresh, not far above my head. So much growing still to do! If I waited here long enough, would I be able to witness a growth spurt? That would be exciting. I wondered what Vance, the Ent, resting well in his marsh in Speckled Wood, would make of this temporary newcomer. I’d have to visit and ask him.

  I reached out to touch the Heart Tree’s bark, a warm reddish-brown colour with subtle hints of gold, rather like a silver birch but a step up, perhaps. As my fingers touched the trunk, a gentle thrum pulsed beneath my skin.

  Not unpleasant—no pain, no zap—but more like a soft drumbeat, as though the tree itself had a heartbeat. I held my breath. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. But then it came again, subtle, rhythmic and slow. I pressed my palm more firmly against the bark.

  Thrum … thrum … thrum …

  It was definitely there.

  “Hmm,” I murmured aloud. “Are you trying to say something, little one?”

  The wind caught the leaves above me and set them whispering. Not rustling—whispering. I recognised the difference. Rustling is innocent. Whispering suggests … secrets.

  I stepped back and narrowed my eyes. “I’m watching you,” I told the tree, pointing two fingers at my own eyes, then at the trunk. “Don’t think I’m not.”

  A light cough behind me made me jump.

  “Talking to trees now, are we?” said a dry Irish accent.

  I turned to find Finbarr, leaning against an imaginary fencepost, arms crossed and his ever-present battered hat askew on his curls. He looked half amused, half concerned. Normal for Finbarr. I loved this odd little witch like a brother and trusted him implicitly.

  “Well,” I said, brushing my hands down my skirt, “we are witches. Communing with nature comes with the territory.”

  “Yer not wrong there, Alf. Not at all.” He winked at me. “And tell me now. Did nature say anything back?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll tell you something, this tree has a strong pulse. Stronger than any tree in the whole of Speckled Wood. Stronger even than Vance.”

  “Not possible.” Finbarr raised an eyebrow, pushed himself properly upright and came to stand beside me. He reached out a hand but stopped short of touching the bark. “Hmmm. I can feel the hum,” he agreed. “Ley energy. Stronger than yesterday.”

  “Pardon?” Evidently I was missing something here.

  He nodded. “Sure, didn’t the great Wizard Shadowmender mention the Greenheart Alignment last night? Five ley lines. All converging right here in Whittlecombe. Isn’t that why he wanted to hold the festival here this year?”

  “I must have missed that,” I said, annoyed that I hadn’t been included.

  “Oh, that’s right, it was Charity here when the tree was planted. You were … busy.”

  “I do have an inn to run!”

  “You do that, aye.”

  We stood in silence a moment, watching the leaves flutter. I could have sworn the colour altered—a nuance of silver along the edges, like moonlight caught in daylight.

  Finbarr cleared his throat. “There’s something else.”

  “Oh good,” I grumped. “Because we haven’t got enough going on.”

  “You’re the heart of this place, Alf,” he said, not looking at me. “This tree … it might be more connected to you than you think.”

  “What does that mean?” I squinted at him. “Is this your poetic way of saying I’m in danger, or some kind of vague prophecy?”

  He gave a little shrug. “Both?”

  “Both?” I groaned. “Care to explain?”

  A shrill cry cut through the air. We turned in unison as Mr Hoo shot overhead, clutching what looked very much like another spoon. Behind him, a trail of silver mist and an outraged wail—Florence’s voice—echoed across the grounds.

  “Mr Hoo! That was polished!”

  The owl barrelled into a branch of the Heart Tree, dropped the spoon, rebounded, then flapped away in a huff.

  I sighed and reached down for the spoon. “I have no idea what’s going on with that bird.”

  Finbarr chuckled. “Maybe he feels it too.”

  “Feels what though?” I gave the tree one last look. “I mean, I agree, it is odd. But what is it we’re feeling? Are we supposed to be feeling it? And let’s hope whatever it is, is a good kind of magick.”

  “And if not?” Finbarr asked, and now I didn’t like the look on his face.

  I turned on my heel. “Then it can take a number and join the queue.”

  I stalked off across the grass, the spoon still in my hand, muttering under my breath about rogue familiars and magickal trees. Finbarr called something after me—probably cryptic—but I ignored him. I had a feeling he’d enjoy watching me puzzle this out far too much. I refused to worry about something I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be worrying about.

  I skirted the edge of the inn, intending to walk around to the side and go in through the kitchen, but I’d only made it halfway when I heard voices. And not just any voices. One of them had that deep, educated timbre that could only belong to Wizard Shadowmender. The other was clipped, commanding and oh, so familiar.

  “I’m telling you, Luca,” came Gwyn’s sharp hiss, “it’s already begun.”

  I froze.

  A thick hedge lay to my left. There’d never been a hedge there before, which surely proves to you what I was up against by holding this festival, but now I bobbed down, thankful for its existence. The voices were coming from behind it, from an old arbour overgrown with honeysuckle and starflower. It needed trimming back but I liked the wildness of it.

  If it was still here when the festival ended, maybe I’d keep it.

  “You can’t know that for certain,” Shadowmender replied, his voice low and urgent. “The tree’s only this minute been planted.”

  “I can know,” Gwyn snapped. “Because I felt it in my bones. Don’t condescend, Luca. You don’t know her the way I do.”

  Her?

  They quietened. I strained to hear more. My heart thumped harder than the Heart Tree’s.

  “We mustn’t tell her. Not yet,” Shadowmender said eventually.

  “Of course not. You think I want to panic the girl?” Gwyn’s tone had cooled, but it had the same brittle edge it always did when she was annoyed. “We watch. We wait. We keep our eyes on the signs.”

  “And if Dorn returns?” Shadowmender asked softly.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Then silence.

  “He won’t,” Gwyn said at last. “He mustn’t.”

  Shifting my weight, I stepped on a twig. Drat! A tiny sound but it was enough. Behind the hedge, the voices stopped.

  A moment later, Gwyn called sweetly, “Alfhild, dear, is that you?”

  I considered pretending to be a hedge spirit and making a run for it, but I sighed and stepped around the corner instead.

  “There you are!” I said with a bright smile that fooled no-one. “Wizard Shadowmender. Grandmama. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Shadowmender flinched like a schoolboy caught near the staffroom door, then tried for dignity and failed.

  Gwyn adjusted the veil over her Edwardian riding habit and smiled at me like butter wouldn’t melt. “We were simply admiring the wisteria.”

  “The wisteria,” I echoed. “Well. That’s a relief. For a moment there, I thought you were discussing ley line convergence and ancient gods.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” Gwyn said airily. “We were talking about the weather.”

  Shadowmender coughed discreetly into his sleeve.

  “Ah yes,” I said. “Very volatile this time of year. Especially when gods with antlers are involved.”

  They said nothing.

  I narrowed my eyes at them both. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Shadowmender gave me a perfectly bland look. “Perish the thought.”

  “And if you’re keeping secrets,” I added, “I will find out.”

  Gwyn patted the air beside my arm. “There’s nothing to find out, my dear. Why don’t you go and check on the compost stall? I heard one of the cabbages is reciting prophecy. You might discover something interesting.”

  I scowled, but she only fluttered her fingers at me and disapparated.

  Shadowmender nodded stiffly. “Alfhild,” he said, and tried to take his leave.

  “Wait!” I commanded, more stridently than perhaps was right and proper, given who I was talking to.

  “Hmmm?” Wizard Shadowmender leaned heavily on his staff and blinked at me through his round spectacles. He wasn’t fooling me. Ancient he might be, but his wits remained as sharp as a banshee’s shriek on a moonless night.

  “This festival,” I began, “it’s … incredible.”

  “Thanks in no small part to the hard work young Charity has put in,” the elderly wizard said. I ignored the subtle dig at the role I hadn’t played.

  “True—”

  “And of course we couldn’t have held it if you hadn’t volunteered Whittle Inn.”

  “You’d have found somewhere else, I’m sure,” I said, because I hadn’t volunteered; Charity had coerced me into it. “But that’s by the by. What interests me is why the festival is so magickal?” I gestured behind me at the stalls we could see, and of course the enormous beer tent, still sagging in the middle.

  “Magickal festivals tend to be exactly that,” said Wizard Shadowmender and chuckled, but when I didn’t crack a smile, he ducked his head and sighed.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “It’s a shame you missed the planting ceremony last night—”

  “I’m all ears now.”

  “Dear Alf, as I explained, the reason we’ve been so keen to hold the festival on Whittle Inn’s land this year is because of the convergence of ley lines. For the first time in centuries, five major ley lines converge directly beneath these grounds.”

  I nodded. This is what Finbarr had been talking about.

  “This rare alignment—known as the Greenheart Alignment—amplifies all ambient magick in the area, causing enchantments to behave …” The wizard paused and checked my expression before continuing, “shall we say, somewhat unpredictably …”

  Smashing.

  “… and nature spirits have been known to stir in response to the ley lines too.”

  “Is that something to worry about?” I asked, but knowing me, I would worry one way or another, regardless of what the answer was.

  “No, no, not at all!” Wizard Shadowmender rushed to reassure me.

  “Mmm.” I wasn’t reassured. “Only, I’ve noticed that there are goings-on that wouldn’t normally be going on—”

  “Oh yes?” Wizard Shadowmender perked up at this. “Such as?”

  “Inanimate objects suddenly having a life of their own,” I said, thinking of the trestle table in the bar, “beer barrels becoming fixated on a member of my staff, and banners that sing and chant slogans.”

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” Shadowmender enthused.

  “Sir?” We were interrupted by the soft purr of a handsome grey cat. Smoke, Wizard Shadowmender’s right-hand man. Or cat. Or whatever. He could shapeshift, which I found oddly disconcerting. For now, he was in feline form. And a mighty handsome cat he was.

  “There you are, Smoke,” the wizard wheezed. “Everything alright?”

  “Ms Quigwell is asking to see you.”

  “Is she indeed? I’d best run inside then.” Wizard Shadowmender tapped his staff on the ground. “Sorry, Alf—”

  “Did you say Quigwell?” I asked before he could leave. “As in Penelope Quigwell? My lawyer?”

  “The lovely Penelope, yes!”

  Lovely? I wouldn’t go that far, but hey.

  “I invited her. We have business. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, no.” I shrugged. “The more the merrier.” Any more festival freeloaders? I wondered.

  “Go and enjoy yourself,” the wizard urged me. “Treat yourself to some trinkets.” With that he followed Smoke inside the inn, leaving me to gaze after him, wondering what on earth was going on and why I had so many misgivings.

  ***

  I didn’t treat myself to any trinkets because the stalls wouldn’t be open until early evening. I did, however, stroll around by myself some more to check out what was where and see if I recognised anyone. Needless to say, I didn’t, but I did find Millicent’s Lotions and Potions and Magickal Elixirs stall. No sign of her, but the gentleman on the Pocket Charms and Everyday Enchantments stall next door told me she’d headed back to Hedge Cottage to feed Sunny, her Yorkshire terrier, and Jasper, her lurcher.

  He introduced himself as Thomley and offered me a discount on a charm for ‘remembering why you came into the room in the first place’, which he said was one of his bestsellers. I politely declined, though he winked and dropped one into my cardigan pocket anyway, muttering something about early festival magick being stickier than usual.

  I also popped my head into the bakery tent—this marquee was a fair old size too, maybe not as big as the beer tent but not far off because who in their right mind doesn’t like cake?—but nothing was set up in here and, given the predominance of pixies in the vicinity, I wasn’t surprised. No way was Florence going to trust them to keep their thieving hands off her buns.

  As I stepped out of the cake tent and into the afternoon sun, something fluttered past my face.

  A scrap of paper, captured on the breeze.

  I caught it instinctively. Thin parchment, singed at the edges, and scrawled in an unfamiliar hand.

  He walks when the greenest leaf curls, and none will stop the turning.

  I frowned. There was no signature. No stamp. Only those words.

  Above me, the wind picked up, racing through branches with a voice that sounded, for a heartbeat, like it knew my name.

  I tucked the note into my pocket, blood fizzing in my veins.

  Somewhere behind me, someone let out a deep, heartfelt groan.

  I pivoted and stared in surprise at a cabbage of all things.

  “Oh, it’s definitely beginning,” it muttered and rolled away.

  Well, that was comforting.

  Chapter Three

  At precisely six o’clock that evening, give or take a delay caused by a pixie-related percussion incident, the official opening ceremony of the Verdancy Festival began. The grounds of Whittle Inn were buzzing, thronging with witches, wizards and magickal creatures from near and far, as well as curious villagers. I could hardly not invite the locals, could I?

  The festival was finally officially opened by His Most Mystical Oswald P. Thistlethwaite, a friend—presumably—of Wizard Shadowmender’s. He had arrived in a swirl of teal smoke, sporting an alarming number of bangles and sprinkling a cloud of lavender-scented glitter all around that settled over the crowd like festive dandruff.

  He looked delighted with himself. A hush spread across the lawn—well, more of a confused shuffle and several people being shushed by an enchanted bush—before a magickly amplified voice boomed across the grounds.

 

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