CHAPTER ONE
 
She’s Got a Visitor

It was Saturday morning, and Clover Twig was walking through the woods, on her way back from the village of Tingly Bottom. Her basket was heavy with all the things she needed for breakfast.
Mrs. Eckles always insisted on a thumping great fry-up on Saturdays, because on Fridays she stayed up all night doing the Protection Ritual—a long-winded business involving chalked diagrams, smelly potions, and endless dreary hours of mystic muttering. Clover had stayed up to watch her do it once but kept falling asleep out of boredom.
Clover didn’t really like being involved in the magical side of things. Oh, some of it was interesting, but she had enough to do as it was. Keeping house for a Witch is hard work.
She had gotten up bright and early to make the trip, leaving Mrs. Eckles rattling the rafters with her snores. It had taken the best part of an hour to reach the village and another hour to get served by Old Trowzer—one half of the pair of Old Trowzers who ran the shop. He had a puffy purple face and moved maddeningly slowly, like a snail swimming in jelly. He talked slowly too. He made people twitch and want to finish his sentences for him.
Clover was the only customer, so he really took his time. He weighed each sausage separately. He dribbled milk into the can drop by precious drop. When Clover ordered a bag of strawberry drops, he spent ten minutes finding the jar, ten minutes getting it down, and another ten unscrewing the top. He dropped the sweets into the bag one by one while Clover tried not to fidget. He inquired if business was good for Mrs. Eckles and tried to pry a bit, but Clover kept her answers short. She was glad to escape.
She was enjoying the walk back, though. Speckled sunlight filtered through the trees, the birds were singing, and everything smelled of summer. Best of all, tomorrow was her day off!
The trees thinned—and there it was. The cottage. Hunched and waiting in the middle of a small clearing. Staring at her with its dark windows in a knowing sort of way and letting off a ghostly trickle of black smoke from its twisty chimney, although the fire wasn’t lit. Giving off a bad impression in general. Mrs. Eckles said that bad first impressions were important.
Hefting her basket, Clover walked up to the gate.
“Open up,” she said.
“What, again?” snapped the gate, rudely. Clover made a mental note to give it a drop of oil. Not too much, or it got over-polite, which was worse.
“Yes, again. Quick, this is heavy.”
“Open, shut, open, shut,” grumbled the gate. “I’m sick of it.”
“Look,” said Clover, “you’ve got a choice. Oil later or a kick right now. Which will it be?”
Reluctantly, shedding rust, creaking, squeaking, and generally making a great to-do, the gate edged open. She was just about to slip through when it said, sulkily, “She’s got a visitor.”
“She has? Who?”
Clover was surprised. Mrs. Eckles rarely had visitors apart from Wilf, who didn’t count. There was the odd customer, of course. From time to time, nervous-looking locals would come sidling around to the back door, asking for a jar of ointment or a bottle of tonic or a tea-leaf reading. But today was Saturday. Mrs. Eckles never worked on Saturdays.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” sneered the gate. Clover ignored it and stepped through. She would find out soon enough.
The front yard looked much the same as the day she had first come to work for Mrs. Eckles, back in the spring. Clover was always trying to neaten it up. Forever sneaking out to hack back ivy and pull up weeds. She had even tried planting a tub with daffodils. But it was pointless. The daffodils wilted and the weeds always grew back.
She didn’t bother with the front door, which was permanently sealed and just for show. Instead, she crunched up the path and went around the side, past the outhouse and the log pile to the backyard.
The backyard! My, what a contrast! Flowers bloomed and chickens scratched and the sun shone and birds sang in the cherry tree. Mrs. Eckles’s voice rang out from the open door.
“… Clover’s ’er name. Jason Twig’s daughter, the one who reckons he’s got a bad back but spends all his time propping up the bar in the Crossed Axes. She does the cookin’, keeps the place tidy. Good little worker. Uses ’er brains.”
Clover stopped and listened. She couldn’t help it. It’s always interesting to hear about yourself.
“Dunno if you ’eard, but I had a bit o’ trouble with my sister back in the spring. I was away at the time, at the May Fair over in Palsworthy. Did you go this year? No? Just as well, rained out, total disaster. Anyway, I left Clover to mind the cottage. Well, she seemed sensible. And I’d doubled up the security, told ’er the threshold rule about not invitin’ anyone in, all that. Thought I ’ad everythin’ covered. Never crossed my mind there’d be a problem…”
Mrs. Eckles broke off as Clover appeared in the doorway. She was sitting at the kitchen table opposite her visitor, still in her dressing gown, clearly not long out of bed.
The visitor was a vision in wintry gray. She had iron-gray curls, chilly gray eyes, and a tight little mouth. Despite the warmth of the day, she was muffled up in a variety of gray shawls and thick overcoats. Atop her head was a pointy hat, also gray. A large, serious-looking handbag sat on her lap.
“Here she is!” cried Mrs. Eckles, clearly relieved. “Just who I was talkin’ about! Clover, this is Mrs. Dismal, all the way over from Piffle.”
Ah. Right. Granny Dismal, the Witch from the next village. Clover had never met her, but Mrs. Eckles had spoken of her in highly unflattering terms. Pretends to be disinterested in anythin’ you’ve got to say, but takes it all in, then uses it against you. Keen on magical technology. Don’t get her going on that, she’ll bore you rigid. Always orderin’ the latest newfangled gadget from catalogues when everyone knows the old ways are best. Far-seein’ telescopes, floatin’ pens, all that rubbish. Collects Crystal Balls. Spends an unhealthy amount of time snoopin’ on ’em, hopin’ for a crossed line. That sort of thing.
Mind you, it wasn’t just Granny Dismal. Mrs. Eckles didn’t have time for any of the Witches from the outlying villages, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual. Mrs. Eckles said that even the annual potluck dinner was an unfriendly event, where everyone brought potato salad and left early.
“Hello,” said Clover, dropping her head in a polite little bob.
Granny Dismal said nothing. Her bleak eyes flickered briefly over Clover, then wandered past and fixed on a rafter.
“So you won’t stay for a cup of tea, Ida?” inquired Mrs. Eckles, clearly hoping she wouldn’t.
“No,” said Granny Dismal in a voice like a wet day in February. “I’m all right.”
“Of course, I was forgettin’, you only drink your own special blend,” said Mrs. Eckles, rather waspishly. “Out of yer special cup.”
“That’s right.”
“You...