THE HOUSE OF THE STORMWIND
And Other Stories

By the authors of
The Lazuli Portals
Joanna Gawn & Ron Dickerson

Copyright 2012 Joanna Gawn

Kindle edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Table of Contents

Power Games

The Magim's Staff

The House of the Stormwind

Abandoned

Midsummer Beauty

Lady of the Lake

Assignment: Humanity

Red Mist

Knock, Knock

BONUS: The Cordello Quest

About The Lazuli Portals

POWER GAMES

The smell of earth teased my nostrils, bringing me awake like the morning's first cup of rich coffee. I kept my eyes closed against the glaring sunlight, letting my other senses work for me instead. I recognised the relentless, muted hissing of the shore somewhere beyond. A light breeze played with my hair. The light faded, and I guessed cloud had covered the sun.

I was lying on my side, one hand curved protectively around my chest, the other stretched out, and cold. I felt gritty, damp soil beneath my fingernails, as if I'd clawed at the earth. My body was chilled, rigid from lack of movement and a decent mattress, and my shoulders and neck felt like they had been pounded with a hammer. A large one.

As I took inventory, I suddenly became aware that this was not normal. My head thudded painfully, each thought requiring substantial effort . . . but I had to establish where I was, how I'd got here, and why.

Uncurling my arm from my chest, I winced from the stiffness in my muscles. I flopped onto my back with a sigh. That was hard work. Fresh sunlight pierced my eyes, causing tears to stream from beneath my heavy eyelids. I turned back onto my side, using the momentum to crawl onto my knees.

I was as weak as a newborn foal, all limbs and blindness. The distant roar of the sea was replaced by the rush of white noise as my body prepared to faint. No. I have to deal with this. Breathing heavily, I let my head fall forward, encouraging blood flow to my brain. Because no matter which way my stumbling thoughts ran, I knew one thing: waking up outdoors and not knowing where you are is Not A Good Thing.

Slowly, my heart rate stabilised and my head cleared. I was casting a welcome shadow with my body, and dared to open my eyes. Blinking to clear them, I looked straight down at the ground, seeing my hands, scratched and dirty, and my knees, half buried in soft brown soil. I was filthy. Taking a deep breath, I shifted back and carefully stood up. My vision wavered, and so did my legs, but my balance held.

I stared. To either side of me, fields, hedges, an occasional farm building. Ahead of me lay the sea: a pale blue sheet of flashing diamonds which pecked at my eyes. I turned, needing softer light. Long rows of ploughed earth undulated like waves towards an imposing brick farmhouse. A green tractor stood like a sentinel to the left of the building, and I could see a kitchen garden flanking the right side of the property.

I stumbled to the edge of the field where I'd noticed a short grass path beneath the scraggly hornbeam hedge. I began walking towards the house, my steps clumsy and slow on the uneven ground. I was thirsty, hungry, cold, aching, and felt utterly alone. The house, at least, would have warmth, people, perhaps a drink and some food.

I wondered again how I had got here. I remembered a bus ride and a walk, then nothing. Ridiculous thoughts swam through my brain: kidnapped, memory-erasing drugs, plots to movies or thriller novels. I shook my head with a smile, then felt queasy and had to stop for a moment. I would kill for a cup of tea. Moving forward again, I picked up speed as the door to the house opened. I was half-way there; I needed to get there before the lady in the doorway disappeared. Help me!

Instead, she turned and called to someone, then made her way towards me at twice the speed I was able to walk.

"Heavens above!" she cried, as she saw the state of me. "Lovey, are you all right?"

I croaked, my vocal cords not cooperating. "Not really," I managed. "Don't know where I am, how I got here."

"Well, you come inside with me and we'll sort it out, shall we?" She took my arm and half-carried me towards the house, my feet pedalling like a cartoon character's. Too fast. Feel sick.

As we reached the back door, a man appeared from within the dark hallway beyond.

My vision swam as recognition hit me like a pitchfork between the ribs. I was mute with shock, and must have looked half mad, with my eyes wide and my long, red hair no doubt tangled and dirty - not to mention that I was covered from head to toe in thick brown mud. I knew his face, and a cold sting lanced my aching shoulders and neck, like a chilling replay of acute pain.

I wasn't psychic or anything like that, but my body, or my mind – or something - was sending me a clear message. Be very careful, Katherine!

I had a name!

But I felt frozen - with cold, with stiffness, and with renewed shock. Who was this man? And why was I having such a startling reaction to him? My body wanted to shrink away from him, to hide, but his wife had a firm grip on me and I was suddenly inside their house, planted onto a solid kitchen chair, and feeling more than a bit scared.

"Well now, lovey," the woman said, peering at me closely, consternation in her warm brown eyes. I looked back at her hopefully, like a puppy waiting for a treat. Perhaps I could trust her, at least? "Paul, put the kettle on the Aga," she instructed. The man did so, but I could feel his eyes on me even when his back was turned. He moved slowly, leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world.

But I didn't. Somewhere, I had a life - didn't I? Maybe a boyfriend, or a husband? Children? My body began to tremble, shock permeating all parts of me. How had I ended up unconscious in their field? And why? Most importantly - who the hell was I?

Katherine . . . Katherine . . . yet the rest of my name was just out of reach. I searched my fingers for rings, found none. Not married or engaged, then.

The woman placed a calming hand on my shoulder, and I felt warmth pour into me like heated syrup. My body stilled, my heartbeat slowed, and I was able to breathe again. Until I felt the man's attention on me. He was gazing out of the window as the kettle came to the boil, which seemed unusual behaviour considering he had a mud-covered stranger in his kitchen. His presence unsettled me, and I fidgeted on the hard chair.

"Now then," the woman said, "Paul will make us some tea, and you can tell us how you came to be wandering around our field like a lost calf."

"I know how she got there, Harriet," Paul said. His voice was low and deep, and seemed to alight on every object in the room. I repressed a shudder and took the mug he handed to me. His fingers brushed mine, sending darts of cold electricity through me. I recoiled, slopping tea on the old, scarred kitchen table.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, putting the cup down. "I still feel a bit odd." I couldn't look at Paul. I feared what I would see.

Harriet mopped up the spillage, her kind face letting me know she didn't care about another stain. "I'm sure Paul doesn't know what he's talking about. How did you come to be there, lovey?” she mused as she worked. “Did you wander too far from The Feathers Inn after a few too many glasses of wine?” she chuckled. Her eyes flicked to Paul's; for a moment her face appeared strained, and I wondered why.

Paul looked at me for half a second, his drawn face with its black brows zeroing in on me like a laser's point. I felt my face go hot, then cold, then numb. I felt profoundly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. His attention turning to Harriet, he said, "I was up in the night. My knee was playing up, so I came downstairs to loosen it up. I saw a couple of blokes carrying something heavy." His eyes swept back to mine. I weigh nine stone two - I am not that heavy. Amusement played over his face like a fleeting breath of air, then was gone. "They threw her on the ground, then left her. Didn't see where they went, who they were, or how they got her here." He fell silent and crossed his arms.

"And you just left her out there?" Harriet scolded. "How could you, Paul? It's October! She could have frozen to death!" I felt a surge of gratitude towards Harriet. And none whatsoever towards her husband.

"Didn't though, did she?" he said. Perhaps it was only I who heard the utter lack of concern in his voice.

Again, he glanced at me, and again, I felt that cold chill creep around my body like a glacier. I didn't have a clue what was going on here, but I knew I had to get out of this place. If only I could use Harriet to help me - or perhaps to distract Paul in some way. But his ability to sense me – to see me - even when his attention seemed elsewhere, was a concern.

"She needs a wash," Harriet mused. "And food. But a bath first, I reckon. Can't eat a meal when you're covered in dirt."

I was probably leaving mud all over the chair. A bath would be good - but I would be naked in this house, with Perilous Paul mere feet away. The idea of a hot bath suddenly lost its appeal. "It's okay," I said. "I'm fine, really. I can leave."

"No, you can't," Paul said. I stared at him, sensing the restrained power in him. "Not in that state," he continued, his tone softening a little. "You'll have the bath, and Harriet will feed you, then we'll see."

Then we'll see? What the hell did that mean? I tried to look away, but my body wasn't entirely within my control. I lacked my normal strength, and this man knew it. I curled my fingers around the mug, hoping the heat would instil some comfort and keep me calm.

"Well now," Harriet said, puzzlement creasing her brow. "I have a cake in the oven, and there's some oat biscuits around, too. Maybe a couple of them to get you started, lovey, then you'll feel strong enough for that bath?"

I nodded, accepting whatever was offered, trying not to choke as I ate. Despite the tea, my mouth and throat were dust dry, and I felt befuddled and slow.

Harriet drew my bath and I undressed in the warm room, with the door locked and bolted. I slipped my aching body into the water and washed as quickly as I could, before changing into spare clothes that Harriet said had been her daughter's before she'd gone to New Zealand. Now there's a place that appeals right now.

My hands shook as I unlocked the bathroom door, the key rattling in the lock. I stepped out onto the landing, tiptoeing over the threadbare carpet in my borrowed trainers. Perhaps I could sneak out the back -

"There you are." Paul appeared in front of me, blocking my exit to the stairs. Up close, he seemed huge, and I felt even more vulnerable and off balance. His smile did not reach his eyes. "I do hope you enjoyed your bath. Harriet's got cake for you. Best go down, now."

Like a puppet, I followed him down the stairs to the kitchen and resumed my seat. The chair had been cleaned; no evidence of my mud-caked clothes remained. I heard a washing machine spinning in the next room, and guessed my clothes were being cleaned for me. I wasn't sure they were worth saving - I'd been wearing my oldest and most comfy jeans, and an an ancient Journey t-shirt . . . I remembered that much.

And then I remembered my full name. Katherine Elise Knowles.

It was a start. It was something: an identity, a sense of self, of being someone who had a life.

Harriet placed a plate in front of me, overloaded with a massive slab of fruit cake. The scent assailed my nose and hunger overrode my fear. I ate quickly, leaving barely a crumb, and washed it down with another cup of tea. There, I was done. Clean, fed, watered. Time to go, Katy. I pushed the chair back and started to get to my feet.

"Oh, you're not going yet, lovey?" Harriet took my plate, and, illogically, I felt impolite leaving just after she'd catered to me.

"Um," I replied, dithering. Paul's eyes were on me and I sat back down. My eyes sought the door to the hall, craving the space and freedom outside. Just a few short steps, yet I may as well have been tied to the chair.

Unaccountably, I shivered in the warm kitchen. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and I traced the origin to my shoulders. That icy thread was winding its way through my body like a sly serpent. I was feeling sleepy, so tired and heavy from the rich cake. Resting my face on the palm of my hand, I let my eyes fall closed. For a few moments, no-one spoke.

Outside, silence lay like a thick blanket, as though this house was isolated from the rest of the world. My mind hummed free and I became aware of the other sounds around me, those in the kitchen. Harriet was bustling about, washing plates and cutlery. I sensed Paul walking behind my chair, leaving a trail of cold air behind him. I was only half-awake.

“Paul, you are an idiot!” Harriet hissed.

“I can only do as you command,” Paul answered. I sensed him turn away, putting space between them. How did I know that?

“I instructed you to get rid of her, not to leave her lying around in the open. What were you playing at?”

I tensed, wondering at this apparent reversal in roles. I concentrated on keeping my breathing regular, as though deeply asleep. But my mind was as alert and aware as a rattlesnake's.

“You told me to get her out of the way. You said nothing about murder. And you know I will not do that for you.” Paul's tone was mild, but his power shimmered through to me nonetheless. I wondered if Harriet had picked up on it.

“She shouldn't have been walking across our land.”

Paul sighed. “Mother, it's a public right of way. It has been for seventy years.”

“It wasn't when I bought the place, and I refuse to have strangers tramping around on my land!” she retorted. “And I still don't understand how you can refuse a Kill Order when I give it.”

“I can and will refuse such orders because you exceed your authority,” Paul said. He passed behind my chair again; I felt the air flex and soften as he passed. To my surprise, I wanted to reach out to him, to turn to his protection.

Harriet grunted and sat down in the chair across from me. I focused on keeping my eyes closed, desperate to listen to the rest of this exchange.

“I need to do this,” Harriet said, her voice thick with some emotion I couldn't identify. “You know I do, Paul. I'll lose my immortality if I don't offer the next sacrifice.”

There was a pause, which seemed to last an eternity. Speak, someone!

“Mother . . . have you ever considered that your immortality comes at too high a price?”

“What d'you mean?” Harriet snapped. “Of course not! This is my life we're talking about!”

I sensed the menace in Paul even before he spoke. “And what about the lives of the women you've sacrificed to save your own?” He passed behind my chair again, leaving an imprint of power. “What about my life? Thanks to you, to your incantations, I have no life! You keep me here and force me to your will whenever you need a new girl for offering! It has to stop! It should have stopped decades ago.”

Harriet sighed. “But how will you manage if I'm gone? I'll age rapidly once the offerings stop; you know I'll be dead within a week. You're so young . . .”

“Mother.” Paul's voice had softened, yet I detected a steel resolve. “Look, the fact you're still even breathing is a flaw, you know that. Council said that you're an aberration. Even as your son, I can acknowledge that you should have died over a century ago. How much longer do you want to live – and like this? It's time to let go.”

Silence filled the room. I waited expectantly, wishing she would answer, would let go. Would let me go. Please.

A little longer, came the words, a silent plea inside my mind. I'll help you out of this, the voice continued. Please trust me, Katherine.

What choice did I have? I was up against beings I had no idea how to handle. Okay. I will.

I sensed Paul's hands resting on the back of my chair. Protection, not threat. Aware of every single sound, every beat of silence, every movement in the air, I continued my pretence.

And gave him my trust.

I felt gratitude slip into my mind, like the flickering of a warm flame. It was as though this exchange of trust had enhanced some connection between us. Astonished, I could feel Paul warring with the command and power of his mother. And I sensed that he would win; something had changed in him.

The tips of his fingers brushed at my hair, although I knew his hands were not close enough. I was sensing him even though he could not physically touch me, not with his mother watching. It was enough. That single touch carried within it everything I needed to know.

I gave him my faith.

“Is she sleeping still?” Harriet queried. “There was only enough sedative in the tea for a short nap. She should be awake by now, Paul.” I heard the concern in her voice and thought I'd better begin to feign my awakening soon. I rested for a few more minutes, pretending to fidget in my sleep.

Then I yawned, blearily opening my eyes, and flinching against the glaring sun streaming through the pretty windows and straight into my face. “I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to fall asleep!”

“Welcome back, lovey!” Harriet's voice was silky sweet and as false as as the sun setting in the east.

I faked a smile. “Well, it was a lovely nap. I feel much better.”

“Good,” Paul said gruffly. “Perhaps I can arrange some transport for you, and get you back home?”

“No!” Harriet cried.

I did my best to look puzzled. “Why ever not?”

“It's late – surely you'd be better off sleeping here for the night?” Harriet cooed.

Paul? What should I do?

Accept. I'll work something out.

That would be lovely,” I answered.

Harriet beamed and disappeared into the utility room to retrieve my clothes.

I risked turning to look at Paul. He gazed at me, seemingly fascinated. “Don't worry,” he mouthed. I held his look until he moved away from my chair and crossed to the door. Not yet, wait until later.

That evening was, as expected, a tad strange. Harriet – Paul's mother – acting so kind and charming, and Paul pretending to be aloof and uncaring. I did my best to keep up the pretence and appear blissfully unaware of the undercurrents and falsities filling this house. Bedtime could not come soon enough.

I was given a guest room between Paul's room and his mother's, across from the bathroom and a boxroom which, I was told, was filled with spiders, dust, and of course boxes.

I curled up on the bed fully clothed – my own clothes, thankfully – and waited for Paul. The moon rose, bathing me in a cool, pale light, and I stared at the shadows on the walls as time slipped slowly past.

It was gone three when I felt, rather than heard, Paul's knuckles on the door. He opened it and came towards me, his tall shadow flickering over the wallpaper. Are you ready?

Yes.

We crept from my room and across to the boxroom. The door opened under Paul's touch and we tiptoed inside, Paul closing the door silently behind us.

He glanced towards the window, and the lower pane lifted. My eyebrows rose, but hey, he was immortal, wasn't he? His hands on my waist, he lifted me onto the ledge, then joined me. The drop to the ground was a little higher than I was comfortable with, but Paul held me around my waist and we fell like feathers, our feet alighting silently on the grass below.

That was pretty cool! I sent to his mind.

Ahh, that was nothing. I felt his grin, and inside me, a starburst exploded.

We were close to the tractor, but Paul led me to another building, low and modern. Inside was a motorbike; a Harley, or something of a similar size and construction.

What about your mother? I asked.

She won't be able to follow. She's stuck here, like the spider in the middle of a web. We just have to get past that gate up there, he pointed.

I swallowed. It was half a mile away. Surely Harriet would hear the bike's engine?

Paul crossed to the bike and started to wheel it towards me.

“So that's what you're up to!”

Harriet. Oh, great.

Don't move, Katherine!

“She couldn't sleep, so I said I'd take her for a ride,” Paul explained. I sensed his fear, and that sent me into a squall of panic.

I ran for the gate.

No! Katherine, please . . .

“STOP!” Harriet shrieked. “You can't leave! I need you!”

“Mother!” I heard Paul say, his voice strained. “Let her go!”

She covered the distance between them in less time than it took my heart to beat. “My son, you will do as I ask. Get her back. Now.”

I slowed, my feet stumbling beneath me as my control was stolen. Turning, I walked woodenly back to the bike, back to Paul, back to his fiend of a mother.

I stopped two feet from her and waited. She had me, and Paul did not.

Don't bet on it, Katherine! His tone was fierce and protective. But whatever he felt for me, it could not penetrate this shield that surrounded and controlled me.

Harriet lifted a hand and tilted my chin. “So Paul wants you for himself, does he?”

Inside me, something fanned into life. Some strength, some desire, some power that I had not known I had. It flickered, then in a mighty rush it was flame, and loyalty, and courage. It blazed through me, melting the wall Harriet had built around me.

“No,” I said. “Paul wants to be himself. As do I. If we remain together, it will be through choice, not through control, or power. And you no longer have power over him.”

She cried out, and Paul jerked himself free from whatever held him captive. He was by my side instantly, an arm around my shoulders, and a strength within me.

“You lost, Mother. It's happened, after all these years. Someone has chosen to offer me trust, and faith. No conditions, no power games, no lies, no control. It's over.” He glanced at me, grazing my lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Then he returned his attention to Harriet. “It's over,” he repeated quietly.

He walked me to the bike, and I climbed on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. Together, we fit like we'd never been apart.

Paul fired up the bike, and we rode towards the gate.

His mother let out a final, shrill cry.

Paul didn't look back.

Our future was ahead of us.

THE MAGIM'S STAFF

What happens when all feeling is lost? When it's sucked from you, like the air from your lungs, in one scorching exhalation? I ask because I need you to understand how it felt, to know what I went through when the magim stole my life.

I found it again - my life. I clawed my way back to sensing, feeling. But it was a hard road, blocked by mountains and treacherous gorges, or so it seemed at the time. Everything rock hard and dry, out of reach, lacking colour and life.

You see, I'd had no idea a person - a human - could do that. And I was right. Because the magim was no human. That day bloomed hot and dry, like a hundred days before it. The air shimmered like the water we all craved; torture, when our mouths were so parched, our bodies so dirty and tired. We looked within, but that brought no pleasure, no sustenance, and plenty of discord and intolerance instead. Each of us gasping for moisture and strength, but wasting what we did have on petty complaints and arguments.

Instead of water, he walked into our lives, like a cool wind skimming the hot, dusty plain - and in our weakness we all fell for it. He seduced us. Not physically, not sexually - but mentally, a complete submission of our will to his. My craving for him went beyond reason and into a form of madness - there is no other way to describe it. I don't know how he did it, what magic he used, but he turned us against ourselves, so that any self-preservation we had left was dissolved like dust in the rain we longed for, leaving our minds a jumble of unrecognisable fragments. Whilst the magim was with us, time seemed to slow, and we allowed him to warp everything we understood or recognised.

After that, any awareness of who I was slipped away like ice on the hot summer days we endured. It simply vanished as though I had never been. Only my twin, Shara, survived his wickedness; I suspect she had some untapped magic potential inside her. Maybe it was because she was only days away from giving birth. Her instinct to protect her unborn child seemed to imbue her with a magic of her own. I only know that it was Shara who found out how to reverse the magic, to bring me back one small piece, one small memory at a time.

Each night, the magim returned with the stars, intent on absorbing us; each night, Shara was able to deflect his magic, and gradually we gained in strength and found ourselves.

On that day when we again had the fortitude and desire to remove him from our lives, we connected our minds and our hearts, and sent a prayer for deliverance. The next morning, the magim had disappeared. No-one ever saw him again, but his grey robe and his wooden staff were abandoned outside the door of my house. We found no footprints; it was as though he had sent a wind across the cracked surface of the plain to brush away the evidence.

Storms came, bringing tumultuous showers of thick rain, clouds that fought, and crackling skies that blazed and raged. We danced in the rain, grateful for the life it delivered to us.

Once gnarled and wrinkled, the staff burst into yellow and orange flowers, scenting the damp air with the fragrance of the cacao nut. We learned how to make a drink from the fruit, a rich dark concoction that enhanced our strength and gave us the ability to survive the dry season. The grey cloak faded to dust, transforming into a substance that we used to enrich our feeble soil. We planted seeds, harvested nuts and fruits, and grew a hardy grain that we pounded into bread.

What would have happened to us if Shara had been vulnerable, we will never know. Shara was the key; she saved us all. She is becoming a legend, the tales of her resistance of the magim being related to our little ones as sleep-stories.

I never want to return to that hopeless place where I cannot feel, nor to that landscape of scars and dust. Although my life is hard, I am content. My thoughts roam on fertile land, and I accept every moment for the gift that it is.

THE HOUSE OF THE STORMWIND

At first, the holiday cottage appeared classically charming, its smooth external walls punctuated with shy windows, from which the golden September sun reflected like honey. Advertised as a “lovely retreat for couples who like quiet surroundings”, it seemed perfect for us, and we'd been looking forward to this seven-day break for more months than I cared to remember. Our holiday stretched ahead, seemingly as infinite as the warm blue of the sky.

James lugged holdalls and bags out of the car whilst I unlocked the smart green front door with the massive key we'd picked up from the owner that afternoon. The door squeaked as it opened, and I pushed it wide, stepping into the hallway. A stone-flagged floor led into a shiny, modern kitchen, and I knew from the holiday particulars that there was also a living room down the hall, and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. I grinned. This was perfect!

“Coming through, Elisha!” James grunted as he hefted the bags inside. I kissed him awkwardly on the mouth as he shuffled past me, laden down like a pack-mule with bags, coats and walking boots.

“I'll get the rest,” I said, “if you'll put the kettle on!”

“Deal!” James replied, sighing as he relieved the strain on his arms.

By the time I'd unpacked the rest of the car, and we'd 'moved in' and had a quick supper, dusk had fallen. The cottage was cosy and quiet. Insects fluttered at the windows in the fading light, and I could only just make out the low wall at the end of the back garden. Beyond, fields stretched towards the dark sea. There were no houses to be seen, and I relished the tranquil setting of the cottage. No yapping dog next door to wake us before the sun had risen. No motorbikes racing past the house at midnight. Bliss.

In bed, I tossed and turned. Sleep was hiding from me, probably in the gap where the curtains didn't quite meet. Moonlight streamed through the slit and spread a long finger of gold across the bed-covers. The four-poster bed had an uneven mattress, and the complete lack of external noise unsettled me. I groaned inwardly. I'd been looking forward to this holiday for so long, and now I was whining because it was too quiet. James stirred beside me, snoring softly, and I tried to lay still. It had been a long drive and he had looked tired.

I carefully turned onto my other side, facing towards my husband. I watched as his silhouette rose and fell with his breathing. Hoping the regular rhythm would lull me to sleep, I focused on the light sound of his breath, counting each one like a meditation.

When an owl hooted outside, I nearly jumped off the bed and into the overhead canopy.

“Did you hear that?” James asked, his voice drowsy.

“How could I not!” I giggled. “It sounded like it was right in my ear!”

“Mine, too. Perhaps it's on the roof, or in that massive oak tree in the front garden.”

An answering hoot echoed across the air. I shivered; to me, it sounded both melancholy and disturbing.

I pulled the bed-covers up to my chin, and snuggled deeper into my safe cocoon. A pair of strong arms snaked around my waist as I wriggled. James nuzzled my neck and I shivered again, this time with a far different emotion.

“Let me take your mind off the scary owls,” he teased, melding his warm body to my curves. “Does this help?” he murmured into my ear, as his fingers traced a delicate dance towards my ribcage.

“Yes,” I whispered, barely able to speak. “Most definitely.” I was consumed by the feel of James' mouth on my neck, and the amazing things he was doing with his fingers. Owls? What owls?

Next morning bloomed bright and clear. We woke late, and I brought James breakfast in bed. James switched on the small LCD TV, turning to a news channel.

“Oh, James! Can't we do without the outside world for just one week?”

“It's just the news, Ellie. I want to see the headlines, then we can go out somewhere, okay?”

I shrugged and started to dress. Personally I wanted to forget the wide world with its disasters, murders, crime and despair. I tried to tune out the announcer as he recounted the latest spate of muggings.

“Ellie! Listen to this!”

Pulling on jeans, I twisted so that I could see the screen. A male reporter was standing outside a house in what looked to be a small village – Camarsham!

“James? That's the village we came through, isn't it? And isn't that where the owner of this cottage lives?” This might actually be relevant. I sat down upon the bed.

He nodded, his focus firmly on what the reporter was saying. “And so it seems that Agnes Waverley, the elderly lady who lived in this house, died well over a fortnight ago. Sadly, no-one knew of her illness and she was found only this morning. Her next of kin have been informed.”

That couldn't be right! Mrs Waverley had given me the key only yesterday afternoon! James turned to me, shock freezing his handsome features. I stared back, uncomprehending.

“Isn't that the lady you said owned this place?” he asked.

“Well, yes! But how . . .” I trailed off. A blurry photo of Agnes Waverley appeared on the screen. I thought it was her, but the photo was old and faded, lacking clarity. We'd talked about the fine weather, and she'd explained how to operate the gas fire in case we got too cool in the autumnal evenings. “Jamie, I don't understand.” Goosebumps raised a pattern on my arms, and the hairs on my nape stood to attention.

“Are you sure it was her, El?” There was doubt in his voice. After all, he'd just learned the woman had died; of course he'd want to double-check.

“Well, not certain,” I sighed. “But I can see similarities. I thought she said her name was Agnes, but I wasn't paying that much attention.” I nibbled on a fingernail as James watched the rest of the news, then decided to do something useful. I went to make another pot of tea.

The TV in the bedroom continued its murmur, so I guessed James hadn't finished dressing. I made my way to the bathroom, stepping onto the cold tile floor. Picking up a lip balm, I smoothed vanilla gloss over my lips and ran a brush through my hair. I hoped the country air would put colour in my cheeks, and a spring in my step.

That was when the bathroom door slammed.

My heart crashed against my rib-cage as adrenaline coursed through me. Shakily, I laughed at myself for being so easily spooked.

“Elisha? Are you okay?” James called from the bedroom.

“Yes!” I shouted back. “The door slammed shut, that's all.” I tugged on the door handle. It wouldn't move. Frowning, I tried to twist it in the opposite direction. Still no movement. Pulling harder, panic rising - and still the door refused to open.

“James! The door's stuck. I can't get out.”

“How did you do that?” his voice teased me from the other side of the heavy panelled wood. “If you wanted some solitude, all you had to do was ask!”

“No!” I argued. “It's nothing like that! The handle doesn't work. I've not locked it; I really can't get out.”

He laughed.

“James!” I chided. “This isn't funny. You know what I'm like in small spaces.” I focused on my breathing, trying to remain calm. Already I felt hot, and weakness had flooded my legs; I knew the fear was trying to take me over. I had beaten it in the past, and I would do so again. But I'd prefer to be free sooner rather than later. James knew of my phobia; surely he would do everything in his power to get me out?

There was silence on the other side of the door. I rested my head against the cool wood, listening. I hadn't heard him move away – what was he doing? Why wasn't he helping me? My heartbeat hammered in my ears, a relentless rhythm that at least reminded me I was still alive. I won't die just because I'm in a small space. I'll be fine, I'll be fine, I'll be fine.

There was a scraping sound. But it didn't come from James. It came from the window behind me. The window! I ran to it, clambering onto the toilet seat. I knocked a small bowl of old pot pourri off the shelf, purple and blue dried petals cascading like confetti over the floor. I wrenched open the top window. Too small for me to fit through. The glass was double-glazed, so I had no hope of breaking the lower, larger pane.

“JAMES!” I yelled. No answer. I ran back to the door. My hair was damp against my neck, my fingers trembling. “Open the door! NOW!”

Silence.

Breath coming fast, I retreated to the toilet and sat down upon its cool lid. I cupped my hands in front of my face and concentrated on breathing - in, out, inhale, exhale, calm down, it's all okay. The shaking slowly subsided, and I rested my head against the cool, tiled wall. James' behaviour puzzled me. He'd always been sensitive to my claustrophobic tendencies, understanding that I could not always overcome attacks by willpower alone. So what had changed? He'd been my usual, loving husband all night.

There was a sudden, sharp snap as the bathroom door came off its hinges. I fled towards the open space, out, on the other side, safe, free. James placed the heavy door aside with a grunt, and grabbed me, holding me close, his mouth in my hair.

“Ellie, are you okay? I thought – well, I don't know what I thought. But I know what you're like when you're enclosed like that -”

“I'm okay now,” I said into his t-shirt, holding on to him for support. “Thank you for getting me out of there.” We stayed close for a long time, not daring to let the other go.

James wanted to report the damage – and the issue of the self-locking door – to someone, but whom would we contact? Agnes Waverley was no longer our landlady – and we had no idea whom we ought to call in her place. In the end, we decided to call the Police, even though their presence in the village was only part-time.

A young constable arrived a few hours later, and took some notes of 'the incident'. It was hard to describe what had happened, and I stumbled over my account. Yes, we'd picked up the key yesterday. No, I couldn't be absolutely certain that it had been Agnes Waverley who had answered the door. Yes, I'd seen the news and was aware that she had passed away. No, I had no idea why we hadn't been able to open the bathroom door. The constable eyed me suspiciously as though I had made the whole thing up.

The entire interview felt very unsatisfactory, as though we were wasting Police time. The young officer promised to link our report with that of Agnes' death in case anything relevant popped up. He suggested we leave the door to the bathroom off. There was no argument from either James or me.

I cast nervous glances at every door in the house as I passed by. As James seemed back to his normal self, I chose to forget – and forgive – his laughter at my imprisonment, and his apparent abandonment of me. I'd probably been so panicked that I'd imagined it all anyway, or blown events out of all proportion.

That night in bed, after a muted afternoon exploring a couple of the local villages, I lay close to James, seeking his warmth and protection. There was no love-making - simply safety and security. The owls sent their hooting calls back and forth as I watched the hours flick by on the red digits of the clock-radio. James slept heavily, his legs occasionally kicking out into mine as he dreamed. Was he fighting ogres for his princess?

Just before two a.m., the moon reached the gap in the curtains and speared her light across the bed. I turned towards the moonlight, wondering if I'd ever feel relaxed enough to sleep. Perhaps we should find somewhere else to stay? Random thoughts whirred through my mind like escaping fireworks, leaving me edgy and wired.

Sighing quietly, careful not to wake James, I turned onto my back. The moonlight highlighted the underside of the bed's canopy, fabric pulled into the centrepiece like water into a vortex. Four-poster beds had always seemed romantic; I wasn't sure I was so keen on them after sleeping in this one. The framework felt enclosing, and the canopy seemed to send deep shadows looming across the bed-covers.

Oddly, the canopy seemed to be closer to me than before. A trick of the moonlight, I thought – until I reached up a hand and found my fingertips brushing the fabric.

I screamed. Yet I made no sound. It was like being in a nightmare, when you struggle to outpace whatever is chasing you and your legs refuse to work. However hard I tried, my voice remained silent. Panic fizzed through me and I tried to reach out to my husband, to roll us both off the mattress and onto the floor. No way would I let this thing suffocate us.

I could not move my limbs. James slept on. Two owls hooted.

The canopy moved no lower but I could feel my breath reflected back to me from the soft grey cotton hanging just above me. I could see the threads in the material, the tight swags of fabric forming broad stripes in the glare of the moonlight. I didn't dare close my eyes. They started to water; I needed to blink. I swallowed, my throat as dry as dust, and my fear a ball of rock lodged in my chest. Silently I called to James.

Tears came. Fear, panic, helplessness, terror, all flooded my body. The canopy's centrepiece, so close to my face – to James' face - transformed from a wide knot of fabric into a deep, grey hole, a rush of air flowing from beyond it onto the bed-covers, the cool wash reaching my arms and sending me into sustained shivers.

My teeth started to chatter, and the flood of air became fluid, like water. Mentally I fought against the onslaught, knowing this had to be a nightmare, that beds didn't try to harm their occupants. Just as doors didn't attempt to imprison them.

Straining, I tried to cry out, to turn my head, to move, and finally, finally I was able to twist and grab hold of James. He woke with a start.

“Ellie?” His face reflected my own grimace of panic. “What the hell is going on?” he croaked.

I clung to him, and gestured towards the canopy, now back in its original position. His expression shifted into puzzlement.

“The canopy . . .” I whispered. “I had a nightmare; the canopy morphed into a whirlpool . . .” Quivering with reaction, I slid quickly over the sheets and into his arms.

“But – Ellie, it's just a bed – you realise it was just a nightmare, sweetheart?”

Mutely, I shook my head, having no answer for him. He sighed, and pulled me closer.

As I warmed, the shivering slowed until I felt calmer, more rational. “The dream was so real. The canopy came down really low - and then it changed, blasting me with cold air which felt almost like water – it was horrible and strange, and I couldn't move or shout or escape . . .” I closed my eyes against the firm beat of his heart, the fine hairs on his chest tickling my nose and cheek. I'm safe now.

“Ellie, darling, it's okay. It was just a dream. Ssssh, now. Get some rest.”

“I haven't been able to sleep,” I confessed. “Well, I thought I hadn't, until the dream . . .”

He pulled me even closer, letting me absorb his nearness, his strength, his love. But still I didn't dare close my eyes.

Agnes could see the two figures entwined in the bed. It seemed the man was protecting the woman, which pleased her. She'd always liked a man who took care of his wife. But something nagged at her. Something wasn't right. She failed to understand why she could stand outside on this cool night in just a cotton dress, yet not feel the night's chill. Her mind wasn't what it used to be – she forgot so many things now, and lately it seemed that her memory had become even more fragile, as though she was slipping away one thought at a time. She placed a hand against the window, leaving an imprint of her fingers against the glass. Then she walked slowly away, her feet barely touching the path.

Exhaustion had finally dragged me under, and I woke clinging to James. He was watching me, his eyes soft and concerned. “Ellie, are you okay? That was quite a night you had.”

A flicker of irritation sped through me. “Well, actually, the whirlpool thing threatened you, too. And it felt so real, more so than any dream I've ever had before!” Having challenged his assumption that my terrors had been just a nightmare, I shivered, wondering how else to explain it all. Far better that it had been a dream, imagination running wild. Far better that it had not been real.

James eased himself away from me, headed to the bathroom. I turned instinctively towards the daylight spilling through the curtains. A selection of used paperbacks lined the window sill and I clambered out of bed to investigate them more closely. Kneeling on the floor in front of the window, I flicked through John Grishams, Jane Austens, a couple of Dick Francis books I'd already read. There was only one book I hadn't seen before. The author's name stood out as though it had been carved.

Agnes Waverley-Brown.

Curiously, I lifted the book from its place between du Maurier's Rebecca and a well-read copy of Sense and Sensibility. Entitled The Lost Way of Camarsham, I realised it was a local history book. Careful exploration of the pages revealed, in the centre of the small book, a drawing of a map, giving information about an ancient route through a woodland. The pathway led past a small church on the outskirts of the village, and passed through the garden of this cottage. Excited, I rose from my knees, intending to read more. As I did so, a bird taking flight from the garden snagged my attention. The gull lifted into the wind and disappeared from view.

There was a hand-print on the windowpane. The outline was sharply defined, five slim fingers and an almost complete impression of a palm. For some seconds, I simply stood there blankly. Then it sunk in. Someone had been out there, during the night, probably watching us in bed. I felt sick.

Cloud raced through the sky, threatening and heavy. Obscuring the sun, the first fat drops fell, splashing the window, rain hitting the glass in a frenzy. The image of the hand was gone. And I hadn't even had time to show James. He was going to think I was going nuts. Part of me wondered whether I was going crazy. Why wasn't James getting bad dreams, or meeting dead landladies? Getting trapped in bathrooms? Being attacked by cotton whirlpools in our four-poster bed? Why me? I knew I wasn't going crazy. Surely the fact I was questioning my sanity meant that I was, in fact, sane?

I glanced at the window, at the falling rain; the handprint might never have been. It nagged at me, but I didn't know what to do about it.

When I opened the book again, a wave of heat pulsed through me from head to toe, so hot, so furious, I struggled to breathe. I was burning up. A flash of light at the window, lasting a second, no longer. It had been orange, red, rich and fiery. What the heck was going on here? I dropped the book onto the bedspread, and the heat slipped away from me instantly.

Were all these strange events actually real? All interlinked; all pieces of a puzzle that I was meant to assemble? I'd always been more sensitive than James, and indeed more than my friends, too. Could I – well, could I be picking up something psychically (the idea seemed ridiculous) that needed resolving? Was this to do with Agnes' death? Or something she – her spirit – needed to finish before she could rest?

I retrieved the book and experienced a milder version of the heat-flush. Again, the flame-like flash at the window. Right where the hand-print had been. I let my mind continue down its searching path. What if the hand-print had been Agnes checking on her old home? What if all the events were somehow related to her moving between worlds and trying to get my attention, my help? I laid the book on the bed and chewed my lip, wondering whether I should tell James of my thoughts or keep them to myself until I knew more. “What do I do?” I whispered, hoping for some kind of sign, an answer, a direction.

An impression of warmth stole up through my body, as though I was standing in sunlight. The sound of the rain faded away, leaving a comfortable silence and a tingling on my shoulders.

Suddenly I didn't feel scared anymore. I felt empowered, as though I had an important role to play. I just had to persuade James that I was on the right path. And then work out what Agnes wanted me to fix.

The silence and the tingling dissolved, the rain sounding harder than ever as it lashed against the bedroom window. James wandered into the bedroom, noted the book laying open on the bed. “That looks old,” he offered. “Who's the author?”

I met his eyes. “Agnes.” Holding my breath, I awaited his reaction.

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “So what's it about?” He plopped onto the bed beside me, picking up the book and leafing carefully through its pages. “Local history! This is really interesting, Ellie!”

I smiled. Maybe we'd be able to solve this puzzle together. “I think so, too. Look how the ancient path winds through this garden, then over the fields towards the cliffs. What does that say?” I asked, leaning closer as he examined a small diagram.

His brow wrinkled in concentration. “To be honest, this sounds a bit strange . . . but Agnes has written that the house is haunted, and that each owner will remain with the property until some old curse has been lifted. Listen to this: 'No-one who has owned this house will rest whilst the Stormwind Curse remains. It is for two to lift this Curse, for two to come together and unite against the dark magic burned into its walls. Only then will the past let go.' That sounds a bit dramatic, hey?”

The rain increased its pounding against the windows; I shivered at its ferocity. “It does – but I wonder whether it involves us. What do you think?” Again, I waited, hoping he'd intuitively sense that we were the two who had to unite and rid this house of the Stormwind Curse.

“Us?” He frowned, reading the page again. Then he turned to look at me, his blue eyes frank and clear. “ You think the door incident, and your nightmare, are signs that we're the ones referred to in the book. Don't you?”

I nodded. “And there's something else,” I continued. “Before the rain came, there was a hand-print on the window.” His eyes snapped to the glass, then back to me. “And I had a strange sensation when I picked up the book.”

“What sort of sensation?”

How on earth could I describe it? Gently, I took the book from him, and felt my entire body sheathed in heat and the colour of fire.

“Woah!” James shouted, snatching the book from me. “Ellie, that was . . .” He shook his head. “Was that for real?”

“What did you see?” I croaked.

“You lit up – orange, red, yellow, like you were burning from the inside. Like you were on fire.”

“Oh!” Well, that seemed to confirm that there was something strange going on here. “What do we do, then?”

He inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes. This, I knew, was his “I'm thinking” pose. I kept quiet, letting him take his time. If we were going to work together on this, we had to respect each other's viewpoints and decisions.

Finally he opened his eyes. “I don't think we have any choice, Ellie,” he answered. “Aside from that, the book interests me, and I want to help Agnes – and the others – find their rest. Do you think the house is against us – or was it just getting our attention?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “But it could be that the other – um – spirits are trying to communicate with us in some way. Are you happy to stay here, then, and work this out?”

In response, he pulled me close, and we sealed the deal with a kiss. The book fell from his hands to the floor, its pages splaying open on the carpet. Finally we came up for air, and I felt James' eyes stray beyond my shoulders to the book. He released me, his eyes wide with surprise.

I turned, and gasped. “Would you look at that . . .” I managed. The upturned book was shrouded in a mist of pale light, colours that defied description, neither warm nor cold nor black nor white. “Why is it doing that?”

“I don't know,” James whispered, apparently feeling the same awe that I was experiencing. “But do you feel bad, or good?”

“Um. I feel good, actually!”

“Me too. So I think this is good magic, that it's on our side. The door – and your dream – both felt bad, didn't they?” He was still whispering, as though the house was listening.

“Yes,” I breathed. “But the hand-print felt – well, I guess it was unusual, but I think I was surprised more than afraid.”

“Right. So it looks as though how we feel about something is like a messenger. Good feeling equals good magic. Bad feeling equals the Curse. Ellie, I can't believe I'm even having this conversation!”

I turned amused eyes to his. “It is a bit bizarre, I agree!” I took a breath. “Right. So our feelings dictate whether it's good magic or bad. Now we just have to figure out what we need to do next.”

James retrieved the book from the floor, the misty light vanishing as soon as his fingers touched it.

The rain continued its torrent down the windowpane, the sky heavy and grey and utterly unwelcoming. James and I looked at one another. “A reading day?” I suggested, grabbing a thicker cardigan to snuggle into.

“Yeah. No way I'm going out in that!” he smirked. “I'll put the kettle on, and find some of those scones, and we can make a start on the saffron buns.”

I grinned. Cake and tea always tasted better when the weather was foul, making the indoors seem somehow cosier. We made our way back downstairs, James placing the book carefully on the coffee table in the lounge.

Agnes gazed across the dark sea, aware of the onshore wind in her face, yet feeling nothing. Waves crashed against the slick rocks below, the high tide streaming over their harsh tips as the water raged. Any moment now, the tide would turn, and the soft, golden sand would reveal itself, seaweed and shells scattering its cool, damp surface. Rain battered her, the storm building its power. She turned towards her house. She doubted the young couple would have opportunity to leave its walls today. A flicker of understanding whipped through her mind: Have they recognised their role? Will they do what needs to be done? Then it was snatched away on the wind, and her mind was again soft and blurry. She sighed with frustration, but accepted the inevitable. How she hated being old.

A startling wave of coolness swept over me, leaving me chilled. I rubbed at my arms and wondered at the sudden change in temperature. I moved towards one of the comfy chairs, intending to curl up and read, but cold air swept over me like a sea breeze, as though seeking me out. I stepped away from the chair, walked towards the dining table, finding warmer air. Again, the breeze followed, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Was this a message? More magic?

“Elisha?” James brought two plates of buns and scones through, placing them onto the table next to the book. “Are you okay?”

“I'm – Is it just me or has it got cold in here?”

“I'm fine – but you look freezing!” He moved towards me, taking me in his arms to warm me. He flinched as his hands touched my flesh. “You're like ice! Are you ill?” He laid his hands on either side of my face, his palms heating my chilled skin.

“No, I'm not ill. I feel fine. I think this is – I think it's . . .” My mind stilled, leaving me feeling blank.

“The magic,” he finished for me. “What are you thinking, right now, Ellie?”

“What? Oh. Let me see . . .” I recognised the tang of the sea: water and salt and seaweed and storm. I felt as though I was out there in the rain, on the cliff-top, one with the storm's energy and turbulence. Then, as suddenly as they had arisen, the feelings vanished, and I was warm and dry and myself again. Hugging James, I told him of how I'd felt. “I think Agnes is close. I think she's connected with me in some way.”

“I'm sure you're right,” James replied, one hand smoothing my hair while the other held me close. “Just – please don't leave me out, okay? I know I'm not getting these signs like you are, but I want us to do this together, as a couple.”

“Me too,” I answered into his sweater. “I need you, Jamie. Not to protect me, not to look after me, but to share this with me. I have a feeling this is a one-off experience, an opportunity to make a difference, to help. I don't want to do it alone. I want you to be part of it, too.”

“I am,” he said, his voice gentle. Then his tone became matter-of-fact. “So, now we've agreed we're doing this, and you've recognised a connection with Agnes, what do we do now? We can't go out in that weather, so shall we read the book Agnes has left for us, and work out what comes next?”

I'd hoped for exactly that, and we began to read her book from the start, cautious of missing something which would help us to release the Curse - and the sorrow etched in the walls of this house.

The strange thing was, even after reading the book together, from cover to cover, neither of us could remember much about it. I recalled the diagram of the ancient path leading from church to garden to cliff, and some of the history of the place, which Agnes wrote dated back to neolithic times, but beyond that it was all a blur. Yet I felt complete, as though I'd read a satisfying tale from beginning to end and was pleased with what I'd read and experienced.

“I'm glad you feel the same as me,” James said, leaning back into the sofa. “It's like we've absorbed the book's story but are unable to remember what actually happened.”

“Maybe,” I wondered, “it's because we'll need the information within it to reverse the Stormwind Curse, but then it can be forgotten. And it's probably something we're not meant to share with others.” Surprised by the strength in my voice, by its conviction, I added, “And perhaps we'll somehow just know what to do, and when to do it – without having to think it through. Just go by intuition.”

I jumped as a crack of thunder split the dark sky, listening as booms of sound rolled around the cliffs and across the sea. “That was close!” Rain streamed down the glass as the storm vented its fury. The room became night-dark, lending a menace that had been lacking until now. A moment's pause, then a sharp flash as lightning broke the roiling cloud in two.

Above the fireplace, a small vase toppled and smashed to the tile floor, shards falling randomly. The house itself seemed to quiver, I heard a door slam, and fear sped through me. James pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist. “You okay?” he whispered into my hair.

“I think so.” I'd been spooked, but the moment had passed and I was no longer afraid. “The house is on edge, though – can you feel it?”

“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “It's waiting for something.”

Jagged lightning illuminated the dark recesses of the living room, a shadowed pattern appearing on the wall above the fireplace for several seconds. “Look!” I pointed, concerned that it would disappear before James could see it.

“A symbol,” said James. “See how complex it is. Triangles linked with squares and curves. We've seen that in the book, I'm sure of it.”

I turned from him and headed for the table, for the book. It was gone.

“Did you move it?” I asked. “Or did it fall off the table when the house shook?”

“It was on the table the last time I looked,” James said. We searched for it in the gloomy light but it was not to be found.

The symbol, too, had vanished, but I remembered it with perfect clarity. And I knew what we had to do.

“Get your wet-weather gear on,” I said. “Quickly. We have to get to the beach.”

“What?! Ellie, are you mad? You want to go out in the storm?”

“Yes.” There was no doubt in me, not even a pinprick. “This is the time. During the storm, the wind. We've seen the symbol, we've recognised it. Now we have to go out and recreate it.”

He held my look for a second, then ran upstairs to change.

The storm was ferocious. The wind's power was greater than I'd ever experienced, pushing and pulling and trying to lift me from the ground. We held onto each other tightly, faces scrunched up against the stabbing fingers of the wind and the relentless fury of the rain. We crossed the low wall, sinking into thick mud in the field on the far side. We got free, stumbling over sodden grass towards the cliff path. Lightning burned the sea and the air crackled around us.

I'd never been so scared in my life. But I knew we had to do this. For Agnes. And for ourselves.

We crossed a rickety stile, found the stepped path leading like a curving stairway down to the beach. The tide was going out, but the sea foam slithered and spat as the waves continued their regular dance. I gripped the metal railing lining the steps as I wound my way down them, my legs wobbling with adrenaline, James only a step behind me. The stormwind pressed into me, suggesting I retreat, let this go. It forced me back onto the railing, and I pushed back equally as hard. The steps were slick with rain, and sloped downwards. The wind twisted, forced itself between James and me so that it shoved into my back, intent on treachery. I felt James clinging to my arms, desperate to keep us safe. Brushing water from my eyes with my free hand, my feet felt their way one step at a time.

Finally stepping onto the packed, wet sand, I pushed forward into the wind, making my way towards the base of the cliff where shells were strewn like a broken necklace across the sand. James was beside me now, scooping up handfuls of the shells, knowing instinctively what needed to be done.

One by one, we laid the shells out in the same intricate design as the symbol that had appeared on the chimney breast. As the pattern took shape, the storm seemed to further increase its intensity, howling and screaming as we worked. My breath came in short pants, and I could feel the tension emanating from James' body beside me. Gusts threatened my balance and I dug my heels into the wet sand.

Then it was done. The pattern was complete, the symbol made whole and real here on the sand, under the storm. A final, desperate shriek from the wind, then it died away. Sunlight speared through thick, dark cloud, highlighting the rain which was easing to a drizzle. Each shell reflected the light upwards, shafts of ribbon-like gold rising into the still, calm air. Within the boundary of the sunlit columns, I saw a figure, mist-like and serene, a smile on her face. Then another joined, and another, until nine wraiths danced inside the shell's perimeter, fluid and graceful, lit from within.

One stepped towards us, her face vaguely familiar from her photograph. Agnes. She smiled, the action lifting her face into beauty and peace.

“Thank you, my young protectors. You have lifted the Stormwind Curse. We are free, now. The house is free. You have done so well – I cannot repay you in person, but you will find blessings streaming into your lives from this moment, the invisible realms' gratitude for your work.”

“No thanks are needed,” I answered, meaning every word. “We're glad to have been able to help – aren't we, James?”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “We're just glad you can rest in peace, now. It's been . . . an interesting experience,” he added, with a wry grin.

Agnes smiled one last time, then stepped back, the mist-like figures blending and shifting until their light faded into nothing. The rain slowed, then stopped, and the sun retreated behind white cloud, the shells' reflections falling away. We were left alone.

A cry from a seabird; then it dove to the sand, plucking one of the shells as it swept back into the air. The pattern was broken, and it was all over.

James and I remained on the beach for several minutes, watching as waves tumbled onto the shore. We stood watching the clouds as they chased across the increasingly-blue sky, laughed at the birds as they swooped and stole the shells, dropping them back into the sea.

We climbed on weary legs back up the steps to the cliff-top, back to the house, back to our holiday. Neither of us knew what the future would hold; but we had been part of something important, something magical, and I felt sure that I had been permanently changed as a result.

On our final day at the cottage, after we'd packed the car and put out the rubbish, I noticed a flowerpot next to the front door. I told James I'd leave the key there; no doubt the new owner would check all the obvious places, and I couldn't think of anywhere else to put it. With the sun on my back and a light wind tugging at my hair, I lifted the pot.

I found another door key. I placed it in my palm, alongside the one given to me by Agnes Waverley. They were identical. As I watched, the two keys moved closer together. There was a delicate clink as they fused. Gently, I laid the key on the ground and covered it with the flowerpot.

As I walked to the car, two owls hooted. I smiled.

ABANDONED

Streams of rain chase freely down the window, tears staining the cold glass. Isabel traces the pattern with her fingertip, moisture beading on her skin. The glass squeaks, shocking in the silence. A darkening sky spreads heavy shadows across the floor like spilled ink. She feels she has absorbed all the pain, the despair, the hopelessness of the other girls who waited here, never returning home. She weeps for them, embracing the grey mood, feeling lost, like she will never be warm again.

Chill air surrounds her, and, like a vessel waiting to be filled, her heart feels empty, an echo. Where is hope? Too far away to touch. The darkness deepens, and the windows become a rush of water. She sits cross-legged on the floor, resting her bare arms on her knees. She is holding herself together, waiting for time to pass, waiting for what comes next. Bruises pound beneath her pale skin, and her arm hurts where the man twisted it behind her back.

Expectancy hovers on her shoulders, a weight she can feel, a presence she cannot escape. Always further than she can stretch, never within reach. Isabel wraps herself in the thin blanket, suddenly needing more layers to shield her vulnerability. She craves the sun's return, its benevolent warmth. She thinks: if only its rays would press through this cloud, fold me in their warmth, their strength. Then I might be able to believe that he will come. That this might all be over.

At any moment, random and unexpected, the rain will lift, the cloud will break apart and crumble to nothing, revealing the bright orb beyond. At any moment, this will end - and she will be free again. She waits, willing the rain to ease, the cloud to lift. More minutes pass, each slower than the last, then her patience is rewarded. A narrow band of gold lights through the cloud and gilds the window.

A spark of hope stirs into life, gaining strength, finding faith. An image of her father, vivid and strong, breaks into her exhausted mind. Perhaps if she thinks of him continuously, perhaps if she pretends she can see him discovering where she is, then she might get out of this alive?

The spark builds higher, warmer, and her shivering slows. The rain clears, sunlight reaching exploratory fingers into the room. She shifts onto the warm oblong on the floor, curling into its warmth like a drowsy kitten.

Here I am, Dad. Come and find me. Please.

Isabel senses a gentle breeze, a cool breath folding around her neck. Startled, she turns, finding no-one. But the odd feeling remains, and she feels unexpectedly comforted. Stronger now, her eyes fixated on the window, on the sunlight, she repeats over and over: Here I am. Here I am. Here I am. The words are a safe place in her mind; she sends them out, building a chain between her and her father.

Nightfall steals the light from the room, sending deep, malevolent shadows into the corners.

Noises downstairs send her scurrying back to the mattress, back against the security of the wall. If she makes herself small, maybe her captor will not beat her again. She listens. Crashing, like a table over-turning, then maybe chairs tumbling. Loud voices. A slap, a shriek. A sharp thud, like a body falling.

“Isabel!” Her father's desperate shout lends strength to her shattered body.

She leaps towards the door, throwing herself against it, bruises and pain forgotten. “Dad! Up here! I'm up here!” Her voice breaks and she crumples to the floor.

Then her father's voice, hoarse, on the other side of the door. “Izzy? Are you in there?”

She places her palm against the door. “Yes. I'm in here, Daddy.” She hasn't called him that since she was twelve. She clambers to her feet and steps away. Her heartbeat roars in her ears. She notices with a strange sense of detachment that she is shaking. It's the shock, some part of her thinks.

The click of the lock sends her barrelling towards the door as it opens. Her father pushes through and then his arms are around her and she is safe.

“Oh, Izzy. Oh, sweet girl.” His mouth is on her hair and he is holding her tight, squashing the air from her lungs. But she doesn't care. He takes a look around the bare room, helps her down the stairs and carries her across the courtyard.

Another man steps out from the moonless night – her dad's best friend, Marcus. She slips to her feet, stumbling a little. Both men help her back to the car, silence enveloping them like a secret. Isabel is aware of her injuries, but ignores them. She is alive – that is all that matters. At the car, her father again holds her to him; she can feel relief pouring through him like a fever.

“Did they ask you for a ransom?” she asks, questions tumbling into her mind. Marcus urges her inside the back door of the car.

“They did,” Marcus answers as he climbs into the front passenger seat. “But we had an advantage. We knew where to come.”

Isabel waits for her father to bend into the driver's seat. “How did you know where I was, Dad?”

In the rearview mirror, she sees his eyes gleam with unshed tears. “To be honest, Iz, I'm not sure exactly how to explain it. All I can say is that I had a picture in my mind, like a photo, of the house. It may be delapidated and forsaken now, but in its day it was an expensive property, and it had a name. I saw it flash in my mind, and looked it up.”

Isabel squeezes his shoulder. “You saved my life. So many others lost theirs, didn't they? But you got me out.” A shiver brushes her neck, a repeat of the unusual sensation she'd felt whilst imprisoned. “What was the name of the house?” The answer suddenly feels important and she waits for what seems an eternity. In the mirror, his eyes remain locked on hers.

He opens his mouth to reply, then his eyes widen. In little more than a whisper, he answers, “Angel Falls.”

MIDSUMMER BEAUTY

The handwriting on the envelope was slanted and strong. Madeleine recognised the script as Beatrice's, but there was something that cried out a warning, a bell tolling disaster. Her mind skittered in a dozen different directions, scrambling nowhere and everywhere at once. She experienced a rush of queasiness, and an unpleasant pulse began deep in her stomach.

She had no idea why she was having such a powerful reaction to the letter. And the unusual feelings scared her half to death.

She walked slowly to the kitchen and lowered herself into the ancient rocking chair, setting its comforting rhythm in motion. The familiar creak wove into her thoughts, calming her a little. Biting her lip, she tore at the seal on the envelope, and withdrew a sheet of thick blue paper, laying it flat on her lap.

"Breathe," she told herself. "You're probably worrying over nothing." She began to read.

My dear Madeleine,

If this letter reaches you - or should I say when it reaches you - then you will know that the time has come for you to take the next step on your journey. This will have far-reaching effects on how you perceive your life.

My dear, you cannot know how difficult it has been to write this, knowing that you might find my past silence unforgivable. But there is no alternative - your fate was written long before you were born, and we each have our roles to play in the dramas scripted by those who came before us. I'm afraid this relates to your mother, but I can tell you no more than that.

I love you. Be strong.

Bea. X

"Oh no. No. No!" Madeleine flushed hot, then cold. Does this mean Bea is in trouble? How is Mum involved?

Rising from the rocker, she threw the letter onto the table, and began to pace around the chairs tucked underneath. Pulling her mobile from her pocket, Maddie placed a call to Bea's mobile. After a single ring, the call disconnected. She tried again with the same outcome. Frustrated, she punched in a text. Bea, r u ok? Where r u? I don't understand the ltr u've sent. Can u call me asap? She sent the message, waited anxiously for a delivery report.

Her mobile remained obstinately silent. Maddie stuffed it back in her pocket, leaving it on vibrate so she'd be alerted the instant a message came in. If Bea didn't call, she'd try emailing her later.

Random thoughts swirled through her mind like leaves claimed by a breeze, and she frowned as she tried to make sense of the letter. Maddie had always been close to Beatrice, their bond formed when Maddie's mother - Bea's closest friend - had gone missing on Maddie's fifteenth birthday. Bea was the one woman - the one friend - on whom she knew she could rely completely. They stayed in touch regularly, but Bea had never sent her a letter.

Hope flared as Maddie considered that Bea could have located her mother. But no, Mum had been missing for nearly fourteen years. Finding her would have merited a call, for sure. For a moment Maddie was cloaked in the familiar ache of loss and puzzlement, but she pushed it aside so she could focus.

When Bea had suddenly moved to a small village in northern France, Maddie had felt cast adrift and strangely lost. It had taken several months for her to adjust to losing her closest female confidante. For the past six months, Maddie had lived here in Bea's house, taking comfort from the sense of love and strength that somehow remained thick within its walls. But now she shivered, the June sun pouring through the kitchen window seeming to be without warmth. She'd known something was up when Beatrice had left her Devon home for foreign shores, the intrigue only deepening when Beatrice had firmly declined to explain her motives. Her refusal to tell Maddie why she was moving away had initially caused some awkwardness between them - until Maddie had surrendered to the inevitable, and let her go.

She knew Bea would never have left her without good reason.

Bea's last email had been only four days ago. And it had not included even a hint of mystery, or concern of any sort. In fact, she'd seemed happy and carefree, writing of chilled white wine, a brief trip to Paris, and days of unbroken sunshine. So, had something happened within the last few days? Why did Bea write of scripts and fate? It sounded as though she'd always known of whatever challenges Maddie would have to face. So why hadn't she mentioned any of this before?

She felt so confused, her muddled head steering her right into the path of a tight, throbbing headache. Her breathing was shallow and she felt as though the air in the kitchen had evaporated. Was it possible to literally drown in confusion?

Sighing deeply, she opened the door leading from kitchen to garden, and stepped outside into the morning sun. Resting against the warm bricks of Bea's house, she closed her eyes and listened to the music of the stream at the very end of the narrow garden. Oh, Bea . . . what's going on? What can't you tell me? What do I do?

A tinkling sound reminiscent of wind chimes stirring in the breeze claimed her attention. She turned her head towards the noise; it was coming from the shrubs to her left. She made her way to a hebe busy with worker bees, and crouched down, hands resting flat on the dry grass.

The sound repeated in a regular rhythm, as though a percussion triangle was being struck at defined intervals. It was strong, and tugged at her as the clear call of a trumpet might. Intrigued, she peered between the thick oval leaves of the shrub, soft lilac flowers nudging at her cheek. She could see . . . light! Deep within the hebe, with its crowded stems and long, oval leaves, there was an irregularly-shaped ball of icy blue-white light.

Maddie pulled away, rocking back on her heels. Rubbing a hand across her face, she guessed she was hallucinating. It was the shock of the letter, that was all. No way could there be light hidden within one of Bea's garden shrubs. Perhaps the headache was becoming a migraine; a glass of water would help.

She heaved herself to her feet and retreated to the kitchen. Sipping at the water, she tried to approach what she'd seen logically. A sound had drawn her outside and led her to the hebe; then she'd seen a light inside the plant. No. That just couldn't happen. Therefore it couldn't be real.

Finishing the water, she placed the glass on the draining board. A prickling at the back of her neck sent her entire body into adrenaline rush. Had someone broken in? Maddie sensed a presence behind her, could feel it as surely as if it was touching her.

Eyes wide, she spun round. No-one. She was alone.

Alone apart from the letter. And the tinkling sound that had started again.

The letter began to glow. Frowning, Maddie stepped in front of the kitchen window, blocking the sun's light. Still the letter gave off a shimmer, a subtle, faint light tinged with blue, gaining in intensity. The letter had been eclipsed by an aura, the light spreading until the whole table was hidden from her view. It cast the room in a strange, unearthly hue and sent goosebumps across her flesh.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Maddie growled. Another hallucination? Yet her head felt clear, she was alert and, to her surprise, feeling quite good. Which was strange, considering how awful she'd felt when the letter had come.

Still the sweet, musical sound called to her. The light surrounding the table began to fade, eventually winking out. Maddie breathed out her tension. It finally dawned on her that the beautiful chiming sound and the light in her kitchen were interlinked. Her intuition kicked into gear: the light had faded, so perhaps the letter was no longer important.

Following the summons from outside, Maddie returned to the hebe, her eyes drawn to the deep, dark centre of the shrub. No light. So she had imagined it! Impatience filled her, but just as she pulled away from the hebe, she saw the light again. Gaining strength as the music ebbed away, the light expanded to a soft blue orb. Maddie felt a certainty, a sense of understanding that was on no level she could grasp. All she knew was that this was part of the journey Bea had mentioned; this was the first step.

Whatever happened next, she would have to go along with it. She was part of the script; this was fate. And it might lead her to her mother.

She didn't dare take her focus from the pale blue light, in case it vanished again. If she was meant to be here, to be part of this, then she needed to pay attention. The globe of light began to turn, sending out sparks of silver and tongues of turquoise as it spun faster and faster. Maddie's head started to throb, as though the light was spinning at a nausea-inducing frequency.

She didn't want to, but she shut her eyes, just to stem the strange thudding in her head. It didn't work. Her ears filled with a loud buzzing. Queasiness again flared in her stomach and blackness shrouded her mind like an eclipse. I'm going to pass out . . .

Yet she was still aware, still conscious. Carefully, Maddie opened her eyes, squinting into the spinning blue light. It was slowing, turning almost lazily, and she found this new rhythm calming. The buzzing and queasiness faded and her mind felt sharp and clear.

Instinctively, she parted the branches separating her from the swirling light, finding that the woody stems slipped aside with ease and then remained in place. Now there was nothing at all between her and the light. The shrub wasn't tall - a few feet, at most - yet Maddie had the crazy idea that she should climb into it, get closer to the shimmering ice-blue light, perhaps even move inside it. She almost shook her head; the whole idea was preposterous! Yet what other purpose could the light hold, if not to lead her?

She was glad no-one was watching. Making a fool of herself wasn't that uncommon, but that was usually after an evening out with friends, and half a bottle of wine worse for wear - not in broad daylight on a Saturday morning.

Taking a steadying breath, she eased herself forwards, scraping her hands and arms on the hebe's stems as she progressed deeper into its core. The plant seemed to have expanded to allow for her size, and suddenly she was crawling through a tunnel-like forest of twigs, stems, leaves and a distinct scent of earth and growth. At this rate, she'd be in Mrs Dunnett's hydrangeas next door. The light wasn't getting any closer, and she started to wonder how far she could go, how far before -

Before what, exactly?

Before you are reunited with your mother. The voice was soft, gentle, melodic. Definitely female. And most certainly weird. As if crawling through a never-ending shrub was not weird enough.

"Who's there?" Maddie whispered. She'd meant to call out, but anxiety had stolen strength from her voice. She suddenly felt vulnerable. The shrub's structure and leaves formed a tight web of growth above her head, forcing her to remain on her hands and knees. There was only one way back, and there was no space to turn. She'd need to reverse . . . or keep going forwards.

There'd been no response to her question, and she decided this whole situation was too weird for comfort. Enough was enough. Shuffling backwards, she came to an abrupt halt as her feet hit something solid. Straining her neck, trying to see . . . oh. The web of stems and leaves had formed a tight defence around her heels, leaving her trapped. Not that way, then. Have to go forwards.

Maddie bit her lip. Bea, this is the sort of predicament I could really use your help with. She pushed on, feeling scared and not in the least bit brave. Feeling about twelve years old, in fact.

The light was getting further away! She choked on a sob, wishing Bea was with her, wishing her mother was here. Anger burned in her chest: anger at being trapped; anger at being abandoned; anger at her mother's disappearance. She pushed harder through the tunnel, determination driving her on. If this was about her mother, then she was damned if she would give up.

Without warning, the cramped space opened up. She stood, turning, trying to work out how all this could fit inside one garden shrub. There was room to extend her arms, to do a cartwheel if she fancied. But the tunnel had stopped here. And, looking behind her, back the way she'd come, she realised there was no exit. She was stuck here.

Chewing a nail, Maddie fought the panic threatening to take hold. Remember the letter. Remember the voice.

“All is well.”

Maddie spun, searching for the source of the words. As before, she found no-one. But the voice was strangely comforting, the words exactly what she'd needed to hear. Feeling calm, she remained still, taking in her environment. Twigs had bound themselves into intricate designs, forming a strong, woven structure like a tall dome. She gasped as she noticed that the plant was quite literally growing. Tiny buds popped out into leaves, twining into the stems as though in a permanent quest for neatness. The air was cool, but not unpleasant, and the earth beneath her feet was firm and dry.

Now that she was here, she expected something to happen. After all, her coming here must have a purpose, and there was no way out. But neither could she force events, and so had no choice but to wait. Feeling pulled between impatience and surrender, Maddie alternately fidgeted, paced, and looked thoughtfully at the living structure holding her captive.

It was while she was still that she noticed a vivid blue tongue of flame flickering from within the tightly-sewn stems of the hebe. She blinked, stared, and saw it again. Holding her breath, she watched for a third sighting. Stronger this time, the flame licked into the space, and froze. Maddie exhaled, tried to remain quiet, motionless. The flame held its form for several seconds before arcing down to the ground only centimetres in front of her feet. Hissing sparks flew around her feet like tiny fireworks.

Resisting the instinct to back away – and where would she go, anyway? - Maddie watched as the flame crept higher, its bright colour fading to a soft blue-white as its energy expanded. Its form changed from flame to pure light, cool ice blue-white, streaming silver. Once it was as tall as she was, the light backed away and shifted smoothly into the shape of a human. The silver tendrils flowed from the shape forming its head. Clear blue eyes watched Maddie with compassion.

It was her mother.

Maddie's knees weakened and she thought she might crumple. Her mother, here – shining like some sort of ethereal spirit.

“Hello, darling,” the light-spirit said, her voice clear and pure. “You do remember me, then?”

“How could I have ever forgotten you, Mum?” She couldn't look away. She remembered her mother as being beautiful, but this . . . manifestation was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Her face wet with tears, she asked, “What are you? How is it that you're here? What's going on?”

Her mother smiled, mixed emotions of love and regret shimmering in her eyes. “You've not experienced magic before, Maddie. This is natural magic. And I will show you how this came to be.”

“Show me?” Maddie queried. She wanted, more than anything, to seek her mother's arms, to find comfort and security from the woman who'd given birth to her, who'd raised her for fifteen years. But she held back, unsure of how she could hug a woman made of light.

Her mother leaned in towards her, enveloping Maddie in her light and energy. Maddie was flooded with a gentle, warm tingling, and she heard the sweet music start again. This time, with her mother holding her, and the music rushing over her like a cascade, Maddie wanted to weep for all the time they had lost, for everything they had never done together as mother and daughter.

“Maddie, sweet – do not cry. This is a gift. A blessing. Do you realise what this means?”

“No,” Maddie whispered, her eyes closed, her heart connected with her mother's. “Can you come home?” she asked, feeling like a little girl.

“Oh, no, that's not possible, darling,” her mother soothed. Maddie's shoulders drooped. Having found her mother – in some shape or form – she didn't want to let her go. She didn't want to feel abandoned.

Her heart tight, she said, “Why not? What are you – and why can't you come back?” She held her breath, willing her mother to laugh and say that she was just kidding, that she'd be back.

The light surrounding Maddie wavered. “Ah, Maddie, I don't have long. Not in this form. So I must share this now. I am spirit, darling, no longer in physical form. I have been held in spirit since the day . . .”

“Since the day what?” Maddie demanded. “Why did you leave? Why did you never get in touch?”

The blue-white light shimmered then grew taller, narrower. “Listen. There are things about life that you don't know, that you may never know, and certainly will never understand. Life is far more than you can perceive, as I am demonstrating now. Only in this sacred place – deep within the life-heart of this plant – could I be brought to you. You see, I was blessed - some would say cursed - with gifts of natural magic. I sought guidance so that I could use my talents without harming others. I made careful enquiries, and found a secret school which claimed to assist natural magicians in harnessing their talents.”

“You're a magician?” Maddie croaked. Her world seemed to shift for a moment.

Her mother remained silent; Maddie counted her heartbeats, the sound drumming in her ears. Four, five, six . . .

“Maddie, darling, our heritage is one of natural magicians. Not something we tend to advertise as it's so often misunderstood . . .” Her mother paused. “My Teacher was something of a maverick. He taught me things I could never have learned alone. But he sometimes went too far. Pushed the boundaries beyond what was safe.”

Maddie felt hysteria rising. Did her lineage mean she had magical talent, too? The idea of it made her head spin, and she pushed the thought firmly from her mind, turning her attention back to her mother's tale.

“My Teacher got the spell wrong, and I ended up in the middle of it – the transformation removed me from your reality and pushed me into a space between worlds. Which is where I still am.”

“Oh God!!” Maddie wailed. “So you really can't come home, then.” She felt her mother's light flowing over her again, a comfort, a sense of peace, but it wasn't enough. This was too much to accept in one go.

Maddie blurted,“Will I have magic, too?” She still wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but she might never get another chance to ask. Her chest tightened with unshed tears.

“You will have, when the time is right. Don't worry, darling, Bea will help you.”

“Bea! She's a – she's magical, too?”

“She is. That's one of the reasons our friendship was so very close. We had a shared secret, a shared lifestyle, a shared passion for safe use of our magical abilities. We could confide in each other. Bea has always been aware of my situation, and promised to take care of you. Her letter, and her absence, have been orchestrated so that you would follow me here. Her house was key, you see. Bea's abilities, and her reverence for nature and herbs, crystals and the energies of life, are vitally important. Her garden, the stream included, are places of a naturally high vibration, which means it was possible for me to appear to you in this way.”

“You have to go now, don't you?” Maddie's words were a statement, an intuitive leap.

“Yes. I do have to go. But, sweet Maddie, do you feel this?” A surge of warmth, sparks of energy like electricity, swept over Maddie in a wave, leaving her refreshed and tingly. There was an inviting scent of apples and of cinnamon.

“Yes, I feel it. I smell it.”

“This is me. When you smell this, feel this, I am with you. I will never leave your side, my darling Madeleine. Never. But when you are in need of more, of reassurance, of strength – of love – then this is how it will feel when I hold you.”

Maddie sighed. The sensations were incredible – it was like being wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and light, fused with swirls of love and hope. She knew she'd never forget how her mother felt for as long as she lived.

Her mother's explanation of her disappearance, and the discovery of her own magical heritage, were still sinking slowly into her mind, as though by taking a gentle pace, the thoughts would find it easier to fit with her memories and what she knew of the world.

“Maddie.”

She opened her eyes, blinking back tears as she watched the light slowly shrink and fade until she was left quite alone in the dome.

“Bye, Mum,” she said into the silent, empty space. Tears fell down her face; she felt lost and alone, just like the day her mother had vanished. Well, after all these years, she finally knew what had happened. Her mother wasn't coming home – not in the way she had always hoped. Which just left Maddie and Bea.

Dragging her mobile from her pocket, she checked for messages. No signal, the phone flashed. Maddie smiled, wondering how on earth she'd expected to get a signal in a sacred place deep inside a plant. No phone company could provide coverage at the gateway to another world!

Still smiling, she pocketed the phone and looked around her. The plant stems were moving, untwisting, unravelling and moving aside. She had an exit. Making her way towards it, she looked back, saw a brief flash of blue light with silver sparkles. The light dimmed, vanished, and Maddie understood that her time here was over.

The way back into Bea's garden was easy, a neat tunnel of stems and leaves forming as she crawled. She'd never be able to explain this to anyone except Bea. Dear Bea, who loved her like a daughter, who had been there for her as she'd moved through the scary, confusing years of adolescence and into the new territory of adulthood. Bea, who had loved her mother, and who had let Maddie rent her house, her sacred and nurtured space.

Now she understood why the walls of this house seeped love. It had been a gift all along: the house with its peaceful garden and soothing stream; the magical, secret space; and the time she had been able to spend with her mother. Maddie's heart swelled, love and appreciation melding powerfully, a tangible and precious energy.

Reaching the edge of the hebe, she clambered to her feet and stared about her. The air felt fresher, lively; the stream held greater clarity than she'd ever seen before. And there was a sense of something else . . . something she could feel, but not put a name to.

Magic, Madeleine; it's magic.

Grinning, she said, “Thanks, Mum,” and settled herself on the grassy bank next to the stream. Sunlight danced across the water's surface, glints of gold and white leaping into the air as the water flowed. With a start, Maddie realised that the world seemed brighter, enlivened, as though she was seeing more than her eyes could detect, sensing more than she'd been aware of before.

She was aware of potential all around her, energy ready to be directed and shaped. Her heart buzzed with excitement and anticipation.

Her phone buzzed. Your message has been delivered.

Selecting Bea's number, she waited as the call was connected.

“Maddie!” Bea's voice rang across the English Channel. “So what have you got to tell me, love?”

Maddie made herself comfortable. “Quite a lot, actually! I'll start at the beginning . . .”

Authors’ note - ‘Midsummer Beauty’ is a variety of hebe. :-)

LADY OF THE LAKE

When the mists came, the lake transformed into something magical and mysterious. That May morning, I woke early and lay in my warm bed listening to the morning sounds – or the lack of them. The calls of the gulls were absent, only the soft rustling of the sparrows in the trees reaching my ears. I immediately knew that a mist had come. I slipped into warm clothes, shrugged on my jacket and shoes, and quietly left the cottage. Gravel crunched underfoot as I made my way towards the lawn, then my steps were silent and soft, the grass lushly wet with dew and with the mist which lay like a thick veil over everything around me.

Hushed, the landscape was familiar, yet foreign. Trees whispered secrets, small birds shifting quietly deep inside the branches of the pines. I listened to the sound of my shoes swishing through the long grass, their tops and sides becoming soaked almost immediately. Ahead, all was white and soft and pearly. The boathouse loomed spectre-like to my left, then vanished from my awareness as though it no longer existed.

I reached the edge of the lake, grass and reeds clustering on the bank. Water lapped, touched the lake's perimeter, then retreated with barely a sound. Everything was still, silent, watchful. It was perfect. It was secret. It was for me alone.

I'd been there for several minutes before they came. Gliding without noise, they emerged from the mist and moved across the water towards me: two adult swans, resplendently white with their dark eyes like small lumps of bright coal. Their cygnets, four downy-grey youngsters, followed closely behind. I'd not brought bread, for these magnificent beings would not stoop that low. They did not feed from me, nor did they need to. That was not why they were here.

The adult swans climbed from the water. I remained still and quiet, watching their every movement. I knew they could turn violent if they felt threatened; and so I behaved as meekly and submissively as I could. I sank to my knees, bringing my arms in over my body, careful to move slowly. The cygnets followed their parents onto land, and between them they moved into a circle around me. I felt vulnerable, knowing that they were watching me, knowing that I could no longer keep track of them all. But I remained motionless. Careful.

The male raised himself up, his great wings spreading wide in the chill mist. His mate did the same, and I felt the cygnets follow suit. Now I was enclosed within their wings, six sharp beaks and a dozen eyes trained on my small, frail, human figure. I concentrated on my breathing, willing myself to remain calm. This was further than we had ever gone before; this time, the metamorphosis might complete. I just had to be patient.

The male cracked open his beak and emitted a harsh croak. He was straining, his chest plump, his powerful wings thrust back into the opal light. I continued to breathe evenly, slowly, trusting that I was in the right place at the right time. Then there was a cry, and the white bird shimmered and trembled. I stopped breathing - it was happening! After all these years, after so many misty morning trysts, the male was shifting! With a snap, he burst from his swan's body and became like man, dressed only in a thin, gauzy shift coloured starkly white. He was powerfully built, and blinding to the eye.

"Susanne," he said, his voice oddly scratchy. He tried again. "Susanne. I have come. I am changed, as you see."

I breathed again, feeling light-headed and almost detached from what I had just seen. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the female and her brood quietly retreat to the lake, heard the slight splash as each bird met the water. They would leave. And only I and my swan would remain.

"I do see," I said, once I could trust myself to speak. "It is done, then?"

"It is done. I am unable to return to my bird form now that I have become fully shaped as man. And so, my sweet Susanne, I am yours."

"What about . . . " What about your mate, your children? I felt guilt bunching my heart into a knot.

"You feel shame, my Susanne? No, please do not. It was my choice. This was how it must be. They always understood that our union was temporary, that I was waiting for this moment."

The mist was rising; I could see clear water for several yards now, faint ripples stirring where the fish were biting. "How long can you stay, Francois?" I asked, hardly daring to listen for the answer. I stood, walking into his open arms, hoping he would not have to leave.

His jet eyes turned wistful. "Just while the mist remains," he replied, stroking a thumb over my lip, sending my muscles quivering. My lips parted of their own accord, but he did not kiss me. It was too soon.

I clung to him, wanting to keep him with me always, but knowing that it could not be so. Inside, I cried for the mist to hang lower, longer, to cloak my world forever. "Where will you go? Between the mist days, where will you be?"

His words were layers of emotion: sadness mingled with pleasure and awe. "That, I cannot tell you, sweet. It is not for you to know. But I will be back for the next mist, and will be at your side for as long as it is held here. My lady of the lake, this is the best that I can do for you. You understand?"

I did, but I hung my head in shame for wanting more. I heard the clarion call of geese in the air, and knew that my time was up. Francois was already drifting away, detaching from me, becoming part of the mist itself as it dissolved like fragile cobwebs in the air. "Until next time," I whispered. I turned from my lake and trudged up the hill to the cottage, to my life.

By the time I reached the top, the air was bright with sun and the flight of birds skimming over the lake sounded raucous and shrill. But the sun's warmth lifted me, and I decided then and there to make the most of each moment I had with Francois - and each moment that I was without him. He would be with me in my dreams and in my heart, and I would see him, hold him, when the timing was right.

But in my heart of hearts, I knew I'd be waking every morning hoping for the mist.

ASSIGNMENT: HUMANITY

Marching along the street, Helen's leather boots sloshed noisily through low, wide puddles. Sun broke through the retreating clouds, a momentary triumph over the rain, and lay warm upon her shoulders. She hitched her handbag higher, begrudging the weight of it. So many textbooks, so much work to do before her lectures tomorrow. And this was only her third week of uni. A sigh escaped her, seemed to travel along before her as she progressed, a herald of her coming.

The streets were busy, shoppers taking full advantage of the gap between the cloudbursts; cloud bunched above the town with malicious intent. The pavement was slick, the sun low. She was dazzled for a second, put her hand up to shield her eyes. Her arm hit something hard, unyielding – the tall figure of a man, his thin coat and hat rendering him anonymous and mysterious. He moved away before she could apologise, leaving her open-mouthed. "Sorry," she muttered to the empty space.

The sun surrendered to cloud, but sharp, cold light reflected from something glossy black stranded on the pavement, just a few inches from her boot. She bent down to investigate. A wallet. She picked it up, eyes already scanning the street for the stranger, for the man who must have dropped it as her arm had made contact with him. Too many people, bodies rising and falling in a single mass. No-one with a hat. Umbrellas up again as another drenching shower bucketed from the sky.

"Ah, hell," she mumbled, her hair dripping cold water down her neck. Shivering, she stuffed the wallet into her coat pocket and ran for the bus shelter.

The bus lurched, sending her uncomfortably close to the teenaged girl sat next to her. The girl turned, sneered, sullen energy coming from her in waves. Helen shuffled closer to the steam-covered window, seeing only a blur through the misted glass. She pulled her bag closer to her, becoming aware of the solid, square object in her pocket. The blasted wallet.

Careful to keep her elbows away from Miss Teenaged Angst, she delved into the pocket and pulled the wallet clear. It had dried. Opening it, she was surprised to see that it held notes - high denomination notes, at that - and only one plastic card. Furtively, she counted the money. There were over two thousand pounds here!

But no credit cards, no bankers card. Just a slim, plastic thing shaped like a squashed diamond. It didn't tell her much, though. Not even a name, for heaven's sake! Just a code, some sort of pattern that looked more like symbols than letters. Almost like a mathematical equation. She recognised the symbol for integration, the long, lean S that she worked with in calculus. Following that, a diamond, a few digits, a circle and a squiggle that looked like an infinity symbol pierced vertically by a single, slender line.

She frowned. How on earth would she return this wallet to the man, based on this? Even if she handed it into the police, there was simply nothing to go on. The bus took her further and further from town, back to her sleepy suburban flat. With a jolt, she realised her stop was next, and, with apologies to Miss Teenaged Angst, who pointedly ignored her, she clambered free from her seat and towards the front of the bus.

Helen closed her front door behind her, relief filling her in waves. Dropping the heavy bag to the floor, she removed her coat, and took the wallet into the living room. Tucking her feet beneath her, she collapsed into her favourite old armchair and went through the contents of the wallet again, this time removing the notes and card as she did so.

Counting the money, she saw her estimate had been pretty close. £2100 in fresh notes. This could feed her for a year! She smiled, knowing she'd never keep it - not if she wanted to sleep at night. Resigned, she replaced the notes. They caught on something, forcing them half out the wallet. Emptying it again, she realised she had missed something. A small photo, wedged into the inner pocket, almost part of the lining. She took it out, holding the tiny square up to the light.

"Oh, shoot!" she cried, dropping it to the floor as if it was a burning match.

Heart racing, her fingers hot and buzzy, she hugged her arms to her, pushing back into the chair as though she could put more distance between her and the shocking image.

She gave herself a few moments, then laughed, the sound shaky and false in the empty room. "Don't be an idiot," she scolded. "It was just a photo." But it took courage to lean forward and retrieve the square from the carpet. It took courage to turn its face to her again, to look upon it.

She'd thought it would be a photo of the man. Or perhaps a child, a girlfriend, or favourite nephew.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

Forcing herself not to look away, to investigate the photo with her scientific brain, Helen studied it, trying to be dispassionate. The photo depicted a face, but it was not human, or even animal. By everything she knew, this face was not of this earth.

And it scared her to death.

She closed her eyes for a second, needing to touch base with her own centre, her own reality. She was a mathematician: she was trained to search for patterns, and to work with equations, formulae, logic. She was learning techniques to make sense of the universe, to give it order and function and symmetrical grace.

So she could deal with this. She could.

Taking another breath, she opened her eyes and met a pair of diamond-hard, lizard-shaped eyes set within a slightly flattened head. A fine layer of black hair covered the head, like a dusting of charcoal. The face had ears, a nose, a mouth, looked almost human. But there was the crux of the matter. The eyes had it. Or rather, they didn't. They were inhuman, strange - she could not recognise her kind within them. There was light in the eyes, but it was . . . somehow different.

Yet the man in the street - the one she had knocked into - had not been alien, had he? With a shock, she remembered that his features had been captured by shadow, that she'd seen - felt - only a tall, solid body, and nothing more. A crease appeared between her brows as her mind worked.

Why would a man from - well, okay, from another world, let's get that out of the way - why would he be carrying British currency? And what did the card represent - its symbols tantalising, its meaning unclear? If there's one thing that kept her up at night, it was a problem that needed solving, a code that needed breaking. And she had one, right here, right now.

Hat tipped forward, his face in deep shadow, Sigma had fled from the woman. He’d slipped down the street between the slow-moving mass of bodies, winding his form around the corner wall of a bookshop before remembering he was supposed to be blending in. He’d found himself in a narrow alley, which was just what he'd been hoping for. Now he was just a nobody, loitering in the shadow of the walls. He’d been here for several minutes, needing time to regroup. How could he have been so careless? His instructions had been clear: avoid physical contact at all costs. He’d made a big mistake.

Looking back towards the street, he noted that the humans had been oblivious to his unusual way of moving, most of them holding electronic devices to their heads, or staring into the middle distance.

Did no-one on this planet connect with another? Did they not see the need, the hunger, the hidden despair in those they passed? It seemed that each human was too busy with their own needs to even recognise the humanity in the others. This didn't look promising at all. Sigma exhaled, emitting a soft, sad sound that might have been interpreted as disappointment.

Behind him, the alley stretched towards another street, more humans coming and going. They were like insects, scurrying along, sidestepping one another as they ebbed and flowed. But no - he knew that insects worked together, had an understanding, a common purpose. These humans seemed to be at odds, their focus turned inwards, not towards a communal goal.

Exhaling again, he walked nonchalantly towards the far street, dismayed to find it was filled with yet more buildings selling goods and services. Was materialism their god? His hopes for this world plummeted yet further, until he felt old and sad and very tired.

Based on his initial feedback, he thought that these humans might well be a lost cause. He would need to make his first report for this assignment. Sigma thought it might be best if he omitted to mention his ‘contact’ with one of the humans. He returned to the silent alley, searched for the black object that contained his 'money' and his Communication Slice.

When he couldn't find it in the left pocket, he tried the right. That was empty, too. He tried the trousers that he'd been given. Empty. Where was the Slice?

Helen placed the tiny photo gently on the faded blue arm of the chair, and went to the kitchen to make a coffee. Whilst the kettle was on, she rested her hip against the worktop. She needed something real, something habitual, to ground her, before her thoughts took her too far. She couldn't get a feel of how old the person in the image was. It could be ten, or thirty or seventy years old. The face, the skin, showed no lines, no imperfections, no pimples or scars. It was as though it had been freshly painted.

She smiled, a quick tip of the mouth that turned her serious face into pure sunshine. So perhaps the photo depicted someone in fancy dress? Maybe it was some sort of theatre costume for a play? That made more sense, was an explanation she could accept. But . . . why all the money? And the card with the symbols on, well that was playing havoc with her questioning mathematical mind.

She blew on her coffee to cool it, took a sip of the rich, black liquid, eyes closing as the aroma wound around her. The energy from the caffeine hit propelled her back towards her chair, towards the photo. She picked it up again, looking intently at the face staring out at her. The eyes looked pretty real - contact lenses? But the shape . . . how did they do that? It looked so wrong.

Helen counted the notes again, trying to distract herself from the strangely shaped card which was crying out for her attention. The notes looked real, felt real, but something about them was off. She lifted them to her nose. They had no scent, nothing at all. Were they fake?

Frustrated, she threw them down in a pile, reaching for the card. Her eyes scanned the symbols for clues, for meaning, for an interpretation she could make sense of. Maybe the guy belonged to a club, perhaps in the scientific community. She put the card down, realising that she knew the sequence of the symbols by heart already.

The room darkened as clouds rolled overhead, hail striking the windows with a series of startling cracks. From the corner of her eye, bright in the sudden gloom, she saw light: a mild, green glow. Surprised, she traced the source of it to the card, to the symbols. They were lit from behind, coloured a sharp emerald. Helen stepped away from the card, instinctively feeling that it was somehow dangerous to her.

Sigma crouched, using the brick wall as a support for his frame. This body still felt like it didn’t fit him. Closing his eyes, he focused inwards, tuning out the sounds of the shoppers, the traffic, the hard, icy rain streaming from the fire escape looming above him. Mentally, he retraced his steps to the street where the woman had knocked into him. It was likely that the Slice had been lost then. He used his inner eye to search the ground where he'd been stood. There was an imprint, there, an echo - but the money and the Slice had already gone.

Deep in concentration, he could see the trail the Slice had taken, tiny green sparks lighting the ground in his inner vision. He allowed the vision to progress, taking him back to a plastic shelter of some sort. He saw a large vehicle pull up, disgorging and accepting people. He accessed his data bank. The vehicle was a form of public transportation.

Startled, he recognised the woman who'd brushed against him. The card was in her pocket. He had to find her - without the Slice he would be unable to complete this assignment. Finding the woman was crucial. He stood, stretching, then silently made his way back to the street, and began to follow the route the vehicle - a bus - had taken.

His mind was almost closed to his surroundings. A small section remained alert to ensure he didn't impede the progress of any of the humans. It was important that he appear invisible, a faceless name in the crowd. The rest of his mind searched forwards, scanning the street, following the sketchy path of light which would lead him to the Slice.

As he walked, he received a message from the Slice; the woman - Helen, he was to call her - had found the card and was curious about it. The Slice had activated its programmed self-protection mechanism, and he sensed this had caused her to feel even more intrigued. This was confusing. It had been suggested in his assignment briefing that humans were careless, unsympathetic, time-wasters, and consumers. Yet this woman, Helen, appeared to have an agile mind and a healthy curiosity.

He glanced up occasionally as he tracked the Slice, noticing that shops and industrial units had given way to terraced houses, their gardens well-tended, their paintwork smart. He had not expected this, either. Evidence that humans could care for their surroundings. What if everything he'd been told was wrong? What if humanity was worth saving, after all?

Helen slowed her breathing, trying to regain some feeling of composure and normality. It stood to reason that this card, or whatever it was, had to be . . . other-wordly, going by the photograph hidden in the wallet. And so, logically, it utilised technology she might not yet be aware of. She was hardly a rocket scientist, after all. The card might be glowing for any number of reasons. Not all of them had to be bad, right?

Taking another, steadying breath, she reached forward and carefully picked up the card and scrutinised it. The symbols continued to glow, the light strengthening even as she watched. Her stomach rolled, fear trying to clamber into her chest, but she pushed it aside, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. The symbols - she had to know what they represented. Was it another language? An alien language? Just the guy's name, maybe? Or something more sinister?

The card was warm, she realised. It was as though the light was an energy which was escaping the confines of the card, forcing its way into her own world. She held it gingerly between her fingers, hoping it would not self-destruct.

Her mobile phone bleeped. Keeping her eyes fixed on the glowing symbols, she rummaged in her bag and retrieved the phone. A text from her friend, Alice, inviting her for a drink at the weekend. "Yeah, fine," she muttered at the phone. It was only Wednesday, and she had a mystery to solve; the rest of the world would have to wait. What if she discovered something amazing? Something that no-one had ever known before? The idea of it, of discovery, of solving such an important puzzle, left her almost giddy. What if her involvement in this led to her becoming as well-respected as Fermat? Fibonacci? Her heart set up a rapid rhythm, leaving her flushed and excited.

Sigma sensed that he was getting close. The trace from the Slice was stronger, brighter, an unbroken line rather than a sequence of dashes. He followed the slender thread of emerald light into the front garden of one of the larger houses. A list of names by the door, accompanied by . . . doorbells. He was grateful he'd taken the Version 1003 upgrade before this assignment, else he'd really be stuck.

He perused the list of names. Two began with H. One, H. Daniels, he felt was wrong. The other, H. Tremayne, he sensed was correct. He pushed the bell, and waited. A few seconds passed, and then a breathless voice asked, "Hello?"

Sigma cleared his voicebox. "Hello," he began. He really hoped this would work. "I lost a wallet back in town, and I wondered whether you'd seen it?"

Silence. But he knew she was there. He could feel her, sense her confusion and anxiety.

"How did you know where to find me?" came the woman's reply. She sounded calm, but he knew she was feeling agitated.

"Lucky guess?" he offered. Don't turn me away. I need the Slice, I really do.

"Oh. Right. Even though I've been on a bus since town - are you stalking me?" She sounded more angry than frightened. Sigma considered this to be a good thing. Not afraid to stand up for herself. Humanity was much better than he'd expected.

"It's hard to explain," Sigma admitted, hoping his voice contained the correct mix of humility and security. Would she let him in?

Helen leaned her head against her door, uncertainty leaving her trembling. How had Mr Possible Alien found her? She glanced at the card, which was now looking innocent and docile. So the card had led him to her. She supposed she didn't really have much choice; she'd have to return it to him. The money, too.

"I do have your wallet, and the card," she confessed. "You disappeared so quickly, there was no chance to give it back. So I brought it home with me to work out what to do with it." Since when did she go in for this explaining herself to strangers stuff? She shook her head. "Look, I'll bring it down. Just wait there, okay?"

"Thank you," the disembodied voice said.

She grabbed the wallet and stuffed the card inside, letting herself out of her front door and walking to the top of the stairs. Then she paused. If she gave the card back to him, she'd never interpret the meaning of the symbols it carried. Here was something marvellous and unknown, ripe for discovery - and she was just going to give it back? She needed more than that. Dashing back to her front door, she quickly unlocked it and tucked the wallet into the top drawer of her cluttered desk. If Mr Possible Alien wanted his wallet back, he had some explaining to do first.

Sigma waited patiently, sensing that the woman - Helen, he must use her name - was dithering. Why? He knew she was intrigued by the Slice - and if he was honest, Helen intrigued him, too - but his mission was to retrieve the Slice and get back on assignment. The rain began again, first splattering his coat and hat with fat drops, then turning into a downpour. And still he waited.

Finally he heard the lock disengage and watched as the house's door swung inwards. There she was, the woman he'd been tracking, his Helen. Her eyes widened as she took in the torrent in which he was standing, and she beckoned him inside. Wordlessly, he followed, surprised that she'd invited a stranger into her home. Perhaps the weather had influenced her decision, and she was displaying compassion? He kept his face lowered, feeling it was safer.

"Hi," Helen said. "Um, I have the wallet upstairs. Do you have a few minutes spare?"

Like he could go anywhere else without the Slice. "Yes, I am free at the moment."

"Well, come on up and have a cup of tea with me, if you'd like."

Sigma wondered where this was going. She clearly had no idea he was not of her world, or that he could - if he chose - be a danger to her. Was she out of her mind, inviting a strange being into her sacred space called home?

Helen chewed on her lip as she led Mr Possible Alien up the stairs to her flat. She could feel him close behind her, and for a moment panic flared, ratcheting her senses to full alert. Heart banging in her chest, she lifted a damp hand to the door and unlocked it, bidding the stranger to enter. Then, he was in, she'd shut the door behind him, and it was just the two of them standing in her front room. She swallowed. What the hell was she doing?

"Please, sit down," she invited, waiting for a moment as he took a seat on her battered cream sofa. His coat was soaked, his hat bobbled with raindrops. She didn't dare suggest he remove either of them, fearful that she'd scream when she saw what was underneath the outer, human clothes. What was on the inside, anyway? Perhaps it was best not to know.

She turned into her small kitchen and prepared two mugs of tea. Custard Creams and Digestives were placed on a plate. With shaking hands she carried the tray into the living room and lowered it to the table. Mr Possible Alien ignored them. She knew it was up to her to initiate her questions; he'd have no idea why she'd offered him refreshments, why she'd urged him into her home against all common sense.

But there was a puzzle to be solved. And she knew that if she had no resolution to it, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She just hoped that her life would continue beyond today, that she hadn't just done something massively stupid. Her Dad had always said she had no common sense. She reckoned he was right.

Sigma could not see the wallet anywhere. Nor could he sense it. It was as though Helen Tremayne had destroyed all evidence of its existence. He sent out a tracking request to the Slice, but nothing pinged back. He was aware only that it was in this home, somewhere. It was not in his nature to worry, but Sigma was becoming concerned. Had he walked into a trap? He didn't feel that was the case, but it was his first assignment, and he lacked experience in human behaviour.

Helen sat down in a comfortable old armchair, but she did not appear comfortable. She seemed excited, apprehensive, and guilty, with a little fear thrown in for good measure. What a maelstrom of emotions these humans allowed themselves! How did they exert control? It was all quite confusing.

He couldn't leave without the Slice. Deciding he'd better play along, he carefully reached for one of the items on the tray. Biscuit. It was pale, sandwiched with a cream filling. It tasted surprisingly good, and he helped himself to another. Still, Helen sat and watched him, her eyes bright. She was breathing fast, he noted. The emotion tasted of anticipation. What did she have in mind? He was unused to having to decipher and understand all these emotions; there was no logical outcome.

Helen watched as he ate, noting with surprise the long, tapered fingers which looked like a pianist’s. What had she expected - talons? claws? His hands were beautiful, elegant, and immaculately clean. Had she jumped to conclusions, and made a horrendous misjudgement?

She tore her eyes away. The air felt heavy, as though the silence carried weight. "You're probably wondering about your wallet.”

Mouth full, the stranger nodded.

"It's safe," Helen continued. "But . . . well, do you mind answering a few questions before I return it to you?" She began to tremble, wondering if she was opening Pandora’s box, if she should just give him the wallet and send him on his way, locking her door quickly after him.

Those long fingers brushed crumbs away from the man’s mouth. That, too, appeared fine; rather attractive, in fact. She flushed, firmly steering her mind back onto scientific pursuits.

“You have questions?" Sigma asked.

"Yup. You're carrying an awful lot of money around. Aren't you worried it'll get stolen - or lost?"

She did have a point - look what had happened! But the currency was the least of his worries. He knew she had the Slice; he'd followed its light signature here. "It was necessary," he mumbled. "What about . . .?"

"The card?" she confirmed. "Yes, that's safe, too.” She took a steadying breath, then plunged in. “The photograph is safe, too. The picture of . . . ?"

Oh. She'd seen the image of his next generation. That was a serious breach of security. He wondered how he would deal with that. Helen had an agile, enquiring mind, and he sensed warmth, despite his odd appearance (much of it hidden, still, to be fair) and the strange situation in which she found herself. His brief was to assess, report and analyse; he had no instructions to eliminate, and knew that none, in the history of his world, had ever been given before. But, to protect himself and his fellow beings, might he have to silence her? The thought did not sit well with him. He liked her.

But she had the Slice, and he did not. Would he have to take it by force? Sigma decided to answer Helen’s questions, and then assess the situation based on her responses. She looked pretty determined; almost fierce. Maybe this was the best way.

Helen waited, wondering whether he would give her an honest answer, or fob her off with some story. She braced herself for lies, for disappointment. After all, Mr Possible Alien owed her nothing. She’d even given him tea and Custard Creams. She sensed a restraint, an unwillingness to be completely open with her. She smiled, hoping to encourage him into telling her what she wanted - needed - to know.

“You really want to know?” her stranger asked, his voice pitched low. It seemed to resonate around the room, the words settling over her like a veil of subdued symbols. The sensation was so strange, she forgot to breathe for a moment. Then she remembered to nod. Please, tell me the truth.

The man stood, lifting the hat from his head. He was magnificent - his face was all hard planes, his skin faintly tanned with an almost luminous glow. Dark hair, straight and fine, lay over his head like a soft cap. But it was his eyes that moved her to tears. They were a mossy green, flecked with gold. His irises were somehow filled with a light, a glow, which passed over her skin like a warm ray of sun. Mesmerised, she stared.

Then the eyes snapped shut.

When he opened them again, they were lizard-shaped, but the astonishing colour and glow remained. His eyes had a resemblance to those in the photo, but they carried knowledge, maturity - and something incredible.

“So, you see that I am different,” Sigma said softly. Helen was surprised, he felt, but not alarmed. The photo had prepared her. He had broken protocol by secreting it in his clothing when he’d travelled here, but he’d felt unable to leave it behind. He’d needed to bring something to link him with his own world.

Helen smiled again, creating an unexpected response in him. He felt connected to her - as if he had known her before, in a previous lifetime, perhaps. Whatever it was, he understood that there was no way he could harm her, regardless of what she chose to do with the information he would have to give her.

She said, her voice as gentle as his, “What are you? And do you have a name? Mine is Helen.”

“Sigma Xenisin,” he answered. “That is my name. And I am not of Earth.”

“I gathered that,” she answered, her tone wry. “So can you tell me where you’re from? And what does the card do - is it a key? A transporter device? A communication module?”

“It is the latter. I am here on assignment.” He wondered just how much to tell her.

“What is your assignment?” Helen curled her legs beneath her, finally appearing comfortable with his presence. Sigma realised he felt comfortable here; comfortable with her.

He held her eyes for a few moments, then decided to let her know everything. Something told him they had been destined to meet, that she had a role to play in his time here, and in what came next.

“Do you believe in angels?” he asked. A lot would depend on her answer. Perhaps humanity itself.

She started. Was that what he was? No wonder he looked so . . . incredible; so vital, so luminous. But did she really believe? She’d never given it any thought before. She opened her mouth, closed it again.

Sigma remained silent, not wanting to rush her. When she still remained speechless, he pushed for an answer. “Helen? I really do need to know. Do you believe?”

Emotions played over her face, rising and falling as she struggled to frame an answer. He understood the complexity of her thoughts, saw her mathematical, scientific brain warring with her desire to believe, her need to trust. Go with your instincts, he willed her. And waited.

She seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Yes. Yes, Sigma, I do. I can’t see them, measure them, touch them, hear them, but yes, I believe in them.”

He let out a breath of relief. “I am glad you said that. But you can see me. You can measure me, should you wish to. You can touch me, also, if you are feeling brave. And I believe you can already hear me.”

Helen laughed, a rich, warm sound which brightened the room. “Okay. So you’re an angel. And you have a communication thingy. Um, I know this is really personal, but . . .”

“Go on,” he prompted.

“Well. Those eyes, they don’t really fit with your body. How come you’re so - oh, gosh, this is embarrassing . . .”

“How come I look like a handsome human, but still have weird eyes when I shutter them?”

“Exactly!”

Sigma smiled. “We don’t normally occupy a body; we are energy, consciousness, purity. But in order to travel to other worlds and to remain there - rather than a quick visit - then we need to assume a form which will blend in.”

“I understand that,” Helen said, tone serious and logical. “But - the eyes! They are so clearly not human. That’s the part I don’t really get. Oh, and the photo - the image in that has a slightly odd-shaped head.” Sigma thought her blush was sweet. She was trying so hard to be polite in this unusual situation.

“Helen, we visit other worlds, too. Worlds where the inhabitants are insects. Or something completely unrecognisable to you. And as we travel, we keep an inventory of all our ‘disguises’. It’s easy to switch between them. Sometimes, when tired - or perhaps stressed - we change our shape without meaning to. The image you saw in the wallet is of my next generation, taken when he was trying out different guises. Playing, if you will.”

“Oh, I see!” She was quiet for a few moments. He felt her brain assimilating, reorganising, shifting its understanding and parameters.

Suddenly she unwound herself from the chair and got to her feet. Sigma watched as she crossed to a desk and opened a drawer. It was stuffed with papers, he saw, and to his relief, the wallet was there, just as she had said.

Now that she had her answers - some of them, at least - she was reluctant to see him leave. There was an energy about him that refreshed her, lifted her higher, promising more. Her heart ached, grieving already for the loss of him, her Sigma angel. Hand on the wallet, she paused, wondering if she could stall him.

In a strange way, she felt as though she’d found a friend. And she didn’t have many of those. She was new to the area, and studying took all her time. She’d left her last boyfriend after he’d told her he wasn’t interested in anything long-term. Apart from Alice - who was an English Lit student, and not at all interested in Helen’s passion for equations - there was no-one with whom she felt really connected. This meeting had felt so very strange, and yet she felt a bond with her angel that she was not ready to relinquish.

Tears studded her eyes, and she could not turn around. She couldn’t walk over to Sigma and hasten his departure. She dropped the wallet and faced him, her hands leaning on the desk at her back. “Please don’t go.”

His light-filled face studied hers. She could feel his compassion coming from him in waves. Hope swelled in her - did he feel the connection, too? Then there was a thread of pale light, and he was standing right in front of her, although she’d never seen him move.

She tilted her head to look at his face, his energy layering over her like a blessing. He cupped her face with his beautiful hands, his head moving closer and closer to hers. A kiss on her forehead, filled with tenderness. Then he pulled away. She reached behind her, fumbled for the wallet. Mutely she offered it to him.

He filed it in his coat pocket. He had what he needed, and now he would go. She knew it.

Instead, he placed his hands on her trembling shoulders. “Helen Tremayne, you are so sweet, so passionate, so intelligent, so caring. You are humanity in its full glory and grace. Do you know, you have saved your world? My recommendation will be that you, your people, your planet, have promise, have potential. You can work out your differences; I have seen enough compassion, enough integrity, and enough of you to know that.”

She shivered with the weight of her responsibility. It was a good job she had not known just how much was at stake.

His eyes gleamed. “Helen, please, do not worry. Keep doing what you do, keep being you, following your desires, your dreams, your passions. That is what humanity does best. Let nothing stop you. Will you promise me that?”

“I promise. I really promise,” she gulped. How could she have formed this strong bond so fast, in such odd circumstances? It all seemed unreal, like a dream, but she knew she would never forget this encounter. Still, her heart hurt.

Sigma dropped a lingering kiss on the top of her head. Into her hair, he said, “I will always be with you, Helen. You will not see me, you may not hear me, and you probably won’t feel me, but I will be there. I will not forget you, and although I will not return to this form, I will be present as energy; you will be able to call for me at any time.”

And then the door had opened and he was outside of it, a streak of movement stilled as he said his farewell. Helen couldn’t see through the blur of her tears, but she felt him go, became aware of the emptiness in the room. Feeling overwhelmed and emotionally drained, she returned to her favourite armchair and wept until it was time for bed.

Just as she was falling asleep, she heard a breath on the air near her cheek. “I am here.” The faintest of cool breezes, little more than a stirring in the air, swept across her cheek, then was gone. Helen smiled. She was not alone.

RED MIST

Fingers bled white, Mira gripped the rail. She was trembling, but desperately hoped her fear was hidden from her captor. The creature stared at her, black eyes depthless, two spheres of hard onyx.

She glared at the monster. She was damned if she was going to give up. Backed into a corner, maybe. Surrendering her life? Absolutely not. Her breath came fast and harsh through her nose, her breathing shallow so as not to inhale any more of this disgusting creature’s filth than was necessary. It smelled like a sewer. Or worse.

I would rather die than be like you,” she said, proud that her voice was steady. “You are without any sense of goodness in you. You’ve raped, thieved, tortured. You’ve had the people of this city in fear of their lives. But you are heartless, you are a killer, and you disgust me.” She spat into the monster’s eye.

The creature blinked, then stepped back. “Is that what you think?” Two dark eyes glowered at her. Mira maintained eye contact, broadcasting her defiance. She willed her quivering legs to hold. Crumpling into a mess on the floor wouldn’t help her cause, while talking might buy her time, maybe even a way out if she was clever enough.

“You are soulless. This is no way to treat people. If you have to kill me, then I accept that, although I’ll fight you the whole damn way. I won’t make it easy for you!” Mira put more space between her and the monster, moving as far away from it as the chained cuff would allow.

The creature sighed. “I took only what no-one was willing to give.”

“No-one owes anyone anything,” Mira countered. “Not a thing. If you don’t have money, you earn it. You don’t steal from other people who have scrimped and saved! If you want sex, you ask nicely for it, perhaps even form a healthy relationship and offer kindness and love in return. If you want cooperation, then you offer it first. Don’t you get that?”

“Clearly I don’t!” came the snapped reply. “All my life, I’ve had people tell me I’m useless, unloveable, hard to work with. It was easier to just take what I wanted - ”

Mira’s patience had worn through. She yanked at the cuff restraining her to the post and rail. It chafed against her sore wrist. “Let me go! I’m getting mad, and trust me, you don’t want to be around me when I’m mad.” Her vision was starting to change, a sheen of red forming over her eyes.

The answer was no less than Mira had expected. “No way. I can’t trust you. Letting you loose would be foolish. I can’t risk you getting out of here and disclosing my whereabouts. They’ll kill me.”

“No less than you deserve, Dennis. You’re a monster, you know that? What have you ever done to show anyone they can trust you? You set out to dominate, hurt, terrorise. Everywhere you went, you were sending vibes that you were evil, dangerous.” The red mist was thickening, clouding her vision like a fine veil of blood.

Dennis took a pace towards her, backing her into the corner. She nearly choked as the smell of him hit her; she turned her head from his, gulped in purer air.

“Mira, surely you understand that I had to do what I did? That there was no other way? Just as I had to take you. How else would I get the city under my control?”

Mira narrowed her eyes. “Kidnapping the Queen’s great-niece is not likely to help your cause, Dennis. You know perfectly well the royal family doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. And that is what you are, however you rationalise your behaviour.” The film over her vision was easing, but the threat hovered as anger pulsed through her.

Dennis held her chin and turned her face back to his, the hard fingers a little more gentle this time. “You really do see me as a monster, don’t you? All I ever wanted was for you to love me.”

To her surprise, Mira’s eyes welled. “Dennis, you’re on the Most Wanted list. You’re from the drug-laden streets of the inner city. You’re a criminal - a killer - and you wanted to get it on with me?” She paused, choosing her words carefully. Maybe she could instil some sense into the man. “Look, you can’t force someone to love you. They have to come willingly. Nor can you chain them up in the hope that you’ll turn their fear into adoration. That’s not how it works.”

The dark eyes fixed upon hers softened. It was like watching black ice melt into ebony velvet. Some of what she said was getting through, she was sure of it. “If you let me go, I’ll tell them I escaped. I’ll give you time to find somewhere to go. Somewhere you’ll be alone, where you can’t hurt anyone.” And I’ll make sure they find you.

“I’m sorry, Mira. I just can’t. You’ll turn me in and my life will be over. The only way I can keep you with me is if I keep you restrained. All along, it was you I wanted; none of the others were enough.”

“So you killed them!” she hissed. Her rage boiled upwards in a seething column and it was too late, the redness had descended and she was stretching, changing, shifting. She was aware of Dennis stepping backwards, horror suffusing his face, eyes wide with fear. Now you know how it feels! the human part of her mind said. Wrenching her wrist, she freed herself from the cuff and chain and leaped forward in one smooth, silky motion.

She was upon him, and her power allowed him no space to manoeuvre. He was bound just as tightly as his victims had been. He was at her mercy now, and she was not inclined to give it.

“Who’s the monster now?” Dennis grunted, his voice strangled and desperate. “If I’d known you had this in you, I’d never have taken you, Mira! Please, don’t hurt me. Please!”

“Too late,” she answered softly. She bit his neck, tasting the iron-rich blood as it flowed across her tongue. It overpowered the putrid scent of him, but she also knew that his smell would change, that this transformation would be all-encompassing. “Too late,” she repeated, as she sat up, legs astride him, mouth smeared with his blood.

Dennis moaned, eyelids fluttering weakly like the wings of a trapped moth. Mira saw in her mind the victims he’d tortured, those he’d killed. Layer upon layer of pain and sorrow crashed over her, replays of the damage this man had caused. Her face was wet with tears, with regret. If only she’d reached him sooner, she might have saved lives. Now she would have to live with the memories of what Dennis had done.

“Mira?”

She tightened her knees against his waist, signalling her strength. There was no reaction from him; he was feeble, drained. “What?”

“I’m sorry. So very sorry. I don’t know what you just did, but it’s like I’m seeing my life through your eyes, and I feel so very . . .” Sobs broke from him, powerful enough that she could feel his body pulsing with them.

“Now you have compassion, Dennis. I’ve given you that gift. The bite on your neck will heal, don’t worry. But you’ll never be the same again. For the rest of your life, you will feel the emotions of others - those you have hurt or damaged, you will feel. Those you see in the street, anxious, scared, in pain - you will feel it all. You will be sensitive, and you will care, and the weight of it will keep the rest of us safe.”

Mira swallowed, feeling sudden distaste for what she had done. She wiped the blood from her mouth, the sweet stench of it making her stomach roil. Her hidden self left her no choice when it came to situations such as this. Her responsibility was clear: protect the world from the predators. But now her secret self was slipping away, leaving her fragile, and so raw.

She stood on trembling legs. Her work here was done, and Dennis would need time to adjust to his new life. He curled into a ball, his weeping echoing around the warehouse.

“Will you turn me in?” he asked, his voice shaking. The thought of jail, of experiencing the trauma inflicted by those imprisoned, filled him with terror.

“I don’t know yet,” Mira admitted. “But if I were you, I’d prepare yourself for a life of hell.”

Her limbs began to shake as the last remnants of the red mist evaporated, emotion threatening her composure. She turned her back on Dennis and stalked across the hard floor of the warehouse towards the open door, needing the distance, needing normality. She didn’t dare look back.

KNOCK, KNOCK

Michael untangled his hand from Christa’s. “Wait here.”

She reluctantly released her hand from his as he pulled away. Christa didn’t want to wait. There was no moon, and the darkness wrapped itself around her with tight fingers. She could just about see the gravestones huddled in front of her, a queue of hunched old women. “Don’t be long!” she called softly as he loped away from her.

She watched him as he followed the churchyard path towards the church itself. Then the inky shadows of the trees swallowed him, and she was alone.

Christa leaned against the crumbling brick wall which ran around the perimeter of the churchyard like a broken chain. She hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but Michael had pleaded with her, and, as usual, she’d given in. Now, she wished she’d listened to her gut and stayed in with a bottle of Merlot and a DVD.

She still didn’t understand why Michael had waited until it was dark, and on Halloween of all nights, before paying his respects. If it hadn’t been for Michael, she’d be snuggled on their sofa, not freezing half to death. Why hadn’t he wanted her to go with him into the church, anyway? Surely he’d lighted his candle for his grandmother by now? Pushing away from the wall, she stalked up the path towards the church.

Christa slowed as she reached the looming shadows of the trees, suddenly uncertain. She heard a whispering, a continuous, subdued sound as though the tall trees were sharing dark secrets. She shivered, feeling silly. The noise was just the breeze in the leaves, and the darkness spilling before her on the path was only shadow. It couldn’t harm her. Only ten or twelve steps to the other side, then she’d be back on the open path and just a few feet from the door of the church.

But still she paused. Her instinct seemed to be screaming Run! but her legs were rooted to the ground as solidly as the anchors of the ancient trees. Why was it so difficult to move? This was ridiculous! Pushing her irrational fear aside, she stepped forward onto the shadowed path.

And then everything changed.

She was inside the church. It was so dark she couldn’t see her hands. No candles burned. “Michael?” Her voice sounded weak, the shaky syllables echoing around the church in a mocking refrain. The space around her felt empty, hollow, and unwelcoming.

“Michael!” she shouted, her voice firmer this time. She was frozen to the spot, pinned by her sightlessness. Christa reached a tentative hand forward, feeling nothing but empty space. Half stumbling, she forged her way into the nothingness, growing more and more puzzled as she encountered no obstacles, no pews, nothing. And still no Michael.

She stopped, her sense of isolation deepening. Michael had clearly said he was coming in here to light a candle for his gran, but he wasn’t here. So where was he? And what the heck had happened to this church that it was so dark, empty and cold? It felt as though no-one had been inside it for centuries - it certainly had no aura of prayer or sanctity.

When she heard the whispering of the trees, the sound coming from only a few feet away, she started to panic. She was as disoriented as if she’d been dropped into a flotation tank.

When she heard a quiet, repetitive knocking, a sound which grew in both volume and frequency, she clamped both hands over her ears and began to whimper.

When a hand grasped her ankle, fingers wrenching at the slender joint, Christa shrieked. She reached behind her, frantically trying to detach the cold, dirty fingers from her leg. The hand clung with fierce desperation. She touched cold flesh - a wrist, an arm. “Get off me!” she yelled, yanking her leg. She wished she could see! She wished Michael was with her!

“Christa . . .”

The grasp on her ankle tightened and she howled.

“Christa!”

The voice was coming from the thing hanging onto her ankle. Its fingers flexed and she tore her leg free, losing her balance, tumbling into a messy heap on the flag-stoned floor. The knocking and whispering had ceased; she thanked heaven for small mercies.

The cold hand reached for her, wrapping gentle fingers around her narrow wrist. “Christa, it’s me. Michael. They’ve - it hurts, Christa! You must - get out of here. Not safe. Not holy.”

“Michael? What’ve they done? Who are they?” She held the fingers of the hand, stroked the wrist that was thick with grime. “Let me get you out of here -”

“No! There’s no time. It’s too - late - for me. I’m not human anymore. You need to leave this place, and me, and make sure no-one ever comes here. It’s important!”

“I don’t understand! I can’t leave you!” she cried. “Let me help. Can you sit upright?”

“No. Christa, listen - you must leave me. But the only way out of this terrible loop of misery is for you to tap in a sequence. Remember the knocking? That was me. But the whispering? That is them!”

Her ears were super-sensitive in the darkness. The whispering hadn’t stopped; it had merely softened to an almost inaudible level. She started to shake.

“Tap, Christa!”

“How! What sequence do I use?”

“Pretend it’s Morse Code.” Michael’s voice was weakening. “You need to tap 11 times, then 22, then 33. Those are angelic codes. They’ll come and help you get back to the real world, where there is light and hope.”

Christa tapped with her knuckles on the hard stone floor, exactly as Michael had instructed. Skin tore from her joints, but she didn’t dare stop. She tapped the sequences in, then started over. Surely help must come! She half expected a blinding flash of light, a dazzling choir of winged angels, but the church remained ominously dark. Tears raced down her cheeks. Her heart felt huge, too large for her rib-cage.

“Michael? Are you still there?” The silence - the emptiness - gave its answer. A sob ripped from her throat, raw and desperate.

She realised the whispers had become louder; the air around her seemed heavy with threat, holding menace and enmity.

Christa screamed. And then the darkness was stripped away. The surface under her pounding knuckles was older, smooth with age. A gravestone. She was laying on a grave. She jacknifed upright, horror layering upon horror.

The rising sun bled fingers of soft gold over the top of the crumbling wall. She was safe. But she had lost Michael. The gravestone bore his name.

THE CORDELLO QUEST
BOOK ONE OF THE LAZULI PORTALS SERIES

CHAPTER ONE

The full moon slipped silently behind drifting silvered clouds grazing a dark velvet sky. I refused to recognise the quiet beauty of the night; I just wasn't ready to appreciate it. Weaving towards me through the wet grass, drink in hand, was Jason.

I glared at him. I was furious. How could he do this to me? To us?

Tears pricked at my eyes, and I wiped them away with the backs of my hands, angry that I felt so weak.

I turned my back on Jason, and contemplated the vastness of the moors. Even late at night, with the clouds backlit with mother–of–pearl moonlight, I could see the curves and contours of the hills and granite rocks, giant moonlit shadows playing across the sloping moorland.

By day, the scene was impressive, attracting walkers and day–trippers.

By night, it was lonely and utterly deserted.

I wanted to absorb the melancholy of the moorland into my soul; it echoed my mood perfectly.

This was home.

Torturing myself, I let my mind replay the events of the past few minutes. I'd come here with Jason tonight with expectations of some sort of commitment. I'd half–expected an engagement ring, a proposal.

Instead, Jason had announced that he'd received a plum job offer – a post based hundreds of miles away. He knew very well I never wanted to leave this mournful, beautiful, isolated landscape.

I tried to shrug aside my disappointment, but I couldn't seem to shake it. We'd obviously been on completely different wavelengths. On a different planet, even.

It hurt. It really hurt.

Jason, of course, was unaware of my scrambling, scattered thoughts. I had read far too much into his suggestion of this midnight picnic, thinking he was being romantic. Never believing – not for a moment – that he would be breaking us apart. He was celebrating; I was grieving for what I had thought was to be.

I hugged my arms to me as the breeze lifted. April nights on the moors can be cold, and I'd not brought a jacket with me. My mind had been humming with romantic visions of being wrapped in my fiancé's warm arms. I turned my head to see what Jason was doing.

Oh, great. Slumped against one of the low rocks, mouth open, snoring. It didn't get any better than that. He'd drunk too much. Again. Tears stung my eyes and I felt lost, disconnected from my surroundings.

The moon slid out from behind the swiftly–moving cloud, highlighting giant crags nearby. Without knowing why, I began walking towards the tall rocks. Jason and I had never visited this part of the moor, even in daylight. At least exploring the rocky outcrop would take my mind off how I was feeling. I reasoned that I had nothing better to do.

In the end, reason had nothing to do with it.

There was a magnetism, a pull, that drew me to the huge crags.

I could see my way clearly, the moon seeming to spotlight my path. Reaching the nearest crag, I stopped in front of it and raised a hand to the stone. I felt I might break in two, and I needed to lean on something older, permanent, solid. Connection to the natural rock might help me feel more stabilised, less fragile. The moon sympathetically cast its pale milky glow across the rock–face where my hand rested against the cool, rough surface. I could see different colours, grains of various minerals, flowing down the rock like ancient liquid frozen in time.

What happened next was unexpected.

My hand started to tingle, to vibrate, almost as if it was buzzing.

Alarmed, I tried to pull my hand away, but it was frozen in place. I was no longer touching the rock, but there was some kind of force keeping my hand locked to the ancient stone. I had no idea what was happening, let alone why. I was out of sight of Jason and the picnic remnants, and now I realised how very vulnerable I was; how very alone. I could feel fear bubbling inside me, threatening to overwhelm me. Something else was in control of me – and I hate being out of control!

Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, my fear subsided, and I felt instead an inexplicable, deep sense of peace. My breathing slowed, and I swallowed. I wasn't happy with this bizarre situation, but it looked as though I was trapped in it for the moment. I concentrated on my breathing, keeping myself calm.

A soft mist came from nowhere, creeping along the ground at the base of the crags. It started to gently rise, obscuring the bottom of each massive stone. The moon glided behind clouds again, leaving me in near–darkness.

The mist reached my waist. Surprisingly, I now felt excitement, a thrill of anticipation.

Quietly, secretly, the giant stones around me started to shift.

I watched, fascinated. I couldn't have moved, nor did I want to. Curiosity and awe conflicted with my dread of the unknown. Something special was happening, and I wanted to value every second of it.

There was no noise, no scraping or screeching. The enormous rocks just came to be somewhere else. I watched closely as the colossal stones silently and gracefully created a circle. I had been to Stonehenge and Avebury stone circles, and heard of many others, particularly here in Cornwall; but can honestly say I had never seen any of the vast stones move. However bizarre it sounds, I could see the crags moving with my own eyes, and I also seemed to be aware of it on some other level. I had no thought of calling to Jason, who'd probably be oblivious to everything, anyway.

In fact, I now had no thought of sharing this with anyone.

It felt for me alone.

Again, my awareness altered. I knew, even without looking, that the immense stones were changing again. Now in a perfect circle, stones in front of me, to the side and behind, the fabric of the rock seemed to waver, making my eyes water as they struggled to make sense of what I was seeing.

My arm dropped heavily to my side as the rock to which I'd been attached released its hold over me. For the moment, I was unsure of what to do, or where to go. I remained standing where I was, watching and waiting. My senses were totally alert, and I felt so incredibly and indescribably alive.

I felt connected. To this process, to the planet as a whole; a feeling of being adrift in space . . . but part of the Earth, too. I could feel the blood pulsing through my veins. Next, I detected a low hum in my ears, then a soft, gentle noise that I could not describe, except to say that it felt as if it was crafted by magic.

I remained transfixed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but I suddenly noticed that the mist had dissipated, leaving the stone circle empty but for me. I turned towards the stone to which I'd been joined, and saw that there was some sort of opening in the rock.

Something invited me to enter, something I was unable to resist.

With my back to the moon–silvered clouds, my shadow leaping in front of me, I tentatively stepped over the margin of the stone's entrance and into the blackness.

And found myself falling – tumbling, spinning, whirling downwards.

###

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Cover designed by Ron C. Dickerson

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May you understand that you are the creator of your future.

Use your intention wisely!

Joanna and Ron.

~*~