Out of the shadows, shapes formed. They became lumpy figures, lumbering from the gate and down the path towards the house. A parade of vaguely humanoid forms, heading for the back door.

Gwen felt the ice trickle of fear, but she made herself stare directly into the garden. They were the kind of thing that was terrifying when glimpsed out of the corner of your eye but when viewed head on revealed themselves to be illusion. The shapes continued forward, seeming to become more solid and threatening as the panic rose in her throat, choking her. Oddly, she heard her mother's voice. A memory of Gloria calmly explaining the charm for phantasms. She said that they increased in proportion to the victim's own fear and were dispelled by simple wishing.

The figure at the front of the pack was growing taller, lengthening and becoming more human. A ghostly light glowed from inside the shape, illuminating a face that had become the boy's. Puffy and white, the way it had looked when Gwen had found him. He opened his mouth wide and black water gushed out.

'No. Go away,' Gwen said aloud, not really expecting it to work. 'You are not real,' she added, wishing as hard as she could. The shapes dissolved.

Gwen took one last look at the now-empty path, closed the window and got back into bed. She was cold and shaking. Cat opened his eyes and let his disgust at being disturbed be known via the medium of unearthly screeching. Cam turned over and smiled at her sleepily in the half-dark. 'h.e.l.lo,' he said. Then, 'Are you all right?'

'Fine,' Gwen said. 'Bad dream.' Someone was out there in the dark, casting a spell and sending phantasms to her house to frighten her. Maybe it was the man who'd broken into her house. Trying to frighten her out of the house, maybe even out of town. Or, more likely, it was the person who had helped Marilyn Dixon hex Brian. What had Iris written? There's nothing worse than a frustrated witch?

She decided to worry about it in the morning. In the daylight, when everything would seem more manageable. Besides, right at this moment, she had Cameron Laing in her bed. She stretched out alongside him, feeling all the places in which they fitted together.

He pulled her closer and, for a while, they didn't say anything else.

Gwen was too hot. Extraordinarily comfortable, yes, but definitely too hot. As her brain woke up, she realised that Cameron Laing was wrapped around her in the soft bed under approximately a thousand blankets. She shifted slightly and watched Cam wake up to the same realisation. She watched his expression turn from sleepy to alarmed and sat up first so that she wouldn't have to feel him pulling his arm out from underneath her.

Cam stumbled out of bed, pulling on his trousers before facing Gwen. 'Bathroom,' he said and Gwen nodded. She tried to adjust her expression to something relaxed and unconcerned, but she had the words, Don't run away, on a loop and didn't want to blurt them out.

Gwen listened to the water running in the bathroom next door and then a light thumping sound. Perhaps Cam was banging his head against the wall. Gwen tried to smile, but it wasn't at all funny.

After a couple of minutes he sidled back into the bedroom. He located his shirt and socks and, without looking directly at Gwen, said, 'I'd better get to the office.'

'It's seven o'clock.' Gwen kept her voice neutral.

He gave an unconvincing laugh. 'No rest for the wicked.'

'Okay,' Gwen said. 'Would you like breakfast before you go?'

'No. No, thanks. I'll get something on my way to the office.'

'Okay,' Gwen said again.

Cam was halfway out of the door when he paused. 'I'll call you.'

'Don't say that,' Gwen said.

'What?'

'Don't say "I'll call you" like that. Like I'm a one-night stand.'

'What do you want me to say?' Cam turned back, the frown that she was so used to seeing now back with a vengeance. 'Forget the past; we hardly know each other now. What do you expect me to say? Let's get back together. Let's pretend the last thirteen years didn't happen? Let's pretend you didn't run away from me the moment things got tricky?'

'Goodbye,' Gwen said. 'You're supposed to say "goodbye". Closure, remember?'

He swallowed. 'Goodbye, Gwen Harper.'

'Goodbye, Cameron Laing.'

Katie stuffed her hated backpack into the metal box and closed the locker door. When she turned around, she very nearly fell over. Luke Taylor was leaning up against the lockers a few feet away, and he was looking straight at her. Was he waiting for someone? Was he really looking at her? Or perhaps he was in a daydream and doing that looking-but-not-seeing thing. Should she say 'hi'? If he blanked her, she would die. It was better not to risk it. She turned to walk in the other direction. The wrong way from the dinner hall, but never mind.

'Hey.'

His voice was just behind her, and with two long strides he was alongside her.

'Don't run away.'

She glanced up, hardly believing her eyes. 'I wasn't. I was just-'

'Look. I didn't have anything to do with ... the other day.'

Katie hesitated, trying to work out what he meant. Will Jones. 'Oh, I know. It's fine.' She paused, knowing she was blushing. She forced an unconcerned, hard voice. 'He's a t.w.a.t, though.'

Luke shrugged. A few more steps and Luke stopped. 'Aren't you going to eat?'

Katie did her best coolly disinterested look. One she'd practiced. As if eating was vulgar and for lesser beings than herself. Imogen was always saying that boys liked girls who didn't eat.

Luke just looked confused. 'Oh. Okay.'

'You go on, though.' Like she was giving him permission. She wanted to punch herself in the face.

His lips quirked up. 'Thanks. I will.' He hit himself in the chest. 'Growing boy, you know. Need to keep my strength up.'

Katie nodded. Tried a smile. 'Well, see ya.'

'Later.' And he was gone, loping down the corridor.

At End House, Gwen was sitting up in bed, trying not to mind that Cam had bolted. She stroked the back of Cat's head, setting up a whole-body purring that sounded like a Boeing 747 taking off. She flipped through Iris's notebook, wondering if Iris had some excellent remedy for the pain in her heart. She read random entries, wondering what she should do with them all. There was a wealth of information and, although she would let Patrick Allen see them over her dead body, it seemed somehow wrong to let them just gather dust.

Thursday 24th March. Saw L again today. His pneumonia is no better and he still refuses to go into hospital. Mrs L distraught in that peculiarly constipated way she has.

Well, perhaps that entry wasn't worth saving for posterity. Gwen stopped reading and half-threw the book, sending it skidding across the splintered surface of the quilt. The journal was floppy with age and use, its pages splaying out where it came to rest. Gwen couldn't stand to see it like that, spread open uncomfortably. Almost naked. She shifted forwards and reached out. Then stopped. What had looked like a doodle and a load of nonsensical symbols a what Gwen had taken as a private shorthand a resolved itself into readable English. She leaned over and retrieved the book, her eyes scanning the words quickly.

The slugs are coming in under the door, coming right into my kitchen. When even the invertebrates are ignoring your authority, you know you're in trouble. I'm in trouble. I'm frightened, but mainly I'm just so tired. I think I might be leaving sooner than I expected. I've left some insurance a more for Gwen than myself a but it all depends on the perception of the thing. If people think you're powerful, then you usually are. Perhaps that's where I'm going wrong with the slugs. They don't think enough to be frightened of me.

And a picture of a rabbit wearing a striped beanie hat that would not resolve itself into anything else, no matter how hard Gwen squinted at it. She stopped squinting and closed her eyes. She felt cold all over. Poor Iris. It was a complicated kind of sympathy, though. The journals and messages were a window into the past and she couldn't deny that they made her feel special, wanted, but windows were a two-way deal. She felt hemmed in. Watched. The phone rang, making her jump.

'What on earth are you doing?'

'h.e.l.lo, Ruby,' Gwen said. 'How are you?'

'How could you?' Ruby's voice was tight.

'How could I what?'

'The paper. Have you seen it yet?'

'What? No. I just got out of bed.'

'Well, go and get a copy. I hope you'll be very happy.'

'Ruby...' Gwen started, but Ruby had already hung up. Marvellous.

Gwen got dressed in warm clothes and walked to the corner shop. John was leaning on the counter, engrossed in a hardback book. He looked up and smiled at Gwen.

'Just this, thanks.' Gwen scooped The Chronicle off the stand.

'Good publicity for you in there.' John nodded at the paper.

'Oh Christ,' Gwen said.

'You show those snotty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on the other side of the river,' John said. 'I think it's a cracking idea.'

Gwen said goodbye and began flicking through the paper on the way back to the house. She found it on page six. A discussion of the proposed folk festival, very much from Patrick Allen's point of view. A photograph of a tatty-looking market stall in the middle of the article had the caption: 'Threatening local businesses and lowering the tone?'. Subtle.

Back at the house, Gwen made herself a strong cup of coffee and read the entire article. She was featured as: 'the latest in a long line of "alternatives" who have chosen Pendleford as their base of operations. While having an "art" community in the town is welcomed by a minority, there are many who feel Pendleford should be dragged into the twenty-first century, and those of the so-called sub-culture are counterproductive to this aim.'

Well, Patrick Allen didn't waste time. Gwen was annoyed to find she was upset; not about the article, but Ruby's reaction. She grabbed Iris's journal again, feeling the comforting weight of the paper in her hand. Iris had opinions on everything; surely she had something to say about dealing with sibling lunacy. Or... the thought crept in. Perhaps she had a spell that would change Ruby's mind. Make her accept Gwen. Be a better sister. She flipped the book open.

A change of heart. To ease a confession, add thyme to well-brewed tea and wait quarter of an hour. Changing long held opinions is surprisingly easy. Wrap a single hair around a pebble and concentrate on the desired option. Place under the person's bed and after three nights they will hold the thought as their own.

Iris had scored out a few lines after this and then added in tiny, scrunched-up writing that Gwen almost couldn't read: NB: Changing behaviour is not same thing as changing heart. When you pull the strings, does the puppet want to dance?

Gwen placed the book down carefully. She laced her fingers in her lap and tried to pretend that her insides weren't fizzing. She hated to admit it, but being the puppet master had a certain attraction. She'd never do anything malicious, of course. She could get people to always be polite, though. She hated it when people pushed ahead in queues or didn't say please and thank you. She could make sure Katie never got on a motorbike or into a car with a drunk seventeen-year-old or took Ketamine in a dodgy club.

She could make Ruby embrace magic. Accept her. Make her see how wrong she'd been. Maybe make her a little bit sorry.

Chapter 15.

Six years of running Curious Notions, and Gwen still couldn't predict whether she would have a good day or not. Places that seemed to tick all the boxes a arty communities, plenty of money a could be quiet as the grave, and community centre craft drives sometimes surprised you. At the latter, it only took one or two customers to fall in love with the stall and they'd buy up half the stock. That was the curse and the blessing of her 'quirky' USP. If you liked it, you loved it, and if you didn't, well ... Like the man who had paused by the stall, now. Gwen carried on fixing her Chinese lantern fairy lights to the top bar and ignored his expression of abject horror. Finally it morphed into confused amus.e.m.e.nt. He pointed at Hetty, a bit of taxidermy which Gwen had accessorised with a feather boa and fascinator. 'That's disrespectful.'

'Each to their own,' Gwen said. She gave him a big smile. 'Personally, I think it's jaunty.'

The man shook his head and continued to the next stall. Luckily, Gwen was next to a farmhouse produce stand filled with jams, preserves and chutneys and the man proceeded to salve his wounded sensibilities with some free samples.

Once he'd moved on, Gwen took the opportunity to catch the jam-stand-owner's eye and smile. It was always good to make friends with your neighbours. They could be an extra pair of eyes when watching out for thieves and might, if you were lucky, offer to watch your stall while you took a loo break.

'Are you open?'

Gwen turned to find a guy in his early twenties staring intently at his shoes. She looked around and, not seeing anyone else, a.s.sumed it was the greasy-haired shoe fetishist that had spoken. She put down the tangle of yet-to-be-fixed lights. 'Sure am. Can I help at all?'

'I want to get something for my girlfriend.'

'Okay.' Gwen nodded encouragingly and was rewarded with a darting look from beneath a fringe of lank black hair. 'What sort of stuff does she like?'

The man shrugged. He reached out a finger towards a blue-striped teapot, but stopped just short of touching it and s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back.

'Pick up anything you like,' Gwen said. 'Take a closer look.' It was a fact that people were more likely to buy once they'd held something. The balance of energy shifted, or something. Iris would've known.

'Does she like china?'

He shook his head.

'How about jewellery? Or an accessory? I've got some beautiful scarves at the moment.' She picked up a silk Liberty print and held it out.

Out came the finger again, he reached it out and touched the fabric once, then withdrew. And cleared his throat. 'She's not exactly my girlfriend yet.'

'Right.'

'I need something that'll make her like me.'

'Well, a gift is always nice. And well done for not going for something generic.'

He frowned. 'Huh?'

'You know. Red roses. Box of chocolates. It's good you're going for something individual. Shows imagination.'

'I already gave her flowers.' The man looked wounded. 'I think the florist put in some chocolates.'

'And I'm sure she loved them,' Gwen said robustly. She scanned the gathering crowd for punters. This guy didn't seem like a buyer. 'Can you see anything that reminds you of her?'

'Is that important?'

'For a really great gift? Yeah.'

'I don't know.' He picked up a yellow crochet beret. 'How about this?'

'Does she like yellow?' Gwen held up a hand. 'Don't say you don't know. Think. Have you ever seen her wearing yellow?'

He paused, the gears of thought clearing turning behind slightly glazed eyes. It took a while. Finally, he shook his head.

'What colours does she wear?'

His eyes almost crossed with the effort.

Gwen couldn't stand it any longer. 'Does she have a hobby? Does she like films? Music? Modern dance?'

His eyes widened. 'She likes dancing. How did you know?'

Gwen frowned. 'I didn't; I said-'