I distinctly heard Shanks say, 'You told us she'd been dealt with!' to which the Spook replied, T have her safe enough, don't you worry yourself. I know my business all right so it's no concern of yours. And you'll keep it to yourself if you know whaf s good for you!'

My master didn't look too happy when he walked back towards me. 'Did you give Meg her herb tea?' he asked suspiciously.

'I did it just as you said,' I told him, 'as soon as she woke up.'

'Did she go outside?' he asked.

'No, but she came to the door and stood behind me. Shanks saw her and it seemed to scare him.'

'It's a pity he saw her at all,' said the Spook. 'She doesn't usually show herself like that. Not in recent years anyway. Maybe we need to increase the dose. As I told you last night, lad, Meg used to cause a lot of trouble in the County. Folk were afraid of her and still are. And until now the locals didn't know she had the freedom of the house. If it were to get out, I would never hear the last of it. People round here are stubborn: once they get their teeth into something they don't easily let it go. But Shanks'll keep his mouth closed. I pay him well enough.'

'Is Shanks the grocer?' I asked.

'No, lad, he's the local carpenter and undertaker. The only person in Adlington who's got the courage to venture up here. I pay him to collect and deliver.'

After that we got the sacks safely inside, and the Spook opened the largest one and gave Meg what she needed to start cooking the breakfast.

The bacon was better than the Spook's pet boggart had managed, even on the best of mornings, and Meg had fried potato cakes and scrambled fresh eggs with cheese: the Spook hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that Meg was a good cook. While we wolfed down our breakfast, I asked him about the strange noises in the night.

'It's nothing much to worry about for now' he told me, swallowing another big mouthful of potato cake. 'This house is built on a ley line so we can expect problems occasionally. Sometimes an earthquake thousands of miles away can cause disturbances to a whole series of leys. Boggarts can be forced to move from places where they've been happily settled for years. Last night a boggart pa.s.sed under us. I had to go down to the cellar just to see that everything was safe and secure.'

The Spook had told me all about leys when we were back in Chipenden. They were lines of power beneath the earth, like roads that some types of boggart could use to travel quickly from place to place.

'Mind you, it sometimes means trouble ahead' he continued. 'When they set up home in a new location, they often begin by playing tricks - sometimes dangerous tricks - and that means work for us. You mark my words, lad, we could well have a boggart to deal with locally before the week's out.'

After breakfast we went to the Spook's study for my Latin lesson. It was a small room with a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs, a large table, a solitary wooden stool with three legs, bare boards and lots of tall, dark-stained bookcases. It was a bit chilly too: yesterday's fire was now just grey ashes in the grate.

'Sit yourself down, lad. The chairs are hard but it doesn't do to get too comfortable when you're studying. Wouldn't want you to fall asleep,' said the Spook, giving me a sharp look.

I looked around at the bookcases. The room was gloomy, lit only by the grey light from the window and a couple of candles, so I hadn't noticed until then that the shelves were empty.

'Where are all the books?' I asked.

'Back in Chipenden - where do you think, lad? Not much point in keeping books here in the cold and damp. Books don't like those conditions. No, we'll just have to manage with what we've brought with us and maybe write some of our own while we're here. You can't just be reading books all the time and leaving the writing of them to others.'

I knew the Spook had brought quite a few books with him and it had made his bag very heavy whereas I'd just brought my notebooks. For the next hour I struggled with Latin verbs. It was hard work and I was pleased when the Spook suggested that we have a rest, but not by what he did next.

He dragged the wooden stool close to the bookcase nearest the door. Then he climbed up onto it and searched the top shelf with his fingers.

'Well, lad,' he said, holding up the key, his face very grim. 'We can't put it off any longer. Let's go down and look at the cellar itself. But first we'll go and see that Meg is all right. I don't want her to know we're going down there. It might make her nervous. She doesn't like the thought of those steps one little bit!'

Those words made me excited and scared at the same time. I'd been bursting with curiosity to find out what was further down the cellar steps, but at the same time I knew that to go down there would be anything but a pleasant experience.

We found Meg still in the kitchen. She'd done the washing-up and was now sitting in front of the fire, dozing again.

'She's happy enough for now,' said the Spook. 'As well as affecting her memory, the potion makes her sleep a lot.'

We each lit a candle before going down the stone steps, the Spook leading the way. This time I took more notice of my surroundings, trying to fix the underground part of the house in my memory. I'd been down in quite a few cellars, but I had a feeling that this was likely to be the most scary and unusual one yet.

After the Spook had unlocked the iron gate, he turned and tapped me on the shoulder. 'Meg rarely goes into my study,' he said, 'but whatever happens, don't ever let her get hold of this key'

I nodded, watching the Spook lock the gate behind us. I looked down ...

'Why are the steps below so wide?' I asked again.

'They need to be, lad. Things are fetched and carried down these steps. Workmen need good access-' 'Workmen?'

'Blacksmiths and stonemasons of course - the trades we depend on in our line of work!'

As we descended, the Spook leading the way, my candle flickered his shadow up onto the wall, and despite the echo of our boots on the stone steps, I heard the first faint noises from far below. There was a sigh and a distant choking cough. There was definitely something or someone down there!

There were four levels underground. The first two both had just one door, set into the stone, but at last we came to the third, which had the three doors I'd seen the day before.

'The middle one, as you know, is where Meg usually sleeps when I'm away' the Spook said.

Now she'd been given a room upstairs, next to the Spook's, probably so that he could keep an eye on her - though based on the evidence from last night, she preferred to sleep in her rocking chair by the fire.

'I don't use the others much' continued the Spook, 'but they can be very useful for keeping a witch locked up safely while all the arrangements are made-'

'You mean while a pit is prepared?'

'Aye, I do that, lad. As you'll have noticed, it's not like Chipenden here. I don't have the luxury of a garden so I have to make use of the cellar ...'

The fourth and lowest level was, of course, the cellar itself. Even before we turned the final corner and it came into full view'I could hear things that made the candle tremble in my hand, sending the Spook's shadow dancing wildly.

There were whisperings and groans and, worst of all, a faint sound of scratching. Being the seventh son of a seventh son I can hear things that most people can't but I never really get used to it. On some days I'm braver than others, that's all I can say. The Spook seemed calm enough but he'd been doing this for a lifetime.

The cellar was big, even bigger than I'd expected, so big in fact that it must have been larger in area than the actual ground floor of the house. One wall was dripping with water and the low ceiling directly above it was oozing with damp, so I wondered if it was on the edge of the stream or actually underneath it.

The dry part of the ceiling was covered in cobwebs, so thick and tangled that an army of spiders must have been at work. If just one or two had spun all that, I didn't want to meet them.

I spent a lot of time looking at the ceiling and walls because I was delaying the moment when I had to look at the ground. But after a few seconds I could feel the Spook's eyes on me so I had no choice and finally forced myself to look down.

I'd seen what the Spook kept in two of the gardens back at Chipenden. I suppose this was just more of the same, but whereas the graves and pits back there had been scattered among the trees where the sun occasionally shone to dapple the ground with shadows, here there were lots more and I felt trapped, closed in by the four walls and the low cobwebbed ceiling.

There were nine witch graves in all, each one marked with a gravestone, and in front of this six feet of soil edged with smaller stones. Fastened to those stones by bolts, and covering each patch of earth, were thirteen thick iron bars. They'd been placed there to stop the dead witches under them clawing and scratching their way to the surface.

Then, along one wall of the cellar, there were much heavier, larger stones. There were three of those and each one had been carved by the mason in exactly the same way: The Greek letter beta told anyone who could read the signs that boggarts were safely bound beneath them, and the Latin numeral T in the bottom right-hand corner said that they were of the first rank, deadly creatures capable of killing a man quicker than you could blink your eyes. Nothing new there, I thought, and as the Spook was good at his job there was nothing to fear from the boggarts who were trapped there.

'There are two live witches down here as well,' said the Spook, 'and here's the first one,' he continued, pointing to a dark, square pit with a boundary of small stones crossed by thirteen iron bars to stop her from climbing out. 'Look at the corner stone,' he said, pointing downwards.

I saw something then that I hadn't noticed before, even back in Chipenden. The Spook held his candle closer so that I could see it better. There was a sign, much smaller than that on the boggart stones, followed by the witch's name.

'The sign is the Greek letter sigma because we cla.s.sify all witches under 'S' for sorceress. There are so many types that, being female and subtle, they're often difficult to categorize precisely,' said the Spook. 'Even more so than a boggart, a witch has a personality that can change over time. So you have to refer to their history - the full history of each, bound or unbound, is recorded in the library back at Chipenden.'

I knew that wasn't true of Meg. There was very little written about her in the Spook's library, but I didn't say anything. Suddenly I heard a faint stirring from the darkness of the pit and took a quick step backwards.

'Is Bessy a first-rank witch?' I asked the Spook nervously, because they were the most dangerous and could kill. 'It isn't marked on the stone ...'

'All the witches and boggarts in this cellar are first rank,' the Spook told me, 'and I bound 'em all so if s not always worth putting the mason to extra trouble with the carving, but there's nothing to fear here, lad. Old Bessy's been in there a long time. We've disturbed her and she's just turning over in her sleep, that's all. Now come over here and look at this . . .'

It was another witch pit, exactly like the first one, but I suddenly shivered with cold. Something told me that whatever was in that pit was much more dangerous than Bessy, who was asleep and just trying to get herself comfortable on the cold, damp ground.

'You might as well take a closer look, lad,' said the Spook, 'so that you can see what we're dealing with. Hold up your candle and look down but be sure to keep your feet well back!'

I didn't want to do it but the Spook's voice was firm. It was a command. To look down into the pit was part of my training, so I had no choice.

I leaned my body forwards, keeping my toes well back from the bars, and held the candle up so that it cast a flickering yellow light down into the pit. At that very moment I heard a noise from below and something big scuttled across the floor and into the dark shadows in the near corner. It sounded wick with life, as if it could scamper up the wall of the pit faster than you could blink!

'Hold your candle right over the bars and take a proper look!' commanded the Spook.

I obeyed, holding it out at arm's length. At first all I could see were two large cruel eyes staring up at me, two points of fire reflecting the candle flame. As I looked more carefully, I saw a large gaunt face framed by a tangle of thick greasy hair, and a squat scaly body below it. There were four limbs and they were more like arms than legs, with large elongated hands that ended in long sharp claws.

I shuddered and my hand trembled so much that I almost dropped the candle through the bars. I stepped back too quickly and nearly fell over, but the Spook caught hold of my shoulder and steadied me.

'Not a pretty sight, is it, lad' he muttered, shaking his head. 'What we've got down there is a lamia witch. She looked human enough over twenty years ago when I first put her there. Now she's become feral again. That's what happens when you put a lamia witch in a pit. Deprived of human companionship, she slowly reverts to type. And even after all these years she's still strong. That's why I have the iron gate on the stairs. If she ever managed to get out of here, that would slow her up for a while.

'And that's not all, lad. You see, a normal witch pit isn't good enough for her. There are iron bars on the sides and bottom of the pit too, buried under the soil. So she's really in a cage. That and a layer of salt and iron beyond that. She can dig fast and deep with those four clawed hands as well, so it's the only way we can stop her getting out! Anyway, do you know who she is?'

It was a strange sort of question. I looked down and read her name from the stone.

The Spook must have seen the expression on my face as the penny dropped because he smiled grimly. 'Aye, lad. That's Meg's sister ...'

'Does Meg know she's down here?' I asked.

'She did once, lad, but now she can't remember; so it's best to keep it that way. Now come over here - I've got something else to show you.'

He led the way between the stones to the far corner, which seemed to be the driest place in the cellar; the ceiling above seemed mostly clear of cobwebs. It was an open pit, ready for use, and the cover lay next to it on the ground, waiting to be dragged into position.

I saw then, for the first time, how the cover for a witch pit was made. The outer stones were cemented together in a square and long bolts went through them from end to end to make sure they stayed in place. The thirteen steel bars were also really long bolts too, which were tightened by nuts recessed into the stones. It was all quite clever, and a stonemason and a smith, working together, would have needed a lot of skill to make it.

Suddenly my mouth dropped open and stayed that way just long enough for the Spook to notice. This time there was no sign, but a name had already been carved on the nearest cornerstone: 'Which do you think's the better way, lad?' the Spook asked. 'Herb tea or this? Because it's got to be one or the other.'

'Herb tea,' I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

'Right, so now you know why you can't afford to forget to give it to her each morning. If you forget, she'll remember, and I don't want to have to bring her down here.'

I had a question I wanted to ask then, but I didn't because I knew the Spook wouldn't like it. I wanted to know why what was good enough for one witch wasn't good enough for them all. Still, I knew I couldn't complain that much: I would never forget how close to the dark Alice had once got. So close that the Spook had thought it best to put her in a pit. He'd only relented because I'd reminded him of how he'd let Meg off.

That night I found it difficult to get to sleep. My head whirled with what I'd seen and the realization of where I was living. I've seen some scary things, but living in a house with witch graves, bound boggarts and live witches in the cellar didn't make me rest easy. In the end I decided to tiptoe downstairs. I'd left my notebooks in the kitchen and I wanted my Latin one: I knew that half an hour staring at boring lists of nouns and verbs would be sure to send me off to sleep.

Even before I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard noises that I didn't expect. Someone was crying softly in the kitchen and I could hear the Spook talking in a low voice. When I reached the kitchen door, I didn't go in; it was slightly open and I saw something through the crack that halted me in my tracks.

Meg was sitting in her rocking chair close to the fire. She had her head in her hands and her shoulders were heaving with sobs. The Spook was leaning over her, speaking softly and stroking her hair. His face, lit by candlelight, was half turned towards me and wore an expression on it that I'd never seen before. It was similar to the way my brother Jack's big, craggy face sometimes softens when he looks at his wife, Ellie.

Then, as I watched, to my astonishment, a tear leaked from my master's left eye and ran all the way down his cheek to reach his mouth.

I knew not to pry any longer so I went back up to bed.

Chapter 6.

A Nasty Piece Of Work The days soon began to settle into a steady routine. In the mornings my ch.o.r.es were to light the downstairs fires and bring fresh water from the stream. Every second day I had to light all the fires in the house to keep the place from getting too damp. As I made the bedroom fires, my instructions were to open each window for about ten minutes to air the room. I had to clean out all the grates first, and I went up and down stairs so much that I was glad when it was over. The one in the attic was the worst, of course, and I always used to do that first, before my legs got too tired.

The attic was a really big room, the biggest in the house, with a lot of floor s.p.a.ce. It only had one window and that was a huge skylight in the roof. The room was empty except for a large mahogany writing desk, which was locked.-On the bra.s.s plate around its keyhole was an embossed pentacle, a five-pointed star within three concentric circles. I knew that pentacles were used to protect magicians when they summoned daemons and I wondered why the plate had that design.

The desk looked very expensive, and I also wondered what was in it and why the Spook didn't bring it down to his study, which would have been a much more suitable and useful place. I never did get round to asking him about that desk. And when we finally talked about it, it was already too late.

After airing the attic, I would work my way down, a floor at a time. The three bedrooms directly below the attic weren't furnished. There were two at the front of the house and one at the back. The back room was the worst and darkest room in the whole house because it only had one window, which faced back towards the cliff. As I raised the sash and peered out, the damp rock was so close that I could almost reach out and touch it. There was a ledge on the cliff with a path running upwards. It seemed to me that it might be possible to climb out of the window and up onto the ledge. Not that I was daft enough to try it! One slip and I'd dash my brains out on the flags below.

After lighting the fires, I gave Meg her herb tea, then practised my Latin verbs until breakfast, which was a lot later in the morning than it had been at Chipenden. Following that, it was lessons for most of the day, but late in the afternoon I usually went for a short walk with the Spook, no more than twenty minutes downhill to the foot of the clough, where it opened out onto the lower slopes of the moor. Despite the hard work seeing to the fires, I'd got a lot more exercise back in Chipenden and was starting to feel restless. Each morning the air seemed colder and the Spook told me that the first of the snow would be with us soon.

One morning my master went off to Adlington to see his brother Andrew, the locksmith. When I asked if I could go with him, he refused.

'Nay, lad, somebody needs to keep a careful eye on Meg. Besides, I've got things to talk to Andrew about. Family things that are private. And I need to bring him up to date on what's been happening ...'

By that I guessed the Spook was going to tell his brother the full story of what had happened to us in Priestown, when my master had almost been burned to death by the Quisitor. Once we were back in Chipenden, the Spook had sent a letter to Adlington, telling his brother that he was safe, but now he probably wanted to fill in the details.

I was really disappointed to be left behind - I was desperate to find out how Alice was getting on - but I had no choice, and despite the herb tea Meg really did need watching carefully. The Spook was particularly concerned that she might leave the house and wander off so I had to make sure that both front and back doors were kept locked. As it happened, what she did was completely unexpected ...

It was getting late in the afternoon, and I'd been in the Spook's study writing up a lesson in my notebook. Every fifteen minutes or so I'd go and see if Meg was all right. Usually I'd find her dozing in front of the fire; either that or preparing the vegetables for supper. But when I checked this time she wasn't there.

I ran to the doors first, just in case, but they were both locked. After looking in the parlour, I went upstairs. I expected to find her in her room, but after knocking and receiving no reply, I tried the door. The room was empty.

The further upstairs I went, the worse I began to feel. When the attic was empty too, I started to panic. But then I took a deep breath. 'Think!' I told myself. Where else could Meg be?

There was only one other place and that was on the steps that led down to the cellar. It didn't seem likely because the Spook had told me even the thought of the steps made her nervous. First I checked in his study, standing on the stool to search the top of the bookcase. There was no way she could have got the key without me noticing but I confirmed that anyway. It was still there. With a sigh of relief, I lit a candle and went down the steps.

I heard the gate long before I reached it. It kept clanging loudly, sending that din reverberating right up through the house. If it hadn't been for the fact that I expected to find Meg there, I would have a.s.sumed something had come up from the cellar and was trying to get out.

But it was Meg all right. She was gripping the bars tightly and tears were streaming down her face. By the light of the candle I saw her shake the gate. From the force she put into it, I could tell that she was still very strong.

'Come on, Meg,' I said gently, 'let's go back upstairs. It's cold and draughty down here. If you're not careful, you'll catch a chill.'

'But there's someone down there, Billy. Someone down there who needs help.'

'There's n.o.body down there,' I told her, aware that I was lying. Her sister Marcia, the feral lamia, was down there, trapped in her pit. Was Meg starting to remember?

'But I'm sure there is, Billy. I can't remember her name but she's down there and she needs me. Please open the gate and help me. Let me go down and look. Why don't you come with me and bring your candle?'

'I can't, Meg. You see, I don't have the key to open the gate. Come on, please. Just come back up to the kitchen...'