Tanya's strength was all but spent. She managed a few more seconds before she slid backwards into the room and Fabian fell clumsily through the door at speed, skidding on the piles of hair like a newborn foal. He landed in an awkward heap beside the bed. Tanya jumped forward and grabbed the skeleton key from the outside, and then closed and locked the door from the inside. She turned to face Fabian, sensing that he had been stunned into silence.

He was sitting rigid on the floor, with one ankle at an uncomfortable-looking angle from where he had fallen and was too shocked even to move. He stared at a fistful of hair in his palm, then slowly flexed his fingers and followed the strand of hair with disbelieving eyes until his gaze met with Tanya's.

Strangely, she felt calmer now Fabian was actually in the room than she had at the thought of him being in the room. She felt oddly out of control, like her life was no longer her own, and yet somehow she accepted that whatever happened next depended entirely upon Fabian's reaction. She was too tired to fight, too tired to lie. Bizarrely, all she wanted now was to tell the truth and now that he had seen her, Fabian had to listen.

'I need to tell you something, Fabian.' Her voice was quiet and calmer than she antic.i.p.ated. 'You were right about me. I was hiding something. All those things you noticed about me, the strange things that happen when I'm around . . . well, they all happen for a reason. You might find it hard to believe at first-'

She stopped speaking as she noticed that Fabian hadn't heard a word. His mouth was moving slowly, although no words seemed to be coming out. His eyes were wide and still fixed on her in horror and utter confusion.

'Witch,' he said quietly, but clearly enough for her to hear this time.

'What? No, Fabian, listen to me-'

'The gypsy witch,' said Fabian. His eyes trailed from her head, following her hair around the room for the umpteenth time. 'She did this. She's cursed you! She cursed you when she gave you that compa.s.s!'

Tanya was struck dumb by his words. In a split second she considered Fabian's theory. It was one she had not even entertained: that this could be the work of the old gypsy woman. Certainly it seemed she would be capable of it. Yet somehow Tanya doubted that the old woman would go to the trouble of pretending to help her only to do something like this. It seemed unlikely . . . and yet it was still possible. And Fabian's absolute conviction that this had been the turn of events also gave her an easy way out. She would no longer need to go through the humiliation of trying to convince him of the fairies' existence if this was what he believed.

'I think . . . I think you could be right,' she said slowly.

'Of course I'm right!' Fabian spluttered. 'The old hag has hexed practically everyone in Tickey End at some point and you're next on her list! We should have sold the compa.s.s to that man on the bus!'

'What am I going to do?' Tanya gestured helplessly. 'I can't let anyone else see me!'

'I don't know . . . I don't know,' Fabian muttered. 'But you're right. We can't let them see you like this. We'll have to get something to cut it. Haven't you got any scissors?'

Tanya shook her head.

'I've only got nail scissors. They didn't work.'

'Well what about if I can get the kitchen scissors . . . or Warwick has some garden shears . . . or an axe, maybe?'

'It's not just about a sharp object,' Tanya said. 'We need to do something that will break the spell.'

'Oh,' Fabian said gloomily. 'Any suggestions?'

'I once read . . . somewhere . . . about a list of things that are supposed to . . . break spells and curses,' Tanya said carefully. 'The list was: being near running water, like a stream or a brook, the colour red, salt, turning clothes inside out, and iron. So if we can think of something that links to one of those things, then maybe there's a chance it will work.' She lifted her hand to her hair subconsciously. The movement caused a dazzle of light to shimmer off one of the charms on the bracelet. The dagger.

'Can you think of an object, say, a knife, with a red handle?' she asked.

Fabian brightened. 'Florence has a letter opener with a sort of orangey handle. That's nearly red. And it's sharp. Maybe that would work.'

Tanya shook her head. 'It has to be red. Bright red.'

They stared at each other in silence, dismal expressions mirrored in one another's face.

'A knife,' Fabian repeated slowly.

Florence screeched up the stairs, making them both start.

'Will you both come down this instant! This is the last time I'm going to tell you before I come up there and drag you both down by the scruffs of your necks!'

'Well, that's it, then,' said Tanya. 'The game's up.'

But Fabian had the start of a frown on his face; the kind of frown he wore when he had an idea . . . or when he was about to do something devious.

'Hold on.' He sprang to his feet, barely wincing at his twisted ankle. 'I've just remembered something that may or may not work, depending on whether or not I can actually get hold of it.'

'What is it?' Tanya asked, her face lit with hope.

'Something that's going to be tricky to get to,' said Fabian. He unlocked the door and slipped into the hallway. 'So don't get your hopes up. And whatever you do, don't open the door to anyone else but me.'

'Aren't you forgetting something? My grandmother is bound to have a skeleton key!'

Fabian grinned slyly. 'She does. Only, she doesn't realise yet that she's mislaid it.' He reached around the door and gave the key in the lock a gentle stroke.

'You said you found that in one of the old servants' rooms!'

Fabian's smile widened. 'I know what I said. But I lied.'

In the kitchen, Warwick was kneeling by the hearth, sc.r.a.ping mud from his boots. Fabian watched him carefully. His father looked haggard today: old and tired. His skin was grey and his hair hung in tangles, evidence that it had been rained on and dried before he'd had the chance to comb it. His eyes were bloodshot and dragged down by the dark shadows beneath them. He had not shaved in a couple of days.

Florence stood with her back to them, washing up. From the amount of noise she was making it was clear she was in a temper. On the table two untouched cooked breakfasts were wafting heavenly smells into the air. Oberon sat under the table, the tip of his nose protruding guiltily from beneath the checkered cloth. Twin strings of dribble hung from his chops. Fabian's stomach growled. He understood exactly how the dog felt, but he forced away his hunger and walked casually to the sink to stand beside Florence.

'What is it?' she snapped.

'Can I get a gla.s.s of water?' he asked meekly.

Warwick glanced up and gave him a sharp look. 'There's a jug on the table. Eat your breakfast.'

'I will in a minute,' Fabian said. He filled a tumbler with water and set it on the side. 'It's for Tanya. She's been sick. I think she's got some sort of . . . bug.'

'Then why didn't she just say so?' Florence said, her eyes narrowing.

Fabian shrugged and moved towards the back door. He had spied what he was looking for. His father's coat hung from the middle peg: limp and very, very damp.

'Come on, boy,' he said to Oberon, and whistled. The dog reluctantly squeezed out from under the table and lumbered outside as Fabian opened the door.

'The dog's already been out,' said Florence, exasperated.

'Oh, sorry,' Fabian replied. His hand brushed against the hunting knife in the belt of the coat. It was Warwick's prize possession and the entire thing was specially crafted from iron. He had seen his father use it to gut rabbits that he had caught in the woods more times than he cared to remember. As the door was pulled back, shielding Fabian's hand from view, he slipped his fingers nimbly under the belt and unsheathed the blade. It was cold, heavy and brutal; certain to cut through the hair. Deftly, he slipped it into his sleeve and held it there, his trembling fingers curled over at the ends, and then shut the back door. His other hand nearly knocked over the gla.s.s of water he had poured as he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up in his haste to get out of the kitchen.

'Back in a minute,' he mumbled.

'Do be quick,' said Florence, wringing out her dishcloth with the kind of relish that told Fabian she was imagining it was his neck.

By the time he reached the bedroom Fabian was out of breath. He placed the gla.s.s of water carelessly on the mantlepiece and drew the knife out from his sleeve.

'This should work,' he said.

Tanya eyed the knife apprehensively.

'What is that thing?'

'It's made from iron,' said Fabian. 'It should break the spell.' He knelt at her side and began hacking at the hair. 'Warwick's coat was by the door. His boots are caked with mud and the coat was soaked. It was definitely him we saw last night.'

'He must have seen us,' said Tanya.

'I don't think so,' said Fabian. 'If he had, he would have gone berserk. What I want to know is why he was skulking about out there in the storm.'

He continued to cut at the hair, which was now coming away easily.

'It's working. Warwick certainly keeps this thing sharp.'

'It's Warwick's? You stole his knife? You really are a crook!'

'Just as well I am, for your sake!'

Minutes later Tanya's hair was waist length, and only slightly longer than it had been before the incident in the night.

'You'll have to trim it,' said Fabian, apologetically. 'It's really uneven.'

'I will,' said Tanya. 'But later.' She pulled her hair back from her face and secured it into a ponytail. 'There. No one will be able to tell when it's like this. We'd better get downstairs before my grandmother flips.'

'And before Warwick notices his knife is missing,' said Fabian, not looking quite so brave now. He inspected the knife, ensuring no telltale hair was snagged on the blade.

'What about the hair?' Tanya gestured to the floor. It was covered.

'Shove it under the bed for now,' said Fabian. 'We'll have to put it in some bin bags after breakfast and figure out a way to get rid of it.'

On all fours, the two of them scrabbled around on the floor, stuffing the hair under the bed with great difficulty. It was very soft and slippery and kept sliding out into sight.

'There's so much of it!' said Tanya.

'It's making me itch,' said Fabian. 'Just push it under and pull the covers over the sides of the bed so it's hidden. That'll have to do for now. Come on.'

They raced downstairs, taking them two at a time, and bounded into the kitchen just as a fuming Florence was about to sc.r.a.pe their breakfasts into the bin.

'Don't!' Fabian yelped.

Florence froze and did a double take when she saw Tanya.

'I thought you were feeling unwell?'

'I was,' she answered, not daring to look her grandmother in the eye. 'But I'm better now.' She sat at the table and Fabian followed suit. Florence placed the plates in front of them.

'It's probably cold now,' she said.

'That was a speedy recovery if ever I saw one,' Warwick remarked dryly. He was now vigorously buffing his boots to a shine.

Tanya did not answer, nor did she look at him. She knew that those icy blue eyes of his would be trained on her, unflinching and accusing. The thought made her skin p.r.i.c.kle. She tucked into her breakfast, which was still rather good even lukewarm. She saw Fabian fidgeting on the other side of the table and guessed correctly that he was trying to manoeuvre the knife discreetly out of his sleeve and conceal it under the table while he ate.

'Still warm, too,' he said happily, between gulps.

'Mine isn't,' Tanya began, but then stopped as the hearth-fay slipped out from underneath Fabian's plate. It had warmed his food and, for the first time, it remained still for a couple of seconds to bashfully bat its ugly little eyelids at him before scuttling off to hide again. Fabian tore off a chunk of bread and dunked it in his egg, oblivious to the hearthfay's attentions. Tanya stared after it, bristling with indignation. And after she'd been the one to give the ungrateful little wretch a saucer of milk, too!

'You'd let mine go cold then?' she muttered under her breath, forgetting herself. 'Floozy.'

'I beg your pardon?' Florence snapped, and Tanya looked up, alarmed. Fabian was looking at her strangely too.

'I said . . . I don't mind if mine's cold,' she said, thinking quickly. 'I'm not choosy.'

'Hmm,' said Florence. She pursed her thin lips, then began loading laundry into the machine.

'Warwick, could you take a look at the guttering by Amos's room at some point today?' she said. 'I think it's coming loose.'

Warwick grunted his acknowledgment.

Tanya wondered again how two such miserable people as her grandmother and Warwick had managed to live under the same roof for so long without killing each other.

'This house is falling to pieces,' said Florence, slamming the washing machine door.

'Then move to somewhere smaller,' said Fabian, shovelling bacon into his mouth at an impressive speed.

Florence looked uncomfortable. 'This house has been in the family for decades.' She poured herself some tea from the pot and sat down at the table.

'I think you'd suit a nice little cottage,' Fabian continued, with a maddening grin. 'One made of gingerbread.'

He was swiftly dealt Florence's most withering look, whilst Tanya almost choked on a mouthful of eggy bread.

'Don't get lippy,' Warwick growled.

Tanya felt a stab of annoyance. It seemed that the only time Warwick ever paid any kind of attention to Fabian was when he was scolding him. For the first time, it occurred to her that a substantial amount of Fabian's behaviour might simply be a device for gaining his father's attention. His insistence of using Warwick's name certainly demanded it and also provided means of hitting out at him.

A small whine came from under the table, and Tanya lifted the tablecloth and peered beneath. Oberon was sitting in front of her grandmother with his head on her knees.

'You like it here, don't you?' Florence murmured, fondling the dog's silky ears. Oberon gave a contented little groan. Florence smiled faintly and reached over to one of the drawers to remove a dog biscuit from a packet she had bought especially for him. Oberon gently took it and proceeded to crunch away happily from under the table. Tanya watched jealously. For some reason, Oberon plainly adored Florence.

'Finished,' Fabian announced. He let his cutlery fall to the plate with a clatter and got up from the table, his cheeks full with a huge mouthful of food.

'Oh, no you don't,' said Florence. 'For goodness' sake, Fabian! You look like a hamster. Sit down until you've finished properly.'

'I have,' Fabian insisted, his eyes bulging as he swallowed painfully. 'See?' He moved towards the back door and Tanya's own food got stuck in her throat as she realised what he was about to do. In plain view, Fabian began rummaging through the coats hanging on the kitchen door. He frowned as he took his father's coat off one peg and transferred it to another, but in the process he knocked several coats Warwick's included to the floor.

'What are you doing now?' Florence snapped.

'I can't find my jacket,' Fabian said. 'The grey one. I thought it might be hanging up here.'

'It's in the cupboard under the stairs, where you always leave it,' said Florence, clearly puzzled. 'I saw it yesterday. What do you want a jacket for in this weather anyway? Really, Fabian. I don't know what's got into you this morning.'