"You may yet," said Will. "As we both know, anything can happen, and when we're around, it usually does. I'd only just got over the events of 'ninety-eight when Fate hit me with more last Friday. The gate-crashers were particularly nasty."

"The thing with the lips . . ." Gaynor shivered. "Did Fern actually kill it?" She knew enough about magic to be aware that otherworldly beings could rarely be depended on to die promptly.

" 'Fraid not. Ragginbone says it's an elemental, so it can sprout up again anytime. Apparently, it's attracted to acts of sorcery-but I can't imagine Fern's in a hurry to try any more of that. She was pretty horrified when you just stepped into the circle and disappeared." He added, rather more softly: "We all were."

Gaynor thought it prudent to ignore the softness. "You don't think she'd try something alone?"

Will opened his mouth to refute the suggestion and then shut it again, recollecting past experiences. "I hope not," he said shortly. "She's not stupid. She must know she isn't ready to confront Morgus."

"She knows." Gaynor's words were bleak with memory.

The arrival of their food created a welcome intermission.

"Did Morgus say anything to you?" Will asked, dispensing cutlery.

"Oh, yes. It was very strange: she talked as if she knew me, not my face but my name. She said I looked different-plainer. Maybe she thought I was a reincarnation or something. She called me Gwennifer."

"Guinevere," said Will. "That's where Gaynor comes from. You must know that."

"I never really thought about it. It always seemed too glamorous a name for me." Suddenly she laughed. "You don't suppose she really thought I was a reincarnation of the original Guinevere-Arthur's queen-the ultimate femme fatale? Me? That would be utterly ridiculous."

"Not from where I'm sitting," said Will. His smile narrowed his eyes to bright slits, blue against a freckle-topped tan. His hair was blond from what little sun the season had provided. She thought she saw new lines on his forehead, evidence of maturity, or so she hoped, and a sudden warmth rushed through her that was both wonderful and terrifying, heating her cheeks to a glow. The garlic mushrooms on her plate became mysteriously uneatable.

"I never saw you blush before," Will continued presently. "You should do it more often. It suits you."

"I don't get many opportunities," said Gaynor.

"That's not what I hear. According to Fern, some man is always dumping his troubles on you."

"Yes," Gaynor replied before she could stop herself, "but that doesn't make me blush." Panicked that she might incriminate herself further, she rushed on. "We were talking about Morgus. Fern can't deal with her till we find her weakness, whatever that is-"

"If she has one."

"The seeresses sort of implied it, didn't they? Everything that lives must die."

"That isn't prophecy, that's common sense," Will retorted. "I might have said it." might have said it."

"Really?" murmured Gaynor, with a furtive grin.

There was a brief check in Will's manner; this time, his eyes narrowed without the smile. "The real issue," he declaimed in an edged voice, "is what we we can do. Fern has the Gift, but we have gifts of our own. I can't immediately remember yours, but can do. Fern has the Gift, but we have gifts of our own. I can't immediately remember yours, but I I have common sense. And there are more ways than magic of finding things out." have common sense. And there are more ways than magic of finding things out."

"You mean ancient ma.n.u.scripts," Gaynor said. "I could look up some stuff about Morgus. She must get a few mentions."

"Ancient ma.n.u.scripts, modern ma.n.u.scripts. Questions. People. I told Ragginbone we'd investigate the superbanker."

Gaynor forgot to balk at the "we." "I know nothing about banking," she said. "Nor do you. I don't even know any bankers."

"Yes, you do. Everybody knows a banker nowadays. It's one of those embarra.s.sing facts of life. A couple of generations ago everybody knew a bishop; now it's bankers. I can think of at least two old school friends who are in high finance. One of them's in prison, but it's the same thing."

"I don't know any," Gaynor maintained. "I-oh, s.h.i.t."

Will cast her a questioning look.

"Actually, I do," Gaynor confessed. "It had slipped my mind. Wishful nonthinking. Hugh."

"Hugh who?" Will uttered owl-like. Hadn't Fern mentioned someone called Hugh?

"Hugh Fairbairn. He's married to a friend of Fern's-an acquaintance really-called Vanessa, only he says she doesn't appreciate him. He likes me. I've had to refuse to-to appreciate him twice already."

"Good." Will picked up a fry that had long gone cold and took an absentminded bite. "We can dispense with his help. I'll get hold of Adam. He's already declined to invest in my production company, so he owes me."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"He failed in his allegiance to our old school tie," Will explained.

"You never wear a tie."

Will abandoned the fry and shoved his largely untouched plate to one side. Gaynor's garlic mushrooms were beginning to look soggy. "Why don't you just drink up and I'll get another round?" Will suggested.

The conversation deteriorated rapidly when Gaynor wanted to pay for it.

In the small hours of the morning a mist had oozed out of the ground and hung in pale ribbons along the verges of the Wrokewood, screening the facade of the house. The walls showed only their stony roots rising out of gra.s.s and gravel. Above the mist, pointed roofs and gnarly chimneys floated as if detached from their moorings. The stump of the old tower was completely hidden. Such mists normally kept to the open fields, but rain had dampened the earth and the mild air drew the moisture upward into fogs that were thicker and more extensive than usual. A benighted local, on the road after a drunken party, saw the disembodied gables outlined against the predawn gloom and hurried away, sobered and shivering. The house had never had a bad reputation, but with the arrival of the latest tenant there had been some mutterings. Builders and deliverymen had talked of a changed atmosphere. The evacuation of the ghosts had produced strange ripples, which touched sensitive minds. The nervous reveler, quickening his pace on the three-mile walk to his home village, did not see the mist curdling in the wake of a pa.s.sing figure, or the clawed feet padding beneath the veil, across the gra.s.s to the house. There was no knock or chime, but the front door opened and someone went inside. A little of the mist went with him and hung around the entrance hall, making the air clammy.

"You have it?" said Morgus.

For answer, he pa.s.sed her the pouch at his side. It was heavy, and long tresses of hair spilled over the top. Morgus seized a handful of the hair and lifted the contents clear of the bag. "My coven sister," she said. "My Sysselore. It is good good to see you again." to see you again."

"I will rot swiftly in this world," snapped the head. "Why bring me here? What have we to say to each other that we have not said before, many times?"

"I have missed your sweet discourse," said Morgus. "Fear not: you will rot only at my pleasure. I have potions that will preserve you in this form for as long as I wish. Of course, I may let you age a little first. Your cheek is smoother than it was, but I might prefer to see the Sysselore I knew and loved."

"You look younger, too," said the head. "Maggot magic, no doubt. It doesn't suit you."

"Naughty," Morgus chided, pinching the cheek so that sap spread like a bruise under the rind. "You seem to have forgotten your courtesies. Am I not still your queen?"

She turned to Kaliban, who had shrunk back into the shadows. "You have done well, though it took you too long. Enough of freedom. Get you to your attic, and for a while I may let you sleep in peace, if it pleases me."

"Take this brand off my brow."

"The brand is there for good. With it, I can find you, wherever you may skulk. Now go, or I will set the nightmares on you!"

He made a half move toward the door, visibly torn, and her smile widened. Seeing it, he wheeled and began to climb the stair. She followed him, carrying the head, ready to reseal the spells that bound him. The bag lay where she had tossed it, discarded. The cat Nehemet came, and probed it with a curious paw, and sniffed at it, and let it be. When the cat had gone a white spiderling emerged and scuttled across the floor. On the Tree it had been scarcely bigger than an aphid, but now it had grown to thumbnail size. The vitality of this new dimension surged through its tiny body: it pulsed with the urgency of Time and the potential for growth. The life of a tree is slow, measured in centuries, but the life of an arachnid is swift, desperate, and hungry. The spider's minute germ of thought sensed that it had found a place with room for expansion. It moved eagerly, following instinct, drawn toward the sapling of the Tree that had nurtured it. The house spiders might have tried to kill it, for it was still undersized, but most of them had gone with the ghosts, unsettled by corridors that felt suddenly too bare. When it reached the conservatory it ascended the tree trunk and crawled under a broken leaf, sucking the sap that bubbled from its veins. Soon, the leaf would no longer conceal it.

In his attic prison, Kal waited. Dawn came and went, a sunless affair that lightened the room only to show the dust. When he was sure Morgus would not return, he removed a package that had been tied up in his hair, a package looted from the cave beneath the Tree where the witches had dwelt for so long. He shook a little red powder out onto the floor, mixing it with spittle, using a wood splinter to pound it into paste. Presently, it began to steam; both the surrounding patch of floor and the splinter turned black. He took a sc.r.a.ping on the splinter's end and, bracing himself, applied it to his forehead. Only an indrawn hiss of breath, a fixed grimace betrayed his agony. He sat with his teeth locked against a scream while the sweat rolled down from under his hair and the pain ate into him. Eventually, he wiped the paste off with a rag of old curtain and daubed the wound with another rag soaked in saliva, which was the only moisture available. Then he repeated the whole process, slightly higher up on his brow. Not only would the rune of Agares find him for Morgus, but for anyone who knew the spell; it was more efficient than an electronic tag. With it, even beyond the prison, he would never be free.

In the evening, the hag came from the kitchen, bringing him a plate of food, the reward for his service. Switching on the single naked lightbulb, she did not seem to notice the acid mark on the floor. After she had gone, he peered at his reflection in the window, lifting the swatch of hair with which he concealed his brow. It was difficult to see clearly under the overhead light, but he was almost sure the fresh burns had begun to obliterate the brand.

Down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, where Morgus kept her phials and philters, the head of Sysselore sat in a pickle jar, mouthing furiously.

"I will take you out when you are ready to be polite," Morgus said, smiling to herself as she moved from bottle to bottle, preparing another potion in a basin of stone. She had found little to please her since her aborted encounter with Fern and Gaynor, but now she smiled with genuine satisfaction.

She too had friends.

Fern felt she needed Sunday to herself, if only to think. But her thoughts went around and around like rats in a barrel, going nowhere, straying off at tangents concerning Luc or Kal and returning always to the place where she had started: the impossibility of destroying Morgus. She met Luc on Monday, this time at his own flat, situated in a mews over a two-Porsche garage. "Bankers measure their success in Porsches," he told Fern without visible humor. "I know someone with four. One for each suit."

"He only has four suits?" Fern said.

"Oh, yes. And one of them's Chinese red."

The interior of the flat was a surprise: its white-walled minimalism was negated by overcrowded bookshelves and unlikely paintings, including a huge grayish abstract resembling an enlargement of the cerebral cortex, a snowscape clearly influenced by Caspar David Friedrich, and some original architectural drawings of what seemed to be a chapel. The latest technology was slotted into designer units: widescreen TV, DVD player, and a music center with strategic speakers. There was a wafer-thin sofa with stick-insect arms, one armchair of the same design, two others from the Edwardian smoking-room era. A half-full ashtray and unwashed gla.s.ses evidently awaited the attention of a maid. Sleek gla.s.s lamps dispensed a slightly chilly light that made the apartment feel colder than it was. Luc switched on a fake fire with gas-powered flames that gave out no heat. "This place is a bit of a mess," he apologized. "I used to be tidy, but lately I haven't bothered."

"It isn't a mess," Fern said. "It's just-lived in. Not enough, perhaps."

"I prefer the hermit's cell," he explained. "Bare, uncluttered-but clutter always creeps in somehow. I grew up in nouveau riche luxury-my mother had no taste, my father no time-but Westminster and Oxford turned me from tough into toff, at least on the surface."

"How often have you used that line?" Fern inquired.

"Once or twice."

"It's quite good," she affirmed. "But the tough shows through. Sometimes."

He had removed his tie and poured her a G and T, himself a whiskey. "Like you," he said. "The witch shows through-sometimes. You said you were going to find things out."

"I saw your sister." The words were out before she had time to doubt their wisdom.

He turned his back on the liquor cabinet, giving her a long, still look. "You mean-not in the hospital?" The tone was muted, but she detected his reservations. in the hospital?" The tone was muted, but she detected his reservations.

"Last seen wearing a long floating dress, many-layered, probably chiffon, and lots of hair, presumably false. The lost spirit tends to retain its latest physical appearance, clothes and all. I shouldn't think she understands what's happened to her. Even if she does, it's all dreamlike, unreal . . ."

"Where is she?"

"If I tell you," Fern said, "you must promise me not to rush into anything. One wrong move, and she might be lost forever. You have to believe me. I know what I'm doing." I think. I think.

"You described her costume accurately," Luc said. "There's no way you could have known . . . unless you've spoken to one of the party guests."

"I might have done," Fern conceded. "Our social circles probably overlap. You can trust me-or not. It's up to you."

"I don't have a very trusting nature," he said, "but I believe you. Call it gut instinct." He pa.s.sed her the gin, sat down in the modern chair. "Go on."

"She's at Wrokeby," Fern said. "She never left. Your father's tenant there is . . . a witch of a different color. A collector of souls. At a guess, she was at the party-I don't know why-and took offense at your sister's disguise."

"Took offense offense? I don't understand."

"She's Morgus-the real Morgus. She left the world a thousand or so years ago, but she didn't die, she was merely waiting-and now she's back. She wants power-control-revenge. She may be using your father in some way. She has a skill and a Gift far beyond mine. I'm just a beginner."

"Why should she want revenge on Dana?"

"She doesn't," Fern said. "Dana was an extra. Morgus is made of psychoses: she would steal a soul to torment, merely for an act of lese-majeste. I lese-majeste. I am the object of her vengeance. When she took my spirit, I was to be her connection to the world of today. But I escaped, and betrayed her, and burned her in spellfire. She should have died, but her magic was too strong. She was reborn from the River of Death and returned without me, and now she cannot be killed by normal means, if at all." am the object of her vengeance. When she took my spirit, I was to be her connection to the world of today. But I escaped, and betrayed her, and burned her in spellfire. She should have died, but her magic was too strong. She was reborn from the River of Death and returned without me, and now she cannot be killed by normal means, if at all."

"If this is true-" his face was cool, noncommittal, afraid of credulity, "-how could you know so much? How could you see Dana?"

"You came to me: remember? This is the truth you sought. As for how how, I drew the magic circle: I wanted to call up certain spirits for questioning. I tried summoning your sister. The circle works in two ways: it can compel anyone in the vicinity to enter, and-if you have the power-it can open up a channel to another place. Dana appeared in the circle, but she was still imprisoned elsewhere. She has to be at Wrokeby."

"So we go there, and find her."

"No."

His mouth stiff, he sat back in the chair, turning and turning the whiskey tumbler in restless hands. "Explain to me why not. I am not afraid of witches."

"You should be. We're not talking old women in pointy hats. Morgus is mad-nearly all of the most Gifted go mad, sooner or later. She wants to rule Britain-she still thinks of it as Logrez, Arthur's kingdom which she tried to dominate through the son of their incest."

"Arthur never existed," Luc pointed out. "All the historians agree on that."

"They weren't there. Someone Someone existed whom the legends call Arthur, whatever his original name. Myths grow from truth. Historians know only facts, and facts can lie." existed whom the legends call Arthur, whatever his original name. Myths grow from truth. Historians know only facts, and facts can lie."

"And you?" Luc asked. "Are you Gifted enough to go mad?"

"That's my second-worst nightmare," Fern said somberly.

"What's your worst?"

Unexpectedly, she managed a smile. "That I won't live long enough to find out."

Later, he took her to dinner in the darkest corner of a nearby restaurant, where discreet waiters served food, poured wine, and left them alone. She talked at greater length about Morgus, and the circle, though she said nothing about the goblins and gave few details on Moonspittle or where he lived. They progressed from steak to sorbet, from wine to brandy, and gradually the conversation relaxed into an exchange of life stories. "My parents had to get married," Luc explained. "It was a shotgun wedding: Dad was eighteen when he got my mother pregnant. I don't ever remember him being very interested in his home life; it was all work. My mother must have been unhappy because of his neglect. She would be all over us one minute, and ignore us the next. A lot of that was the drink, of course. Dana-Dana was always very dependent on me. She didn't have anyone else."

"What happened to your mother?" Fern asked.

"Car crash when I was nineteen. She was drunk." His expression went rigid. "I never saw my father cry."

"Did you you cry?" cry?"

"No. Maybe I was a stoic. Maybe I'm just coldhearted. Like my father."

"Careful. Your Oedipus complex is showing." He flicked her a grin. "My mother died when I was ten," Fern volunteered. "I cried when Daddy told me she was sick because I knew she would die, though he didn't say so. But I didn't cry after. I froze up inside. Sometimes your emotions do that. It's a form of self-preservation. If I had let go, I would have cried myself to death."

"Do you cry much?" he asked curiously, studying her face in the poor light, all smooth planes and clear-cut features. It was not a face made for tears.

"Sometimes," she said. He was clearly waiting for more, and the brandy had loosened her tongue, so she went on: "I cry in La Traviata La Traviata, and Gone With the Wind Gone With the Wind, and whenever I hear Jacqueline du Pre playing Elgar. And I cried for first love, and the drowning of a city, and the loss of childhood."

"I dream of drowning," he remarked. "That's my worst nightmare. Didn't you say the dreams of the Gifted are significant? a.s.suming you and that nurse are both right, and I am Gifted. Perhaps I'm foreseeing my own death."