First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

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Text copyright © Dominique Valente 2020

Illustrations copyright © Sarah Warburton 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Dominique Valente and Sarah Warburton assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively of this work.

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Source ISBN: 9780008308438

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008308452

Version: 2020-08-28

For dearest Harriet and Julia, who leave

fairy dust wherever they go

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter 1: Leaf-mail

Chapter 2: Magic Most Peculiar

Chapter 3: An Unlikely Accomplice

Chapter 4: Pimpernell, a ‘Hed’ Witch

Chapter 5: The Wizard Beyond the Wall

Chapter 6: The Tower Fights Back

Chapter 7: The Sudsfarer

Chapter 8: A Conspiracy of Ravens

Chapter 9: Magic Ahoy!

Chapter 10: Sprig

Chapter 11: Oh, Brother

Chapter 12: The Iris Inside the Jar

Chapter 13: Feathering’s Return

Chapter 14: Capture

Chapter 15: Forest-touched

Chapter 16: A Town Called Library

Chapter 17: The Old Library Gardens

Chapter 18: The Ghost Tree

Chapter 19: The Mists of Mitlaire

Chapter 20: Netherfell

Chapter 21: The Boy Made of Shadow and Feathers

Chapter 22: The Forgotten Tale

Chapter 23: The Ferili Seed

Chapter 24: Home

Chapter 25: Moss Cottage

An (Abridged) Oswin to English Dictionary

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

Books by Dominique Valente

About the Publisher

1
Leaf-mail

Dear Willow,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. My experiments with cross-pollinating a memory flower with samples from the Great Wisperia Tree have worked. I am happy to report that I can now see ten minutes into the future. Unfortunately, I have just seen that my kidnappers will be arriving IMMINENTLY! Which means, alas, I can’t even have a decent cup of tea before I send this letter via leaf-mail.

I once had a rope swing that might have offered a means of escape, but the baby dragon, Floss, accidentally burnt it to a crisp during a rather unfortunate coughing fit on his last visit. So I fear my captors are likely to catch up with me soon. (Well, in seven minutes and thirty-three seconds to be precise.)

My attempts at getting hold of the cloud dragons through pepper-tree communication haven’t gone according to plan … So I thought I’d drop you a note to ask if you wouldn’t mind terribly trying to rescue me? Also, could you please look in on Harold while I’m held hostage? He gets a bit lonely when I’m not here. Though he is very capable of feeding himself.

Hope you are well otherwise? The apple-pie blossoms are in bloom again and they always remind me of you …

Must dash —

Your friend,

Nolin Sometimes

Oh dear, thought Willow, putting the leaf-scroll down on the cluttered attic table, her heart starting to thud.

The post had arrived in a rather unusual way. Willow had answered a knock on the attic window only to find herself confronted by a rather grumpy oak tree with a face carved deep within its trunk. The tree had scowled at her with thick, bushy twigs for eyebrows, hard knots for eyes and a grim slash of a stick for a mouth. It had made an annoyed and windy huffing sound as it handed over the leafy scroll. Then, after giving her one last thunderous glare that seemed to scorch her very soul, it had slumped back to its usual spot by the garden wall, leaving a steady stream of acorns in its wake – and a fair bit of swearing too. Mostly about being rudely awoken from a rather enjoyable two-hundred-year nap and NOT being a blooming postal service.

Willow hadn’t known that trees could move, never mind swear or deliver mail. But she’d had a good guess, before she’d even read the leaf-letter, that it had something to do with the forgotten teller, Nolin Sometimes, and the way his rare ability helped him make use of the hidden magic of plants. Still, even Willow Moss, who was used to a bit of odd in her life, had to admit that this was all something of a shock.

Willow wasn’t the only one surprised by the strange visit. So was her best friend, Oswin, who greatly resembled a cat, but was in fact a kobold – a type of monster – who usually lived under her bed. At this moment, his panicked wailings could be heard from the fat blue stove in the corner, where he had shot off to hide when Willow answered the knock on the window.

‘Oh NO! Oh, me ’orrid aunt Osbertrude, WOT fresh eel is this?’ (Kobolds regularly overheard popular sayings from beneath beds or other hiding places, but often got them a bit confused.)

Ignoring Oswin, which was sometimes the best approach for general peace of mind, Willow took a deep breath and tried to summon Sometimes from the clutches of his kidnappers. If only he’d said who they were! She concentrated hard, her eyes scrunched up tight, silently begging her magic to work. Though begging hadn’t had much effect lately to be honest.

Alas, her face formed a rather regrettable expression that made Oswin snigger behind a fluffy green paw. ‘Looks like yew needs the privy.’

Willow ignored this. Her heart pounded, but, despite how much she tried, her hands remained empty. She just couldn’t seem to find her friend …

Which was unfortunate, as Willow had a magical ability for finding lost things. Like shoes, or socks, or, most recently, a lost day that had been stolen by the Brothers of Wol, using a thousand-year-old spell. With the help of her friends, including Nolin Sometimes himself and Moreg Vaine, the most powerful witch in Starfell, Willow had got it back.

But she had never tried to find a missing person before. The closest she had ever got to that was when she ‘found’ Oswin. She had summoned him from a neighbour’s stove a few years ago and never quite got rid of him since.

Willow sighed, then glanced at Oswin with a frown. ‘Never mind how I look. Nolin Sometimes has been captured!’

Oswin sat up fast, releasing a puff of blue coal dust into the air. In his outrage, his fur went from the colour of lime cordial to bright pumpkin in an instant – one of the side effects of his koboldish heritage. He blinked large, lamp-like eyes and his ears flattened to his skull in shock. ‘WOT? Why’d they take ’im?’

Willow shook her head. ‘I don’t know! Maybe he’s made someone a bit cross or something?’

The kobold shrugged a shaggy shoulder, as the idea of Nolin Sometimes making someone a bit cross was entirely possible.

He couldn’t exactly help it. As a forgotten teller (or an oublier, to use their official name), Sometimes had visions of other people’s memories when he was around them – even the shameful ones. To make matters worse, he then blurted these secrets out loud. He didn’t know what was happening when the memories washed over him, so he couldn’t control this. Still, it made some people a bit angry … Murderous even, if the stories of what had happened to some of the other forgotten tellers over the years were true … And the trouble was, when Willow stopped to think about it, Nolin Sometimes could have been taken by just about anyone really.

She looked at the leaf-scroll again, as if hoping it would offer something – anything – else to help her find him. But aside from a tiny splodge that looked a bit like a flower, where the ink had run next to the forgotten teller’s name, there was nothing. Willow sighed and paced the dusty attic floor, leaving a small trail of sock prints behind. Then she tried to use her magic again, hoping that this time it would just work. But the problem was that lately it just wouldn’t.

Unbidden, her sister Camille’s voice flared in her mind. ‘Well, I’ve never been unable to use my magic before, not even when I had rumble fever and was nearly on my deathbed. But then I suppose it’s hard to lose a really powerful ability. Maybe yours was so weak, Willow, that all it took to make it disappear was a really good sneeze.’

Willow took a deep breath and pushed her sister’s annoying voice out of her mind. She was fairly sure magical abilities didn’t just disappear with sneezes.

Mostly sure.

‘Just focus, Willow,’ she said aloud, picturing her friend’s wild white hair, skinny frame, and the way he always had so many pockets filled with strange plants. She tried with all her might to find him, but nothing happened.

Until … something did.

Something a bit unfortunate, which began with a rather loud popping sound and the familiar wailings of a certain kobold.

‘Oh noooo!’ cried Oswin. ‘Oh, me GREEDY aunt, why’d yew CURSE me to live with witches?’ He dived out of the stove and shot into the much-repaired and patched-together green, hairy carpetbag near Willow’s feet, which started to shake violently.

Willow shut her eyes, afraid to look. She heard about it, though, soon enough.

There was another loud pop, followed by a bellow from her mother downstairs.

‘WILLOW MOSS! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TRYING TO USE YOUR MAGIC BEFORE YOU’VE RECOVERED?’

Willow swallowed. ‘Um. That I shouldn’t?’ she mumbled, reluctantly opening an eye, only to blanch. Most of the attic had vanished. What remained was the single floorboard on which they stood.

It had all disappeared.

From the kitchen below, her mother and oldest sister, Juniper, were staring up at her with identical FURIOUS expressions.

‘I – um … erm … Sorry, Mum,’ stammered Willow.

This was bad enough, but things were about to get a whole lot worse rather quickly.

Juniper frowned, then looked at the empty seat next to her and paled. ‘W-where’s Camille?’

Willow scrunched up an eye, afraid to witness what would no doubt come next. Her mother looked from the empty seat back to Willow accusingly, her lips stretching into a thin, angry line. ‘You had better not have made your sister disappear. Again.’

Willow bit her lip, then shared a look of commiseration with Oswin, whose eyes were peeking out of the bag in fright.

‘Oh no …’

2
Magic Most Peculiar

It had started with the spoons.

No one could say for certain if the dessertspoons went first or the serving spoons, but, by the time the teaspoons had vanished throughout the village (and no one could make a decent cup of tea, which was enough reason for anyone to start sharpening their pitchfork), the whispers began to twist their way towards the youngest witch in the Moss family.

In an ordinary village, missing spoons wouldn’t cause that much concern, but in Grinfog, home to a family full of witches, it was natural that a few questions were raised. Some with raised voices to match.

Though, as Willow’s ability was to find things, not make them disappear, she along with the rest of the family had dismissed their neighbours’ concerns. A hiccough in the greening moon perhaps? A band of spoon-stealing poltergeists maybe? Nothing to do with her, though. Until the bunfire on Elth Night, that is, when even Willow began to wonder if she was, in fact, the person responsible for all the weird disappearances.

Elths, not to be confused with elves, are tiny, hairy, bearded creatures – and rather excellent bakers – who live underground. Many years ago, at the precise moment an evil wizard named Wollace Humperdink was passing over their mound, one of the elths’ ovens exploded and burnt him to a crisp. Now, all across Starfell, people celebrate the anniversary of this wondrous accident with elthish mushroom mead, ‘bunfires’ and beards.

Willow had just put aside the gumbo apple and currant bun she’d been toasting and removed her fake, sparkly beard to help a rather persistent neighbour who’d lost her anorak. The woman hadn’t quite got the memo that this was supposed to be Willow’s night off.

Nevertheless, Willow closed her eyes, lifted her palms to the sky and coughed, while she searched with her mind for Birdy Pondwater’s misplaced possession.

There was a faint popping sound, but nothing appeared in Willow’s outstretched hands, which was rather puzzling. Willow’s magic might not be exciting, but it was always reliable, which was something she’d always taken a bit of quiet pride in. As Granny Flossy used to say, ‘A bit of quiet pride does a body no harm. It’s the loud pride that can bend a nose right out of joint.’

Granny Flossy had been full of these sorts of observations. Along with lots of dodgy potions resulting from a cauldron explosion in the mountains of Nach.

Willow pushed up her mental sleeves, eyes still closed, and tried again. ‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured Birdy, who had begun to make a low panting sound a bit like a snuffling wild boar. ‘Sometimes lost things just need a bit of encouragement to be found … They can get too comfortable there, but I can coax them back.’

Except Birdy would not calm down. She began to shriek blue murder.

Willow saw why when she opened her eyes and found to her utter shock that Birdy’s dress had vanished, and she was standing in a vest and a pair of rather old-fashioned red-and-white bloomers while the entire village gawped at her, their currant buns left to burn on the bunfire.

‘What happened to your dress?’ Willow whispered, wishing she had something besides a sparkly beard to offer the poor woman to protect her modesty.

Birdy spluttered, turning violently red, while Willow looked around to see if the wind had blown the dress away. But there was no trace of it. When she turned back, what she saw caused her some dismay, as everyone was staring at her in sudden fear.

Which was a bit … odd.

While occasionally there was some grumbling about her family’s magic, the Mosses were mostly accepted as part of the community – like, say, the way your mother will remind you that your weird aunt with nineteen cats and a collection of dish towels with their faces on them is still, technically, part of the family …

A week later, Birdy Pondwater’s lost dress landed in Willow’s kitchen in a red-and-white flash. She left the dress at Birdy’s house, and a kind of stilted peace ensued, in which Willow was far less busy, and far poorer as a result, as most of her regular customers kept well away.

Camille had made the mistake of teasing her about this, which had led to her first disappearance and caused utter MAYHEM until she’d reappeared a minute later with a loud, angry pop.

Willow had never seen Camille so furious. She had threatened to transport Willow to the Mists of Mitlaire – the strange and ethereal fog that separated the world of the living from Netherfell, from which no one returned … mostly on account of losing their souls. It was a serious threat and Willow had retaliated that if Camille tried that, she’d figure out a way to make her disappear for good. At this point, their mother, Raine, had decided to take matters in hand.

‘I am taking matters in hand,’ she’d said, her mouth forming a grim line as Camille set a feather duster on Willow. It hadn’t done much aside from making her sneeze … but this had caused Camille to disappear again for a moment, and their mother had decided that the safest course of action was to separate them for a while.

‘For the time being, I think you can sleep in the spare bed in the attic, Willow. We will get to the bottom of this. You had a cold, and I think that’s the most likely culprit – look what happened when you sneezed, and you were coughing at the bunfire …’ Then Raine had narrowed her green eyes and said reproachfully, ‘Though you should not have used your magic if you were feeling unwell. You know this. The number-one rule for any witch who’s feeling unwell is what?’

Willow had opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t feel unwell, but changed her mind when her mother crossed her arms expectantly. Willow had sighed and recited in dull tones, ‘Not to use her magic.’

‘Correct.’

As far as witches went, this was a rather good rule, as being under the weather could cause a lot of magical misfires. Willow’s cousin, Petulant Moss, who had a talent for rather nasty hexes, had ignored it to her peril when she got a bad case of stutter pox. She had accidentally turned herself into a pig, instead of hexing her neighbour – to his delight. It was rumoured that she was still living up north somewhere with rather fluffy, spotted ears …

‘So, no magic, Willow. Understood? Not until we get you better,’ Raine had said.

Willow had agreed, and had moved into the attic that morning. She’d lasted half a day.

It wasn’t technically her fault that she’d broken her promise so quickly … As far as she was concerned, the letter from Nolin Sometimes and her fears for him had surpassed her concerns about her magic. In the stakes of wonky magic versus missing friend, missing friend had won out. Or it should have if her dodgy magic hadn’t made the attic – and her sister – disappear in the process …

Luckily, they both reappeared a few moments later. The lecture, however, went on for considerably longer.

Willow now sat at the kitchen table while her mother paced up and down, shaking her head and muttering things like, ‘I just don’t know what’s to be done with you. I sent your father word that he should come home so that we can all deal with this together as a family. What if your sister had gone missing permanently? You don’t know how to control this – and, despite the risks to all of us, you’re still using your magic …’

‘But Mum,’ Willow interrupted, feeling a pang of guilt that her mother had asked her father to leave work early to ‘deal’ with her, ‘I had to use my magic! I’ve got to find Nolin Sometimes.’ She tried once again to explain. ‘He’s my friend, and he needs me. He sent me a letter—’

‘Which has conveniently vanished,’ said her mother. She made a ‘pfft’ noise, eyes narrowed.

This was true unfortunately. A few things from the attic hadn’t reappeared, like Granny Flossy’s old purple hat, several tonics that her mother had been forcing her to drink, and the leaf-letter, so no one would believe a word Willow said.

Her mother shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. ‘I’d like to believe you, Willow, truly … but trees do not move or speak! I don’t know what on Great Starfell made you think they could. Besides that – which is worrying enough – I’m not sure where you got this idea that you’ve met a forgotten teller …’

‘Mum, I have!’ she protested.

‘No, you haven’t, Willow! It’s not something one does. Oubliers are extremely rare, and most end up … well, dead because of their abilities, which land them in trouble.’

Willow blinked. ‘I KNOW that! That’s why he needs me – it’s urgent!’

Willow’s mother shook her head, her eyes wide with concern. ‘Oh, Willow, I think you’re really quite ill. It might be a fever or something that’s been causing all this trouble with your magic – and now these delusions …’

But Willow wasn’t ill. She felt fine. She’d had all kinds of colds before and it had never caused her magic to act strangely. Her rogue magic came from something else … she knew it. In the back of her mind, Granny Flossy’s voice on a cold winter’s night whispered, ‘Folk that venture into the forest of Wisperia don’ always come back the same. I’ve heard stories of people who changed. Their hair turned to flame, their feet to hooves, their fingers to leaves … Forest-touched, they call it … They end up having to make a life there, away from everyone they know, as they’ve turned wild.’

Willow swallowed. She’d been to Wisperia when she’d tried to get back the stolen day. The forest must have done something to her. She tried to push the thought that her hair might turn to flame or her feet to hooves out of her mind, with difficulty.

The problem was getting anyone in her family to consider these risks because, when the lost Tuesday had been restored, so had the usual timeline. No one remembered when the day went missing at all, and they didn’t know what Willow had done or where she’d been … The only people who remembered were those, like her, who had been in the presence of the spell that had brought back the day.

‘Please, Mum, just listen to me – I think I know what’s happened. I’m going to tell you all about it, and afterwards you’ll see what needs to be done.’

She asked them not to interrupt so that she could get through the whole story. To her surprise, they agreed. Mostly, she would find out later, because they’d been trying to gather just how far her fevered delusions went and how urgently they should send for help.

‘So you see,’ she said, when she finally finished explaining all that had happened a few weeks before, ‘I believe that something affected my magic in Wisperia. It scrambled it around or something. I think, under the circumstances, that the best thing to do is to send for Moreg. She’ll know what to do, and how to help me find Nolin Sometimes.’

There was a long pause while her family stared at her in what Willow thought might be amazement at the fact she’d helped to save the world and kept quiet about it for so long, or perhaps even a little quiet pride at her courage in the face of such adversity … But it soon turned out to be something else entirely.

Her oldest sister, Juniper, came forward, an odd look on her face as if a beloved pet had died. She felt Willow’s forehead and frowned. ‘It’s the stress, isn’t it?’ she said, looking at her mother, her mouth in a sad line. ‘Ever since Granny passed. She can’t face reality any more.’ Then for a second her serious demeanour slipped and she clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I shouldn’t laugh as it’s really quite awful, but … “send for Moreg”!’

This made Camille giggle, then whisper loudly, ‘She only used her first name too, like they were friends! Can you even imagine?’

Willow closed her eyes in frustration. When she opened them, she saw that her mother’s face was serious and rather sad, and she began to explain things as if Willow were still quite little, or possibly a bit dim.

‘My dear,’ she said, patting Willow’s hand gently, ‘I don’t think Moreg Vaine, the, um … most powerful witch in Starfell, would concern herself with the problems of a twelve-year-old girl.’

This elicited a few more sniggers from Camille and Juniper, but Raine turned and gave her other daughters A WARNING LOOK, and they stopped giggling immediately.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Juniper.

Raine’s face was twisted with worry. ‘What really concerns me is this delusion of yours, Willow. The idea that somehow you and Moreg went off on some wild and impressive adventure together when Granny passed away. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but that just didn’t happen.’

‘WOT?’ blurted Oswin from beneath the table, where he was hiding by Willow’s feet, his fur turning a violent shade of orange. ‘I WOS THERE! She took me WIFF ’er in a BAG made o’ HAIR! ’Tis NOT made up and ’tis NOT about the ol’ Flossy Mistress, yew … yew … CARBUNCLED CUMBERWORLDS!’

There was a long silence at this.

Then Willow said, ‘Thanks, Oswin.’ She and the kobold shared a conciliatory look. Mostly about how little his outburst would actually help. Still, it was nice to have someone on her side for once.

Willow’s mother pursed her lips in distaste, but gave no other sign that she’d heard Oswin. This was her standard approach to him.

It wasn’t, however, for Camille. ‘Look, just because you’ve convinced your monster doesn’t mean it actually happened,’ she snorted dismissively. ‘He’s usually hiding away in a bag or under your bed. You could tell him almost anything had happened and he’d probably believe you.’

Oswin shot out from under the table to glare at her. ‘WOT? Such LIES! Such undeservedable SLEWS against me fine koboldish character! A curse upon yeh … yeh harpy-hag – a CURSE!’

‘Control your monster!’ snapped Camille. ‘Or I’ll send him away!’

Willow felt her temper go from simmer to boil, and she stood up fast. ‘You will NOT touch him. It IS NOT A DELUSION and I haven’t LOST TOUCH WITH REALITY. Oswin WAS there!’

She took a deep, calming breath, which didn’t work, and tried again to get them to see reason. ‘It really happened, you just don’t remember it – but that’s only because you weren’t THERE! Because you didn’t want to help then EITHER!’

Camille gave a derisive snort, flinging her midnight hair back. ‘Oh really, Willow … like we’d not help save the world!’

Juniper made a huffing, dismissive sound too.

Willow sighed. ‘Well, you didn’t because you wouldn’t believe me then either. But that’s not the point. The way you’re all reacting now doesn’t make sense because you’ve seen what happened. You SAW Moreg – she came here after Granny’s funeral. You saw her speak to me and bring me my broom, Whisper, which I only got because I was helping her! How else would I have it? And, before she came, you saw the DRAGONS, so you must know that I’m telling the truth. How else would I have known her, or met a cloud dragon? How else would you explain that?’

There was a long moment when no one spoke.

Then, over the sound of Willow’s thundering heart, her mother let out a deep sigh. ‘Oh, Willow. You probably don’t know this, but Moreg was a family friend. I grew up with her sister, Molsa, you see. Moreg thought very highly of Granny Flossy. As you know, your grandmother was once the best potion-maker in all of Starfell, which is why Moreg came to pay her respects to all of us when she passed. I believe that she brought you your broom as a gift, to take your mind off Granny’s death. I mean, granted, Moreg is not generally known for, erm, spontaneous acts of kindness … but that’s what it was – a kind act to a child at a difficult time. I’m afraid that, with all the shock and upset, you’ve got a bit muddled and turned it into something else … some wild story about saving the world with her, as well as an imaginary friend needing your help, and trees that move and deliver letters … Oh, Wol.’

She gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Which is DEEPLY worrying for all of us, don’t you see? Because not only do you seem troubled, it’s dangerous to be around you as it’s affected your magic in a rather violent way. We have to get you help, and soon!’

Willow stared at her mother through eyes that were misted by sudden angry tears. There was a lump in her throat, making it hard to speak. She’d never needed Granny Flossy more than she did in that moment. Granny would have made them see, made them hear, somehow. She would probably have known the truth about the trees – she knew things like that, things no one else did – and she would have gone outside to try talking to the oak, even if they all thought that was bonkers. She would have trusted Willow, or at least tried to. But Granny Flossy was gone, and there was nothing Willow could do.

Her chin started to shake, and in a very small, choked voice she tried one last time to make them see that she was telling the truth. ‘B-b-but you heard what Feathering the dragon said, Mum. About how I helped him. Please can you just –’ she sniffed – ‘try to believe me?’

Raine spoke to her in a soft, kind voice, which only made things worse. ‘I do believe that, of course I do – the big dragon said that you helped him find his egg. I mean, I think that’s a WONDERFUL thing to have done.’

She shot Juniper and Camille a look and they both quickly nodded too. ‘We all do,’ continued her mother. ‘But, you see, it might have been the very excitement of meeting him and Moreg, mixed in with your grief, that caused things to get scrambled somehow … and made you think that you’d met before.’

Willow’s mouth closed over a wordless scream, hot tears leaking from her eyes unchecked.

They just wouldn’t believe her. Willow felt her hurt begin to grow as she considered the hard truth about her family. It wasn’t just that they didn’t believe her: they didn’t believe in her … and they never would. They couldn’t even imagine that it was possible for Willow to have done something even slightly remarkable, even with help. They would never see her as one of them.

She felt winded, as if something hard and jagged had hit her in the chest. The blood rushed to her ears, and there was a ringing sound – later she would wonder if it was the sound of her own heart breaking – and suddenly there was a loud pop.

She looked up to see that she had made everyone, except Oswin, vanish.

Meanwhile, somewhere far away, a throne glinted like opals and diamonds in the shadows. Though, if you were to look closer, it seemed to be made of feathers and roots and darkness.

The queen who sat upon it had shadowy eyes like a night devoid of stars. She steepled her fingers and asked her servant, ‘You know what you need to do?’

The servant nodded, once. His gaze flicked towards the white-haired man on the floor whose eyes were pale and unseeing, though from his mumbling lips came a low moan.

The queen shifted in her seat like moving ink, and her hair floated in the air above as if she were underwater. She made a motion with her fingers and a small, shadow-like bird flew towards the figure on the ground, and into his open mouth. No more sound escaped his lips.

The servant watched in silence, then turned to leave.

‘Be careful,’ the queen warned. ‘Remember who you are up against. The witch sees all – you must play your game well if you are to succeed.’

‘I know what is at stake,’ said the servant.

The queen said nothing. She simply lifted a finger. It was the colour of birch bark, silver and dry and stronger than steel. A mist appeared, and there was a flash of wings, and then nothing at all.

3
An Unlikely Accomplice

In the silence between the thunderclaps of Willow’s own heartbeats, Oswin stared up at her in horror. ‘Oh NOOOOO! Oh, me ’orrid aunt! They’ll never believes yew now that yer magic has gon’ proper squifflesticks,’ he groaned, covering his large, lamp-like eyes with his paws as if he really didn’t want to watch what happened next.

‘You’re right,’ said Willow in a small, scared voice. She swallowed, and took a wary step back from where the table had been, knocking a chair over in her fright. ‘Oswin, I’m going to have to find Moreg myself. I think I should go now, quickly, before my father gets here or they come back. I just don’t think they’ll believe me … and, to be honest, right now they’re right about one thing. I-I’m a danger to be around. Y-you can stay if you want.’

The kobold went from green to orange in a flash, his eyes shooting daggers at her. ‘WOT? Yew wants to leave me behind?’

‘No – but you might be safer here.’

Oswin shot her a dark look and harrumphed. ‘Wiffout yew ’ere, that harpy-hag will gets rid of me faster than I could blink. I’ll take me chances wiff yew any day – ’sides,’ he said in a small voice, ‘yew mights needs me.’

Willow gave him a small, grateful smile. It was true, Oswin could be useful … when he wanted to be. Mostly because he was often the one who remembered about food, but there was also the fact that his koboldish blood let him know whenever they were approaching dangerous magic. And yes, there was his rather useful ability to blow up when he was agitated enough – which had partly helped save the missing day. Not that he’d meant to do it. Still, it was handy.

Together they quickly packed the hairy carpetbag and left the cottage. Willow stopped only to get her broom, Whisper, from the shed.

At the garden gate, the oak tree harrumphed as she passed him. ‘Running away, are we?’

There was a faint ‘Oh noooo, I forgot about ’IM,’ from within the bag.

Willow turned to look at the tree in surprise, her face blotchy with tears. She’d been sure that he wouldn’t speak to her again. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘Yes. I need to find my friend, and to do that I have to sort out my magic … and get away from here. I’m sorry about the letter, though – and for disturbing you.’

The tree made a windy harrumphing sound. Then its knot eyes softened slightly as it took in the state of Willow’s tear-streaked face. ‘It sounded like you’d been punished enough.’

‘You heard all that?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Trees hear everything,’ he replied, then raised a root from the ground. ‘I reach well under the cottage … I know what’s going on, even when I sleep.’

Willow didn’t know what to feel about that. This whole time they’d had an audience they had never known about. It was a bit creepy when she thought about it.

‘I know it really happened – the missing day,’ said the tree. ‘If that helps. I know you aren’t talking nonsense … well, no more than the rest of them anyway,’ he said, pointing a branch in the direction of the cottage. ‘I felt that something was wrong, that something had disappeared, causing strange effects, even as I slept. And, besides that, trees talk … We know what you helped to do.’

Willow blinked. They did?

There was a loud popping sound from the direction of the cottage, followed by several high-pitched screams. Willow’s heart started to race – her family must have reappeared in the kitchen. At least this still allowed her a bit of a head start. Fighting mounting panic, she picked up the carpetbag with Oswin inside. ‘I’d better go – I can’t afford to waste time hoping that my family will believe me. My friend needs me.’

The old oak tree considered her. ‘I was the youngest in my family before I moved here … An oak needs some space sometimes,’ he said, pointing to the dark woods ahead. ‘I remember how it was – no room to grow. I’ll hold them off while you leave.’

‘You will?’

He nodded, making his leaves rustle. ‘Didn’t much care for that comment about trees to be honest. As if it was ridiculous somehow. Typical of humans to think only they can talk or move or think …’

There was a harrumph of agreement from within the carpetbag at this. ‘Exacterly,’ mumbled Oswin.

As the tree frowned at the bag in some confusion, Willow stared at him. ‘But how will you hold them off?’

There was a windy sort of grunt. ‘I’ll think of something,’ he said, shuffling some acorns in a slightly menacing way that made Willow feel a moment of concern her family, and even guiltier than she already did for running away.

Still, he was giving her the chance she needed. ‘Thank you,’ said Willow.

The tree ignored her thanks as it clomped towards the cottage, muttering to himself, ‘Blooming had to choose a house full of witches, didn’t I? Couldn’t just keep my darn roots out of it …’

Then, as the cottage door opened, despite his grumbling, the oak began pelting her family with acorns rather enthusiastically while they all screeched in shock. Seeing Willow, they shouted at her to come back.

‘Willow, don’t go!’ cried her mother, dodging an acorn. ‘Stop, you horrid tree!’ she snapped as another one bounced off her forehead. ‘Willow, I’ll get Amora Spell to come and look at you – we can do something about this! I believe you about the tree at least …’

But Willow shook her head. It was too late. Besides, Amora Spell, her grandmother’s swindling ex-partner, would definitely not help matters and time was running out. She needed to get to Moreg. It was possible that the witch knew where poor Nolin Sometimes was.

As Camille stepped forward, the tree picked her up and said, ‘Oh no you don’t, missus … I have half a mind to drag you off to the Mists of Mitlaire myself for threatening your sister with that. A person’s soul is no joking matter!’

Willow swallowed down her guilt. ‘I’m sorry, really … but I have to go!’

Then she mounted Whisper and set off towards Moreg’s house, her family’s screeches and Oswin’s loud, panicked cries of ‘Oh nooooooooo, not this flying sticks again!’ heavy in her ears.

Far away, in a strange place where time seemed to have stopped, Nolin Sometimes woke to darkness. It was the kind of dark where you can’t see your own hand in front of your face, where you aren’t sure where you begin and the shadows end, or if they end at all …

He swallowed as he sat up. There was a lump throbbing on his forehead.

The silence around him was unlike any he had ever known or grown used to in the forest of Wisperia, where there was always the sound of birds, the rustling of trees, the whisper of the wind … This was the absence of all that. It was nothing.

He called out to the nothing … which was when the fear started to build to a crescendo and the blood rushed in his ears, for no sound escaped his lips, even as he screamed …

4
Pimpernell, a ‘Hed’ Witch

As Willow flew up, past the dark woods and towards the warm glow of the midday sun peeking behind the trees, the hard knot twisting her stomach seemed to loosen slightly.

While she regretted having to leave her family behind in such a dramatic way, she felt a sense of purpose grab hold of her. It was the first time she’d felt anything like it since she’d found out about what had happened on that missing Tuesday – when she’d discovered that she’d lost Granny Flossy and the world had seemed to end.

Up through the trees, the wind in her hair, everything seemed to grow quiet, allowing her mind to sharpen, and she began to think.

And the main thing she thought was that she should have brought a map.

Willow reached into her pocket and took out her StoryPass, a magical device that resembled a compass and appeared to know things that she didn’t. It seemed to agree, as it was currently pointing to ‘One Might Have Suspected as Such’.

‘Do you think I should head east or west for Troll Country?’ she asked aloud. A green paw shot out of the bag, palm up, followed by a mumble about not exactly being able to see properly through a bag made of hair.

Also something about a cumberworld.

‘I suppose we’ll have to land and ask for directions,’ said Willow, pointing Whisper down towards a village on the edge of the woods.

But, as she began to descend, a flock of ravens helicoptered from the sky, making bloodcurdling cries that made her stomach take a dive. With a horrid thrill, Willow realised they were aiming straight for her, as if she were some rather large prey they’d quite like to gobble up.

‘What ON WOL?’ She screamed and twisted the broom till she veered away from the village below and almost flew straight into a clump of trees, earning herself several scrapes and scratches as she collided with a branch. She righted Whisper and tried to go back towards the village, but the ravens continued to circle her, making their odd cries.

In the hairy green carpetbag, she could hear high-pitched wails from Oswin. ‘Oh NOOOOO! Oh, me ’orrid aunt, I don’ wanna die as bird food!’

Heart pounding, Willow flew in the opposite direction through low branches, twigs smacking her in the face, until they crash-landed with a thud in a thick pile of leaves. Willow tumbled off Whisper, and the broomstick came to a halt a few feet away.

From her landing place, she looked up in immense relief to see the ravens soaring away, the air full of their eerie cries. With a shaking hand, she shaded a palm against her forehead, and noticed that one of the birds had a strange wing that appeared blue and made of something like smoke. She blinked, and it was gone.

Still breathing rather heavily, she dusted herself off, wincing as her grazed palms stung. Then she picked up the hairy green bag, which harrumphed. ‘WOT was that abouts?’

‘I don’t know,’ whispered Willow, who was having a hard time convincing her legs that they should move. She’d never known birds to behave that way. ‘I think it might be safer if we go by foot for a while.’ She fetched her broom, which was covered in mud and leaves, and put it over her shoulder with a frown.

It was late afternoon when she neared a clearing in the woods. She could see a hand-painted sign that read:

‘Hmmm, it doesn’t seem like these are the type of villagers who’d appreciate another witch on their doorstep,’ said Willow, looking at the pink graffiti that had been added by some daring soul to the bit about a witch in residence.

Oswin agreed. ‘Let’s SKEDADDLE!’

Willow turned to go back the way she’d come – only it was too late. There was a loud clanking sound from behind her that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

‘Wot do we have here? Another witch, yeh say?’ hissed a voice that made her knees forget for a moment how to hold up her legs.

Willow turned, stumbled and swallowed. In that order. Her eyes widened, and stayed that way. She could well understand how this could be one witch too many. More than enough. She was like every rumour that you might have heard when it came to the word ‘witch’, every idea that set your skin to gooseflesh, every nightmare, all rolled into one. Though there wasn’t a wart on her chin or a tall black hat on her head, somehow, from deep within Willow’s chilled heart, she felt that the figure before her had all the allotted witchiness that could have been reserved for, say, a rash of witches. Or a botherment. Or, yes, a coven, if one wished to use the proper collective noun.

She was very tall, with long silver dreadlocks that fell down to her waist. She had skin the colour of dried almonds, and strange amber eyes, like wood snapping in a fire, which blazed into Willow’s, pinning her to the spot. There was a strange clanking sound when she walked, which was somehow unexplained by her long copper-and-silver-coloured robe, and she moved with the aid of a large opal-topped cane.

‘Ohnooonooooo, a curse upon yeh, Osbertrude! This is jes NOT turnin’ outs ter be a good day to be a kobold,’ cried Oswin, who zipped himself more securely into the carpetbag and began to shake in fear. Invoking the curse of his aunt always meant serious danger was coming.

The witch’s wood-fire eyes seemed to glow, and she spoke slowly, in a spooky yet lyrical voice that caused gooseflesh to rise all over Willow’s body. ‘Wot yeh doin’ down here in these woods, child?’

Willow tried to explain, while also attempting to mentally persuade her knees to stop knocking. ‘I-I need to get to Troll Country. I-I was going to look for a map, or ask for directions.’

The witch narrowed her eyes. ‘Troll Country, yeh say, hmmm? That be MIGHTY interestin’. And just wot do yeh want with Moreg Vaine, child?’

Willow blinked. ‘H-how did you know that?’ There were not many people who knew that the most fearsome witch in all of Starfell chose to live in a secret castle within a valley in Troll Country …

‘Pimpernell always knows, child … and wot she don’ know she finds out soon enough.’

Willow frowned, and the witch explained. ‘That’s me name. Blu-Scarly Pimpernell, ter be precise, though most call me by the latter. I’m a hedge witch round these parts.’

‘Oh noooooo!A hed witch?’ muttered Oswin from the bag, which begin to shake even more. ‘A brain scrambler? Let’s SKEDADDLE!’

The witch rolled her amber eyes at the bag. ‘A hedge witch, kobold. Not head. I’m a healer – use things that grow in these here hedges ter make people better in me healing tower in the woods, don’ yeh know.’

Willow’s mouth fell open in surprise.

The witch turned to give the village a dark look. ‘Them there don’ quite know wot they been missin’ all this time, as I got a knack fer colds and such-like. I don’ just fix magical people’s maladies … well, not by choice anyway.’

Willow frowned. Pimpernell … She’d heard that name before, hadn’t she? Hadn’t Granny said something about her? She racked her brain but nothing came to mind.

Pimpernell looked at Willow and said, ‘So tell me ’bout it, child. Wot’s been eatin’ yeh?’

Willow bit her lip, wondering if she could trust the witch, and decided perhaps not.

‘Um. Nothing. I’m absolutely, completely fine. I just need to find Moreg. I need her help with … something.’

The witch’s strange, fiery eyes raked over her. ‘Fine, yeh say?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’ buy it, child. Yeh don’ look well, if yeh don’ mind me sayin’ so – peaky-like. Somethin’ wrong with yer magic if yeh asks me …’

Willow blinked. ‘H-how did you know that?’ she gasped.

‘Pimpernell can always tell. ’Sides, I can help yeh with that, child – no need ter bother the witch … She’s away, last I heard, so yeh’d be wasting a journey anyway. ’Sides, I been missin’ me spectacles for ages, so yeh can repay me by findin’ them once I’ve helped yeh. Is that a deal?’

Willow nodded. That sounded fair.

It was only much later, when it was too late, that she realised she’d never told the witch what her power was …

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