The Hawkweed Prophecy (35 page)

Upstairs was a neat, blue bathroom. Next to it sat Melanie's bedroom, yellow and white like daisies. And then they came to a second room. It was light and clean and there were books upon a shelf and a stuffed bear upon the bed.

“Do you like it?” murmured Melanie so quietly that Ember could hardly hear her.

“It's lovely,” said Ember, and she saw the relief fill Melanie's face, softening her lines.

“Do you think you'll be comfortable here?” Melanie asked, and suddenly Ember couldn't breathe. “We could change the curtains
or the duvet cover. I wasn't sure what colors you'd prefer,” Melanie added apologetically.

“It's . . . it's for me?” stuttered Ember. “This room . . . it's for me?”

“If you want it?” Melanie's voice was so tentative it almost cracked. “I mean, I want you to have it. I mean, I would very much like it if you stayed.”

The tears started to roll down Ember's cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, feeling ashamed to be crying when she felt so very lucky. Then she saw Melanie was crying too and her arms were opening and she was stepping toward her and hugging her.

“My baby girl,” Ember heard her mother say, and she felt like she had finally reached home.

When they went back downstairs there was Leo, standing across from Poppy. His hair was growing back upon his head and his bruises were fading. He looked less scrawny than usual. Ember couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face.

“Leo,” she called out to him, and he turned and she ran and jumped into his arms. “You're here.” Then she looked around. “You're all here.”

It wasn't to last long. Despite Ember and Melanie's protestations, Poppy insisted on leaving. Ember couldn't help but notice how quiet Leo stayed, not lending his voice to the attempted persuasions or to the emotional good-byes.

“You will come back?” Ember heard her voice echoing Charlock's, though hers was more fraught with pleading. Then, when she caught Poppy's second's worth of hesitation, she begged more desperately, “Promise me!”

Poppy hugged her close and Ember recalled how guarded Poppy used to be about such displays of affection and how open she was now. As if to prove her right, Poppy went to Melanie and put her arms around her. Poppy's eyes closed in that embrace, but Ember saw how Melanie's hands spread across Poppy's back and how her lips moved in words of heartfelt thanks.

Poppy had thought about running and hiding when she sensed Leo approaching the house. She looked around for somewhere to go—out the back door if it wasn't locked, through the window if she could heave it open, down into the cellar—but then Leo was at the door and a key was turning in the lock and he was in the hallway and walking toward her. He stopped in the doorway. She could see in his eyes he was expecting her. He had known she would be coming with Ember.

He didn't speak, though, and neither did she. She hardly dared to look at him for fear of hurting him. Charlock's warning blared inside her mind like a siren wailing: “you'll kill him,” “you'll kill him,” “you'll kill him.” Poppy wanted to put her hands to her ears to silence it, but instead she stared at Leo's chest, trying to peer through his skin and beneath his ribs to find his heart. As she did so, she felt it beating, fast but strong. There was no damage yet.

Faint with relief, she glanced up and saw Leo's eyes were looking at her, as if reappraising her, trying to see her differently. Her own heart thudded against its ribbed cage even faster than his.
Let me out. Set me free.
Poppy lowered her eyes to Leo's feet and noticed he had new shoes and that his trousers were clean and ironed.

“You've been staying here.” She spoke her thought out loud without intending to.

“Melanie's been looking after me the last few days,” Leo replied, not realizing Poppy hadn't meant to start a conversation.

“I'm glad,” Poppy said truthfully.

Leo walked into the living room, but perhaps he could see the panic in her eyes because he stopped on the other side of the sofa and didn't try to come any closer. “What about you?” he asked. “Who's looking after you?”

Poppy shrugged. Leo shut his eyes for a brief second as if struggling with his thoughts. Then he opened them and spoke with a passion that he tried to hush so only Poppy's ears would hear it.

“I won't stop, you know,” he said. He didn't need to elaborate. Poppy understood completely. “I've tried so hard, but I'll never stop.”

Poppy met Leo's eyes, and in that moment, suspended in time and place where only the two of them existed—no one else—she allowed herself to feel how much she loved him, despite the risk it posed, despite everything. It only lasted a second, maybe two. That was all she dared. Before it could injure him any further, she blinked and lowered her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

And then the others were there and Ember was running toward Leo and holding him and talking, so much talking, and Poppy knew it was time for her to go.

He didn't say good-bye. She didn't want him to. She wouldn't have been able to say the words, and she knew he felt the same.
She didn't even glance at him again, as if not wanting to dilute that last look, the one that had said everything.

So Poppy was on the road, alone again, drifting. She slept in a cheap hotel that night, using money her father had given her when she'd left. The walls were thin, the mattress too.
Is this all there is?
she thought.
Is this my life now?
And then she heard it, a meow from the rooftop. A smile spread across Poppy's face and she ran to open the window. The cats were all there and they came in, one after the other, curling around her on the bed, enthroning her with fur.

The train was ready to depart. The seats were filling and doors slamming. Poppy was on her way back to Charlock, having stayed away far longer than she'd promised, though it was more the cats that had made her decide to return to where the witches were. She wasn't sure how she would like her life there. It seemed more convent than coven. A life of abstinence and sacrifice, a retreat from modern life and all its comforts. And yet she was a witch. The cats last night had reminded her of that. So perhaps she should be with her own kind and learn their ways, however harsh that might be.

A whistle blew, and in that second Poppy felt the magic hit. It shuddered through her, and looking around, she saw everyone had stopped. Everything was silent. The train's engine had died; the guard still had the whistle on his lips; a businessman stood with arms outstretched, his briefcase just balancing on the
luggage rack; a woman held a coffee in front of her, about to take a sip; a dad held a baby, midbounce, on his knee. Poppy got to her feet and stared down the platform. Crowds of people looked as though they had been turned to waxwork, expressions stilled upon their faces but their eyes empty of life.

Then the birds arrived. Pigeons first, followed by the robins; the snow buntings and redwings; jack snipes and sanderlings and even geese in formation, swooping down from every angle of sky to perch upon these people posts, landing on their arms, their bags, their heads, their hats, flying in to watch her. Poppy felt the hundreds of tiny eyes focused on her and dimly wondered what they might be waiting for.

As soon as she posed the question, the answer came. So acute and sudden was the insight that it lanced right through her mind. Her hands flew to her head to try to shield it from the pain.

The queen was dead.

Poppy bent over in her seat and the truths hit her skull like they were hammering their way in.

The queen was dead.

She was now queen.

She was of the Northern clan.

Charlock was her mother.

Raven her aunt.

Sorrel her cousin.

Ember her friend.

Leo her love.

Leo her love.
Poppy sucked in air, then blew it out, over and over, trying her best to breathe as the knowledge kept pummeling her. Leo her love.

She could see it now. His heart was whole! He was no chaff. Witch blood ran through his veins. His mother—a witch bearing a boy, not bearing to kill him, but hiding him with a lady who would take in a baby and love him as her own. Leo's heart wouldn't break. Poppy could love him. He could love her.

He was her love.

With that, time began again. The birds took to the skies once more. The guard let the whistle fall from his lips, the businessman settled his briefcase on the rack, the woman drank her coffee, and the baby resumed its bouncing. Outside, the crowds went on their way and all noise resumed. Only Poppy changed direction, jumping suddenly to her feet and pushing past the other passengers. The train had begun to ease away from the station and the platform was disappearing quickly.

Poppy opened the door and leapt.

As she ran back into town she thought only of Leo. Not of being queen, or being a witch, or being magic. Just of him. She thought of his face as she told him she loved him. She would make him believe it again. The gates of their lives had swung wide open once more, and Poppy ran faster and faster to reach her destination.

When she felt the stitch start in her side, she thought of Leo's joy, his relief, his thankfulness, and it spurred her on. When she felt the burning in her lungs, she thought of Leo's kiss, his face, his hands. When she felt the ache in her legs, she thought of how she could kiss Leo back and touch him and tell him everything. And she thought of their life, together, away from it all, away from everyone, and she ran even faster.

Then she saw them. And she stopped. Stopped moving, stopped thinking. For there was Ember, just as she had once
foreseen. Ember in her new clothes and face and hair, holding onto her boyfriend's hand, walking out of the café. Gone was the girl who would run down a hillside and marvel at songs and be interested in the migration of birds. Poppy had predicted it. She had envisaged it so exactly. But she had been blind to the most important detail.

The boyfriend—that was Leo. Her Leo. Ember's Leo. His fingers were clasped in Ember's, his words were for her ears, his smile for her eyes. This was the future Poppy had seen for them all those months ago back in the dell when all was new and innocent and full of promise.

It had touched her heart then. It broke it now.

She stood there watching, gasping for breath, as Leo and Ember, a couple who fit together so easily, who made so much sense, who looked so right, walked along the pavement, past the shops, across the road, through the crowds, and disappeared from view.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

I
t was hot in Sorrel's room, stifling, and Poppy longed to open the door and the windows and put out the fire. The rest of the coven was freezing cold and the contrast was hard to bear. But still Poppy sat there beside Sorrel's bed and next to the stove the witches kept stoked with wood in fear of their patient catching a chill. Roasting, Poppy wondered if her cousin felt the heat. There was no sign of perspiration on Sorrel's forehead, but she was covered in a thick, heavy quilt and it was hard to imagine she wasn't sweltering beneath it. Suddenly Poppy couldn't resist the urge any longer and she pulled back the quilt in one quick movement and folded it at the end of the bed. Instantly she felt a little better.

Poppy had come here for the silence, and as she cherished it now, she stared at the patterns on the quilt and pondered on how many hands it had taken to stitch each piece to the next. Since her return to the coven, she had been impressed by the sheer industry of the witches. They were never idle, always busy with work or study. Magic was just one small part of life, and even that demanded craft and discipline.

There had been so much talk already that day, so many words about what must happen next, so many questions that needed answering. Charlock, especially, was consumed with making plans and reminding Poppy of her obligations. She acted as though she had forgotten their previous conversation, as if pretending all was well would make it so. For when Poppy had entered the camp, Charlock had flown to her side and embraced her. Poppy had known it was an uncharacteristic display of emotion, and it had moved her.
My mother loves me
, she had thought to herself, and it made the hole inside of her less cavernous. But then Charlock had pulled back and held onto Poppy's hands and looked her in the eyes.

“You're here,” she said, and that's when Poppy saw it. The lie.

“You knew,” Poppy blurted.

Charlock's grip lessened and fear shadowed her face.

“You knew,” Poppy accused. “You knew he wasn't a chaff, that he wouldn't die. You lied to me.”

“Because I love you,” Charlock whispered.

Poppy shook her head. “Because you want me to be queen!”

“Because I am your mother.” Poppy let go of Charlock's hands and walked away. Charlock called after her in a voice shrill with guilt, “Why aren't you with him then, if you love him so? You want to be queen, that's why! Well, let me help you. Poppy! . . . Poppy! Don't walk away from me!”

All night Poppy had tried to summon up the anger that had fueled her over the years, but none came. The tank was empty, so the next morning she just parked herself there in the camp and pretended to listen and look like she was interested. After a while
even that became hard. With every word spoken and every plan made, Poppy switched off a little more.

She just wanted to be left to be. She needed time, time to grieve, then time to be a witch before she became a queen. The idea of ruling and governing and being responsible for so much and so many and sitting above all these other venerable women with their lifetimes' worth of experience seemed inconceivable to her. Who was she compared to they?
Nobody
, came the answer in her head.

Sorrel's eyelashes never flickered, and even the eyeballs were motionless beneath their flimsy lids. Her muscles never twitched. For a moment, even two, Poppy longed for such escape—a neverending, dreamless slumber. She felt so weary, like she had aged and her youth was drifting away, a chick's down on the breeze, never to return. How easy it would be to sleep and never have to wake again. And then Poppy felt guilty wishing for such a thing when this girl was lying there, sleeping her life away.
All because of me
, she thought.
Another victim of the prophecy.
She had tried so hard to undo the damage done. Melanie, John, Ember, and Leo. Now, she realized, now it was Sorrel's turn.

Poppy shut her eyes and stilled her mind, stopping ideas before they could become thought, hushing the conversation in her head until there was only her heart beating, pumping the blood through her veins. Poppy wasn't aware of the light that started to glow around her. She wasn't conscious of any of it. But this aura shimmered and sparkled like sunlight on sea and fireflies in
night. The colors radiated green and blue, yellow and purple, red and pink like a rainbow, each blending into the other and spreading beyond Poppy to Sorrel, surrounding her sleeping form. Its warmth touched every nerve on Sorrel's body, permeating her skin. Slowly, so very slowly, Sorrel's gray and pallid features became infused with life and a pinkness returned to her lips and cheeks, like a sketch transforming into a watercolor.

Sorrel's eyes moved beneath her lids and her lashes flickered.

As she walked away from the camp, Poppy could hear the cries of jubilation growing louder with each step she took. She couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as she imagined them gathering around Sorrel, marveling at her recovery and tending to her needs. For the healing that had happened that day was not just Sorrel's; it was Poppy's too and theirs. Limb by limb, organ by organ, Poppy felt revived. The same warmth and glow that ran within Sorrel's veins ran within her own. The energy that had seeped away on seeing Leo and Ember now came surging back to her. It got her to her feet and walked her to the door. It sent her out of the camp and through the forest. It grasped her destiny and made her stretch and shape it to her own will.

When Poppy reached the cliff tops, she stopped. There were no signs of the conflict to be found, as if all traces of the violence and suffering had melted away with the snow. Only small patches of white remained; otherwise the landscape seemed untouched. There were no corpses, no debris or broken branches from the
trees. Even the sea winds seemed calm today. It was as if the battle had never happened, as if it were all a dream. So unreal, it felt, that Poppy had a sudden urge to go back into town, to that house on Wavendon Close, to check if life was as she had left it in September. A troubled teenage girl moving into town, starting a new school, friendless, naive, and ignorant.

Then Poppy saw it, a glint of pink among the bracken. Never letting it out of her sight, Poppy crossed the ground until she reached it. Stooping down, she picked it up. Leo's heart stone. Her heart stone. She held it up to the light and watched it shine.

Poppy went to the cliff's edge and looked out over the ocean. She remembered the view from up high on her crystal mountaintop; all those places across the waves she could discover and get lost in; how vast the world, how insignificant her troubles. Tilting her face to the sky, she stretched her neck upward, readying herself for her journey. Then, swift and sure, she bent and tore a strip from her skirt and, with it, tied the crystal to her ankle. Standing tall once more, Poppy shut her eyes and her mouth began to move, though the words were silent. The wind swirled around her, blustering fiercely until she wasn't there anymore, only a pile of clothes lying on the ground where she had stood.

From the clothes emerged a bird—a swallow, small and slight. Its tiny feet pushed upward; its wings unfurled. Off it flew, over the cliff, diving downward, falling fast, carrying on its leg a twist of cloth. Then, just as it neared the water, too fast, too hard, upward it soared, skimming the surface and carrying droplets on its feathers as it floated through the air, out over the sea, gliding into and beyond the clouds.