I am lying on the lawn in the back garden watching ants building a nest in the grass. The ants look big. I can see the details of their bodies, how their legs move and march and climb.

Arran comes to sit by me. He asks me how I am and how school is going, the sort of stuff Arran is interested in. I tell him about the ants, where they are going and what they are doing.

Out of the blue he says, “Are you proud that Marcus is your father, Nathan?”

The ants carry on with their work, but I no longer care.

“Nathan?”

I turn to Arran, and he meets my gaze with that open and honest look of his.

“He’s such a powerful witch, the most powerful of all. You must be proud of that?”

Arran has never asked me about my father before.

Never.

And even though I trust him above anyone, trust him completely, I’m afraid to answer. Gran has drummed into me that I must never talk about Marcus.

Never.

I must never answer questions about him.

Any answer can be twisted or misinterpreted by the Council. Any indication that a White Witch sympathizes with any Black Witch is seen as treacherous. All Black Witches are tracked down by Hunters under the direction of the Council. If they are captured alive they suffer Retribution. Any White Witch who aids a Black is executed. I have to prove to everyone, at all times, that I am a White Witch, my loyalties are to Whites and my thoughts are pure White.

Gran has told me that if anyone asks me how I feel about Marcus I must say I hate him. If I can’t say that, then the only safe answer is no answer.

But this is Arran.

I want to be honest with him.

“Do you admire him?” Arran presses.

I know Arran better than anyone, and we talk about most things, but we have never talked about Marcus. We have never even talked about Arran’s father. My father killed his father. What can you say about that?

And yet . . . I want to confide in someone, and Arran is the best and only person I can trust with my feelings. And he is looking at me in that way he has, all kindness and concern.

But what if I say to him, “Yes, I admire the man who killed your father,” or “Yes, I’m proud that Marcus is my dad. He is the most powerful Black Witch and his blood runs in my veins.” What will happen?

Still he presses me, “Do you? Do you admire Marcus?”

His eyes are so pale and so sincere, pleading with me to share my feelings.

I have to look down. The ants are still busy, evacuees carrying huge loads to a new home.

I answer Arran as quietly as I can.

“What did you say?” he asks.

I still keep my head down. But I say it a little louder.

“I hate him.”

At that moment a pair of bare feet appears by the ant’s nest. Arran’s feet.

Arran is standing in front of me and he is sitting beside me. Two Arrans. The one sitting down scowls and then transforms before my eyes back into Jessica, looking cramped inside Arran’s T-shirt and shorts.

Jessica leans across and hisses at me, “You knew. You knew all along it was me, didn’t you?”

Arran and I watch her stomp off.

He asks, “How could you tell it wasn’t me?”

“I couldn’t.”

Not by looking at her anyway. Her Gift is impressive.

After that first attempt at using her Gift to trick me, Jessica doesn’t give up. Her disguises are flawless, and her determination and persistence equal to them. But her problem is a fundamental one that she is incapable of understanding: Arran would never try to get me to talk about my father.

Still, Jessica keeps trying. And whenever I get suspicious that Arran is really Jessica I reach out to touch him, to stroke the back of his hand or take hold of his arm. If it’s Arran, he smiles and grabs my hand in both of his. If it’s Jessica she flinches. She never manages to control that.

One evening Deborah comes into our bedroom, sits on Arran’s bed, and reads her book. It’s just the sort of thing Deborah does; she crosses her legs like Deborah does, has her head to one side like Deborah does, but still I’m suspicious. She listens to Arran and me talk for a minute or two. She seems to be reading the book; she turns a page.

Arran goes to brush his teeth.

I sit next to Deborah, not too close. But I can smell her hair isn’t right.

I lean toward her, saying, “Let me tell you a secret.”

She smiles at me.

I say, “Your smell is so revolting, Jessica. I’m going to be sick if you don’t leave. . . .”

She spits in my face and walks out before Arran comes back in.

I do have a secret, though. A secret so dark, so hopeless, so absurd that I can never share it with anyone. It is a secret story that I tell myself when I’m in bed at night. My father is not evil at all; he is powerful and strong. And he cares about me . . . he loves me. And he wants to bring me up as his true son, to teach me about witchcraft, to show me the world. But he is constantly persecuted by White Witches who give him no opportunity to explain. They hound him and hunt him but he only attacks them when he has no alternative, when they threaten him. It’s too dangerous for him to risk having me with him. He wants me to be safe, and so I have to be brought up away from him. But he is waiting for the right time to come for me and take me away with him. On my seventeenth birthday he wants to give me three gifts and give me his blood, the blood of our ancestors. And I lie in bed and imagine that one night he will come for me and we will fly away through the night together.

A Long Way off

Seventeen

We are in the woods near Gran’s house. The air is still and damp; the autumn leaves lie thick on the soft, muddy ground. The sky is flat and gray like an old sheet laid out to dry over the black branches of the trees. Jessica is holding a small dagger, her hands flat in front of her. The blade is sharp and bright. Jessica is smirking and trying to catch my eye.

Deborah stands slightly hunched, but she is smiling and calm, her empty cupped hands held out in front of her. In Gran’s hands are a brooch that had been her grandmother’s, my mother’s engagement ring, and a cufflink that belonged to Deborah’s father. Gran slowly lowers her hands over Deborah’s. Their hands touch. Gran carefully passes the gifts to Deborah, saying, “Deborah, I give you three things so that you can receive one Gift.” Then Gran takes the knife and cuts the palm of her own hand into the fleshy pad below her left thumb. Blood runs down her wrist; a few drops fall to the ground. She holds her hand out and Deborah bends forward, puts her mouth round the cut, her lips tight on Gran’s skin. Gran leans toward her and whispers the secret words in Deborah’s ear, and Deborah’s throat moves as she swallows the blood. I strain to hear the spell, but the words are like the sound of wind rustling leaves.

The spell ends. Deborah, eyes closed, swallows one last time before releasing Gran’s hand and standing straight.

And that is it. Deborah is no longer a whet; she is a true White Witch.

I glance over to Arran. He looks solemn but smiles at me before turning to hug Deborah. I wait my turn to give my congratulations.

I say, “I am pleased for you.” And I am. I hug Deborah, but there is nothing else I can say, so I walk off into the woods.

Another notification arrived that morning, before Deborah’s Giving.

Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

It is forbidden to hold a Giving Ceremony for a whet of mixed White Witch and Black Witch parentage (Half Code: W 0.5/B 0.5) or mixed White Witch and Fain parentage (Half Blood: W 0.5/F 0.5) without the permission of the Council of White Witches. Any witch disobeying this Notification will be considered to be working against the Council. Any Half Code accepting gifts or blood without permission of the Council will be considered to be defying the Council and corrupting White Witches. The penalty for all concerned will be imprisonment for life.