Katharine Corr - The Witch’s Tears

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,

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London, SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text © Katharine and Elizabeth Corr 2017

Cover design © Blacksheep-uk.com

Ice © Shutterstock

Katharine and Elizabeth Corr assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of the work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008182991

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008188443

Version: 2016-12-07

For our mum, who was beautiful both inside and out.

E.C.

In memory of Geoff, for his love and enthusiasm.

K.C.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Books by Katharine and Elizabeth Corr

About the Publisher

Jack was sprawled on the grass, gazing up at the blue sky. Merry was lying next to him, leaning on one elbow. She had a paperback open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was studying Jack’s face: the line of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips as he thought of something and grinned.

‘What’s funny?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, really. I’m just enjoying the sunshine. Enjoying the fact that you are here, and Gwydion is not.’

‘Gwydion?’ Merry searched her memory. ‘He was a wizard, wasn’t he?’ She glanced back at her book. The paperback had gone, replaced by pages of parchment bound together with a leather cord. That was weird. But she didn’t really want to read, anyway – she wanted to feel Jack’s lips against hers. Tossing the manuscript aside, she shifted so she was lying right next to him.

Jack smiled, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Eventually Merry drew away and rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I’ve missed that so much.’ She shivered a little; the warmth of the day was fading and there were dark clouds gathering in the north. ‘You know, I think it’s about to rain. Let’s go.’ She sat up and reached for her bag.

But Jack didn’t move.

‘Jack?’ She nudged him. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

He shook his head, not looking at her.

‘You know I can’t come with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m dead, Merry. You killed me, remember? True love’s kiss?’

He pulled the front of his shirt open and Merry saw a gaping wound across the centre of his chest, dark with dried blood.

‘Oh God …’ She pressed her hand to her mouth.

‘There wasn’t a happy ever after, Merry. Not for us.’

And now she could see that Jack’s lips were pale and waxy, and his eyes were cloudy, unfocused …

Merry gasped and sat up.

It was a dream. Just a dream. Or at least –

She brushed her fingers against her lips. It had felt real. He had felt real.

Grief swelled painfully in her chest. She pulled the duvet back up and curled into a ball on her side, hugging her knees, waiting for the hurt to fade. It was nearly two weeks since she’d last dreamt about Jack, or had a nightmare about Gwydion. More than three months since she and Leo had escaped from the Black Lake. Sometimes – on days when she was busy, or surrounded by people – it seemed like longer. But then a fragment of memory would stab at her, make her catch her breath, and the whole thing could have happened yesterday.

There was a photo of Merry and her brother on her bedside table. In the photo, Leo was smiling. She tried – failed – to recall the last time she’d seen him look that happy. Today was the first morning of the summer holidays. But the brighter the sunshine, the more they both seemed to be lost in the shadow.

She wiped a tear away from her cheek. The day began.

MERRY WAS SITTINGagainst the trunk of the oak tree in Gran’s back garden, eyes half closed against the mid-afternoon glare, the bare skin on her arms and legs prickling from the grass and the heat. Her fingernails still ached from the surge of magic she’d just unleashed, and the back of one hand stung. When the potion had exploded, it had sprayed across the kitchen, a few drops escaping Gran’s hastily conjured protective screen. Gran had been testing her, watching her make yet another healing salve. Twenty-plus herbs that all had to be correctly prepared and added in precisely the right order, supposedly. Merry had merely tried to … speed things up. It hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

But it might have worked. If Gran had just let me finish what I was trying to do.

And if Gran hadn’t suggested – for the second time in the last fortnight – that Merry needed to go back to the Black Lake. Right at the moment when she’d been trying to concentrate.

She ripped a tuft of grass out of the dry soil. Being a witch meant becoming familiar with hundreds of years’ worth of spells and techniques and history. Merry understood the necessity, sort of. She had to be able to cast spells with the other witches so that she could become a full member of the coven. Witchcraft was a team sport. Or at least it was supposed to be.