I heard people talking about him. Some thought he was still wet behind the ears—far too young for the job. Others had kinder words. They said he was polite, hardworking, and brave. In Chipenden it was said that, as a new apprentice, still well short of his thirteenth birthday, he’d saved a young child from the clutches of a dangerous witch.

Whatever his gifts, it didn’t sound very promising. Surely he wasn’t much more than an apprentice himself, too young to train someone else. . . . But I went to Chipenden anyway to have a look at him.

I liked him at first sight.

He was young but really good-looking, apart from a faint scar that ran down his cheek. He seemed nice, but my gift of empathy told me that he was in torment. He was full of sadness at the death of his master; there was anger there too. He had been very fond of a girl who had eventually betrayed him.

Before I approached him, I found out as much information as I could. I was delighted to learn that we shared a birthday—the third of August. It was a sign, and he was exactly two years older than I was. This time I was much more careful than when I’d spied on Spook Johnson; I used my gift of invisibility.

Finally he agreed to train me.

What I have dreamed of has finally happened.

At last I am a spook’s apprentice!

16

The Bones of Little Children

TWO days ago, the bell rang at the crossroads. I perked up at that. At last there might be some local spook’s business to deal with, the traditional County sort that many generations of apprentices had cut their teeth on. Tom had begun my training, and it was interesting, but this was the real thing!

So, carrying my staff and Tom Ward’s bag, and wearing my new cloak, I followed him toward the withy trees, excited at the prospect of some sort of adventure. Little did I know how it would turn out and how differently I would feel afterward.

I could feel the sadness emanating from the woman’s mind even before we moved into the gloom beneath the willows and saw her properly. She was in torment. She’d stopped ringing the bell and was standing with her back against a tree trunk, with tears streaming down her face. She was young, no more than twenty-five, but her face was haggard with grief.

“My little girl’s missing!” she cried out as we approached. “A witch has her!”

“Where are you from?” Tom asked calmly, with a sympathetic smile.

“Ribchester,” she sobbed.

It was a village southeast of the Long Ridge, less than half a day’s walk away. I’d visited it more than once on my travels.

“And when did your child go missing?” Tom asked. “It might just be that she wandered off. . . . Why are you so sure that a witch is involved?”

My initial excitement faded a little. Tom was right. The child might just have wandered off and gotten lost. Things like that happened all the time. There’d been an old woman in our village who some people thought was a witch. But it was just a lot of nonsense. She was lonely and talked to her cat, that was all. This might not be spook’s business after all.