‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ said Tom. Before he knew what he was doing, he launched himself at Jack, and with a sudden movement tore the flute from his neck. The chain snapped, and then he was holding it, feeling its warmth beneath his fingers, the breath of Tanenwod. He saw Jack’s look of surprise and the Captive’s quizzical expression.

Springing forwards, Jack wrested the flute back from Tom.

They fought. Tom hung off Jack’s wrist, trying to force open his grip. The old man was strong and savage and managed to fling him away, only for Zita to run at him and knock the flute out of his hand.

It dropped onto the ground and rolled away. Tom was on it in a second.

The note that came out was surprisingly rich and deep.

There was silence. The little group stood in a circle, in the darkness, lit only by the pale flames of the lamps, Tom in the centre, Jack by himself, chest puffed out and head raised high, Zita, crouched in a defensive position, near the Captive, who stood with one knee bent, a slight grin on her face, and Kit lying on his side, white and downcast.

There was a sound like the bird scarers Tom had heard when he’d first arrived at Mundham Farm. The ground shook.

Jack said, ‘What have you done?’ He sounded hoarse, perplexed. ‘What have you done? What spell is this? I do not know it. I do not know it! It’s …’ Tom blew the flute again and the note swelled. Jack shuddered, and the bird scarers grew louder, and they were drums, beating loud and wild.

‘Your powers give way, James Swinton. You see. Now.’

‘I don’t understand. My wards are breaking. This world is breaking apart.’

There was a terrible scream from James, as if he were being run through with a sword, and the world swung from side to side. Everything lurched and Tom was reminded of the sickening movement of the boat during the storm that killed his parents, and then everything righted again.

Immediately Tom could smell the fresh Suffolk air. He almost dropped to the ground right there and kissed the grass. He was even grateful to hear the sound, somewhere in the near distance, of a motor.

They were standing on the island, in daylight, the farmhouse in its warm red brick behind them, the spire of the church beyond, and above them the clouds were gathering, and the Captive started to sing, and somehow Tom knew what she was singing.

She was singing that the Wildmark were riding, that the Storm was coming, that the Deep were here. From out of a black cloud swooped a hawk, and then another, plunging like an arrow to the bridge, and the Captive held her arms out and greeted them with joy. A thunderclap rumbled and lightning forked through the grey skies. The wind was rising.