Free White Crow by Marcus Sedgwick

but like everything else about the place it could do with some attention.
    The house itself is big, very big, with a crazy mix of architecture, pointed Victorian gables on the front, giving way to an older stone building at the back.
    Once again feeling as if she’s in a lite-bite movie, she hesitates at the threshold of Ferelith’s world. Maybe she’s not in, maybe she’s busy, maybe she’s got friends, maybe she doesn’t want Rebecca to call anyway.
    ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Rebecca says out loud and, feeling nervous, though without knowing why, she crunches across the weed strewn gravel and gives the doorbell a long push.
    Nothing happens for a while, but she can hear sounds inside, so she tries again and eventually the door opens.
    It’s not Ferelith, but a young guy, maybe twenty-something. The first thing Rebecca notices is that he smells. His hair is long, dreads reach down his back. He’s unshaven and dressed as if he’s going to work in the garden, even though he clearly isn’t. He’s just woken up.
    He stands and stares at Rebecca, and straightens his back; she tends to have that effect on most males.
    ‘Er . . . Hi. Is Ferelith in?’ she asks.
    The young man nods, and turns, heading off into the gloom. Inside the house it’s surprisingly dark given the bright sunlight outside.
    ‘Where is she?’ Rebecca calls after the disappearing figure.
    ‘In her room.’
    ‘Which is?’ she says, starting to feel a little frustrated.
    He points up the stairs.
    ‘Keep right, head to the back of the house. Big black door.’
    He goes into the kitchen, the door of which swings shut behind him, and Rebecca’s left alone in the hall.
    She looks about, and can’t quite work out what’s going on. She’s never been in an English country rectory before. There’s an old umbrella stand by the front door, with three battered umbrellas in it; there’s a mirrored hall table, and various old paintings of quaint rural scenes. But then there are other unexpected paintings, disturbing abstracts and even more disturbing figures. Bodies.
    And there’s the sound of music coming from somewhere upstairs, but it’s not Chopin or Brahms, it’s some weird noise with shifting beats and detuned guitars.
    And rather than burnt toast and marmalade coming from the kitchen, it’s the smell of dope.
    Rebecca heads upstairs, and follows the directions the hippy guy gave her.
    In front of her is a big black door, just as he said.
    From behind it comes more music, which again Rebecca can’t place.
    She approaches, and knocks on the door, twice, hard.
    It opens, and Ferelith is standing there. Somehow Rebecca is not surprised that Ferelith can even do goth in her sleep-wear, but she can. She’s wearing loose dark grey cotton shorts down to her knees, and a baggy black T-shirt. She looks deadly somehow.
    For a second Rebecca thinks she might be angry, but then realises that she’s just thrown.
    Ferelith smiles.
    ‘So,’ she says, resting her weight on one hip. ‘You came.’

    1798, 10m, 3d.
    It was Dr Barrieux himself who solved the problem.
    At last, he had come to dine with me, having kept himself to the Hall for the duration of our labours.
    Our views differ greatly. In fact, aside from the single fact that we share the same objective, our views on what is meant by every term we use could not be more different.
    If I say, - Hell, then the doctor says to me, - describe Hell!
    And when I do, he merely laughs.
    And if I mention the celestial realm of our wonderful Lord, he laughs twice as hard.
    And yet, when I say, - Doctor, so tell me, where are your daughter and your wife now? Where are they? Tell me! Where are they? He falls silent and will not work for the rest of the day.
    We each have our demons, but whatever they may be, there still remained the problem to solve, and so we turned our talk to that end.
    We need souls. In short, we need people, and we were both at a loss as to how to tempt them to cross the