Free The Sword of Straw by Amanda Hemingway

parent-to-parent overtures. When he had gone, she picked up the phone.
    “Barty?”
    “Yes?”
    “Can you see the future in the smoke as well as the past?”
    “Sometimes,” he said. “But there are many futures. What you see may not always come true. The future can be changed, if you are resolute.”
    Annie waved this irrelevance aside. “A man just came in and bought a grimoire. I can’t tell if he’s the man in your picture—it could be a coincidence—but—”
    “There are no coincidences in magic,” Bartlemy said. “Did you get a chance to learn his name?”
    “No,” Annie said, “but I recognized him. I’ve seen him at Ffylde, at the carol service. He must have a son there.”
    There was a thoughtful silence.
    “What was in the book?” Bartlemy asked.
    “I never really looked at it. Drawings I think—sigils and stuff. Incantations in Latin—you told me those don’t normally work. Some handwritten notes at the back. I don’t remember anything else.”
    “A pity. Still…”
    “If you had told me to check any grimoires in stock, I would have done,” Annie said with dignity.
    “I know. Magic is invariably unpredictable. You’d think I would have learned that by now. But at least we have the link with Ffylde: that’s something.”
    “Do you think he’s the father of that boy you were so interested in?” Annie inquired. “The one who’s always in trouble.”
    “That,” Bartlemy said gently, “really
would
be a coincidence.”
    “Would it?” Annie said.
     
    I T WAS a couple of weeks before Nathan had the chance to tell his uncle what he had learned about the Hackforths. “Dear me,” Bartlemy said. “I seem to have shown my curiosity very plainly. First your mother catches me out, now you. And I thought I was being subtle.”
    “Oh, you were,” Nathan said. “Hazel and George didn’t notice anything. Mum and I are more observant—and we know you better.”
    Bartlemy smiled. “I must be more careful,” he said.
    Nathan was sitting on the hearth rug in the living room where he had sat when he was a baby, while Hoover rolled onto his back to have his tummy rubbed. “I ran into Damon the other day on the stairs,” he remarked. “I mean, literally. He was sprinting down two steps at a time and he clouted me with his shoulder, I think it was an accident but I don’t know. I sort of stumbled and said something—
Look out, look where you’re going
—something like that. Anyway, he swore at me like it was my fault. A bit later he stopped me in the corridor. ‘You’re the wonderboy, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Keep out of my way.’ He looked like he really hated me. It was bizarre, I don’t know why he should even know who I am—or care. He’s four years ahead of me.”
    “What did you say?” Bartlemy asked.
    “Nothing. I was pretty surprised—and the whole thing seemed awfully silly. You know, as if he was the bad guy in a Western:
This school ain’t big enough for the both of us.
Stupid.”
    “Well done,” said Bartlemy. “As Kipling put it:
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs…
Restraint is a rare gift at your age.”
    My head is the problem,
Nathan thought ruefully. Aloud he said: “There must be something behind it. Are you going to tell me?”
    “Tell you what?”
    “What you know—or guess.”
    Bartlemy was silent for a long moment, considering. “What I know is very little,” he said. “I wondered about the attempted burglary here, that’s all. I learned that the two boys involved were advised by a very expensive lawyer, the kind they wouldn’t get on legal aid. Among other people, this lawyer has previously worked for Giles Hackforth, in a matter concerning his son. The connection is very tenuous, you see. I’m trusting you not to discuss this with anyone.”
    “Not even Mum?” Nathan said.
    “That’s different. I wouldn’t ask you to have secrets from Annie.” Nathan looked a shade disappointed, possibly because