She opened the door and stepped outside. It was raining hard. Nothing she could do about that. That required big magic, to stop rain like this. Thank goodness she had made Danny get his raincoat out of the cupboard under the stairs the night before!

The end of the lane where it met the fields was lost to sight. The mist was rising nicely. Just a little concoction she had cobbled together to stop Frank Hartford from getting out of the village, or so she thought. If he did leave the house the mist would close in on him and he would get lost, and she would be able to find him and bring him back to the house with no trouble at all. That was the theory. She started off toward the next house, knowing full well that the Johnstons would be out. There was a remote chance that they had stayed in today, or she may be able to get in through an open window and use their phone.

                 Unlikely.

            In any case, the Johnstons would be no help at all.

            Even in a small, close-knit community like Sharringford, no one went out and left windows and doors open. Everywhere she looked the village was deserted. She had a good view to the south, east and west. In every direction the view ended in mist. Her mist. Grey, swirling clouds of mist, grey, drifting sheets of rain.

                 Joanna shivered and smiled.

            The Johnstons were out.

            Their house was locked.

            And the next house, and the next. It didn't matter. None of the neighbours, none of the inhabitants of the village would serve her purpose, except Adam and Katy, Lucy and Pocha. All the other members of the coven lived miles away from Sharringford, but it was as well to check on who was still around before she put her plan into action.

            She decided to walk as far as the shops. Pocha, the newsagent, he would be there, of course. He was always there. Six o'clock in the morning until eight thirty in the evening. Seven days a week. Naturally the village alone could not support him. He must have some other income. It was a sub post-office, for a start. Anyway, it was none of her business how he made his living. He probably used what little bit of magic he had learned to augment his income.

She just wanted to use the phone.

                 Joanna could see, as she approached the small parade of shops that two of them, the hairdresser's and the butcher's were closed and in darkness. The newsagent's shop was open, the lights were on, and she could see him moving about inside.

            The bell rang as she pushed the door open, shaking her hands and watching the rainwater drip off them onto his clean floor. Piles of soggy newspapers waiting to be despatched lay strewn across the floor. All of his delivery boys came from outside the village.

                 'Joanna!' Pocha greeted her with a beaming smile. He was a thin, gaunt man, quite tall, with a blotchy skin. He wore an old, threadbare brown suit.      

'Hallo, Jehengir, would you mind if I used your telephone? I'll pay for the call, of course, it is important.'

            'Please help yourself,' he said, nodding his head enthusiastically. She supposed he was Pakistani. He did not wear a turban, so again she assumed that he was not a Sikh. She didn't really know much about him at all except that he had joined their little group and gave them a valuable insight into the power of yoga and breathing techniques for achieving simple things like bringing someone to you and making them talk to you. More white magic than black, but he was committed, she knew that from the way he talked. He was a popular man with the people of the village, always ready to stop and chat and not really minding if you didn't buy anything from his little shop.

Joanna smiled and picked up the handset, knowing before she put it to her ear that there would be nothing. It was dead. She shivered again, not because she was wet. It felt as though someone had blown cold air up the back of her shirt, and she could feel goosebumps. But it was not because she was wet. It was a shiver of anticipation. The course she had set herself upon was one that would have far-reaching consequences. For Frank. For her. For Danny. Danny! Where was Danny? Pocha had probably seen him earlier. He must be walking to school because of the bus crash. Easy to say, more difficult to establish. She tried to reach him, make contact with him, but there was something in the way, some kind of barrier. The mist? She didn't think so. It was bad, whatever it was, and for the first time that morning since Frank had raped her, she felt uneasy. Nothing major, just the unmistakable feeling that something other than her little bir of magic, her mist, was abroad in the village.

            'Yours is out of order too.'

            'No, surely not?'

He frowned and tried the telephone.

            'Well, this is strange,' he observed.

            'I expect they'll fix it soon.'

            'Oh, yes, indeed.'

            'Did you see Danny this morning?'

                 'Danny? Oh, yes. Yes.'

'Do you know if anyone is left in the village this morning? Apart from you and me?'

'Sorry.'

'Are you available for a meeting tonight? It's important. Something has cropped up that needs to be dealt with.'

'Oh, yes! Certainly. What time?'

'Seven thirty. If you see the others, please tell them.'

She did not have time to check on every house in Sharringford. They would have to take their chances. She paid for the paper and leaving the shop started to walk quickly back home, feeling the rain hard on her back. In front of the Discovery were the sodden bodies of two dead crows. Crows were much larger than she had realised. Maybe they were rooks after all. Weren't rooks larger than crows?