The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

gazed at the confident handwriting, which looked as fresh as the day it had flowed from an expensive fountain pen, and he wondered if the drawing was in any way a good representation of Sylvia de Lacy. If it was, then she was exceedingly glamorous.

      ‘So who was the “bluenose”?’ he asked. ‘And Holly? Was that the dog in the letterhead?’

      ‘No idea,’ Cherry said, starting to unwrap the bundle that was now on her knee. ‘Holly might have been her cook or parlourmaid. Sylvia was seriously loaded. This cottage was her idea of a beach hut. Apparently her Rolls Royce was always blocking Church Street. Only rich witch I ever heard of and that’s because she was born into it. Now what’s this?’

      She had removed two layers and only one remained, but sandwiched between the second and third was another note. This was a folded scrap of torn paper and had been there long before Sylvia had written hers.

      ‘It’s like pass the parcel,’ chuckled Lil.

      Cherry gave the message her attention, which was written in thick black pencil.

      ‘You better read it,’ she said to Lil.

      Puzzled, Lil took the tattered note and let out a cry of disbelief.

      ‘What is it?’ Verne demanded. ‘What does it say?’

      His friend passed it to him and, though his mouth opened and closed, he was too stunned to speak.

       Lil Wilson, this is for you!

      ‘Got to be a coincidence,’ Lil said. ‘It can’t mean me me.’

      ‘Don’t be daft!’ Verne said, giving it back. ‘Course it’s you. Check out the handwriting!’

      Lil took another look and gasped even louder. ‘It’s not possible,’ she breathed. ‘But . . . but – it looks like mine.’

      Cherry slumped back in the wicker chair and whistled through her teeth.

      ‘Dip me in glitter and throw me to a mob of roller-skating pixies!’ she declared. ‘This is turning out to be one head-fry of a day and it’s still not lunchtime. Here, Lil, this is undeniably yours, kiddo. A present out of the past to you, from you.’

      Lil took the bundle almost fearfully, questions exploding in her head like fireworks. Carefully she unwrapped the last layer of protective cloth and gazed at the uncovered object.

      It was a plain and shallow wooden box, with tarnished brass hinges and a simple clasp locking the two halves together.

      ‘P’raps there’s magic wands inside?’ Verne suggested. ‘You might’ve sent yourself a witch kit.’

      ‘We’ve got enough of those in the shop already,’ Lil reminded him. ‘Besides, Cherry says real witches don’t use them.’

      ‘A set of magic knitting needles then?’ he said. ‘Hurry up and open it!’

      ‘Yes,’ Jack Potts joined in. ‘I too am curious.’

      ‘Curious, my eye!’ Cherry cried. ‘I’m so stoked, I’m gonna need fresh underwear! Put me and my gusset out of our misery, for crying out loud!’

      Lil fumbled with the clasp. It was stiff and took several moments of fiddly struggle before she could lift the lid.

      Gazing inside, she gave a delighted laugh and angled the box around for everyone to see.

      ‘It’s paints!’ she exclaimed. ‘An antique box of . . . watercolours, I think. No wonder you thought your colours were being reflected back at you.’

      The lower half was divided into seven compartments for the blocks of pigment and a narrow channel for the brush.

      Verne couldn’t conceal his disappointment. He’d expected something far more dramatic and otherworldly.

      ‘Maybe they paint the future or something?’ he said.

      ‘They’ve never been used,’ Cherry observed. ‘Not so much as a spot of spit ever touched them.’

      Lil prised out an ochre-coloured brick and examined it closely. It was slightly larger than a piece of Lego. Stamped on to the surface was a relief of a camel and, on the reverse, the pigment’s name – Sahara Sand.

      ‘They’ve all got little images on them,’ she said. ‘The white one has a cup and saucer; the red has a beetle; the yellow is a bit weird, looks like a starved cow – you can see the ribs.’

      ‘Might be Indian Yellow,’ Cherry suggested. ‘The way they used to make that was gross. They fed cattle nothing but mango leaves, which did them no good whatsoever, then they boiled down the urine to a stinky powder.’

      ‘Says Scourge Yellow,’ said Lil, reading the back.

      ‘Never heard of that one.’

      ‘What’s there, in the middle?’ Verne asked.

      The brick in the centre space was wrapped in creamy linen, embroidered at the edges.

      ‘Looks like a hanky,’ Lil said, carefully peeling away the fabric.

      ‘Perhaps that colour is Bogey Green,’ Verne said, grinning.

      ‘You’re kidding me!’ Lil blurted, but she wasn’t talking to him. She was staring at the object that had been cocooned in the handkerchief. It wasn’t paint at all. It was a badge, made of polymer clay, one of the handmade badges that she made for the shop and often wore herself.

      ‘Wow,’ was all Verne could say.

      ‘That settles it then,’ Cherry declared. ‘Remember that old sepia photograph of Victorian Whitby I showed you, with a girl in it who looked like you? That’s the very badge she was wearing.’

      ‘So I do go back in time,’ Lil whispered, trying to take it in and convince herself this was real. ‘But how? And why? And why do I send myself this paintbox? Why didn’t I write a proper note explaining it all? Am I supposed to do something special with it?’

      Cherry gazed at the Whitby witch brooch and clicked her fingernails, lost in thought.

      ‘When did you make that particular badge?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Was it recent?’

      ‘I haven’t made any for months,’ the girl answered. ‘And I’m sure I’ve never made one quite like this before.’

      ‘You must have,’ Verne said. ‘It’s absolutely one of yours – a green-faced, goofy witch.’

      His friend shook her head. ‘I’ve never made one holding a turnip lantern,’ she said firmly.

      ‘Could you make me one?’ Cherry asked. ‘Just the same as that? Exactly the same, in every detail?’

      ‘You can have this if you want. I’ve got lots at home.’

      ‘No, you have to keep that, it’s been waitin’ for you a long time. I just want a copy.’

      Lil nodded vaguely. She was more concerned about what all this meant.

      ‘What if,’ she began. ‘What if this is a warning? Do I get stuck there, back in the past? I might never be able to get come back here – to now. What happens to me? I might die decades before I’m even born.’

      ‘Hey,’ Cherry said sharply. ‘Quit the hysteria. I told you being a witch came with a hat full of curve balls. So you go back in time, big deal; some witches are always skippin’ in and out of the centuries, that’s their job. It’s gonna happen to you and there’s nothing you can do to change that; it’s part of established history now so get over it. Whatever you do has already been done. Start thinkin’ too