The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

and a frail lady in her seventies hobbled out with a stick.

      ‘Wait!’ the neighbour called. ‘Don’t disappear just yet.’

      Cherry braced herself. Mrs Gregson was not the most agreeable of neighbours.

      ‘What is it this time, Joan?’ she began. ‘My breathing keepin’ you awake at night again? And I can’t help it if I yelp when I wax my particulars. You’d know what that felt like if you let me take care of that moustache for you.’

      The woman ignored her and jabbed a finger at Verne.

      ‘Saw this lad go by,’ she said, ‘and I have to give him something.’

      She pulled out a purse. ‘Here’s what’s left of my pension this week,’ she said, tipping out a paltry seven pounds. ‘This was supposed to last me another five days.’

      She thrust it at Verne, but he stepped away.

      ‘Stand still!’ she demanded. ‘I can’t catch you with this dodgy hip. If I fall and end up in hospital, it’ll be your fault.’

      Verne could tell she was deadly earnest, so he took the money, intending to post it back through her letter box later.

      Mrs Gregson hadn’t finished. The pensioner leaned heavily on her stick and twisted her wedding ring off.

      ‘Worn this over fifty year,’ she said. ‘But here, have it. You want me to get on me knees and grovel?’

      Verne shook his head and took the proffered ring without resistance.

      ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Cherry demanded.

      ‘Witchery!’ Mrs Gregson spat back, and tears were coursing down her face. ‘What else would it be, with the likes of you next door – and her what lived there before you? Always been a witch’s cottage that one. When will you leave us ordinary Whitby folk in peace? When?’

      Kissing her naked finger, she returned to her own home.

      ‘You got an Everest of explainin’ to do,’ Cherry told Verne. ‘Get inside.’

      Clutching the wedding ring and the seven pounds, the boy obeyed.

      The hallway of Cherry Cerise’s cottage was a delicate pink and smelled of roses and berries until she closed the door behind them. Then the walls dipped into a shade of violet.

      Verne had grown accustomed to the interior changing colour to match the witch’s mood. What he wasn’t expecting was to find his best friend Lil sitting cross-legged and perfectly still on a chaise longue, with filaments of faint amber-coloured light threading and tangling around her raised hands. A stream of the same glimmering energy flowed from the centre of her forehead, slowly forming a halo around her.

      ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s all that?’

      Lil grinned at him and the shifting lattice of light flickered.

      ‘Quick, take a photo with my phone!’ she urged, directing him with her eyes to a nearby cushion, where her mobile lay. ‘Mum’ll choke when she sees this.’

      Verne did as he was told, but repeated his question.

      ‘It’s Lil’s aura,’ Cherry answered, following him into the parlour. ‘As a rule, they’re invisible, even if you’ve got the sight, but I gave it some zizz and lit it up so we could see how she’s progressin’ and maybe get a clue as to what kind of witch she might be. Her own powers are kinda weak and trembly right now, but they’ll get stronger the more she uses them and grows in confidence. Witches’ auras express themselves in different ways. Mine looks like my own personal disco – like a huge psychedelic Afro.’

      ‘Cherry thinks the way it’s forming knots around my fingers shows that it’s connected to my knitting,’ Lil told him. ‘Might be where my gift is strongest, which isn’t exactly the most fearsome or ostentatious deal ever.’

      ‘Knot and cord magic is an ancient form of the craft,’ Cherry chided. ‘Goes way back to the earliest practitioners. If done right, a charm created by a knot witch can store a crazy amount of force and be stronger than most of the later flashy spells and complicated hexes. Trouble is, I don’t know much about that kind of hoodoo so Lil’s gonna need a better guru than me.’

      A bright blue star sparkled from Lil’s forehead and swiftly travelled the path of the halo before shooting into one of her ears.

      ‘What was that?’ Verne asked in surprise.

      ‘We think it might be psychic energy Scaur Annie left behind,’ Lil told him.

      ‘I s’pose being possessed by a seventeenth-century witch must leave its mark,’ the boy said.

      ‘Either that or it’s puberty kickin’ its heels,’ Cherry cackled. ‘But that’s all, folks. The light show is over. This old broad needs her twinkles back. Feelin’ kinda angsty already; a colour witch requires every drop of her spectrum inside of her.’

      Moving her hands as if winding in a kite, Cherry drew the amber glow away from Lil’s aura and absorbed the light back into herself. She breathed in deeply as if refreshed, then turned to Verne.

      ‘Now then, kid, fess up. What’ve you been up to? Why’d old grumpy Gregson throw her dough and wedding band at you?’

      The boy shifted unhappily and stared about the parlour, ashamed to meet the witch’s severe gaze. He noticed that since he was here last week, decorations of bright, crocheted flowers had been sprinkled around the seventies-themed room. They were Lil’s handiwork and demonstrated just how close she and Cherry had become.

      ‘I’ve done something really stupid,’ he blurted. ‘I just didn’t think!’

      He pulled the rucksack from his shoulders and unzipped it with trembling fingers.

      ‘The Nimius!’ Lil exclaimed. ‘You got it working again? Brilliant! I told you it was just tired, not broken.’

      ‘You make it sound like it takes batteries,’ Verne said. ‘It’s not a phone that needs recharging. And no, it’s not brilliant actually, not at all.’

      ‘Lots of things need recharging,’ Cherry interrupted, easing herself into the egg-shaped wicker chair suspended from the ceiling. ‘What else do you think you’re doing when you’re in the land of snooze? Even magic can get exhausted – seizing control of half a town would drain anything. Or did it occur to you that your pimped-out gizmo might’ve just been waiting?”

      ‘Waiting for what?’ Lil asked.

      ‘Hey, I’m not the one who had Melchior Pyke’s avenging spirit squatting inside my wig stand,’ Cherry answered. ‘If anyone knows the answer to that, it’s the Twiglet Kid here. If a witch can leave her mark in your noodle, so can a magician.’

      Verne shook his head. ‘You know, as soon as everything got back to normal, I forgot how to work it.’

      ‘Normal, he says,’ Cherry scoffed. ‘Kid, this town weren’t never what you call normal. Hate that word anyways. But that glittery little doodad should’ve been gotten rid of months ago, somehow. I keep tellin’ you – it’s way too powerful and we don’t know what it’s really capable of. Pyke didn’t write a user manual, or if he did it got burned up with his workshop.’

      Verne’s brows creased. ‘But I’m sure I was meant to be its guardian.’

      ‘Oh brother, why has everybody got to be the chosen one these days? You seriously think you can keep that thing safe in your apartment, nestling in your skivvies? I’m surprised your mom’s not found it already, hawked it on eBay and jetted off to Vegas. Flattered though I am that you told me about it, you really should’ve clued in your folks as well. Secrets in families only do harm.’

      Cherry stopped abruptly and stared at her own hand. Without realising, she had removed a bracelet studded with three ammonites from her wrist and was holding it out to