Chapter One

Spell Damage

I sat alone in the hall outside the Janus Thickey ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, feeling as though I had turned to stone. Indeed, anyone passing me might have thought I had been Petrified. My face was pale and I sat absolutely still, my hands planted firmly on my knees. It seemed to me that only my heart retained the power of movement, and it did so relentlessly, pounding in time with my thoughts.

She's gone.

Let go.

She's gone.

The door opened, and a kind-faced Healer leaned out, spotted me, and moved out into the corridor. "She's sleeping, now," she said gently. "You can come in, dear."

I nodded numbly and followed her to my mother's bed. My father was standing with one hand on my 11-year-old brother, Samson's, shoulder. Sam walked soundlessly to me and put his arms around me. In the corner, our other brother, Solomon, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed tightly. He was my twin, but though he shared my straight chestnut hair, amber-brown eyes, and long, lean build, his handsome features were contorted with grief and anger.

Dad was as stony-faced as I. He beckoned to me, and I released Sam and stood between the two of them, watching Mother sleep. She was as radiant in her pale green dressing gown as she had ever been in her finest robes. Her hair was tied back in a long braid, but a few golden tendrils had escaped and these brushed her delicate face. I gazed at her as one might a sleeping tiger, with a mixture of awe and fear, and also with a kind of aching hunger…hunger for the person Titania d'Angelis had once been, before the accident. I noticed with a jolt that her wrists were bound at her sides by thick restraints.

"Did they have to—do they think she'll still be—?" I whispered, the question hanging in the air.

"Just a precaution," Dad muttered. "They confiscated her wand, but she's a danger to herself."

"But they can't keep it," Sam said timidly. "We should take it home…so she can have it back, you know, when she gets better."

"She won't get better," Sol snapped from behind us. "They can't put her right, not here. If things keep on the way they have been, she's never coming home."

"Solomon!" Dad hissed, but he didn't correct him, and Sam looked from his father to me, disbelief etched across his face. I wanted very much to reassure him, but I couldn't be sure myself that Sol was wrong. I took Sam's hand and gave it a squeeze.

"The Healers are doing everything they can for her, Sam," I said, my voice unusually steady, despite the tightness in my chest. I shot a meaningful look toward my father. "We can ask to keep her wand safe for her. Can't we, Dad?"

"Of course," he replied mechanically, not taking his eyes off his wife.

We stood there for a long time without saying anything more. Beyond our curtained-off area, the Healer was trying to get an old warlock to eat.

"Just a bite, Mr. Gambol," she crooned softly. "It's your favorite."

"No, Martha, I can't be bothered right now. I've got to speak with the Minister. He's got to listen to me. The witch behind the curtains…. She's algebra, she's algebra…."

"Don't worry about Mrs. D'Angelis, she's sleeping. Have some pudding, won't you? And then we'll see about getting an appointment with the Minister. How does that sound?"

"Piddles…pudding…puddles and poodles."

A few minutes later, the Healer pulled the curtains back and informed us that visiting hours were nearly over. I tilted my head to the old man, who was now using his steak and kidney pudding to draw strange symbols on his tray with his fingers. "Do you know why he talks about her?"

"The poor dear," the Healer answered solemnly, shaking her head. "We have no idea what happened to him, and he's got no living relatives to visit him. He becomes dreadfully agitated whenever people come in here to visit the other patients. He seems to think I'm his late wife," she added sadly. "He's terribly lonely. Been here for almost sixteen years, now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, and I truly was. An existence like that was hardly worth living. I felt Sam shift next to me and knew what he was thinking. Was our mother going to end up like Mr. Gambol, old and alone in the permanent care ward of a hospital? A stinging rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard. Get a grip, I told myself firmly. For Sam's sake.

At that moment, however, Mr. Gambol looked over and spotted us. He froze, his fingers dripping pudding all over his front, and his eyes filled with tears. "Noooo!" he wailed, knocking his tray to the floor with a clatter. "It's not fair! She doesn't deserve it! It should be me! It should have been me!"

"Mr. Gambol, please!" the Healer gasped, but it was too late. My mother opened her eyes. While the Healer struggled to calm Mr. Gambol, Mother surveyed us all groggily. For several seconds, it seemed as though she didn't recognize us, but then she saw me. Immediately, she bolted upright in her bed, straining and twisting against her restraints, her eyes rolling wildly.

"Nimue! NIM-OO-WAAAAY!" she cried hoarsely as I stumbled backward in shock. "PLEASE! It's inside us! We have to get it out, do you understand?! We have to die…. We have to kill each other! We're the only ones who can! Please, Nimue! Please don't go! No! NO! NOOOO!"

I woke, sweating, in my bedroom at Greyhaven, on Avalon. A breeze from the open window rustled the sheer white curtains and mingled with the whisper of the screams that still lingered in my ears. Rolling out of bed, I went to the window and looked out, breathing the cool sea air. Greyhaven was a desolate place. It was the only house on Avalon, built by my ancestors, and it stood like a lonely sentinel in white stone while all around it the pebbly shore stretched away into nothing. There were beautiful meadows, but they couldn't be seen from my window. So I looked out at the slate-grey ocean, thinking of my mother.

It had been six months since that horrible day, and it was clearer than ever to all of us that Titania d'Angelis was never coming home. All the time, our father was rapidly growing more and more withdrawn, more tired, older. Because of this, and perhaps in acceptance of their fate, he had spoken with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry about transferring us from homeschooling to public school. The Headmaster had agreed and presented his condolences.

Ordinarily, I might have felt some anxiety about entering such a new and strange world, but I was now more desperate than ever to be out of Greyhaven, away from Avalon and my mother's ghostly memories, and, secretly, from the guilty knowledge that I had brought it all down upon us.