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  “Nothing that’s wrong can’t be put right with a kind word, a nod or a smile, that’s my motto, Miss Hardcastle.”

  And for ten years, yes indeed, the headmaster nodded, smiled and kindly worded his way through every awkward situation you could imagine. For instance, when those boys from Form B were caught smoking heroines (Lorna Doone, Camille, dear me, no book was sacred), did the headmaster get out his cane? He did not. He merely teased the little ankle-biters about the error of their ways, got them to replace the smoke alarm and sentenced them to two Moby Dicks for detention. So for a man who was Father Christmas incarnate, you think he might have saved just a little ho-ho-ho for me, wouldn’t you?

  “You’re not seriously giving me the bullet, headmaster?”

  “Discharged, dismissed, fired, and sacked. Given the boot, the elbow, your cards and your marching orders, and if you so much as set foot within the grounds of my school, I will personally evict you myself.”

  “You mean eject, expel, remove and turf out –?”

  Not so much as a twinkle.

  “Miss Hardcastle.” He rose out of his chair, placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Miss Hardcastle, this is no laughing matter. You walk out leaving Class C flitting about the ceiling –”

  Ouch.

  “I apologized for that.”

  “APOLOGIZED? Good God, woman, have you any idea of the psychological damage you’ve inflicted on those children? Fatima will only eat fruit upside down now. Raymond, dammit, still refuses to come down from the ceiling, and little Edna can’t sleep at night unless the blanket’s tucked in tight, like it’s her own wings folded round her. Miss Hardcastle, in all its illustrious history, St Sylvester’s has never even seen a single lawsuit – until now!”

  “Suppose I turn Form D into sharks, so we can breed our own lawyers to fight back?”

  But I already knew that comedy wasn’t going to help me this time around. The headmaster had turned red five minutes earlier. Now his colour deepened to purple.

  “One more shapeshifting joke, Miss Hardcastle, and I am this far from violence.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath and sat down. Rather foolishly, I took that as a good sign. “The bat problem we can get round. My brother-in-law happens to be a very good child psychiatrist and I am hoping the settlements from those claims can be negotiated into something approaching reasonable figures. However.” I really didn’t like the way that muscle started to twitch in his cheek. “Nudity in a school is another matter entirely, and for you to be flaunting your lover –”

  “Begging your pardon, headmaster, that’s far too strong a description for someone I’d only met the night before.”

  “Smut!” the headmaster exploded.

  At least I sincerely hope it was an “m” and not an “l” that I’d heard.

  “I will not tolerate smut in my school, Miss Hardcastle, and I will certainly not tolerate grown men running round naked. You can consider yourself lucky that you’ve escaped with dismissal, now that eight-hundred and fifty litigious parents have decided to sue St Sylvester’s for encouraging paedophiles. OUT!”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a reference –?”

  Ooh, that gesture was no nod, that was no benevolent smile. And that word wasn’t what I’d call kindly, either.

  “No, ssseriousssly.” With no job and no prospects, I’d almost forgotten Sebastian standing beside me. “It wasss good of you to take a week off from SSSt Sssylvesss – ssschool – dammit, college! to help me organize my protessst rally.”

  “My pleasure,” I said weakly.

  Though you had to hand it to him. The instant he was back in human form (and fully clothed, I hasten to add) he was lobbying Downing Street, blitzing environmental pressure groups and enlisting the support of the Countryside Rescue Society in aid of the wildlife and beauty of Crowberry Heath before you could whistle Dixie. In three days, he’d produced posters depicting the orchids, the lily ponds, the butterflies, the birds, to show what would be lost for ever, once Scumby Homes covered the heath with their invidious concrete. His campaign was slick, it was impressive – and it wasn’t enough. One week wasn’t anywhere near enough to organize a blaze of marches, rallies, protests, sitins on the scale that would stop a multi-million pound corporation from bulldozing Utopia before the media got hold of the story. And one week was all my great-grandmother had allowed for Sebastian to revert to his original form. One measly week!

  Please, he had said. You’ve got to help me. You’re the only person who can . . .

  “What we need is to put a bug inside the Boardroom of Scumby Homes,” I told him, choosing a seat on the embankment facing their Headquarters.

  “Great!” he exclaimed. “Is it anyone we know?”

  “Electronic bug, you doughnut.”

  I opened my briefcase and showed him the wingdings and widgets that Henry in the Cloning Department had lent me. To be honest, I’m not quite sure why the Cloning Department need to use such high-tech surveillance equipment, but even more worrying was that, when I asked Henry, he just tapped the side of his nose and said knowingly,

  “Two heads are better than one.”

  And to think I actually dated that guy! Anyway, the upshot was, Henry lent me this case full of stuff and bless him, he even showed me how to use it, as well. Basically, all you have to do is this: place something that looks like a Victorian gentleman’s collar stud in the room you want monitoring, direct some pointy black thing at it, then put on a pair of earphones and listen. (Excuse the science, but I’m only quoting Henry, who in turn read it aloud from the NASA Handbook on Satellite Surveillance – page 337, if you must know.)

  “How did you plant the bug?” Sebastian asked, melting me with those big, green fern-in-the-springtime eyes of his.

  “Flowers.” I was proud of that. “I sent a huge basket of roses to the Board of Scumby Homes and signed it ‘A Satisfied Shareholder’.”

  I thought he would laugh at my silly ASS pun. Instead, his face crumpled. “Is it true their shares rose ten percent as a result of this proposal?”

  “Executive homes have a massive profit margin,” I told him, “and because of their exquisite location, we’re talking footballers’ houses here!”

  “Terrific. I get kicked off, ssso they can kick on.”

  “Oh, stop sulking and pick up your earphones. The Board Meeting’s about to start.”

  Actually, although I liked his smile, I quite liked that mean, manly, moody look of his, too. I liked the brush of his skin against mine, as he leaned to pick up the headset, and I liked his faint citrussy scent.

  Trust me, I thought, to fall for a guy who’s only got four days left before he turns back into a snake.

  Usually, it’s much later that I find out the men I am dating are snakes.

  AS HEARD THROUGH TWO PAIRS OF EARPHONES VIA SOME POINTY BLACK THING:

  Clip clop of male feet inside Boardroom.

  “I say, old chap, what wonderful roses! A – what does it say? oh, satisfied shareholder, eh? Ha, ha, wasn’t you, was it, Chairman?”

  “What? Waste money on flowers? Certainly not, Clive, but I’m betting that whoever sent them is going to be a lot more satisfied after we’ve announced the end-of-year profits, and so will we, dear boy, so will we. Crowberry Heath is going to make us very rich men, Clive.”

  Short snort of laughter. “We’re rich now, Chairman.”

  “Yes, and that’s entirely due to Scumby Homes’ continued commitment to the redistribution of individual wealth.” Pause. “And the suckers purchasing the Crowberry Heath homes will be very wealthy indeed!” Rustle of papers. “Have you seen the designer’s plans for the interior?”

  “Have I! Wouldn’t mind some of that marble in my own place.”

  “Me, neither, but between you and me, dear boy, and before the others get here, there’s a couple of things that are troubling me.” Voice lowers to whisper. “One of which is mahogany.”

  “Take it from me, old man, once th
e wife threatens to leave and take all your assets with her, you’ll adapt fast enough.”

  “Not monogamy, you clot. I’m talking about endangered hardwoods.”

  “You against stripping the rain forests bare, then?

  “Don’t be an ass, man. What I’m trying to tell you is that I can’t decide between ebony or mahogany – ah, ladies, gentlemen.”

  Murmur – babble – in fact, the classic rhubarb–rhubarb of St Sylvester’s drama department extras.

  During the bout of back-slapping and handshaking, a pleasure boat carrying a coach-load of camera-clicking Japanese waving wildly went past. Sebastian and I waved wildly back, while from the boardroom we listened to endless champagne corks popping, lots of chinking and glugging sounds, then finally, oh finally, a scraping of chairs.

  “Very good.” Chairman cleared throat. “Welcome to the hundred-and-forty-fifth meeting of the board of Scumby Homes. I’ll run through the Minutes of the last meeting later, and I’m sure we can skip the Any Other Business stuff, because we all know the reason we’re here.”

  Murmurs of agreement, backed, I swear, by a licking of collective lips.

  “There was a time, ladies and gentlemen, when I was a young man, that I truly believed that wealth and power would bring me happiness. Well, as Chairman and Chief Executive of this prestigious company, I’m delighted to say I was right –”

  Roar of laughter.

  “– and since Scumby Homes is dedicated to social ideals, it’s only fair that we continue to expand on that theme – and make ourselves even more powerful and wealthy!”

  Hear, hear.

  “At our last meeting, you were shown the video of the proposals for Crowberry Heath. Just to recap, this is to be a select development of high specification build projects in one of the loveliest corners of England.”

  Irony seriously noticeable by its absence.

  “We’re talking luxury at the highest level for the highest possible returns, but since Scumby Homes is also a modern, forward-thinking corporation, the Marketing Department, under the direction of the ever-reliable Rupert here, have identified opportunities to diversify and expand. The reptile population, for example –”

  Click-click of slide show, followed by gasps of revulsion.

  “Ugh!”

  “Eugh.”

  “Is that slime?”

  “Yes, indeed, Letitia, and for that reason it is not in our interest to have our precious clientele repulsed by these creatures, unless . . .” tantalizing hint entered voice “. . . unless, ladies and gentlemen –”

  Click-click of slide show, followed by gasps of delight.

  “Ooh.”

  “Aah.”

  “I do like those.”

  “Boots, shoes, bags, purses. Ladies and gentlemen, snakeskin is making a serious comeback and Scumby Footwear intends to be at the very forefront of this fashion movement, and let’s not forget the moles, either. Marketing are confident several top designers can be drafted in to promote moleskin for next season, and you’ve all seen the plans for the factory?”

  Affirmative rumbles.

  “The idea is that we collect all the moles and adders on Crowberry Heath to use as breeding stock.”

  (Beside me, Sebastian groaned and buried his head in his hands).

  “Not always easy, getting wild creatures to reproduce in captivity, Chairman. Think about the trouble zoos have had in the past with giant pandas and the like.”

  “Good point, Clive, but we at Scumby Footwear have a plan to ensure a plentiful supply of snakeskin.” Chairman gives little snigger. “Using the timber we fell from Crowberry Heath, we split the trees into logs, chop the logs into tables and put them in the cages with the snakes.” Snigger louder. “Everyone knows that for adders to multiply one needs log tables!”

  “Haw-haw-haw.”

  “Very witty, Chairman.”

  “Did you think that joke up yourself?”

  “As a matter of fact, Letitia, I did. Anyway, moving on to the lily ponds.”

  Another click of slide show / gasps of delight.

  “Ooh.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, but once again frogs and designer shoes are incompatible.” Hum of agreement. “Whereas frogs and designer kitchens, on the other hand, are not!”

  More clicks.

  “Ooh!”

  “Yum.”

  “Scrummy!”

  “Exactly! In addition to diversifying into footwear, designerwear and luggage, I am proud to announce that Scumby Auberges will be opening an exclusive French restaurant close to the development, serving frogs’ legs, snails in garlic –”

  I never got to hear the rest of the menu. Beside me Sebastian had turned pale and was shaking.

  “Cannibalsss,” he whispered. “Those bassstardsss are going to eat my friendsss!”

  I put my arm round him, intending to comfort him, and felt only his pain and fear.

  To the Board Members of Scumby Homes, the destruction of Crowberry Heath was just another money-spinning, get-rich-quick scheme which, with the callousness of property developers everywhere, was also one huge joke.

  For Sebastian, the survival of Crowberry Heath in its natural state wasn’t a matter of life and death any more, or even an issue of freedom and slavery. It was Man’s capacity to ride roughshod over what it considered lesser creatures – and with it the obliteration of morals and decency. In his view, this fight was quite simply Good versus Evil.

  Please, you’ve got to help me. You’re the only person who can.

  As the earphones emitted noises of chairs scraping, of goodbyes and thank-yous and see-you-again-soons, I stared across the cold, grey waters of the Thames and wished with every ounce of my body that I’d refused to undo my great-grandmother’s spell.

  Please.

  He wouldn’t have known. He wouldn’t have known what fate awaited the inhabitants of Crowberry Heath, not until it was too late. Now he’d have this on his conscience, and although his human form had allowed him to do everything in his power to prevent it, he’d be living for the eternity my great-grandmother had consigned him to, tormented by the knowledge that he could see into the future and was unable to change it.

  You’re the only person who can.

  As his shoulders slumped with hopelessness and despair, I reflected that Sebastian had put a heck of a lot of faith in a failed schoolteacher whose great-grandmother had turned him from a good-looking young man into a stone-basking reptile, and whose own reversal spell had left him with a lisp for the one week he was allowed to revert.

  But that was the point. Faith moves mountains, not multi-million pound corporations.

  Crowberry Heath and its beauty were doomed.

  * * *

  I couldn’t sleep. Every time I dropped off, I’d dream I was stuffing frogs’ legs into my mouth four at a time as I winkled snails out of their garlicky shells, then I’d wake up in a cold sweat with images of sweet-and-sour butterflies, crispy Peking warblers and coot à l’orange going round in my head as concrete mixers covered Paradise with cement.

  I tossed, I turned, the dreams changed.

  Now, I was walking along streets thronged with beautiful people dressed in snakeskin shoes and moleskin jackets, but as they passed, their clothes mouthed the word traitor and bats shrieked I hate you, I hate you into my ear, and Raymond won’t come down from the ceiling.

  I got up, I made coffee, I went back to bed.

  This wasn’t my fault. Crowberry Heath was lovely, but it was hardly the Garden of Eden. Sebastian wasn’t Adam, I wasn’t Eve, it was just the serpent in paradise bit that was making my head whirl, only everything was back to front with that scenario. This time the snake was the good guy, and he had eyes like spring ferns, smelled faintly of citrus and had a smile as wide as the ocean.

  I blame too much caffeine at three in the morning for making me weepy. I’m not normally given to blubbing.

&nbs
p; “You’re the only one who can help me,” he’d said. “After all, it was your great-grandmother who did this to me.”

  “For a very good reason, I’m sure.”

  “Good? Good?” I remember how he’d writhed round the desk like a scaly green dervish. “I’d worked in that woman’s tavern from the age of sixteen, humping beer kegs, pulling pints, tossing out drunks from midday until midnight, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year, until one day I have the temerity to ask for a rise. You call that a good reason to turn me into a snake?”

  Just what kind of people was I descended from, I wondered miserably, that inspired them to turn honest, hardworking, loyal folk into snakes for such trivial matters? Wait a minute . . . I put down the coffee mug. What was the name of that weighty tome underneath the Book of Irreversible Spells? The Foresight Saga, right? And on top of the Book of Irreversible Spells? A file marked Trivial Pursuits! Suddenly, I remembered shoving it aside and the spring-clip flying open, with several pages rearranging themselves on the floor of the classroom. Without thinking, I’d scooped them up and stuffed them back in the file, but a few lines in my great-grandmother’s writing had registered in the back of my brain.

  The first rule of spellcasting – she’d always had a neat hand, my great-gran – is that one never enchants without the most powerful of reasons.

  To turn a man into a snake for eternity for little more than saying boo to a goose is hardly a powerful reason, unless . . . I jumped out of bed and ran straight for the Hardcastle family tree (it’s an oak) to see exactly when my great-grandmother became a Guardian Angel. Well, well, well. It was exactly two days after she’d turned Sebastian into a snake.

  And underneath the Book of Irreversible Spells she’d left The Foresight Saga.

  Coincidence? I don’t think so.

  I showered, I dressed, I bought some more roses. This time, though, I bought two large bouquets.

  “Susannah.”

  The change had already started. The lisp was gone, and he seemed taller, somehow, and slimmer.

  “Susannah, you really don’t have to be here.”

  There were tears in his eyes. The last tears he would ever shed, I thought. And he was trembling as he hugged me goodbye. Inside I felt strange, while all around us, frogs croaked, warblers sang and butterflies explored the blossoms for nectar.