Meg regained her balance and turned to face me. 'The touch of silver is agony to me, boy,' she said, her face twisted with fury. 'How would you like to feel pain like that?'

    She took a step down, and as she did so, quite deliberately trailed the back of her left hand along the wall at her side. As I watched, she scraped her nails hard against the plaster, gouging into it deeply. The plaster was old and very hard. She was showing me what her nails could do to my flesh. As Meg took another step, I readied the staff, pointing it upwards, ready to jab at her head and shoulders.

    But I was trLinking now. Concentrating. And when she attacked, rushing down the steps towards me, I brought the staff quickly downwards, thrusting it at her feet. Her eyes widened as she saw what I was trying to do, but her momentum was too great: her legs became tangled in the staff and she fell headlong down the stairs. The staff was torn from my hands, but now I had a chance to retrieve the chain and I leaped over her and ran back up the steps.

    I picked up the chain, twisted it around my left wrist and prepared to throw it again. This time I was determined not to miss.

    She smiled at me, her face full of mockery. 'You've missed once already. It's not as easy as throwing at that post in Gregory's garden, is it? Are your hands sweating, boy? Are they starting to shake? You'll only get one more chance. And then you'll be mine ...'

    I knew that she was just trying to undermine my confidence and make it more likely that I'd miss. So I took a deep breath and remembered my training. Nine times out of ten, I could hit the post. And I'd never missed twice in a row. Only fear could stop me now. Only doubt. So I took a deep breath and concentrated. As Meg came to her feet, I took careful aim.

    I cracked the chain in the air like a whip before hurling it straight at the witch. It fell in a perfect widdershins spiral to enclose her head and body. She gave a shriek, but it was cut off suddenly as the silver chain tightened against her mouth and she fell heavily to the floor.

    Cautiously I walked down the steps and looked at her closely. To my relief, she was bound fast. I looked into her eyes and saw the pain there. But although the silver chain was hurting her, there was defiance in her eyes too. Suddenly her expression changed and I realized that she was looking beyond me, back up the stairs. At the same time I heard a scuttling and spun round to see Marcia, the feral lamia, moving down the steps towards me.

    Once again the fact that she had already drunk her fill of blood saved me. She was still bloated and sluggish. Otherwise she'd have attacked before I'd even had a chance to blink. So I snatched up my rowan staff and moved up the stairs to meet her. Hatred burned from her heavy-lidded eyes, and the four thin limbs beneath her body tensed, ready to spring forward. At first I didn't have time to be afraid and jabbed towards her bloated face with my staff. She couldn't stand the touch of rowan wood and gasped with pain as my third jab struck her just below the left eye. She hissed angrily and began to retreat backwards, her long greasy black hair brushing the stairs on either side of her to leave a slimy damp trail.

    I don't know how long I struggled with her. Time seemed to stand still. Sweat was running from my brow into my eyes and I was breathing hard, my heart hammering from both exertion and fear. I knew that at any moment she might slip beneath my guard or that I might stumble - in which case she'd have been on me in an instant, her sharp teeth sinking into my legs. But at last I backed her up to the attic door, then jabbed again frantically to drive her inside. That done, I slammed the door hard and locked it, using my key. I knew the door wouldn't stop her for long, and as I descended the stairs, I heard her claws already beginning to rip at the wooden door. It was time to escape. I'd follow the others to Andrew's shop. When the Spook had recovered we'd be able to return and sort things out.

    But when I opened the front door, a blizzard was raging outside, snow blasting straight into my face. I might find my way to the edge of the clough, but to go beyond that would be madness. Even if I got down off the moor safely, I could freeze to death trying to find Adlington. Quickly I closed the door. There was just one other option left.

    Meg was no bigger than I was and wasn't very heavy. So I decided to take her down into the cellar and put her in the pit. That done, I could lock myself behind the gate with her and be relatively safe from the feral lamia. Or at least for a while. Even the gate wouldn't stop Marcia for ever.

    However, there was the other witch, Bessy Hill, to worry about. So I left Meg at the top of the cellar steps and had a quick search for the Spook's bag. I found it at last in the kitchen and quickly helped myself to pocketfuls of salt and iron. That done, I carried Meg down to the cellar, holding her across my right shoulder by her legs. In my left hand I carried both my staff and a candle. It took a long time to get her down there and I was careful to lock the gate behind me. Once again I kept well away from Bessy Hill, who was still snoring on the stairs.

    After all that had happened, I felt like dragging Meg by the feet and letting her head bounce on every step. But I didn't. She was probably suffering a lot already because the silver chain was binding her tightly. And in any case, despite everything, the Spook would want her treated as well as possible. So I was careful with Meg.

    But when I eased her over the edge of the pit, I couldn't resist saying what I did.

    'Dream about your garden!' I told her, making the tone of my voice as sarcastic as possible. Then I left her and, clutching my stub of candle, went back up the steps. Now it was time to deal with the other witch, Bessy Hill. I must have woken her up on my way down because now she was snuffling and spitting her way slowly up towards the gate again. I reached into my breeches pockets and pulled out a handful of salt and a handful of iron. But I didn't throw them at her; about three steps above her, I scattered a line of salt from wall to wall, then sprinkled the iron on top of it. After that, I moved along the step and carefully mixed them together to form a barrier that the witch would be unable to cross.

    Finally I walked up to the gate and sat about three steps below it, just in case the feral lamia came down and tried to reach me through the bars.

    I sat there and watched the candle burn lower and lower. Long before it threatened to go out, I was feeling sorry for what I'd said to Meg. My dad wouldn't have liked me being sarcastic like that. He'd brought me up better than that. Meg couldn't be all bad. The Spook loved her and she'd loved him once. And how was he going to feel when he saw that I'd put her in the pit? That I'd done something he'd never been able to face doing himself?

    After a while the candle finally guttered out and I was left in the dark. There were faint whispers and scratching sounds from the cellar far below where the dead witches were stirring and, every so often, the sound of the feeble live witch, sniffing and snuffling in frustration, unable to cross the barrier of salt and iron.

    I'd almost dozed off when the feral lamia arrived suddenly, having finally clawed her way through the attic door. My night vision is good, but it was really dark on the cellar steps and all I heard was the rush of her legs scuttling forward and then a bang as a dark shape hurled itself at the gate and started to rasp at the metal. My heart lurched into my mouth. It sounded like she was ravenous again already so I picked up my rowan staff and desperately jabbed at her through the bars.

    At first it made no difference to her frenzy, and I heard the grille groan as the metal bent and yielded. But then I got lucky. I must have jabbed her in a sensitive spot, probably her eye, because she screamed shrilly and fell back from the gate, whimpering her way back up the steps.