The Broken Spell Read Online Free PDF

yellowed teeth.
    ‘Off you go.’
    Grace felt queasy at the thought of rummaging around in Mrs Quinlan’s attic. God knows what was up there. And if the state of her house was anything to go by, they could be up there for days. The girls didn’t protest for fear of worse punishment, but the pain was written all over their faces. They picked their way through the mewing cats that lay scattered throughout the kitchen and hall, and made their way upstairs. At the top they could see a square hole in the ceiling above a very decrepit-looking ladder. The ladder wobbled worryingly, squeaking a little, as each of them mounted it and climbed carefully into the dark room. Grace brought up the rear, following Jenny’s feet into the gloom, and coughing uncontrollably as dust filled her lungs.
    ‘Where’s the light?’
    She heard a dull thump and a groaning ‘Ow!’ from Jenny before the room gently illuminated. Jenny frowned at the filthy light switch and wiped her finger on her jumper.
    ‘This is, by far, the worst day of my whole, entire life,’Una grumbled.
    ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Una.’ Grace stepped into the maze of dusty boxes, hissing as her leg glanced painfully off the jagged edge of an old trunk.
    ‘This is going to take all night!’
    ‘Couldn’t we just say we’re not doing it?’ said Rachel. ‘I mean, we’re not in school. This is slave labour.’
    ‘I guess we could,’ Grace replied. ‘But I think she’d chuck us out for good.’
    ‘
And
she’d probably curse us,’ Adie said, widening her eyes as Grace shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her!’
    ‘Let’s just get on with it,’ said Jenny. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner it’s over.’
    The girls worked solidly for two hours and got more than halfway through the list. By then, they were covered with dust and dirt and Rachel was nursing a broken nail. Una lay sprawled across several piles of boxes shouting instructions at the others.
    ‘No,’ she said, turning the list in her hand and examining the crudely drawn diagram. ‘You’re looking for a Y-shape, like a slingshot. That’s not a ‘Y’ shape, Grace. Try again.’
    ‘Would you like to come here and do some actual work, Una?’ said Grace.
    ‘No thanks, not really.’
    Jenny snorted and threw an old blanket at her. Una squealed, swatting at the moth-eaten wool and rolling ontothe floor, taking one of the dusty boxes with her. The lid flipped off, spilling the contents everywhere.
    ‘Una!’ cried Grace.
    ‘That was Jenny’s fault.’
    ‘Like we haven’t got enough to do!’
    Grace righted the box and kneeled down to pile the books and wooden ornaments back in.
    ‘Hey, look at this.’ She wiped the cover of one slim volume with her sleeve, and held it up. ‘St John’s Yearbook, 1977’.
    ‘No way!’ Jenny swiped the book and flipped through the pages.
    ‘Do you think Mrs Quinlan’s in there?’ said Una.
    ‘Yeah, why else would she have it? Just wondering will we recognise her.’ Jenny stopped and jammed her finger into one page. ‘Look at that. Ms Bethany Lemon. That’s her, leaning against the school gates.
    ‘And that must be Ms Gold,’ said Rachel. ‘Wow, she’s barely changed at all. How weird is that?’
    ‘Then that,’ said Grace, planting her finger on the girl standing between them, ‘is Mrs Vera Quinlan – or whatever her last name was back then.’
    Slouching, with one elbow on the iron gate, the youthful Mrs Quinlan was the very picture of a 1970s punk, a faded denim jacket over her rumpled school jumper, torn tights, knee socks pushed to her ankles, and short asymmetric hair spiked into sharp points and certainly dyed (though it wasdifficult to tell what colour in the black and white photo). Her eyes were heavily lined in black, and the glint of several piercings poked through the Johnny Rotten hairdo.
    ‘Hold. The. Phone,’ said Una, pushing her face right up to the page. ‘This is so freaky. I’m having an out-of-body