The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child Read Online Free PDF

were changed into shrieks as they crumbled into dust!"
    But Nelda was too distraught to hear her and the spiteful old crone clutched her sides at the sight. Her brutal and raucous laughter echoed over the shore, rebounding off the cliffs, as if they too mocked the poor aufwader girl.
    ***
    "Oh come on, Jennet! It'll be a good laugh."
    "I said no, all right?"
    Sarah Wellings tried one last time. "Martin Gravsey will be there."
    "So what?"
    "He fancies you!"
    "Oh leave me alone—I don't care what you do, just leave me out of it!"
    Sarah flicked her damp fringe from her eyes and pushed Jennet savagely. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have had that detention!" she said. "I'm not going to have time to put some make-up on now. God, Laurenson, what's up with you anyway?"
    "Look, I don't want to hang round the arcade or be chatted up by a group of spotty lads with bad breath who wear too much cheap aftershave. Is that so hard to understand?"
    Sarah sneered at her. "You're mad, you!" she shouted. "Tracey and Clare were right, they said you'd gone as loony as your brother. Well I've had it, okay? From now on don't bother speaking to me."
    She stomped off over the wet cobbles and chanted at the top of her voice, "Laurenson, Laurenson, lordy, lordy what a loony!"
    Jennet rubbed her arm where Sarah had punched her. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair and a pleasant oval face. At first she had been popular at school but that had all changed. Over the past few months the friends she had made in Whitby had gradually abandoned her. She knew it was her own fault; she was indifferent to them and hated their incessant, ridiculous talk about boys and music. Jennet was interested in neither of these, not since she had come under the influence of Nathaniel Crozier.
    For a twelve-year-old girl whose thirteenth birthday was only a matter of months away she seemed old before her time and withdrew into herself a little further every day.
    Glumly, Jennet walked along Church Street towards Aunt Alice's cottage. At last the rain had ceased and the narrow road glistened in the lamplight. Overhead, the window-sills and projecting signs dripped amber jewels but the girl was oblivious to the beauty of the clean, washed world. Through the puddles she traipsed, scattering the reflections and dwelling on the idiotic night her former friends would have.
    "Who wants to do that anyway? I certainly don't. Boys are stupid!"
    Passing one of the shop windows, Jennet came to an abrupt halt and stared through the glass. It was a photographer's studio and examples of his art were on display to entice prospective customers inside.
    A large print of a surprised baby sitting amongst a quantity of pink silk met Jennet's eyes but she ignored it and looked at the one by its side. There, upon textured paper to make it resemble a painting on canvas, was a photograph of a bride and groom. The girl studied it thoughtfully as her breath fanned out over the window-pane. It reminded her of a picture she had of her parents' wedding day.
    "Oh Mum," she uttered in a hoarse whisper, "why aren't you and Dad here?"
    The couple before her beamed back, and the girl dragged herself away. Swinging her school bag over her shoulder Jennet resumed the short walk home.
    Just as she was about to turn into the alleyway that led to the cottage, she saw Ben trudging along the street from the direction of the shore.
    Jennet did not need to ask where her brother had been.
    "How was Nelda?" she asked.
    Ben made no reply but brushed past and tramped through the courtyard to the cottage door.
    "Charming," Jennet remarked. "I don't know why I bother."
    Hungry for his tea and keen to be rid of the dry, salty taste in his mouth, Ben leapt up the doorstep and knocked loudly.
    At once the door was torn open and the courtyard was filled with yellow light. A woman in her fifties, with greying hair that looked as though it had been sat on, was framed in the doorway. With one hand clinging to the handle and