THE BINDERS

The Path of the Binders is the hardest path to take, but the only path to salvation, for ourselves and for all. All other paths lead only to destruction, lead only to death.

Introduction, The Book of the Binders

Anna woke early with a gasp.

The dreambinder above her was tangled and misshapen with knots. Too many to count. What on earth have I been dreaming? The scene of her and Selene’s crime still on the floor: the book of fairy tales and the open cake box, cake half-decimated, forks discarded, crumbs and cream cheese debris.

The clock read 6.29 a.m.

Anna launched herself out of bed, scrabbling to put everything back in the box. She shoved it in her wardrobe and hid the book of fairy tales on her bookshelf, beneath the cover of another book. She jumped back into bed, waiting for the knock on her door with a hammering heart.

It didn’t come.

She waited a few more moments; then she sat up and listened to the house. It was quiet. Too quiet. There were none of the usual early-morning sounds: creaking floorboards, Aunt banging doors, clattering dishes. Instead, she was met with pin-drop silence, as if the whole house were holding its breath. Where was Aunt? Had she known Selene was here? Was she angry? Maybe she’d just slept in? No. That had never happened in all their sixteen years of life together.

She picked up her Knotted Cord, trying to ease her growing alarm, and crept barefoot into the hallway. It was shadowy and heavy with silence, a grey, sluggish light seeping through the windows from the dull morning beyond. Anna walked upstairs to Aunt’s room but it was empty, the bed unmade. She hesitated at the bottom of the third-floor staircase. It was silent above, but the third-floor room was always silent. She knew better than to go up there.

Downstairs the rooms were dark, their curtains still drawn. Anna approached the kitchen slowly, the back of her neck prickling, the low hum of the fridge washing against the quiet like breaking waves. The blinds of the window were still closed, casting bars of light over the table where a silhouette of Aunt sat with her head in her hands, perfectly still. A full cup of tea beside her released a spiral of steam.

‘Aunt?’

She did not move. Anna crept closer, remembering a fairy tale she’d once read where the witch had been turned to stone …

‘Aunt …’

Aunt stirred slowly. ‘Anna.’ Her voice was a tight, vibrating string. A few strands of hair had come loose from her bun as if she’d been running her hands through it. Her dressing gown had opened slightly revealing the Binders’ necklace beneath.

Anna reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but left it there in mid-air. She was unsure how to react to this sharp swerve away from the aunt she knew, the woman who was loath to waste a single drop of the day, whose hair was never loose, who would normally be berating her for not wearing her slippers or not brushing her hair before breakfast, who drank her tea in three large swallows. She didn’t sit and do nothing. Ever.

That was when Anna saw the headline on the tablet in front of her: ‘Six women found hanging from the windows of Big Ben’. Aunt turned it over.

‘What was that?’ Anna asked, too confused to feel as horrified as she should.

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s weird.’ She itched to turn it back over. ‘What happened?’

‘What do we say of questions?’

‘Ask no questions; seek no answers.’

‘Then why are you asking them?’ Aunt stood up and opened the fridge so forcefully the glass bottles in the door clattered together.

Anna bit her tongue. ‘I was just worried, that’s all, you seemed … agitated.’

‘I’m fine.’ Aunt slammed the door shut, holding a bottle of milk. She looked surprised to find it there as if she wasn’t sure what she had intended to do with it.

‘Is that story something to do with magic?’ Anna waited for the rebuke but Aunt didn’t snap back at her; instead she put a hand to the counter as if to hold herself up.

‘What’s happened is certainly unprecedented. Unexpected. Probably nothing, of course, but there’s no telling – we must remain vigilant for threats at any cost …’ She trailed off. Aunt always directed her words with clarity; they were a means to an end. Anna wasn’t used to such half-formed thoughts. This wasn’t Aunt’s agitation of the last few days, this was something different. She realized with shock that Aunt was afraid. Aunt’s life was full of fear but she was rarely afraid.

‘Shall I make you some breakfast?’ Anna suggested gently.

‘Breakfast! We have no time for breakfast. The Binders are coming.’

Anna couldn’t breathe for a moment. ‘But they’re not due till next month—’

‘Change of plan.’ The Binders did not just change their plans.

‘But—’

Aunt seemed to come to her senses, smoothing her hair and looking at Anna as if for the first time that morning. ‘But nothing. Why are you still in your pyjamas? Go and get yourself ready and find your slippers; your feet are going to freeze. I have calls to make.’ She made an urgent shooing motion and finished the remainder of her tea in one large gulp, her delicate neck expanding to an impossible volume.

Anna ran upstairs and paced up and down her room, full of frustration. Why were the Binders coming out of the blue? It was that news story, whatever it was; she was desperate to read it but had no means without a phone or computer.

She would have to wait.

The morning was hectic with preparations. Cushions were plumped black and blue, cakes baked, china cups polished, all signs of magic from the night before purged – not a single shard of glass left. Thankfully, Aunt had not had time for her promised punishments. Just after lunch, Aunt went out to buy a few supplies and Anna took her opportunity.

She watched Aunt disappear down the street and then ran to the living room and took out Aunt’s laptop. She was only allowed to use it with permission. She knew with a fearful, terrible certainty she shouldn’t but she had to know. She quickly searched ‘Big Ben Hangings’ and was met with a barrage of results from all the major news outlets. She clicked on the first link – the Mail Today:

Ding dong dead! Six women hanged in Big Ben

This morning, Londoners woke to a horrifying scene: six women hanging from the windows of Big Ben, one of the capital’s most iconic landmarks.

The victims, who are being widely called ‘the Six Faceless Women’, were discovered hanging in six of the windows above the clock face of the Elizabeth Tower just before dawn yesterday. The seventh window also contained a noose but no victim was found.

Police have confirmed death by asphyxia in what is suspected to be a mass suicide, although homicide has not been ruled out. The identities of the women are as yet unknown, but the bodies have been removed for investigation.

Reports began flooding in from concerned commuters and tourists in the early hours of the morning with shocking images and videos emerging on social media. The most mystifying aspect of the event is the faces of the women which appear to have an unsettling similarity. Caretaker Ron Howard, who discovered the bodies, posted an up-close picture of the deceased women which captures this disturbing likeness. The image was quickly removed but not before it was picked up and widely recirculated, fuelling the nickname the Six Faceless Women.

Big Ben’s world-famous clock has been damaged during the action with the hands frozen at midnight. Its windows have now been covered over but the scenes will not be forgotten, leaving the capital shaken to its core.

Anna studied the picture: the bodies of the women, taken down, lying on the floor as if not really dead, but only sleeping. Their hair pooled beneath them – a spectrum of colour and lengths, but it was true, their faces were eerily similar. She looked closer. So similar. Identical, perhaps? It was hard to say; the features were so ordinary and bland they were almost featureless, doll-like. She shivered involuntarily. The more she stared at them the less she felt as though she was seeing anything at all.

At the bottom was a video. Anna clicked play; the footage was shaky but the image was clear enough: bodies hanging, swaying in the breeze.

Anna closed the browser. The whole thing was so terrible, so strange … had magic been involved? She rarely considered the magical world beyond what Aunt wanted her to know, but nothing else could explain Aunt’s sudden terror. The Binders did all they could to prevent magic being exposed to the ordinary world, to keep it locked away behind doors; brushed under carpets; tied in necklaces and tucked beneath blouses. And now here was a national news story: bizarre, unsolved, whispering at magic.

Whispers divide; in secrets we thrive.

She promptly deleted the internet history and put the laptop back in its place. She tightened her Knotted Cord and tried to put her curiosity back where it belonged too.

At two o’clock the doorbell rang.

Aunt pulled herself tall, the tension in her face dissipating into an artful smile, assertive and airy all at once. Anna marvelled at the performance as she disappeared into the hallway. ‘Mrs Withering, do come in …’

It took ten minutes for them all to arrive, prompt as ever. Anna prepared the teas, listening out for any talk of Big Ben or hangings but heard nothing of the sort, only the usual strained greetings.

When she went through she was met by the familiar row of bob haircuts and cable-knit cardigans and pearls, necks artfully covered, wafts of flowery perfumes so heavy you could taste them, like a paste on the tongue. Anna had come into contact with various Binders over the years, but these nine were the most senior: a narrow spectrum of the middle class and middle-aged perched stiffly upon the sofas and armchairs of their living room. They all had the same pinched look about them, as if they’d smelt something that wasn’t to their liking several years ago and had never quite got over it.

Anna held the tray of tea at the entrance, shifting from foot to foot, wishing she could be anywhere but here. ‘Earl Grey for anyone?’ She smiled like a deer caught in nine pairs of surrounding headlights.

‘Yes please,’ said Mrs Dumphreys, a rounded woman with an unfortunate attachment to silk blouses. She was wearing a purple one today, done up to the top. ‘How’s school, Anna?’

‘It’s the summer holidays.’

‘Oh yes. Well, keep at it.’

‘English breakfast for me.’ Mrs Bradshaw’s high treble voice rose on the other side of her. She pincered a biscuit from the tray. ‘What subjects are you taking?’

Anna began to answer but Mrs Bradshaw cut through her. ‘Well, my Charlie is due to take Maths and Further Maths this year, quite the brain for numbers.’

‘Did I say Bella has just been accepted into the Royal Academy of Dance? That’s what you get for paying for three extra hours of training every day …’

Anna poured out the tea and handed out treats while the tittle-tattle continued, their conversations moving in gentle rallies to the tinkle of china, attempting to outdo each other using all the politeness they could muster. Perhaps they would get sidetracked talking about whose new curtain fabric was the most expensive and she could escape unnoticed.

‘Aren’t we being spoilt.’ Mrs Withering perused the offerings and smiled – if the spasm of her face could be called a smile: lips pursing, nose squirming. It was a smile that put you in your place and did not reach her eyes. She was a little older than Aunt: attractive, slim, malicious. ‘Are they homemade?’

‘The cake is, not the biscuits,’ Aunt replied tersely. ‘There was hardly time today, under the circumstances …’

The Binders were always competing with one another and none so more than Aunt and Mrs Withering. They appeared to be the leaders of the group, but Anna had never quite been able to tell who was truly in control.

‘Of course. Although I would be happy to send you a wonderful biscuit recipe; it’s awfully quick. You can use it for next time.’

‘Thank you,’ Aunt replied, through a grating smile.

Anna began to back out of the room but Mrs Withering turned her smile back on her, a gesture which rarely ended well.

‘Don’t leave, Anna. We’re not done with you yet.’

Anna fought the urge to drop the tray and run.

‘How’s your training coming along?’ A mole on Mrs Withering’s lip twitched as she spoke, sniffing ahead for her answer.

‘Very well.’

‘Binders’ tenet number two?’

They turned their eyes on her. The rose bush in the corner seemed to shift towards her too.

‘Weakness in feeling; strength in control.’

Sweat began to collect along her forehead. She rubbed her hands nervously against her dress.

‘Tenet three?’

‘We shall not cast unless it is our duty.’

‘How is your casting coming along?’ Mrs Withering stirred a spoon slowly around her cup.

‘With due diligence and control.’ It was an Aunt-approved answer.

‘Perhaps we ought to see some …’

Anna’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on land. They liked to question her, to put her on the spot, but they had never asked to see her magic before. She looked to Aunt but she was nodding in agreement.

‘Pass me that frame.’ Mrs Withering tilted her head towards the mantelpiece. Anna walked over and reached for a picture of Aunt and herself when she was younger. ‘No. The one to the right.’ Anna realized she meant the picture of Aunt and her mother. She picked it up, hesitantly, and handed it over.

‘Very sweet.’ Mrs Withering studied it and then, to Anna’s consternation, turned it over and began unpinning the frame. She removed the photograph and promptly tore it into four pieces, splitting her mother’s face into quarters and scattering the pieces on the table.

Anna didn’t cry out. She clenched her fists and found that her heart felt as if it had been torn along with the picture. The women watched with eagerness in their faces. Anna didn’t dare look at Aunt. If she was enjoying this it would be too much to bear.

‘Now make it whole again.’ Mrs Withering sat back in her chair and stirred her tea. There were other clinks of china as the rest of the room followed suit, enjoying their refreshments during the show.

Anna didn’t know what to do. Was she meant to try to bind the picture back together? Was she meant to fail or manage the feat? Perhaps she was meant to resist the task altogether to prove she was against the very idea of magic.

‘Go on. We’re all waiting.’

Anna pulled out a bundle of fresh cords, hands shaking, and selected four lengths of blue cord – blue for calm. Slowly she began to tie them together with Stitch Knots, trying to focus as the circle of eyes closed in on her. My Hira is twine and thorn. She could hear Mrs Withering’s teaspoon grating against the edge of the cup; her loud, hot-tea breath.

She pulled the knots tight. Nothing happened. She wiped a sweaty palm against her dress, refocused and tried again.

‘I can’t tell if she’s started yet or not?’ said Mrs Aldershot. The others tittered with laughter.

‘Anna, your poor mother!’ Mrs Withering exclaimed. ‘One of the only pictures left of her and you don’t have the heart to put her back together again.’

Her words stung and brought with them feelings Anna had long tried to hide from. She looked at the torn pieces of her mother’s face and felt a sudden, immense sadness. I have always failed you. She looked towards Aunt and there was something in her eyes that suggested she understood, that this charade, this mockery was hurting her too – but she did not move.

Anna tied another knot but the photograph remained ripped on the table.

‘That’s enough,’ said Aunt.

Mrs Withering smiled with supercilious satisfaction, dropping the spoon into the cup with a final, violent tinkle. ‘You were right, Vivienne. There is nothing to worry about. She is weak. That must be hard, Anna; your mother had no problem with magic, but then again, she was weak too, in her own shameful way.’ Her mole was practically vibrating with pleasure.

Anna clenched her fists and shot her a look. You don’t get to talk about my mother! Aunt always spoke about her mother’s deficiencies, but she was allowed to – they were sisters. This woman had no claim on her. No right.

‘But wait! There it is! The true Anna hiding behind the pale hair, I saw a glimpse of her then. Didn’t I?’

Anna attempted to control the anger that had followed in the wake of the grief. She shook her head.

‘That’s right, girl, control yourself or we will be forced to bring your Knotting forwards. Considering this morning’s events, the sooner you are knotted the better. Our old enemies may be stirring. Beware smoke on the wind.’

Anna looked up.

‘Anna’s Knotting will proceed as planned,’ said Aunt. ‘When she is ready. You know it can’t be rushed.’

Mrs Withering screwed her lips into a tight-as-a-button smile. ‘When she is ready, of course, Vivienne. You’d just better make sure she is ready soon.’ She turned back to Anna. ‘You do wish to join us, don’t you?’

Anna surveyed the room – the circle of women with their preened hair and lipstick-stained smiles, goading and questioning – and felt them all to be hideous. They were most certainly mad.

‘There would be no greater honour.’

‘It is not an honour, Anna. It is a duty,’ Aunt corrected sharply.

‘Yes,’ Anna agreed. ‘I’m sorry. Shall I leave now?’

‘Clear this mess up first.’ Mrs Withering pointed at the torn pieces of the photo. Anna began to gather them up but Mrs Withering turned to the grate and with a flourish of her hands the stale logs sat within it began to burn, a small, concentrated fire. ‘You can throw them in there.’

Please, no. ‘Could I not just—’

‘Throw them in the fire. When you become a Binder you will have to understand what sacrifice means.’

Anna walked to the fire and threw the pieces into the flames. The face of her mother curled and blackened. She turned back to Mrs Withering with the hardest smile she’d ever had to form.

Mrs Withering smiled back. It reached her eyes this time. ‘Silence and secrets.’

‘Silence and secrets.’ Anna joined the others in their answering chorus.

‘You may go now. We have serious matters to discuss,’ said Aunt.

Anna turned to her and nodded. How could you just watch?

She made for the door as quickly as she could without actually running. It slammed shut behind her and she nearly collapsed against the wall. She had escaped. For now. But why would they move her Knotting? What did she have to do with six women hanging from Big Ben? Her ceremony had always felt like a distant threat, but Anna could feel it now, coming closer, hanging over her like a noose.

She would have given anything to hear what they were saying, what was really going on, why they were so disturbed by the news story, but she knew there was no point. When she was younger she’d often looked through the keyhole during their meetings, but it never revealed anything, only darkness. With her ear glued to the door, she’d never heard a sound. Just like the room on the third floor, whatever went on was enveloped in silence and secrets. It was not for her to know, not until she became a Binder herself. The thought made her feel cold and sick, but what choice did she have?

There is no choice, said Aunt, it is either that or let magic destroy you.