Witch light, p.1
Witch Light, page 1
Praise for DEEP DARK:
‘Zohra Nabi is an extraordinary talent – I’d read anything she writes. But with characters that jump off the page, a meticulously researched Victorian London and a beautifully plotted mystery, Deep Dark has to be her best yet.’ – A.F. Steadman, author of Skandar and the Unicorn Thief
‘An atmospheric adventure with a wonderfully engaging heroine – this richly evocative story will sweep you away to the streets of 19th century London.’
– Katherine Woodfine, author of The Clockwork Sparrow
‘This book is stunning – Zohra Nabi writes like a dream and has achieved the impossible by conjuring up a living, breathing Victorian London right before my eyes. I felt like I was right there with Cassia while reading it, magic sparkling around us.’
– Natasha Hastings, author of The Miraculous Sweetmakers
‘An extraordinarily thrilling, fantastical adventure through London with a monstrous twist! Deep Dark is a rallying cry for justice.’
– Lizzie Huxley-Jones, author of Vivi Conway and the Sword of Legend
‘An incredibly vivid adventure. And just when you think all the cards are out the story takes us deeper into the darkest underbelly of London and the revelation of the most terrible hidden secret – divine!’
– Jasbinder Bilan, author of Asha and the Spirit Bird
‘Zohra Nabi has the rare ability to write characters and worlds that feel both wholly real and full of imaginative wonder. This has all you could want from a great children’s book.’
– Aisha Bushby, author of A Pocket Full of Stars
‘An eerie and intricate tale that holds you fast and drags you beneath the surface of Victorian London… unputdownable.’
– Sarah Underwood, author of Lies We Sing to the Sea
‘A spine-tingling, Dickensian adventure.’ The Bookseller
‘Nabi’s book is an assured mix of impeccably researched reality.’ The Observer
‘Zohra Nabi has clearly done her research. Deep Dark dives into history to enthralling effect. The street life of the time, particularly London’s lost economy of patterers and ballad-sellers, shouting out the latest songs and stories, is brought into raucous, vivid colour… Outstanding.’ The Times
‘Meticulously researched and sparklingly written, with an irresistible heroine.’ Guardian
Deep Dark was listed as a Best Book of 2025 in The Times and the Guardian
Description 1
In memory of Mary Watkins
PART ONE
O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn…
EMILY BRONTë
‘Stars’, 1846
Prologue
The coach had been battling the night for hours. Its wheels were twisting on a narrow road of mud and stones, its lamps offering only glimpses of the hills around in fragments and flashes. The rain, which had hammered at the doors and drenched the coachman, now curled itself around the carriage in a fog, guarding its passengers jealously from the light.
Cassia Thorne leaned against the carriage window, pressing her cheekbone onto the cold glass. It seemed to her that there was nothing left in the world beyond the mist. Miles from London, everything that had once anchored her had been left behind, and she felt untethered, as though she might drift away into the twilight. There were no streetlamps, no houses with lights in the windows. Morning was coming, she could hear the beginnings of birdsong, and yet all she could see outside was grey. Felix had once told her that the Thames was named for its dark shape. The deep dark. But here, the darkness was all around.
They had set off from London first thing that morning, stopping only to change the horses. Cassia had not eaten since Coventry, where she had hoped they might stop and pass the night in the coaching inn; but after only half an hour her uncle had clicked impatiently, the new horses had been readied, and they had continued their journey north. Cassia’s mind, accustomed to moving at incredible speed, now sunk into a strange stupor. It wasn’t sleep. She was still too alert, too certain of coming danger to allow her eyes to close.
She thought her uncle must have slept for a time at least, but it was hard to tell – his face was masked by The Times. Now, however, she could see him turning pages, and she ventured a question.
‘Where are we?’
‘Nearing the moors. We’ll be in Lancashire by breakfast.’
It was in a newspaper that Cassia had first seen mention of Conrad Thorne, her father’s elder brother. She knew that as well as inheriting the Thorne estate and fortune, he was a businessman of some repute. That was why he had taken her in, intending to bring Cassia up in his Lancashire home without a thought for the expense, whilst her father had been left behind in London, buried in a pauper’s coffin with nothing but a wooden flute to leave his daughter.
Cassia hoped that wasn’t entirely true. She hoped her uncle had left some money for her father to be buried; that she might visit him one day, when she returned to London. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back. She didn’t want to cry before her uncle – not until she knew what kind of man he was.
The birds had fallen silent. Cassia could hear a strange whistle in the distance, growing louder. As loud as a church bell, then as loud as a factory; and then it was splitting the air in a piercing howl, and other terrible noises rode in with it – scraping and sparking, hot metal sounds. Cassia craned her neck to see their source – and then froze in fear, her mouth opening soundlessly.
Something monstrous was hurtling towards them faster than Cassia had ever seen anything move. She had seen lions and tigers at Bartholomew Fair, she had faced down the great beast of Bankside and drowned it in the river mud, but she had never seen anything like this; tearing its way through the air to get to her. The horses were screaming with fright, straining against their reins, attempting to escape in opposite directions. The carriage was lurching, Cassia was being thrown from one side to the other, hard enough that her teeth were rattling in her head.
They collided into something; Cassia could hear splintering wood. The carriage overturned, and she was tumbling round and around, too fast for her to cry out, to shut her eyes even. The world blurred, she slammed against the door – and then she was falling through the air, landing with a hard bump on the ground.
* * *
The grass was wet beneath Cassia’s back: she lay stunned for several moments. The impact had extinguished the torches, her ears were still ringing – but the howling of the thing in the night was getting further away; it had left them behind.
A figure came to stand beside her, reaching out a hand and pulling her to her feet.
‘Are you hurt?’
Her uncle’s voice was not ungentle.
‘No.’ In fact, her tailbone was throbbing; she could taste blood where she had bitten the inside of her cheek. Yet even in the aftermath of a carriage accident there was a small voice in her head cautioning her against making a fuss. ‘What was that?’
‘Merely a steam train. Have you not seen one before?’
‘I – I’ve heard of them.’ Cassia fought the tremor in her voice. Her eyes were adjusting to the light; she could see her uncle’s face now. It felt foolish to have been so frightened.
‘Terrible things, sir.’
A man appeared from the mist, a figure in black with long, straggly hair around his shoulders. He was carrying a riding whip in his hand. ‘These wretched engines tearing through our countryside. Sheep fainting with fright and cows giving sour milk. End of the world, I imagine.’
‘Nonsense,’ said her uncle, shortly. ‘You cannot halt progress for the sake of a few frightened animals.’
The man gave an easy shrug, turning to Cassia. ‘You all right, miss?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
Now the mist was clearing, Cassia could see another overturned carriage, larger than their own, with two horses waiting patiently by. Aside from a broken window and a lost wheel, it appeared remarkably undamaged. A trunk had fallen from the top, its contents strewn on the ground – and then Cassia recoiled in horror. Amongst the dew-soaked dresses and broken glass, Cassia could see a small hand stretching out, limp.
‘Sir – your passenger!’
The man followed her gaze, clicking his tongue. ‘Yes – such a terrible pity. Young lady, about your age, miss. One of the girls from Ravening Hall.’
‘Is… is she hurt?’
‘Not hurt, no miss. She’s dead.’
Cassia felt every muscle in her body tense, her heart lurching in her chest. It was only two days ago that she had seen her father’s body slumped at his desk, ink pooling around his trouser hems, and the memory returned so vividly that she felt as though he had been transported to the moors with her.
The man continued. ‘Taking her home to die, I was, only she slipped away by the time we reached Derby. No sense leaving her at an undertakers forty miles from home, I thought, only I didn’t bank on the carriage being thrown about and blundered into…’
Her uncle bristled. ‘It was hardly my driver’s fault – clearly you were not looking where you were going…’
Cassia peered past the two men as they bickered. She could see now that the girl’s hand was protruding from a plain wooden box – like a small branch of a tree. She averted her eyes.
It did not take a great deal of effort to right the two carriages and with a few gentle words the horses were coaxed back to their harnesses. Eventually they were seated once again, and the coachman tucked the blankets around Cassia in the same careful way he had when her uncle had retrieved her from the debtors’ prison, before getting back up on his seat.
Cassia turned around, craning her neck to peer through the back window. The driver of the other carriage was easing the girl back into her coffin. He looked up and, catching Cassia’s eye, gave her an odd gesture: raising his hand and entwining his fingers in a manner she had never seen before.
‘Drive on.’ Her uncle gave the order. The horses began their trot, and then they were away.
The sun was rising now, a small struck match behind a distant hill – and yet it seemed that all at once its light spread like wildfire around her, and the grass rippled like the hide of a vast animal stirring from sleep, unsettling the mist and sending it up into the dawn. So much sky around them, so many new colours in the land; it was as though there was a new clarity to her sight.
On they went, until the strange man and the small white hand were far behind them.
Chapter One
‘Cassia! Cassia, help!’
That was Teo. He was crying out for her, somewhere – she tried to move, but she was stuck fast in the bank of the river. And over the sound of his screams came a roar, and the mud of the Thames was dragging her down; it filled her mouth and nose and ears, she was being dragged below to the depths, a white hand reaching out to grasp hers…
‘Cassia!’
Cassia didn’t start when she woke. Her eyes opened, and she found that her lips were pressed very tightly together, her hands clenching the sheets in fists. Her heart bolting in her chest. A month at her uncle’s house, and still she had the same dream, every night without fail. As she did every morning, Cassia forced herself to focus on where she was – on the softness of her bedclothes, cotton and lace, white and perfect as fresh snow. When she sat up and looked out of her window, the parkland of Blackhurst rolled out sumptuously before her, made golden by fallen leaves. It was impossible for her nightmare to linger here.
‘Morning, miss.’
Lettie, the maid who had been assigned to wait on Cassia, entered with a silver tray. ‘Are you not dressed yet?’
‘I’ve only just woken up.’
‘Best hurry yourself; it’s gone eight o’clock. Your uncle wouldn’t want you lying abed.’
Sighing inwardly, Cassia did as she was told. Her uncle was still half a stranger to her; she had not seen him angry yet. She wondered if he would rage like her father, spitting and screaming, his face red and his eyes – the same shade of green as her own – dark in his face.
In the time she had spent at Blackhurst, Cassia had explored every square foot of the house – its library, its orangeries and parlours and drawing rooms, each with tall, arching windows that framed the perfect gardens. So little was denied her here, and yet she had quickly learned there were thresholds she could not cross. After lunch, Lady Thorne would draw her cousins, Toby and Emma, into her chambers, and the door would remain closed until supper. Occasionally, she would listen outside, wistful. Her aunt’s voice was gentle, and she dressed so prettily. Sometimes Cassia thought that if they only had a moment alone, she might find something to draw them closer.
Lettie was ready with her black dress. Everything Cassia owned was black, now – except the overcoat Felix had lent to her that last day in London. She was in mourning for her father; she wouldn’t see colour until summer. Even so, her aunt and uncle had spared no expense. She was dressed in velvet and lambswool and silk soft as butter. Little more than a month ago she had worked every hour and scraped every penny to afford a simple cotton gown.
‘There’s fresh eggs and bread for breakfast, and Cook’s made an apple jam,’ Lettie said cheerfully, as she buttoned the back of Cassia’s dress. ‘Oh, and a letter arrived for you with the morning post. It’s from London.’
‘London!’ Cassia broke free of her maid and ran to where she had set down her tray. Propped against the toast rack was a crisp envelope, Felix’s swooping handwriting on the front. Her uncle had been determined that Cassia should put as much distance between herself and her ballad-selling past as possible and had confiscated previous letters from her friends – for her own good, he said – but he must have relented. Now she would know what had happened back in London. Whether Teo, the young pickpocket who had been dangerously close to death when she had left him, had recovered from his injuries. She couldn’t read this inside the house; she needed to be far away from here.
She turned to Lettie. ‘I want to go out.’
‘Of course. After breakfast, we’ll—’
‘No. I want to go out on my own.’
Lettie’s face took on a strange look. ‘You know you’re not allowed, miss. It’s wild out there; you might get lost.’
Cassia narrowed her eyes. She might have bought that excuse when she had first arrived – but only days before, she had stumbled across her servant sitting on the stairs, surrounded by other housemaids.
‘Does she talk like a native?’ one of them was asking.
‘She talks as well as you or I, and she doesn’t pray like you hear about Indians praying, she doesn’t have statues or nowt. But when she plays that flute, I feel sure in my heart she’s summoning spirits. I daren’t go in some nights, for fear of my soul. But I’m under strict orders not to let her out of my sight – she ran with savages and thieves and all sorts in London, you know.’
Cassia had retreated quickly, heart pounding. She had been used to walking invisible in London; here everyone knew who she was. Ever since, she had resented the girl who tailed her, chattering about jam and the weather and witches on the moors, and all the while storing up stories about Cassia to relay to the other servants. Now, she thought that she might use the situation to her advantage.
‘Let me go out alone. I won’t go far, and you can stay inside and gossip with the others about how strange I am.’
Lettie went pink, but she held firm. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I can’t let you do that.’
‘Very well, you leave me no choice. If you don’t do as I say, I shall put a curse on you. I learned black magic in India, didn’t you know? Perhaps I shall turn you into a beetle – or summon spirits to whisper by your bed at night.’ Flashing her eyes, Cassia began to mutter the few words of Urdu she remembered, stepping closer to the servant.
Her maid began to tremble. ‘Stop, stop! Go then and be done with it, only please don’t hex me.’
Satisfied, Cassia pulled on her boots, grabbed Felix’s overcoat from where it hung in her wardrobe, and made for the door.
* * *
Cassia emerged from the house into one of her aunt’s rose gardens. The grass here was heavy with dew, the marble statues and artfully constructed streams sparkling in the early morning sunlight. Clouds were already advancing on the horizon – Cassia had learned that when rain threatened here, it would fall. She would have to be quick to escape it. She would have to be quicker still if she was to make it out of the gardens without alerting anyone to her presence.
She was surprised by the guilt that had lodged beneath her ribs, deceiving Lettie. In her head she saw the disappointed eyes of her uncle – not Conrad Thorne, but the man she knew as Mamu, her mother’s brother in Lucknow. He had taught her Urdu so that she might read poetry, not frighten a superstitious servant. But with Felix’s letter in hand, and the prospect of news from London, it was hard to concentrate on anything else.
As Cassia left the carefully arranged gardens for the open parkland of her uncle’s estate, the path seemed to turn against her; the mud clinging more insistently to her boots, the rain like a swarm of midges. The course grew steeper, her legs were aching, her lungs burning. Still, she kept walking, her skirts soaked by the long grass, until she reached the summit of the hill. The cold air coursed down her throat and swelled her chest, and Cassia felt her head empty of all thoughts other than of the stretching miles of moorland, and the sunlight moving across the heather. So much land around her, all of it Conrad Thorne’s. There was an eeriness at the top of the hill that felt like time standing still, as though the sky was close enough to touch. Perhaps it was because up here were the standing stones. Each one towered above her, sticking up from the summit like jagged teeth, weathered and lacy with lichen.
