It was a warm summer’s day in Speller, the little seaside town where Abby Clover lived. But in Darkwood Forest, the great Woodland that lay beyond the cliffs, a cold rain was falling. (Statement 1)

The heavy downpour drenched a shabby figure trudging wearily through the thick underbrush beneath the ancient canopy of weeping trees. The man, carrying a large suitcase, was trying to keep up with a raven. It flitted from branch to branch, deeper and deeper into the tangled wood. Suddenly, the man stumbled on a tree root and stopped. (Statement 2)

“Just wait a minute, you awful bird,” he hissed when he had caught his breath, “I want to take a rest.” (Statement 3)

The raven folded its wings and sat in the hollow of a dead oak tree, watching the man with unblinking eyes as he adjusted his black hat to stop the rainwater trickling inside the collar of his crumpled coat. (statement 4)

“Is it much further?” the man asked impatiently.

The raven gave a croak of contempt and flew deeper into the forest. Cursing, the shabby figure picked up the case and followed, his shoes squelching through the mud. As he pushed on, he was aware of slight rustlings all about him. He felt unseen eyes watching his progress but, no matter how hard he looked, he saw only the dripping greenery of the forest.

Eventually, the bird led the man into a dismal clearing where a moss-covered cottage, built of crumbling yellow bricks, stood beneath an overhang of dead trees. Foul-smelling smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney and ivy grew around the flaking door. With a final croak, the raven made for an opening beneath the eaves of the cottage and hopped inside. (Statement 5)

The man stood before the door and kicked it. “Open up, it’s me Wolfbane,” he called impatiently.

“Just a minute,” a rather haughty voice answered. “I’m doing something.”

“Do get a move on, “ Wolfbane replied. “I’m soaked through.”

After a minute, there was the sound of a bolt being drawn and the door creaked open. Wolfbane felt a wave of nostalgia as a powerful odour of mould filled his nostrils.

“All your homes smell the same, Ma. It quite takes me back to my childhood,” he said. He stepped over the threshold and looked about the gloomy interior as his mother returned to what she was doing.

The single room was crammed with dusty glass bottles. Some were filled with strange liquids, powders, crystals and dried herbs. Others held dead lizards, bats, snakes and a variety of insects. The bottles covered most of the stone floor and the shelves that lined the room.

In the fireplace a black iron cauldron containing a thick bubbling concoction hung over a smouldering fire.

Propped open on a greasy wooden table by the window was a vast, leather-bound book. Wolfbane’s mother stood, gazing down at the pages with a slight frown on her face. She looked up and glanced in disapproval at her son’s dishevelled appearance. (Statement 6)

As always, Lucia Cheeseman was dressed in the latest Paris fashion. Her hair was immaculate and her make-up was flawless. Despite the squalor of her surroundings, she looked as if she were about to attend a royal garden party.

“You look quite dreadful, darling,” she said accusingly.

Wolfbans shrugged. “So would you if you’d been following that awful raven of yours through a soaking wet forest. Why didn’t you lay a poison path? I think there are elves about.”

“There are elves about, but other people can follow a poison path,” she replied smartly, “I like my privacy. That’s why I arranged for Caspar to guide you.” (Statement 8)

Caspar, now perched on a rafter above them, gave a soft croak and rested his head on his chest in a satisfied fashion.

“It’s your own fault,” Lucia said briskly. “You used to torment him when you were a child.”

“He never liked me,” Wolfbane replied sulkily. “That’s why I used to pull out his feathers.”

“Don’t whine, darling.” Lucia continued. “Your father and I didn’t send you to the best of boarding schools for you to become a whiner. Now, why did you contact me? What do you want?” (Statement 9)

“I need to hide out for a bit,” Wolfbane replied as he hung his dripping coat and hat near the fire, and carefully placed his suitcase in a corner of the room.

“And where did you get that dreadful face?” his mother asked, as Wolfbane leaned forwards to kiss her on the dead white cheek she offered.

“Don’t you like it?” he said, turning to examine his fat jolly features in the grimy fly-speckled mirror over the fireplace.

Wolfbane turned and drew out a paper. He passed his hand over the surface and a page of words and pictures appeared. At the top was a large photograph of Abby Clover.

Now create your own predictions from what you know and have discussed of the text. Think about the characters, settings, language used and any hints the author gives you.