The witch on the other side of the door wasn’t Mortadella’s friend Witchalina, but another witch entirely. Trixie T McWitch, perhaps. And who knew how much good she had in her?
“Look.” Roxy tried to keep her voice level. “My sister works for the Ministry Overseeing, Organizing or Occasionally Opposing Hocus-Pocus. When she finds out you’ve kidnapped me, she’ll turn up with … with … the very latest in anti-witch weaponry,” she improvised. “Now will you let me go?”
There was silence from the other side of the door.
Then, “Pretty, pretty…” came the familiar sing-song as the witch’s retreating voice faded away to nothing.
Roxy took a deep breath. Then she put her hands on her hips and said, “OK. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Then she gazed about the tower room, wondering where this show might start.
“For the stone with all the power,” she murmured, “seek within a witch’s tower. Have a look around the place; you’ll find the answer in your face.”
In. Your. Face.
Even as she thought this, a face caught her eye.
It was her own, and it was gazing palely back at her from a small, oval, rather tarnished mirror on the adjacent wall.
In. Your. Face.
“I wonder,” she breathed.
She stepped closer to the mirror.
“Is this,” she murmured, “the answer to the riddle?”
“It is,” came a voice.
Roxy screamed.
The voice was coming from the mirror.
20
“Well done!” the voice declared. “You’ve cracked the code. Your two and two make four!”
Roxy stared at the mirror.
The mirror – or rather, her face in it – stared back at her.
She reached out a hand.
“I hope you’ve washed those mucky mitts,” the mirror snapped, “since crawling on the floor.”
“I … er…” stammered Roxy.
“Good hygiene is important,” continued the mirror, “and I do not care for grime. If I had hands, you grubby girl, I’d wash them all the time.”
Roxy peered more closely at the mirror. It was pretty unremarkable-looking: that tarnished frame surrounding plain glass. It did not have eyes. It did not have a mouth. In fact, it was impossible to see how it was talking.
But there could be absolutely no mistaking the fact that it was.
“I’d treat myself to bubble baths,” the mirror went on, dreamily, “to get off all the gunge. And if I found a grease-spot, I would scrub it with a sponge. I’d use a lovely scented soap – I’m fond of rose and lily – and after that, I’d—”
“Sorry,” interrupted Roxy, “but are you speaking in … uh … rhyme?”
“Why?” asked the mirror, sounding hurt. “Are you implying I sound silly?”
“Oh, no! Not at all,” said Roxy hastily. “You sound … er … quite lovely.”
“How nice of you to say!” said the mirror. “How kind. Your manners are exquisite. Now, tell me, pray, the reason for this unexpected visit.”
“Well,” said Roxy, after a moment. “Your … owner? Trixie, the creepy green-skinned witch? She’s kind of locked me up. I think it’s all something to do with … wanting my hair?”
“Oh dear,” the mirror sighed. “I do apologize for Trixie’s naughty tricks. She’s pulled these kinds of crazy stunts since eighteen thirty-six.”
“Good thing it wasn’t a year earlier,” said Roxy, “or that would never have rhymed!”
There was a short, rather peevish silence from the mirror.
“I hope that you’re not making fun,” it said. “I hope that you’re not mocking…”
“No, not at all!” said Roxy. She added quickly, “In fact, as magic mirrors go, I think you’re really rocking!”
This time the mirror’s silence was longer.
“OK, OK,” said Roxy, holding up her hands. “I won’t try that again.”
“I’d rather that,” said the mirror, before muttering, “and by the way, your rhyme was truly shocking.”
“So it sounds like you’ve been around this place a while,” Roxy said. “And you say Trixie has trapped girls in here before. Tell me: how do they usually get out?”
“Dear Witchalina – Trixie’s niece – she solves the situation,” the mirror replied. “But Witchalina isn’t here. She’s on a nice vacation.”
“Witchalina is Trixie’s niece? And she normally sets the girls free? And she’s ON HOLIDAY?”
Roxy ran to the narrow window. With some effort, she could probably squeeze through it. But then what? It was a hundred metres down to the icy blackness of the moat. Who knew how deep that was? And what lurked in there…
“With very deep regret, dear girl,” began the mirror, “I’ll tell you what I know. There’s simply no way out of here. Believe me. Have a go. That window’s not an option: it is too far from the ground. You’re welcome to try shouting but there’s nobody around…”
“I get the point!” Roxy’s heart sank. “I guess I’m… stuck here, then.”
“Unless,” the mirror said eagerly, “you know a useful prince? Now wouldn’t that be dandy? That clever girl Rapunzel made darn sure she had one handy.”
“Wait – this was Rapunzel’s tower?”
“Well, locking up blonde girlies is a proud McWitch tradition. It’s only Witchalina who does not share this ambition.”
Roxy began to laugh, rather hysterically.
“Let me get this straight. I’m shut up in Rapunzel’s tower. My brother and sister are Hansel and Gretel. And you’re probably, I don’t know, Snow White’s stepmother’s mirror, or something…”
“I certainly am not!” the mirror gasped. “That mirror’s nasty through and through!”
“Really? I thought it was just honest, and told evil Queen Bellissima what it thought of her.”
The mirror snorted. “It merely spoke the truth, as magic mirrors have to do. We cannot utter falsehoods and we never simply flatter. We have to point out massive zits and whether you’ve got fatter. We cannot fail to tell you if your nose takes too much space. And most of us will help you make improvements to your face. But Snow White’s stepmum’s mirror played a rather different game—”
“Look … Mirror,” Roxy interrupted. “Can I call you Mirror, by the way?”
“You’re kidding.” The mirror sounded stunned. “Are you serious? I’ve never had a name.”
“Mirror, I have a question,” Roxy went on. “Have you ever heard of the Witching Stones?”
Mirror sucked in its breath. “Oh me, oh my,” it breathed. “I can’t recall when last I heard them mentioned.”
“Well, I’m interested in the Seventh Witching Stone. The most powerful one of all. Can you tell me anything more about it? Most important of all, where it might be hidden?”
“Of course! I’d be delighted, dear. I’m very well-intentioned!”
Roxy blinked. “Wait – it’s that easy?”
“There’s just one teeny caveat: the password. Do you know it?”
“There’s a password?”
“Why, yes, of course! Oh, dearie me. I hope that doesn’t blow it?”
“Password…” Roxy’s forehead knitted. “All we found in Mrs Tabitha was the clue. If it’s a password you need, I’ll … ow!”
Something had hit her on the back of the neck.
It had just flown in through the narrow arched window behind her.
“Attackers!” shrieked Mirror. “Fierce marauders! Quick! Prepare the boiling water! Then chuck it out the window! Don’t surrender! Give no quarter!”
“Who in their right mind would attack a witch’s tower?” Roxy clambered up onto the velvet sofa to get a better view out of the window.
In the thin moonlight, on the ground far below, she could just see…
“Jones! It’s you!”
“Of course it’s blooming me!” Jones yelled, through cupped hands. She was standing on the
other side of the murky black moat. “I’ve been down here yelling your name for the last three minutes. I was just about to go and fetch the minibus and fly up, but then I remembered: you’re the one with the keys, right?”
“Right. Sorry, I was just chatting to … er … someone. Are you all right?” Roxy called back. “Where’s Trixie?”
“Trixie?”
“The witch!”
“I thought she was called Witchalina!”
“No, Witchalina’s away. This one’s her auntie, Trixie.”
“Whoever she is, she’s fast asleep at the kitchen table,” Jones yelled. “Well, I say fast asleep … I may have sort of kind of ever-so-slightly hit her on the head with a frying-pan.”
“Jones!”
“Hey, she brought it on herself. She got me out of that dungeon and started ordering me around the kitchen like some kind of servant. And I’m not being anybody’s servant ever again, even if I wasn’t on a mission to save the world!”
“Good for you, Jones, but focus, please! How do I get out of here?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a great plan.” Jones cleared her throat. “Roxy, Roxy, let down your hair!”
Roxy stared down at her.
“Come on, it’s obvious! Let down your hair! That’s what fair maidens do when they’re stuck up a tower. It worked for Rapunzel!”
Roxy patted the hideous hair-do. She didn’t feel much like a fair maiden, but there was a lot of hair in there.
“OK, but I don’t even know if it’ll come down.”
“Just give it a try! And you’ll have to give it a massive swing when you chuck it out, so it reaches this side of the moat.”
With difficulty, Roxy reached up and began disentangling the huge quantity of hairpins, grips and clips that Frankie had somehow magicked into the hairdo. The hair itself felt incredibly heavy as she looped it into a kind of lasso and then – with some effort – shoved it through the window.
It was only at the very last second that she realized she should have grabbed onto something. The weight of all that hair was going to topple her out of the window too. Thinking fast, she stuck one foot deep down the side of the sofa and clung on to the fragment of tattered curtain for dear life.
It worked. She stayed put.
“They never mentioned that in Rapunzel,” she gasped.
Several painful, scalp-pulling minutes later, Jones’s face appeared at the window. She pulled herself through before collapsing, red-faced and breathless and still minus her left boot, onto the sofa.
“I’ll tell you what, kid,” she puffed when she could talk. “I have new respect for any prince that’s done this. It’s a lot harder than…”
She stopped.
“Bellissima’s balaclava.” She was scrambling to her feet. “Is this the place? Is this the tower?”
“Yes, and Jones…”
Jones whooped. “OK, we have to start looking for the clue. Have a look around the place; you’ll find the answer in your face…”
“Yes, Jones, I’ve already…”
“I’ll bet it’s something to do with this grotty-looking mirror right here,” Jones said, striding towards Mirror. “And this being fairytale stuff, we’re probably supposed to say something like, I dunno, Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? And then, if mirrors could actually talk, the mirror would reply—”
“I do not like your tone,” said Mirror haughtily. “I don’t take kindly to your teasing. And OMG, those eyebrows! Have you never heard of tweezing?”
Jones’s mouth dropped open. “You seriously talk?”
“Don’t ask it a question!” Roxy begged, but it was too late.
“I do indeed,” replied Mirror. “I talk. I speak. I comment and I chat. I give my views. I pass remarks on this and sometimes that. I like a good old chinwag, I enjoy a good debate—”
“Right, I get the point. No need to hammer it home.”
“AND BEING INTERRUPTED IS A THING I REALLY HATE!” Mirror yelled.
“Is it talking in actual rhyme?” Jones hissed at Roxy.
Roxy nodded. “You said yourself, that’s how they all spoke in the Cursed Kingdom. Anyway, it’s definitely the thing the clue was pointing us to. It knows about the Stone. But it says it can’t tell us anything without a password.”
“Right,” said Jones, grabbing it off the wall. “Look, Mirror,” she went on pleasantly, “as it happens, we don’t have a moment to waste working out some password. The future of our planet is at stake. So what about these words instead? Shatter. Shards. Smithereens. Get it?”
Mirror let out a little shriek. “You brute! You cannot threaten me! Oh, what a nasty thug!”
“She didn’t mean to upset you…” Roxy began.
“Too late for that!” sniffed Mirror. “I’m shaken up. I rather need a hug.”
“Hey, we can all talk about our feelings some other time –” Jones rolled her eyes – “but for now, just answer me this, Mirror. Do you remember the bad old days of the Perpetual Wickedness?”
Mirror was – astonishingly – silent, which was enough of an answer to Jones’s question.
“Because there’s a real danger of all that Dark Magic being unleashed again,” Jones continued, “if we don’t find the Seventh Stone before Queen Bellissima does. She’s escaped from prison, you see – well, her spirit has – and—”
“Forget that silly password!” Mirror gasped. “I will tell you all I know! It happened here, right in this tower, a long, long time ago. Some magic folk enchanted me (it’s kind of what they do), and gave me just one purpose: I’m the Keeper of a Clue.”
Mirror paused. When it next spoke, its voice was low.
“Tick-tock, goes the clock. I hope you’re feeling plucky. This time, I’ve got your number and it isn’t very lucky.”
Jones frowned.
“That’s it? Another blooming rhyme?”
“Not my problem!” huffed Mirror. “My job’s just to give the information. You’re the ones who need to find the proper explanation!”
“I know the answer,” said Roxy suddenly.
Jones turned to look at her.
“I know what the clue means.” Roxy sounded as dumbstruck as she felt.
Because the clue could only mean one thing.
The Witching Stone was hidden in a clock.
A clock that had something to do with an unlucky number.
“It’s in the Dodgy Old Clock,” she said. “In Minister Splendid’s office. It must have been there all along. Right in the heart of the Soup Ministry.”
21
“So you’re absolutely sure,” Jones asked, for the dozenth time, “that this Dodgy Old Clock is thirteen minutes fast?”
“Absolutely sure,” said Roxy, also for the dozenth time.
It had been several hours since both girls, and Mirror, had made it out of the tower. Jones, clutching a thrilled Mirror (tucked inside one of the velvet cushions for safety), had used Roxy’s hair for the descent before flying the enchanted minibus up to collect Roxy herself. The overnight minibus flight back to Rexopolis had been rather slow and bumpy – they suspected it needed some sort of magical recharge, as they seemed to be flying at half the speed of their first flight – and the dawn walk from where they’d left the bus, with its INVISIBILITY SHIELD on, in a lay-by on the edge of the city, had been freezing. (Jones had been eager to fly the bus all the way into the city but Roxy, concerned about what might happen if the INVISIBILITY SHIELD pinged itself off for any reason, had won that disagreement.) They were exhausted and hungry. The stale goji-berry-and-bran muffin they’d shared during the turbulent flight had been rock-hard and so truly foul-tasting that even Jones had given up chewing her half of it after a few mouthfuls.
The only piece of good news was that, for once, one of Frankie’s spells had done what it was supposed to do. Shortly after taking off from the McWitch Fortress – in fact exactly as Jones’s watch had beeped midnight – Roxy’s hideous heap of hair had disappear
ed. She could not say that she missed it. And it was a relief that it had disappeared before their return to Rexopolis, because they did not want to draw undue attention to themselves. Especially not as, back here in the city, there were even more SMOG patrols than normal, particularly around the Ministry. This was where the girls were now, making their way towards the staff quarters.
“And you’re sure it’s kept inside the Minister’s study?” Jones asked.
“For the last time, I’m sure!” Roxy was too tired for the barrage of questions, particularly when – as far as she was concerned – their mission was pretty much over. “Jones, seriously, can we not just crash and sleep now? I thought you agreed, back there on the bus, that if the Stone is safe in the Ministry – and must have been for years, by the way – then there’s nothing left for us to do. Queen Bellissima won’t be able to get her hands on it there.”
“Oh, come on. If I managed to break into the Ministry, how hard do you think it would be for old Bellissima? She’s a spirit. She can get in anywhere. Through an open window. Via the ventilation shafts.”
“And what do you suggest we could do with the Stone if we pinched it from the Clock? Take it somewhere more secure? How would we even do that? Pop along to the Royal Palace, charm our way past the armed guards and ask Queen Ariadne if she’s got any room among the Crown Jewels?”
“Look, I don’t know, all right?” Jones had been less buoyant than usual since the jump from the tower; deflated, almost. “I just … I just want to see the Stone. I’ve been thinking about finding it – dreaming about finding it – ever since I first discovered Dad’s notebooks. And we’ve come such a long way. It feels wrong not to see it all the way to the end.”
“I understand that, Jones, I really do. But breaking into the Minister’s office… You got incredibly lucky last time. And don’t forget, most of the SMOGs were guarding the Ministry ballroom that night, not the Minister’s office. Look at all the extra SMOGs around today. They’re everywhere!”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed.” Jones was pulling her fedora low as they approached the Soup Minister’s Residence. “But you know what, I’ll just bet they’ve been way too busy organizing all the obvious defences – doors, windows, ventilation shafts – that they’ve forgotten all about boarding up the old underground tunnel. And even if they haven’t, that needn’t stop us! I’ve got some very nifty equipment in here.” She patted her remarkable kitbag confidently.
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