‘Now, we go home and decide what we’re going to do.’
‘Do . . . do? You surely don’t mean . . . ?’ Fliss’s eyes darted about, but there was no one close enough to hear them. ‘You’re not really thinking of trying to get him out, are you?’
‘I don’t know what I’m thinking, yet,’ Betty replied. ‘But it’s obvious he knows things – things we thought were secret. Granny would never have told him about the bag. And what he said about the curse starting here . . . if there’s a chance it can be broken, then we can’t ignore it.’
‘But, Betty, helping him escape would be a crime! I know he says he’s innocent, but if we were caught—’
‘Slow down a minute,’ Betty interrupted. ‘We only have his word he’s innocent. We don’t know anything about him, except that he’s smart. We certainly shouldn’t trust him.’ She began walking towards the ferry as it docked, trying to order her thoughts. Last night she had vowed to change their future, and now Colton seemed to be offering that possibility . . . in exchange for a huge risk. The question was, were they brave enough to secure their freedom by giving him his? ‘Granny must think he knows something, or else why would she keep visiting him? This could be it, Fliss. If he’s telling the truth, we could change things – for all of us.’
‘Big if.’ Fliss looked thoughtful. ‘When he asked if I was just for show, do you suppose that means he finds me pretty?’
‘Felicity Widdershins!’ Betty said through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t even think about it!’
The boat was waiting by the jetty, and people were boarding. Betty and Fliss joined the end of the line, feet sinking into the damp shingle. They handed over their return tickets and climbed on behind an off-duty warder. Unlike many of the other warders he had a kindly, but weary face. His eyes were fixed on mainland Crowstone like he couldn’t wait to arrive.
‘Long night?’ the ferryman asked him, as they pushed off from the jetty.
The warder looked round, his eyes sunken.
‘Always a long night in that place. The days, too.’
‘Heard it’s haunted,’ said the ferryman, his eyes glinting ghoulishly. ‘Ever seen anything?’
Betty leaned closer to listen. She had the feeling the ferryman would know of any tales of hauntings and was looking to amuse himself with his passengers’ reactions. She glanced uneasily at the prison, relieved to see it slipping away. She had never believed in ghosts . . . but then, she hadn’t believed in magical objects or curses, either.
The warder hesitated. ‘Not seen anything, exactly . . . but others say they have.’
‘Such as?’ the ferryman asked, picking up speed. Fliss was starting to hunch over, gripped by seasickness once more. ‘Come on. Tell us some ghost stories to pass the time.’
The warder blew into his chapped hands. He looked like all he wanted was a quiet journey back. ‘Some say they’ve seen flickering lights up in the Tower,’ he said eventually. ‘And a red-haired figure at the windows.’
Betty stiffened at the mention of the tower. What was its link to the curse, and its crumbling stones? Once again, the memory of a story surfaced – one all the children of Crowstone knew – of a girl imprisoned there who had flung herself from the window. The Widdershins girls had heard it in the schoolyard rather than at home. Granny had never liked repeating the tale and was so superstitious that she refused to even say the girl’s name, and now Betty couldn’t quite remember it. Sonia . . . Sophia?
‘They say she haunts the Tower,’ the warder continued. ‘The marshes, too. Sightings, whispered words. How many of them are genuine, who knows? I dare say some stories are made up by bored prisoners, and others by long-serving warders looking to frighten the new ones. But a lot of them ring true . . . too many, for my liking.’
‘And you?’ the ferryman asked. He wore an unpleasant little smirk, apparently enjoying the fear on the faces of some of his passengers. ‘You said you’d never seen anything . . .’
‘I’ve heard things. Words being chanted in the tower, when it’s empty.’
The rest of the boat’s passengers were so quiet now that the only sounds were the oars cutting through the water, and Fliss taking deep, slow breaths.
‘What words?’ the ferryman prompted.
‘The same words carved into the walls inside. Malice. Injustice. Betrayal. Escape,’ the warder replied. The shadows under his eyes seemed to darken. ‘They say if you speak her name three times she appears.’ He ran his tongue over cracked lips. ‘Sorsha Spellthorn . . .’
Sorsha Spellthorn, Betty thought to herself, her flesh prickling with goose pimples. Yes, that was it.
Silence hung in the air. No one repeated the name a second time, or spoke again for the rest of the journey, but the warder’s words were hooked into Betty’s mind like little claws. Malice, injustice, betrayal. Were those the perfect ingredients for a curse? It seemed to fit. Because for Sorsha Spellthorn there had been no escape, but how, then, was she connected to the Widdershins? Betty’s gaze slid to the Tower as the idea churned uneasily, mixing with thoughts of Colton and his dangerous proposal like mud and seawater. When the ferry arrived on the other side of the marshes the sky had darkened, with thick clouds gathering overhead.
Betty and Fliss were the last to get off, as Fliss was still shaky, sighing with relief as she stepped on to dry land. Ahead of them, the other passengers trickled away into the streets.
‘Where’s that warder?’ Fliss asked. Her voice was still weak, but she looked less sickly now.
Betty nodded. ‘Over there, up by Thimble Street. Why?’
‘Let’s catch up to him. Perhaps he could tell us why Colton is in there.’
Yes, thought Betty, pushing thoughts of the tower to the back of her mind. Here was a chance to learn how dangerous Colton really was, and whether they could trust what he said.
They hurried round the corner, just as the warder was about to vanish through the door of a cottage. He paused as Fliss called out in a thin croak, then approached, eyeing them curiously.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We wondered if you could tell us anything about one of the prisoners?’ Fliss gave a wobbly smile, which still managed to be charming. ‘His name is Colton. Prisoner five-one-three.’
The warder shook his head and then chuckled, not unkindly. ‘Do you know how many inmates are in that place? More than a thousand.’
Fliss bit her lip, nodding. ‘Very well. Thank you, anyway.’
She turned away, but the warder lingered by the door, watching them. Another idea occurred to Betty.
‘What about Barney Widdershins? He was moved recently, to another prison. Do you know why?’
He gave them a sympathetic look. ‘Your pa, is it?’
Fliss nodded tightly.
‘A lot of prisoners have been moved,’ said the warder. ‘More are being shipped out over the next few weeks.’
‘More . . . more prisoners are being moved?’ Betty asked, her voice rising in alarm. If Colton was snatched away like their father, their opportunities to get more information – or make any deal with him – would vanish. ‘Who?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all kept hush-hush until the last minute. Has to be, for safety reasons.’
Fliss tugged at Betty’s arm, pulling her away. ‘You’ve been most helpful, thank you,’ she called. The warder tipped his hat, retreating into the cottage and the two girls hurried along the lane.
‘Did you hear that?’ Betty asked. ‘They’re transferring more prisoners! What if Colton is one of them? If he knows how to break the curse we can’t let him slip through our fingers!’
‘Maybe he won’t be moved,’ said Fliss. ‘But we should try to meet with him again—’
‘There might not be time.’ Betty’s mind was racing. ‘Granny’s been visiting him for weeks and he hasn’t budged. I don’t think he’ll tell us anything else without us giving him what he wants.’ She glanced at Fliss. ‘Maybe he’d tell you, if we had more time . . .’
&n
bsp; ‘Me? Why me?’
‘Oh, come on, Fliss. People open up to you. Father always said you were born batting your eyelashes.’ Betty had tried it herself once, but Granny had only asked if she had something in her eye. ‘Me and Granny, we’re blunt. Sometimes that works, but more often it rubs people up the wrong way. If he is moved we lose our chance. That only gives us one choice.’
Fliss gulped. ‘You mean, g-get him out?’
‘If we want to undo the curse then we have to. And right now it looks like he’s our best hope.’
‘What if he’s lying?’
‘What if he’s not?’ Betty shot back, then lowered her voice. ‘Yes, he could be bluffing, but he could just as easily be telling the truth. We can’t ignore what he knows already. And if he’s held on this long then he must think he has something worth trading.’
‘How would we do it?’ Fliss asked.
‘Colton’s right. We’ll need the travelling bag.’
Chapter Ten
Rats and Revelations
THE POACHER’S POCKET WAS QUIET that afternoon but the girls had little chance to discuss their secret visit to the prison, or plan what came next. At first, Betty and Fliss snatched moments to whisper about their discoveries, but abandoned their efforts with Granny buzzing round them like a marsh fly, nipping them with new chores every time they paused.
Despite this, Betty was determined that working time didn’t have to be wasted time. Now they knew of the risk of Colton being moved, every moment counted. Her grandmother had always said the inn was the gossip hub of Crowstone, so Betty decided to grab the opportunity to mine more information once the customers started arriving.
She kept busy, keeping one eye on the door while topping up firewood, plugging the whistling gaps in the window frames with old rags, and even sweeping fresh sawdust across the floor.
‘You’ll need a lot more than that,’ said Granny. ‘Old Man Crosswick gets out of the pinch later today, so things are going to get pretty messy in here.’ Her smile faded. ‘I’ll want you girls out of the way, with that leery lot coming in. You can all stay upstairs – Fliss, too. Though goodness knows, she’s had enough time off this week.’
Betty scattered more sawdust on the floor. Granny was right – they’d need it. The Crosswicks were always in and out of prison, and barely on the right side of what Granny described as hooligans. There would certainly be spitting and spillages, possibly even blood and teeth. More importantly, if Granny wanted the girls out of the way for the evening, Betty and Fliss would have time to plot then. Or perhaps even more than plot . . .
Granny hefted a crate of mismatched bottles on to the counter, wheezing slightly. ‘Once you’ve done that, tell Charlie to sort these bottles into the right crates out the back. And make sure that spider she caught earlier has been put outside.’
‘Righty-ho,’ said Betty.
‘You’re being awfully helpful,’ Granny said suddenly, and her mouth went all shrivelled up like a raisin. ‘You’re up to something.’
‘I’m not!’ Betty said indignantly, but she concentrated on the broom so she didn’t have to look at Granny. Again, the feeling of being a burden weighed heavily upon her. Granny had done all she could to protect them, and had enough to worry about without Betty rousing her suspicions. The memory of her harsh words filled her with shame. ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you yesterday. About squashing the adventure out of us. I understand now.’
‘Ah.’ Granny’s expression softened. ‘Yes, I know, poppet.’ She sighed. ‘We’ve all tried ways . . . to change things. But it’s not meant to be. Sometimes you just have to accept your lot, and that’s that.’ She turned away as the door opened, bringing in customers.
But I don’t accept it, Betty thought. I can’t. And whatever Granny said, her visits to Colton proved that deep down, she didn’t accept it, either.
Betty finished sweeping and then lugged the crate of empties to the back door. They clinked as she set them down in the cold air. To Betty’s surprise, Charlie was already outside, sitting on an upturned crate with her back to the door. A bigger surprise was that Oi was sniffing at her in an interested, almost friendly way.
Charlie sprang up, stuffing something in her pocket as Betty approached. With that, the cat hissed and stalked off, slipping through the door just before it closed.
‘What have you got there?’ Betty asked.
‘Nothin’,’ Charlie said defiantly, her pigtails bobbing.
Betty took one look at her sister’s mischievous little face and knew she was up to something. ‘You’ve been acting strange since we came to get you earlier.’
‘So have you,’ Charlie said immediately. ‘You and Fliss, sneaking around whispering. I seen you.’
‘Don’t change the subject!’ Betty exclaimed, trying not to laugh. Evidently, she and Fliss had underestimated Charlie. ‘Come on. Out with it.’ She clicked her fingers, pointing at her sister’s pocket, then blinked as it started to wriggle.
‘Oh, Charlie. What have you gone and brought home this time?’
‘You can’t tell!’ Charlie begged, her eyes huge and round. ‘Granny’ll make me get rid of him!’
‘Him?’
‘Well, I think it’s a him,’ Charlie said, as a tiny, quivering nose edged its way out of her pocket. A pair of beetle-black eyes emerged, followed by a fuzzy brown body.
‘Too right Granny’ll make you get rid of it, it’s a bleedin’ rat! No wonder Oi wanted to be your friend, for once.’
‘You sure?’ Charlie lifted the creature up, tickling its ears and stroking its wormy tail. ‘I thought it was a mouse.’
‘It’s not much more than a baby,’ said Betty. ‘And you need to get rid of it before Granny finds out, or any of the customers for that matter!’
‘But look how sweet he is!’
‘He might be now, but wait till he grows. Some of these rats on Crowstone end up the size of cats!’
‘I know!’ Charlie said excitedly.
Betty shook her head. ‘It’s a wild animal, it wouldn’t be fair to keep him.’
‘But he’s poorly.’ Charlie lifted the rat, showing Betty his underside. ‘Look. It’s his foot – there’s something wrong with it. He walks funny, too, with a sort of hop. That’s how I catched him.’
Betty peered at the rat’s feet. One of the back ones was no more than a toeless stump. Some of her hardness melted. ‘He must’ve been caught in a trap, poor thing.’
‘I’ve called him Hoppit,’ said Charlie. ‘Or is that mean? I don’t want him to think I’m being unkind.’ She took out a bread roll she’d scrounged from the church and broke off a piece, feeding it to the rat. Betty raised an eyebrow. It was almost unknown for Charlie to save food – normally it was scoffed immediately.
‘I’m sure he won’t mind what you call him, all the while he’s getting fed,’ said Betty. Then, more gently, she said, ‘He’s still got to go, Charlie. If Granny finds out . . .’
Charlie’s bottom lip jutted out obstinately. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’
‘I won’t need to. Granny will smell a . . . well, rat . . . that rat, sooner or later. So don’t say you weren’t warned.’ Betty nudged the crate of bottles with her toe, keen to get back inside. ‘These need to be sorted into the proper crates. Do it now before it gets dark.’
She left Charlie sulking out in the yard and returned inside. A few more familiar faces had trickled in now, settling on tables close to the fire. Her gaze rested on the sweet shop owners, Henny and Buster Hubbard. In their spare time they were fonder of gambling than gossip, but they’d always lived in Crowstone and were friendly enough. Perhaps they knew of some clue in its history.
‘Hello, young Betty,’ said Buster, emptying his dominoes on to the table. ‘You playing? Hoping to rob us blind, are ye?’
Betty grinned. ‘Not today, Buster. Let’s just play for fun.’ She helped turn the dominoes face down on the table, before Henny shared them out. ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to
ask.’
Buster nodded. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The prison tower,’ Betty said, trying to sound light and conversational, like she was simply looking for a story to pass the time. ‘Do you know much about it?’
‘Let’s see, now.’ Buster selected a domino and put it on the table face up. ‘Before it was part of the prison, it was part of the old Crowstone Fortress, as you must know. That survived for, ooh . . . hundreds of years, and . . .’ he paused. ‘Why are you asking us? Bunny’s sure to know more than we do.’
‘Probably,’ Betty admitted. ‘But she doesn’t like talking about the Tower, the same as she won’t go near the crossroads.’
‘Other than the tale of the girl who fell from the Tower, there’s not much to know,’ said Henny. ‘There’s plenty that’s been said, about her being a witch, but it was so long ago that only two things are certain: firstly that she was locked in there against her will, and secondly that she fell from the window to her death.’ She took out a tin of sweets from the shop she and Buster owned and removed the lid, offering it to Betty.
Betty thanked her and rummaged through the tin, lingering over a jumping jackdaw before settling on a marsh-melt. Henny smiled and passed her the jumping jackdaw, too. Betty grinned, eating the jackdaw first. The popping candy crackled on her tongue.
‘Why did people call her a witch?’ she asked. There appeared to be plenty of ghost stories about the girl in the Tower, but this was the first whiff of witchery that Betty had heard. She felt a tingle of fear mixed with excitement. Witches and curses went together like magpies and silver . . . perhaps a piece of the puzzle was about to slot into place.
‘It’s said by some that the will-o’-the-wisps on the marshes are her doing,’ Buster said. Betty remembered the flickering marsh lights she had seen on the ferry, just before Granny had caught up with her and Charlie. She popped the marsh-melt into her mouth.
‘Some suppose they’re fragments of her memories, trapped on the marshland like she was in the Tower. Others say they’re curses, luring travellers to drown.’ Buster shrugged. ‘Me? I reckon they could be something as simple as marsh gases letting off. But in a place like this, Betty, stories are never in short supply.’
A Pinch of Magic Page 8