A Pinch of Magic

by Michelle Harrison

  Lost in her thoughts, Sorsha’s first clue that she had foolishly let her guard down was a clod of half-frozen earth that flew out of the meadow and skipped along the path. She gasped, grabbing Prue and ducking next to the hedgerow. The catcall followed moments later.

  ‘Hide and seek!’

  It wasn’t a friendly request for a game, but a taunt. A jeer. A dare.

  Come find us.

  ‘Keep down,’ she told Prue. Slowly, she stood, gazing across the frosty meadows. The long grasses rippled in the wind, giving nothing away. She jumped as another lump of dirt cracked against the path. This time there was a large stone at its centre.

  Her skin prickled with fear, like a dog’s hackles rising. She didn’t know how many there were or where they were hidden, but she and Prue were alone out here. The nearest cottage was a way off, and knocking wouldn’t guarantee help. Not for them, anyway.

  ‘Sorsha?’ Prue whispered. ‘Where are they?’

  Sorsha ducked down again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s just go. If we hurry—’

  ‘It’s a long way. I’d be able to . . . outrun them but you won’t. I need to do something.’

  Prue’s pale eyes were fearful. ‘Ma said ignore them.’

  ‘Ignoring them doesn’t work. It just makes them try harder.’

  Another stone hit the path. This time there was no doubt. The stone wasn’t a mistake, caught in a dense lump of dirt. It was large and rough, meant to do harm.

  She had promised Ma she wouldn’t, but Sorsha knew now it was an eggshell promise, shattered by their missiles. She needed to stay safe. There was also a tiny part of her that wanted to teach them a lesson.

  ‘Keep quiet and still,’ she told Prue.

  ‘Sorsha,’ Prue began, but Sorsha squeezed her arm with a warning look and Prue quieted.

  Sorsha closed her eyes, letting her mind roam. Already she could feel it crackling: a power ready to surge. Oh, but it felt good to use it again! Especially after suppressing it for so long. Let me see them, she commanded silently. And, like someone in a dream, she found her mind’s eye was looking down, like a bird hovering above the field and searching out field mice. Quickly she spotted them, spread out in the high grass. There were two of them either side of the path, and her and Prue on the path in the middle. They were surrounded.

  Sorsha’s face grew warm with rage. She wanted to give them something to really wonder about. Looking closer at each boy, she located Samuel, the pig-keeper’s son. An oily-looking thing with a nose like a lump of squashed clay, he was the biggest and meanest of the group. There was a moment’s hesitation – it had been so long since she had done this, but if anything the unused power seemed to have increased rather than faded. Her mind sharpened and flexed. Instantly, there came the sensation of weightlessness, of the ground slipping from under her feet and the whoosh of wind whistling in her ears. Adrenaline surged through her in a giddy, thrilling wave.

  Her arrival at Samuel’s back was announced with a rustle of brittle grasses. He whipped round, open-mouthed.

  ‘H-how did you . . . ?’

  He grappled for words, crippled by fear. His eyebrows curled into question marks. They both knew there was no way she could have sneaked up so soundlessly. Until now, he hadn’t really believed the stories about her. They had just been an excuse to pick on someone, anyone. The easiest target.

  ‘Found you,’ she said softly. Soft, but not like a baby dove or butter. Soft like a kitten’s paw . . . just before its claws shot out.

  This is a warning, pig-boy.

  ‘My turn,’ she said, backing into the long grass, just far enough to hide herself.

  Once again the ground whipped away from under her. She arrived back with her sister with nothing more than a light scratch of gravel under her heels.

  Prue’s eyes held the same awe Sorsha had seen in the pig-boy’s, but none of the fear. ‘You can still do it,’ she whispered. ‘I knew you could.’

  ‘It never went away. I just stopped doing it.’

  ‘Teach me,’ Prue begged, fingers clutching at her greedily.

  ‘I’ve told you before, it’s not something that can be taught,’ Sorsha said. ‘Even if it was, this wouldn’t be the time!’

  ‘What did you do?’ Prue whispered.

  ‘I gave the pig-keeper’s son a scare he won’t forget.’

  ‘Oh, Sorsha, Ma will be so angry!’

  ‘Hush. I didn’t do anything he can prove – just enough to rattle him.’

  They quieted, stepping back into a dip in the hedgerow as the pig-boy emerged from the meadow further up the lane. Pale-faced, he gave a low whistle before stalking back towards the village, casting nervous looks back. One by one his friends scrambled out of the long grass after him. Mutters of witch and fish eyes floated back on the air.

  When the boys were finally gone, Sorsha turned to Prue. Her sister’s strange, light eyes were curiously bright. Fish eyes. The cruel comment echoed in Sorsha’s head.

  ‘What if they tell?’ Prue said, as they began walking the opposite way.

  ‘Let them,’ said Sorsha. She glanced at her sister, afraid she had scared her, but if anything her pinched white face looked thrilled.

  ‘But people will talk.’

  ‘They’ve always talked. Maybe next time they might just leave us alone.’

  A shadow flickered in Prue’s bleached eyes. ‘I wish I could do the things you can do.’

  ‘Probably best you can’t.’ Sorsha sighed, starting to regret her hot-headed reaction now that her blood had begun to cool. ‘It only leads to trouble.’

  Hide and seek . . .

  ‘Trouble,’ Prue echoed. ‘But you’ve never used your magic for—’

  ‘Don’t!’ Sorsha hissed, looking about them fearfully. ‘Never say that word. You don’t know who might be listening!’

  ‘But you’ve never used it for bad things,’ Prue persisted.

  Sorsha frowned. ‘Of course not. I’ve hardly used it at all, but if I could I’d want to help people, not hurt them.’

  ‘Not even if they made you really, really angry?’ Prue breathed, her eyes wide and fixed on Sorsha’s face. They glinted with excitement and longing.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sorsha admitted, to herself as much as to Prue. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. ‘I’ve never thought about it before. No one’s ever made me angry enough.’

  Prue looked up at her, slipping her hand into Sorsha’s again.

  She was smiling.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Travelling Bag

  ‘THE ME-RRY-PEN-NIES IN THE MEA-DOW, silver by the niiiiiiiight,

  Were hopped upon by mid-night imps who danced by pale moon-liiiiight!’

  The sound of Fliss’s self-conscious warbling snapped Betty out of Fingerty’s story and into the present. She stared at the leathery-faced man, wishing she could stay immersed in his tale, but the tuneless singing grew louder and more urgent, which could only mean Granny was near.

  ‘The mag-pie, oh that craf-ty crook, stole some to stuff his neeeest,

  But dropped them in Ma’s cook-ing soup, I need-n’t say the reeeeest!’

  Betty stood up abruptly as Fingerty drained his glass. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have to get back to work.’

  ‘I was jest getting started,’ Fingerty said, outraged.

  ‘I know.’ Betty was unable to keep the frustration from her voice. Clearly, Fingerty had merely scratched the surface of this dark chapter of Crowstone Tower. While it wasn’t enough to confirm whether Sorsha’s history was connected to the Widdershins, the Tower’s link to the curse made it entirely possible. More than that, she felt she was on the verge of learning something crucial, although perhaps this was just wishful thinking. Either way, she had to hear the rest of the story. The question was, when?

  Fingerty looked tipsy now, and seemed to have one quizzical eye on Betty and the other on Fliss. He stuck one finger in his ear, grimacing. ‘This what Bunny calls en
tertainment?’

  ‘Bang-bang! went the privy door! Bang-bang! for two days!

  And cackle-cackle went the jackdaws at the magpie’s naughty ways!’

  ‘Er . . .’ Betty spied Granny behind the counter, just as Fliss’s rendition reached its ear-splitting finale. There was silence, then a few awkward claps before conversations resumed in their usual low hum. Betty made a pretence at wiping the table and collected the empty glass. ‘Thanks,’ she told Fingerty, keeping her voice low. ‘Can I talk to you again sometime?’

  Fingerty squinted at her, evidently smarting at being cut short. ‘Lips sealed tight unless the price is right.’

  Betty glanced at Granny, who was busy telling a red-faced Fliss that her singing sounded like a cat being strangled. ‘Yes, of course. You’ll get more drinks on the house.’

  She took the empty glass to the bar, Fingerty’s tale squirming in her mind like an ants’ nest. She desperately wanted to tell Fliss what she had learned about the girl in the tower, but Granny was too close. She stood stoutly behind Fliss, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘Still in the yard, I think,’ said Betty. ‘Sorting the bottles like you said.’

  ‘She’s taking her time,’ said Granny, looking suspicious. ‘I hope she’s not burying more dead creatures. There’ll be more graves out there than there are on Lament at this rate!’ She turned swiftly, heading for the back door.

  ‘Great idea about the singing,’ Fliss said sarcastically, glowering with humiliation. ‘Next time I’ll just break a glass to get your attention!’

  ‘Your singing could do that anyway,’ Betty said, only half aware of Fliss’s huff of indignance. She eyed Fingerty, wishing she could see into that gnarled head of his. There was no time to continue Sorsha’s tale now, and little time to make a decision about breaking Colton out – not if there was a risk he could be moved. And if Fingerty didn’t have the answers, they needed Colton. Yet perhaps Fingerty could help with that, too . . .

  With Granny gone for another minute or two in search of Charlie, Betty decided to risk it.

  ‘What now?’ Fingerty said, scowling as she returned.

  ‘One more thing,’ Betty said hurriedly. ‘I heard that you were . . . um, inside for helping folks escape from Torment.’

  ‘Oh, yer did, did yer?’

  She ignored the meanness in his voice and rushed on. ‘I was wondering how . . . how you got away with it.’

  ‘Fact I got caught suggests I wasn’t very good at it,’ he sneered. ‘No one gets away with it for ever.’

  ‘I meant the ones before. I’ve heard there were lots, before you got caught—’

  Fingerty’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Now, yer listen, girly,’ he hissed. ‘I don’t know what yer mixed up in and I don’t care, but take my advice: yer stay away from the Sorrow Isles. Ain’t nothing but bad luck.’

  Betty twisted out of his grasp. ‘If you can’t tell me how you did it, then tell me how you got caught.’

  He shook his head, chuckling suddenly. ‘Yer stubborn as they come, girl.’

  ‘And you’re as mean as everyone says,’ Betty retorted, rubbing her wrist. She glanced at the counter. Fliss was pulling ale but watching nervously. There was still no sign of Granny.

  ‘Meaner,’ Fingerty snapped. ‘But you’ve got guts, and I like that. All right, that I’ll tell yer. Distraction. That’s how. It was the one rule I always followed, and it always worked. Until the time I was careless.’

  ‘What kind of distraction?’

  ‘Anything. A brawl in the prison, the ferry stuck on the marshes. Yer divert attention from what’s really going on.’ He gave a cunning smile. ‘Folks have no love for the warders. They’ll do anything if the price is right.’ The smile slid off his face as he settled back in his chair. ‘Now go away and leave me in peace. I’ve said enough for one day.’

  ‘Until next time, then,’ Betty said.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Fingerty muttered sarcastically.

  She returned to the counter just as Granny came back in from the yard, shooing Charlie upstairs into the warm.

  ‘Well?’ Fliss asked.

  Betty went to sit on a bar stool, then yelped and jumped away as five pin pricks pierced her bottom. She glared down into lazily blinking yellow eyes and realised she had almost sat on Oi. She remained standing, speaking quickly of what Fingerty had told her; about Sorsha and her half-sister Prue living on Torment and the strange abilities of Sorsha’s that marked her out as different.

  ‘But how does any of this link to the Widdershins?’ Fliss asked, eyeing Fingerty doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but somehow, all this is connected – I can just feel it. Sorsha ended up in that tower, which is where Colton says the curse all began, too. And let’s not forget she fell from it . . . just like the stones. Fliss, I really think he might have the answer we need.’

  ‘But what about Fingerty?’ Fliss whispered. ‘If you think what he knows is connected he’s the safer option, where we’re not risking our necks!’

  ‘We need time to get to what he knows, time Colton might not have! And Colton seems convinced he knows how to break the curse.’

  Fliss’s bottom lip wobbled. ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  Betty let out a shaky breath. ‘Then I guess we spend our days staring at these walls and stinking of beer.’

  ‘Maybe stinking of beer isn’t so bad.’ Fliss sniffed herself and sighed. ‘Or maybe it is. So . . . how? And when?’ She gulped. ‘Oh, cripes. We’re really doing this, aren’t we?’

  ‘Fingerty said when he smuggled people off Torment he always used a distraction. That’s what we need,’ said Betty. ‘So we won’t be missed.’

  ‘What kind of distraction?’

  ‘A rowdy night here, one where Granny wants us safely out the way, would be ideal.’

  ‘You mean . . . something like Old Man Crosswick’s release?’ Fliss said uneasily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s tonight!’

  Betty nodded, anticipation thrumming in her chest like a second heart.

  ‘I know. But if more prisoners are being moved soon like that warder said, then we’ve no time to lose.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’

  Betty jumped. Granny had appeared soundlessly at the door to the bar, her shrewd eyes upon them. The girls sprang apart guiltily.

  ‘Nothing,’ they chorused.

  ‘Hmm.’ Granny stamped over to them, lowering her voice. ‘I think I can guess.’

  Betty stiffened – surely Granny couldn’t have heard much over the hum of conversations around them?

  ‘As much as I’m sad that you both now have the burden of you-know-what on your shoulders, at least some good has come of it,’ Granny said, smiling wistfully. ‘The two of you huddled together and whispering, just like you used to,’ she continued. ‘I haven’t seen that in a long time.’ There was a forced cheer in her voice, a looking-on-the-bright-side tone to it, and Betty thought she knew why. Speaking about the curse may have brought Fliss and Betty together again, but it was the reason for the distance between them in the first place.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Granny. ‘Betty, you can get the dinner on upstairs, and watch Charlie while you’re up there.’ She glared at Oi, who was loitering on the counter, sniffing drops of spilled beer. ‘Fliss, feed that mangy cat before it starts eating the customers.’

  Betty glanced back as she headed for the stairs. Fliss caught her eye and the two shared a conspiratory look that, despite the circumstances, sent a thrilling tingle through Betty. The Widdershins sisters had business to attend to.

  It wasn’t until later that they got their chance. Betty was scouring a stubborn pan when Granny emerged from the bathroom with a freshly scrubbed Charlie.

  ‘Keep still, child!’ Granny was saying. ‘I need to comb out that birds’ nest of a head of yours before it dries!’

  Fliss looked up from the sock she was mending.
‘Oh, Charlie, you look so sweet under all that dirt. Like a little pink piglet!’

  Charlie stuck her tongue out as Granny chased her into the bedroom, brandishing a comb.

  ‘My turn!’ Fliss declared, throwing down the sock. Betty groaned. Bath day was only once a week, but Fliss took for ever, and always left bits of dried lavender and rose petals stuck to the tub. She’d been hoping Fliss would wait until later to get her bath, for it would have been a chance for the two of them to plan while Granny was busy with Charlie, but evidently Fliss had other ideas.

  Betty looked up to the shelf above the sink for some salt to help her scrub, then jumped back with a scream, dropping the pan at her feet with a loud clang.

  There, hovering in mid-air over the sink like an apparition, was a hazy, shimmering image of Fliss’s face. ‘Boo!’ it said.

  Betty gaped, her heart smashing against her ribcage. Could this be something to do with . . . ?

  ‘Betty?’ Granny called. ‘What’s all that racket?’

  A finger appeared in front of Fliss’s wavering face. ‘Shh! Don’t tell Granny – I’m using the mirror!’

  ‘Betty?’

  ‘Er . . . everything’s fine, Granny,’ Betty called. ‘Just me being clumsy!’ She peered at the image of Fliss, suspended ghost-like before her. Now she had recovered from the surprise she could see soap suds in her sister’s hair. ‘You really do look strange, you know, floating there like that. How did you make it work?’

  ‘I just looked into the mirror and thought of you,’ said Fliss. There was a sense of jubilation about her, the same way Betty had felt when she had used the nesting dolls. ‘And there you were, reflected back at me.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve used it?’

  Fliss looked slightly guilty. ‘It’s the first time I’ve used it to speak to anyone, but I’ve . . . I’ve watched people a few times, without them knowing.’

  ‘Felicity Widdershins!’ Betty exclaimed, pretending to be shocked. ‘Like who? Let me guess . . . Jack Humble?’

  ‘No!’ Fliss blustered. ‘Well, once.’ Annoyance crossed her face. ‘He was sweet-talking that awful Fay, you know the one who works in the fishmonger’s?’ She pursed her lips. ‘So that’s the end of that.’ She paused. ‘I thought about using it to see Father, but I’ve never quite managed to go through with it.’