A Pinch of Magic

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Get her up,’ someone said. ‘The sooner she’s locked in the tower, the better. She won’t be able to work her sorcery in there.’

  Sorsha winced as rough hands hauled her to her feet.

  ‘Shackle her.’

  It was pointless to resist. Heavy iron manacles snapped on to her wrists, tethered by a thick chain. Dimly, as she was shunted up and into the narrow tunnel she became aware that Winter was speaking.

  ‘And you’ll keep your word?’ His voice was earnest. ‘You’ll look out for me, and I’ll get a better cell, more food?’

  ‘Yes, Winter,’ the warder drawled. ‘Your helpfulness will be rewarded, by the warders, at least. As for the prisoners, I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one likes a snitch. And that’s just what you are, Winter. A snitch.’

  And with that, Sorsha understood why Winter hadn’t warned her, or tried to. Because he had been part of the trap they had set for her, and he had bargained for his own good.

  She felt his treachery as fiercely as if it were an open, bleeding wound. She felt weak, a fool. How could he betray her after all she had risked for him? She thought this was as bad as it got.

  She was wrong.

  No one saw them leave. Four warders marched Sorsha down to the cove, jeering as she stumbled. There were two boats in the cove, each with their own boatman: one for her and the other, presumably, for Winter, although she never saw him board it. For most of the journey the warders divided their time between watching her in pairs or playing cards. None of them spoke to her, and she remained quiet, watching the hulking mass of Repent approaching. Several times she thought about jumping overboard, and would have . . . if she had ever learned to swim.

  When the boat ran ashore she was forced to jump out into the shallow water, soaking her boots and skirt hem. Then she was taken up the incline towards the prison, its high walls blocking out the light. Slimy green moss reached up its stones, like the water was trying to pull it down and swallow it.

  The Tower was different. Nothing grew on its walls, and there were no signs anything ever had. It was like the building itself was dead, dead as the cairns that it was made from, and nothing living belonged there or dared to touch it.

  Inside, the high ceiling had been engraved with strange markings and symbols, which the warders gloatingly told her were to prevent dark magic being worked. She could have told them it was needless, for inside the Tower felt as lifeless as it looked from the outside. As lifeless as she felt. Magic was a living entity, like hope. Neither had a place in this stony tomb.

  The room was sparse, with only a horsehair mattress, a wash basin and a chamber pot. They left her with stale bread and water before the door was bolted behind her.

  ‘When will I see my ma?’ she shouted to the retreating footsteps. ‘Please?’ She received no reply. Nor did they ever answer, when the door was opened to toss her food and water, and empty the chamber pot. She whiled away hours at the windows. She could just make out mainland Crowstone: the rooftops, church spire, and high up for all to see, the gallows. All of it so close, and Sorsha had never even been there.

  She wondered what had happened to Ma and Prue. Were they safe, or being held in the prison, too? Tortured to extract confessions about her? Or bribed as Winter had been? No matter how much she begged, the warders would tell her nothing. Day by day, the not knowing ate away at her. She grew thinner, dirtier, and finally resigned herself to never seeing either of them again.

  And then, after three long months, she had a visitor.

  It was not her mother.

  Sorsha had been standing by the window overlooking Crowstone, though she hadn’t been looking at the mainland. Today it was only a grey smudge through rain and clouds, so Sorsha had been looking straight down at the ground. It was severe, dizzying. Still she leaned out, wondering how long it would take her to hit the ground if she fell. Or leapt.

  Lost in terrible thoughts, she jumped as the door was pounded three times. ‘Stand back,’ a warder ordered.

  The lock clicked and bolts were unlatched. The door opened and two warders entered. One stayed by the door. The other motioned for her to move to the wall, where an iron cuff was shackled to the stone. He clamped it on to her wrist without a word, then stood aside.

  The warder by the door jerked his head. Someone entered the room – and Sorsha almost wept.

  ‘Prue!’ she cried. She tried to run to her sister, forgetting the restraints until they jerked her backwards.

  Prudence took tiny steps into the tower room, stopping close to the door. Her hands were clasped demurely in front of her, resting on her neat white apron. Sorsha looked down at her own clothes for the first time in weeks. They were filthy, torn. Her hair was wild and unwashed, her nails black and ragged. She looked every bit the witch she was rumoured to be. But none of that mattered, for Prue was here, after all this time. She hadn’t been forgotten.

  ‘How are you, sister?’ Prue asked. Her voice was calm, unreadable.

  ‘Wretched,’ said Sorsha. ‘And hungry. But it’s so good to see you!’ Her eyes filled with tears, which she blinked angrily away. So far, she had managed not to cry in front of the warders but seeing her sister was wearing away her resolve. She cast a wary look at the warders, wondering if they were going to allow the two girls some privacy, but soon saw that it was a ridiculous thought. They were going nowhere. ‘How is Ma?’ she asked at last.

  ‘She has been ill.’ Prudence gave a little cough. ‘They say it’s her nerves and the shock. The doctor has given her a tonic to help her sleep. I’ve been taking care of everything.’

  Sorsha closed her eyes. Poor, poor Ma. This was all Sorsha’s fault. She should have listened. Ma had always warned her not to use her powers. If she had the chance again, could she have discarded them into the objects years ago, and cast them into the sea? It would have meant a safer life, but at a cost of losing part of herself. Without it, she no longer knew who she was. Sorsha’s eyes snapped open. ‘You appear well, Prue,’ she said slowly. ‘Have they . . . treated you well? Is everything at home as it . . . as it should be?’

  She gave Prue a meaningful look, trying to will her unspoken message into her sister’s consciousness: were the objects safe?

  Prudence nodded. ‘Yes. All is as it should be.’

  Sorsha’s flesh prickled uneasily. There was something odd about her sister— She corrected herself. Odder than usual. Her voice, even the way she held herself . . . It was smug, almost. A coil of worry shifted somewhere deep within. All this time Sorsha had been imagining terrible things, worrying, starving. And here was Prue: clean, well-fed, more rosy-cheeked than she had ever been.

  ‘When will Ma be well enough to visit?’ she demanded. ‘And why has it taken you so long to come?’

  ‘There will be no more visits,’ Prue answered. ‘From either of us.’

  The tower room swayed like it had been caught in a gust of wind . . . but no one else felt it but Sorsha. ‘What? Why?’ Her voice was high and faint.

  ‘They’re not permitted. I was only granted this visit in return for my co-operation.’

  Co-operation? Like Winter had co-operated?

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sorsha croaked.

  ‘I have been helping the warders,’ Prue said. Her pale eyes glittered. So eel-like, so different to the earthy warmth of their mother’s eyes. ‘And now they are preparing for your trial.’

  ‘Helping them how?’ Sorsha asked. Her insides churned with fear, this new emotion she was growing so used to. Just what had Prue been saying?

  ‘If you are found guilty, I will pray for you,’ said Prue, in a grave voice.

  Sorsha narrowed her eyes. ‘Guilty of what, exactly?’

  The warder next to Prue spoke up. ‘You know why you’re here. You’re under suspicion of sorcery. Dark magic.’

  ‘If you are found innocent, then I wish you a long and happy life,’ Prue continued.

  Sorsha shook her head, b
ewildered. ‘If . . . ? You make it sound as though either way, this is goodbye!’

  ‘It is.’ Prue’s eyes bored into her. So cold, and full of malice. How could Sorsha ever have made excuses for them? Ma had seen the resentment festering there, and so had Sorsha, deep in her own gut. Now she would pay the price for not listening.

  ‘They’ve taken pity on me, you see. They’re giving me a chance—’

  ‘A chance at what?’ Sorsha cried.

  ‘At a normal life, away from the sinners on Torment. I’m living on Crowstone now, the mainland. My father had relatives there who took me in. Ma will stay on Torment. And there is some happy news: it all happened rather quickly, but I am married! My name is Prudence Widdershins now.’

  ‘Married?’ Sorsha cried. ‘On Crowstone? How can you leave Ma?’

  ‘We’re so different, you and I,’ Prue continued softly. ‘You were so wild, so stubborn and difficult, and yet . . . still Ma’s favourite. I tried so hard to make her happy, tried to be good. I have been good. And I always warned you your magic was a wicked thing that would get you into trouble.’

  ‘Liar!’ Sorsha yelled. ‘You never said anything of the kind! You wanted to be like me, you said it many times!’

  Prue cast a weary look at the warders. ‘See how she will say anything to lessen her own guilt?’ She strode towards her, and Sorsha froze as her sister embraced her, leaning close to speak in her ear. For a foolish moment she clung to the hope that Prue had been playing along with the warders and that, somehow, she had worked out a plan to rescue her.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Prue whispered, kissing her cheek before backing away.

  Sorsha lifted her fingers to her skin in horror. Her cheek was tingling from her sister’s touch, for her lips had been ice cold. Her mother’s words echoed in her head, as clearly as the day she had spoken them.

  She is jealous of you. She wants what you have . . .

  For now she knew what her sister was really telling her. There would be no rescue. All this time their mother had been right. Prue had been waiting, biding her time. Now her time had come and Sorsha’s was over. Sorsha was powerless; her gifts were no use to her. Prue, however, could do as she pleased with them.

  Prue had her exactly where she wanted her.

  ‘I curse you,’ Sorsha hissed through gritted teeth. ‘To the end of your days and beyond. I curse your blood as long as it flows!’

  Prue’s eyes widened, but it was with surprise, not fear.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the warder nearest to Sorsha said, nodding to Prue. ‘Get her out!’

  The other warder bundled Prudence towards the tower door, but Sorsha was not finished. She lunged against the shackles, the iron cutting into her skin. She barely felt it. ‘I curse you!’ she screeched. ‘You want Crowstone? You can have it, for ever! May you never leave, and be as much as prisoner there as I am here!’

  She thought she saw the corners of Prue’s mouth curve slightly before she was rushed through the tower door. Bitterness and anger coursed through Sorsha, bubbling away like witch’s brew. She sank to the floor, her mind simmering, plotting.

  Sorsha’s curse hadn’t scared Prue. She knew that no sorcery could be performed within the tower walls. The only person Sorsha had harmed by uttering those words was herself, for they would add to her apparent guilt.

  She stared at the window. No sorcery could be worked from inside . . . but outside? It was only a step away and, had she only thought of this before, she could have retained her powers and escaped.

  ‘Sisterly love,’ she muttered to herself, rocking, eyes glazed. ‘You’re going to pay, Prue. And all the Widdershins sisters after you . . .’

  Perhaps there was a way she could have her revenge, even if she couldn’t save herself. For while she no longer had her magic, a curse was something different. A curse could only come from darkness.

  And what could be darker than death?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Whump!

  ‘PRUE WAS A WIDDERSHINS?’ BETTY exclaimed.

  ‘Or became a Widdershins, at any rate, and . . . and—’ She paused to take a breath, sickened. She had wondered if one of her ancestors – a warder, perhaps – had crossed Sorsha, but had hoped that it had been justified. She hadn’t seen this coming: that her family was descended directly from Sorsha’s traitorous half-sister.

  ‘So much for family,’ Colton said, his lip curled in disgust. He fell silent for a moment. Betty guessed that he was thinking, as she was, of the Widdershins name scratched into the tower walls. As he spoke next she heard a trace of guilt. ‘She betrayed Sorsha in exchange for her way off Torment.’

  ‘Sorsha knew she had no way out,’ Betty whispered. ‘And no magic left . . . but by jumping to her death she could create a curse and have her revenge on Prue.’

  ‘Trouble was,’ Fingerty said, ‘When she invoked that curse, she cursed Prudence’s blood . . . which then became the Widdershins’ blood.’

  ‘And my family has paid for it ever since,’ said Betty. Prue had betrayed and stolen to forge herself a new life, tainting the Widdershins for ever. The magical heirlooms had never belonged to them. She felt crushed by grief and disgust. All this time she had thought they were the victims, not knowing they were the villains, too. Overwhelmingly, she realised she wanted to put things right – not just for the Widdershins, but for Sorsha. She was beginning to understand what three months in the Tower had done to Sorsha’s mind. Three months of being twisted by loneliness, only to find out that she had been betrayed by someone she loved. Betty tried to imagine how she would feel if Fliss or Charlie ever did such a thing, and found she couldn’t. It was too unthinkable, too poisonous. Because of this, she could only find pity and not hatred for Sorsha. Fingerty’s stories had brought her understanding of how the curse had come about, but she still saw no way to undo it.

  ‘If you knew about our family’s link to Sorsha, why didn’t you say anything?’ Betty asked.

  Fingerty looked perplexed. ‘Why would I?’ he said at last. ‘No one ever asked, until you. Even if they had, what good would it have done? I don’t know how to break the curse! Yer think Bunny would have thanked me for pointing out she is descended from a traitor and a thief? She’s kicked people out of the Poacher’s Pocket for mentioning Sorsha’s name, she’s that proud!’

  ‘Granny . . . Granny knew about Prue?’ Betty whispered. It wasn’t hard to believe; her grandmother was terribly proud. She’d once thrown a horseshoe at a customer for mentioning their father’s prison sentence, even though it was common knowledge.

  The journey lapsed into silence. Betty turned Sorsha’s story over and over in her mind, but the answers still eluded her. Her worries kept returning to Fliss and Charlie and the abrupt end to their snatched conversation. She could only pray that Jarrod hadn’t discovered the mirror’s secret and taken that from Fliss, too.

  It was past noon when Betty, Colton and Fingerty arrived in Windy Bottom, and the rasping in Betty’s head was driving her to distraction, adding to her growing dread.

  After scrambling off the wagon at a crossroads, they followed the signs to the shabby little town. As they searched the streets for any sign of a mill, Betty got the impression that Windy Bottom was the sort of place no one stuck around in for long. Buildings were crumbling, the streets were sludgy. Once or twice, they forgot they were invisible and spoke when they shouldn’t have, much to the bewilderment of passing strangers.

  ‘What if they’re not here?’ Betty said, trying to stop her voice from rising. ‘What’s to have stopped Jarrod taking them somewhere else by now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Colton quietly. ‘It would have been the most sensible thing for Jarrod to do, if he meant to cover his tracks.’

  Betty glared at him. ‘I was hoping you’d say something to make me feel better.’ She stomped away from him, finding her way on to a little bridge whose walls were flaking like pastry. If her sisters were gone there was no way of finding them . . . unless Fliss could use the mi
rror to make contact. And with no way to break the curse, Betty felt as lost as her sisters. Hope was draining away. Fingerty trudged after her, looking thoroughly fed up.

  Colton followed with an apologetic look. ‘Just being honest. But there’s every chance they could still be here. Jarrod wouldn’t have thought we’d get past the Devil’s Teeth, or across the marshes unseen, without the bag. I don’t think he’d be expecting us any time soon, if at all. And there’s another thing on our side – he doesn’t know Fliss used the mirror to tell us exactly where he’d taken them. If I were him, I’d think I was well hidden.’

  ‘That’s if he didn’t wake up and catch her,’ Betty said darkly. Had Jarrod discovered the mirror’s power? Fliss had vanished so abruptly . . . and not reappeared since.

  She felt her face crumple and had to turn away when the tears came, but now she had started she found she couldn’t stop – and she hated it. She had always mocked Fliss for her easy tears, and always avoided weeping herself. After all, it solved nothing.

  To her surprise, it was Fingerty who handed her a grubby handkerchief. The small act of kindness made her cry harder. Eventually her sobs gave way to sniffles and she blew her nose into the hanky. It was time to be practical.

  Colton waited patiently until she had composed herself before he spoke.

  ‘Feel better now?’

  ‘Not really,’ she sniffed. She handed Fingerty his soggy handkerchief.

  She swayed on her feet as a sudden vision swam before her eyes, something she had seen before: of falling from a great height, the ground rushing up, crows circling above, waiting, cawing . . .

  ‘It’s her,’ Betty whispered. ‘The last things she saw . . . and heard . . . the crows. That’s why we can hear them now.’ Her heart wrenched as she stared out across the bridge. ‘Fliss? Charlie?’ she whispered. ‘Where are you?’ Tears were threatening to come once more but she held them back, shielding her eyes as the sun emerged from the clouds.