13 Treasures

by Michelle Harrison

  “Salt,” she murmured. “The color red. Running water. Iron. Turning clothes inside out.” She repeated the list of deterrents over and over, hoping that a solution would present itself, but nothing did. The only thing she could think of was to wash her hair under the shower hose… but getting all of her hair into the bathroom would prove tricky, if not impossible. Besides, she had a feeling that the running water the old book had been referring to would be something like a stream or a river, not a running tap.

  Tanya held her head in her hands, defeated.

  “You knew the scissors wouldn’t work, didn’t you?” she whispered, knowing the creature in the drain was still there, listening. “You tricked me.”

  “Tricketty, tricketty. Tricketty trappetty!”

  “I’ll give you more charms… I’ll give you the whole bracelet if you just break the spell!”

  “Not my spell, oh no. Not mine to break.”

  Somehow, Tanya knew it to be true. The spell was too sophisticated, and the drain-dweller had never bothered her in this way before, even though it had added to the spell by giving her lice and dandruff. It simply contented itself with stealing away anything shiny.

  The drain-dweller emerged from the plughole, brandishing the charm at her. “Not magical,” it said crossly. “Tricketty girl!”

  Tanya shrugged, careful not to let on that she had been untruthful. Despite the fact that the creature had lied to her, it would be unwise to admit her own deception in case it angered the fairy and incurred further punishment.

  “Perhaps the magic doesn’t work when the charms are separated,” she said at last. “Perhaps the charms’ power is linked—they have to be together to work.”

  The drain-dweller scowled. “Tricketty,” it muttered one last time, before skulking back into the sink with the charm.

  Not knowing what else to do, Tanya left the bathroom, dragging her hair behind her. She sat down on the bed. Red was her only hope. Somehow, she had to get to her, but deep down she knew she hadn’t a chance. It was just a matter of time before her grandmother forced the door open. She did not want to think what would happen beyond that.

  Breakfast time drew ever nearer. Tanya’s stomach felt as though it was turning itself inside out as she waited for the inevitable call from her grandmother. She did not have to wait long before Florence was hollering up the stairs, and by the fourth time she was sounding very annoyed indeed.

  Tanya pictured her thin mouth twisting in anger, and suddenly felt strangely detached. She would be taken away when they opened the door and saw her, of that she was sure. Taken away… and asked questions and experimented on by people in white coats. Just like a changeling.

  Footsteps clomped up the stairs. Tanya drew in a slow, deep breath. Someone tapped on the door.

  “Tanya? What are you playing at? Florence wants you downstairs now—she’s had enough! And so have I. My breakfast is going cold!”

  “Fabian?” Tanya whispered.

  “Yes,” came the impatient reply. “What are you doing in there? Open the door.”

  “I can’t. I’m not coming down.”

  “You have to. Florence knows something’s wrong. She says if you don’t come down now she’s coming up and letting herself in with the skeleton key.” Fabian lowered his voice. “Is it something to do with last night? Warwick hasn’t said anything—I think we got away with it.”

  “No… it’s not that.” Tanya got up off the bed and shuffled to the door. “I can’t tell you. You might as well go downstairs.”

  “Just tell me. I might be able to help.”

  “Trust me, you can’t.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you open the door and I see that you’re all right.”

  “No!”

  “Fine.”

  There was scrabbling from the other side of the door.

  “I hope you’re dressed,” Fabian said. “If you’re not, then now’s the time to get back in bed!”

  “What? Fabian—”

  There was a distinctive sound of a key being inserted into the lock, and the key on Tanya’s side popped out and fell to the floor.

  “Fabian, how could you!” she cried. She hurled herself against the door as the lock clicked. “How dare you do this? I’ll… I’ll tell Warwick you’ve been using his skeleton key to look all around the house!”

  “It’s not Warwick’s.” The doorknob began to turn. “It’s mine. I found it in one of the old servants’ rooms.”

  Fabian began to push the door from the other side. Tanya pushed back with all her might, but already she knew she was not strong enough to hold him off for long. The hair on the floor was impeding the grip of her bare feet as it was.

  “I mean it, Fabian!” Tanya shouted. “I’ll never forgive you if you do this!”

  The door began to inch open. She shoved back, panic fueling her supply of strength.

  “It’s… for your own… good,” Fabian panted. “Once I see… you’re all right… I’ll go. Florence… is going to… come up here… anyway!”

  “I don’t care!” Tanya roared. “You’re not coming in!”

  But whether she liked it or not, Fabian was coming in. He had gained another two inches in the last few seconds, and Tanya’s stance was weakening. Already, it was clear he could see something was very wrong.

  “What’s that? On the floor… what is it? It looks like… like…”

  Tanya’s strength was all but spent. She managed a few more seconds before she slid backward into the room and Fabian fell clumsily but quickly through the door, skidding on the piles of hair like a newborn foal. He landed in an awkward heap beside the bed.

  Tanya jumped forward and grabbed the skeleton key from the outside, and then closed and locked the door from the inside. She turned to face Fabian, sensing that he had been stunned into silence.

  He was sitting rigid on the floor, with one ankle at an uncomfortable-looking angle from where he had fallen—and was too shocked even to move. He stared at a fistful of hair in his palm, then slowly flexed his fingers and followed the strand of hair with disbelieving eyes until his gaze met with Tanya’s.

  Strangely, she felt calmer now that Fabian was actually in the room than she had at the thought of him being in the room. She felt oddly out of control, like her life was no longer her own, and yet somehow she accepted that whatever happened next depended entirely upon Fabian’s reaction. She was too tired to fight, too tired to lie. Bizarrely, all she wanted now was to tell the truth—and now that he had seen her, Fabian had to listen.

  “I need to tell you something, Fabian.” Her voice was quiet, and calmer than she anticipated. “You were right about me. I was hiding something. All those things you noticed about me, the strange things that happen when I’m around… well, they all happen for a reason. You might find it hard to believe at first—”

  She stopped speaking as she noticed that Fabian hadn’t heard a word. His mouth was moving slowly, although no words seemed to be coming out. His eyes were wide, and still fixed on her in horror and utter confusion.

  “Witch,” he said quietly, but clearly enough for her to hear this time.

  “What? No, Fabian, listen to me—”

  “The gypsy witch,” said Fabian. His eyes trailed from her head, following her hair around the room for the umpteenth time. “She did this. She’s cursed you! She cursed you when she gave you that compass!”

  Tanya was struck dumb by his words. In a split second she considered Fabian’s theory. It was one she had not even entertained: that this could be the work of the old gypsy woman. Certainly it seemed she would be capable of it. Yet somehow Tanya doubted that the old woman would go to the trouble of pretending to help her only to do something like this.

  It seemed unlikely… and yet it was still possible. And Fabian’s absolute conviction that this had been the turn of events also gave her an easy way out. She would no longer need to go through the humiliation of trying to convince him of the fairies’ existence if this was wh
at he believed.

  “I think… I think you could be right,” she said slowly.

  “Of course I’m right!” Fabian spluttered. “The old hag has hexed practically everyone in Tickey End at some point, and you’re next on her list! We should have sold the compass to that man on the bus!”

  “What am I going to do?” Tanya gestured helplessly. “I can’t let anyone else see me!”

  “I don’t know… I don’t know,” Fabian muttered. “But you’re right. We can’t let them see you like this. We’ll have to get something to cut it. Haven’t you got any scissors?”

  Tanya shook her head.

  “I’ve only got nail scissors. They didn’t work.”

  “Well, what about if I can get the kitchen scissors… or Warwick has some garden shears… or an axe, maybe?”

  “It’s not just about a sharp object,” Tanya said. “We need to do something that will break the spell.”

  “Oh,” Fabian said gloomily. “Any suggestions?”

  “I once read… somewhere… about a list of things that are supposed to… break spells and curses,” Tanya said carefully. “The list was: being near running water, like a stream or a brook, the color red, salt, turning clothes inside out, and iron. So if we can think of something that links to one of those things, then maybe there’s a chance it will work.” She lifted her hand to her hair subconsciously. The movement caused a dazzle of light to shimmer off one of the charms on the bracelet. The dagger.

  “Can you think of an object, say, a knife, with a red handle?” she asked.

  Fabian brightened. “Florence has a letter opener with a sort of orangey handle. That’s nearly red. And it’s sharp. Maybe that would work.”

  Tanya shook her head. “It has to be red. Bright red.”

  They stared at each other in silence, dismal expressions mirrored in one another’s face.

  “A knife,” Fabian repeated slowly.

  Florence screeched up the stairs, making them both start.

  “Will you both come down this instant! This is the last time I’m going to tell you before I come up there and drag you both down by the scruffs of your necks!”

  “Well, that’s it, then,” said Tanya. “The game’s up.”

  But Fabian had the start of a frown on his face; the kind of frown he wore when he had an idea… or when he was about to do something devious.

  “Hold on.” He sprang to his feet, barely wincing at his twisted ankle. “I’ve just remembered something that may or may not work, depending on whether or not I can actually get hold of it.”

  “What is it?” Tanya asked, her face lit with hope.

  “Something that’s going to be tricky to get to,” said Fabian. He unlocked the door and slipped into the hallway. “So don’t get your hopes up. And whatever you do, don’t open the door to anyone else but me.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something? My grandmother is bound to have a skeleton key!”

  Fabian grinned slyly. “She does. Only, she doesn’t realize yet that she’s mislaid it.” He reached around the door and gave the key in the lock a gentle stroke.

  “You said you found that in one of the old servant’s rooms!”

  Fabian’s smile widened. “I know what I said. But I lied.”

  In the kitchen, Warwick was kneeling by the hearth, scraping mud from his boots. Fabian watched him carefully. His father looked haggard today: old and tired. His skin was gray and his hair hung in tangles, evidence that it had been rained on and dried before he’d had the chance to comb it. His eyes were bloodshot and dragged down by the dark shadows beneath them. He had not shaved in a couple of days.

  Florence stood with her back to them, washing up. From the amount of noise she was making it was clear she was in a temper. On the table two untouched cooked breakfasts were wafting heavenly smells into the air. Oberon sat under the table, the tip of his nose protruding guiltily from beneath the checkered cloth. Twin strings of dribble hung from his chops. Fabian’s stomach growled. He understood exactly how the dog felt, but he forced away his hunger and walked casually to the sink to stand beside Florence.

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “Can I get a glass of water?” he asked meekly.

  Warwick glanced up and gave him a sharp look. “There’s a jug on the table. Eat your breakfast.”

  “I will in a minute,” Fabian said. He filled a tumbler with water and set it on the side. “It’s for Tanya. She’s been sick. I think she’s got some sort of… bug.”

  “Then why didn’t she just say so?” Florence said, her eyes narrowing.

  Fabian shrugged and moved toward the back door. He had spied what he was looking for. His father’s coat hung from the middle peg—limp and very, very damp.

  “Come on, boy,” he said to Oberon, and whistled. The dog reluctantly squeezed out from under the table and lumbered outside as Fabian opened the door.

  “The dog’s already been out,” said Florence, exasperated.

  “Oh, sorry,” Fabian replied. His hand brushed against the hunting knife in the belt of the coat. It was Warwick’s prize possession—and the entire thing was specially crafted from iron. He had seen his father use it to gut rabbits that he had caught in the woods more times than he cared to remember.

  As the door was pulled back, shielding Fabian’s hand from view, he slipped his fingers nimbly under the belt and unsheathed the blade. It was cold, heavy, and brutal, certain to cut through the hair. Deftly, he slipped it into his sleeve and held it there, his trembling fingers curled over at the ends, and then shut the back door. His other hand nearly knocked over the glass of water he had poured as he snatched it up in his haste to get out of the kitchen.

  “Back in a minute,” he mumbled.

  “Do be quick,” said Florence, wringing out her dishcloth with the kind of relish that told Fabian she was imagining it was his neck.

  By the time he reached the bedroom Fabian was out of breath. He placed the glass of water carelessly on the mantelpiece and drew the knife out from his sleeve.

  “This should work,” he said.

  Tanya eyed the knife apprehensively.

  “What is that thing?”

  “It’s made from iron,” said Fabian. “It should break the spell.” He knelt at her side and began hacking at the hair. “Warwick’s coat was by the door. His boots are caked with mud and the coat was soaked. It was definitely him we saw last night.”

  “He must have seen us,” said Tanya.

  “I don’t think so,” said Fabian. “If he had, he would have gone berserk. What I want to know is why he was skulking about out there in the storm.”

  He continued to cut at the hair, which was now coming away easily.

  “It’s working. Warwick certainly keeps this thing sharp.”

  “It’s Warwick’s? You stole his knife? You really are a crook!”

  “Just as well I am, for your sake!”

  Minutes later Tanya’s hair was waist-length, and only slightly longer than it had been before the incident in the night.

  “You’ll have to trim it,” said Fabian, apologetically. “It’s really uneven.”

  “I will,” said Tanya. “But later.” She pulled her hair back from her face and secured it into a pony-tail. “There. No one will be able to tell when it’s like this. We’d better get downstairs before my grandmother flips.”

  “And before Warwick notices his knife is missing,” said Fabian, not looking quite so brave now. He inspected the knife, ensuring that no telltale hair was snagged on the blade.

  “What about the hair?” Tanya gestured to the floor. It was covered.

  “Shove it under the bed for now,” said Fabian. “We’ll have to put it in some garbage bags after breakfast and figure out a way to get rid of it.”

  On all fours, the two of them scrabbled around on the floor, stuffing the hair under the bed with great difficulty. It was very soft and slippery, and kept sliding out into sight.

  “There’s so much of it!�
�� said Tanya.

  “It’s making me itch,” said Fabian. “Just push it under and pull the covers over the sides of the bed so it’s hidden. That’ll have to do for now. Come on.”

  They raced downstairs, taking them two at a time, and bounded into the kitchen just as a fuming Florence was about to scrape their breakfasts into the garbage.

  “Don’t!” Fabian yelped.

  Florence froze, and did a double-take when she saw Tanya.

  “I thought you were feeling unwell?”

  “I was,” she answered, not daring to look her grandmother in the eye. “But I’m better now.” She sat at the table, and Fabian followed suit. Florence placed the plates in front of them.

  “It’s probably cold now,” she said.

  “That was a speedy recovery if ever I saw one,” Warwick remarked dryly. He was now vigorously buffing his boots to a shine.

  Tanya did not answer, nor did she look at him. She knew that those icy blue eyes of his would be trained on her, unflinching and accusing. The thought made her skin prickle.

  She tucked into her breakfast, which was still rather good, even lukewarm. She saw Fabian fidgeting on the other side of the table and guessed correctly that he was trying to maneuver the knife discreetly out of his sleeve and conceal it under the table while he ate.

  “Still warm too,” he said happily, between gulps.

  “Mine isn’t,” Tanya began, but then stopped as the hearthfay slipped out from underneath Fabian’s plate. It had warmed his food, and, for the first time, it remained still for a couple of seconds to bashfully bat its ugly little eyelids at him before scuttling off to hide again. Fabian tore off a chunk of bread and dunked it in his egg, oblivious to the hearthfay’s attentions. Tanya stared after it, bristling with indignation. And after she’d been the one to give the ungrateful little wretch a saucer of milk too!

  “You’d let mine go cold, then?” she muttered under her breath, forgetting herself. “Floozy.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Florence snapped, and Tanya looked up, alarmed. Fabian was looking at her strangely too.

  “I said… I don’t mind if mine’s cold,” she said, thinking quickly. “I’m not choosy.”