by Amy Sparkes
Flabberghast cleared his throat. “Ah, which makes it so marvellous, does it not, that the breaking of the curse is at last within our reach! Just that tiny matter of a sacrifice.”
“Aye. I’ll do it – for the professor,” said the spoon. “Take it – the thing I hold most dear, my family heirloom. Proudly worn. And proudly sacrificed.” There was a blur of spindly fingers and then his kilt dropped to the floor, leaving him standing there, hands on hips, in a pair of orange, flowery pants.
“Oh! Goodness!” muttered Flabberghast, covering his eyes with his hands. “Do – do go and put something… I hope – I do hope – you must have more clothes?”
Nine snorted as the spoon hurled the tiny kilt at the wizard, who caught it with fumbling hands.
“Aye,” said Spoon. “Now let’s get this curse broken.” He hopped back up the staircase to the tiny door and slammed it shut.
Nine folded her arms. “Come on then. Eric’s duster, Spoon’s kilt. What are you going to put in?”
Flabberghast looked up at her sharply. “Me? Oh… Yes, Madam. I have just the thing.” He straightened his breastplate, grabbed the duster and the kilt, and clunked his way down to the hallway. Nine looked at Eric sitting with his large, trunk-like knees tucked up to his chin. Should she say something? But what? What did you say to a troll who had just lost his feather duster? She wasn’t sure anyone in the whole world could answer that one.
There came a despairing wizard kind of roar from downstairs. “Oh, what now?” said Nine and ran down as fast as she could, closely followed by the troll.
They came to a halt in the hallway where Flabberghast was clutching the duster and the kilt in one hand, and pointing at the empty, glassless display cabinet with the other.
“My hopscotch trophy!” bellowed Flabberghast. “Where is my hopscotch trophy? When I said ‘tidy up’, I expected it to be put back!” Eric started twisting his tail and his eyes darted to the cupboard under the stairs. There was the sign, written on parchment in black ink and tacked onto the door with an iron pin: NEVER OPEN THIS DOOR.
Flabberghast turned as white as the moon. “You didn’t?” he said in a very low voice.
“Mmm,” Eric said in a very high voice.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“Mmm.”
Nine felt her patience rapidly reaching boiling point. “WHAT?”
“You didn’t put it in the cupboard under the stairs.”
“Eric quick. Eric open. Eric throw. Eric shut.”
“WHY DID YOU PUT IT IN THE—”
Nine’s patience passed boiling point. “Then for goodness sake just get it back! Whatever is in there can’t be that bad!” She marched over to the cupboard under the stairs.
“No!” yelled Flabberghast. “Never—”
Then Nine yanked the door open. And screamed.
What happened next was so quick that Nine barely had time to register it. There was a deafening clatter, a rush of colour – and a chaos of clutter poured out like an avalanche. A brass hooter, a troll-sized raincoat, a large collection of glowing hammers, a ‘Complete Family Set of Pop-Up Coffins’, strange-looking scientific instruments, cauldrons of various sizes, a picnic blanket, a ‘Vampire Starter Kit’, a massive leather-bound book, numerous pieces of parchment, an InkFree quill in a box, an oversized green woollen dragon…
Nine sat buried neck-high in the heap, catching her breath. Something on her left that looked like a blue ball of wool on legs scurried away. She stared at the pile that surrounded her, then she stared at Flabberghast and Eric.
“Years of tidying! That sign was there for a reason!” raged Flabberghast, waving his arms so wildly that the remaining arm of his armour fell off. “And now we’ll never find the trophy!”
“At least I tried!” Nine attempted to wriggle under all the clutter. A troll-sized pair of pants fell on her head. “Come on! DO something!”
Eric reached forward, scrabbling at piles of stuff until Nine’s shoulders were clear. Then he grabbed her with one hand, half-shaking, half-pulling her free. Nine wrestled herself from his grasp as soon as she could.
“I’m fine!” she snapped, clambering awkwardly over the mountain of mess. “Right, let’s find that trophy.”
“No, come back!” said Flabberghast.
But Nine was already inside the dark cupboard, scrabbling around. “Come on!”
“You mustn’t go in—”
“Stop making excuses and find that trophy! I need that ‘immeasurable wealth’ you—”
Nine stopped. There was a strange, juddering sound. The mountain of mess shifted beneath her, making her lose her balance. She fell back onto her bottom. Silence. Then another strange, juddering sound. The mess moved again.
“Flabberghast,” Nine said slowly, “what is going on?”
The wizard sighed. “The only way we could fit it all into the cupboard was to put a compacting spell on it years ago. The cupboard squashes everything up.”
“Everything?” squeaked Nine. Suddenly, there was a grinding sound as the walls of the cupboard began moving closer. Nine felt herself being lifted higher as the mess was pushed upwards. She tumbled left and right, trying and failing to keep her balance. As everything around was squished and squashed and shoved higher and higher, a flash of silver caught Nine’s eye.
“I can see it!” Nine gasped. She threw herself towards the trophy but it disappeared under a chamber pot decorated with stars. Nine fell backwards. There was a strange, sucking feeling as the mess in the hallway was drawn back into the cupboard. Large, glowing hammers flew around her. A small metal tripod hurtled towards her; Nine felt the sharp sting as it grazed her cheek.
“Come out!” yelled Flabberghast.
“I can get it!” Nine rummaged under a skull-embroidered cushion. Her hands touched cool, smooth silver – then she was tipped backwards, upwards, and her hair brushed the top of the ceiling. She rolled sideways but was pushed back against the wall. She lunged forwards again, reached out, grabbed it—
“MADAM!”
The cauldron bumped into her. Nine could feel herself being pulled back, squashed up. She was going to end her days buried, suffocated, crushed, in a mountain of junk. She felt everything close in around her and now she could hardly breathe—
She grasped the trophy in her hands and threw herself sideways towards the doorway. She felt huge, rough hands grabbing her, her satchel being tugged, as with a deafening sucking noise the remaining stuff hurtled past her into the cupboard.
The door slammed shut behind her. The sign fell off with a quiet tap. Silence.
Nine caught her breath. She became aware that she was in a tangled heap of wizard, troll, feather duster and girl, and shook herself free. She glanced at the cupboard door, then at Eric’s deep yellow eyes and wished, somehow, that she felt able to say two simple words to the troll.
But “thank you” wasn’t part of her vocabulary. It meant you owed someone something. And Nine didn’t ever want that ever again. She was on her own against this world and that was how she liked it – because the world had turned its back on her. It never brought you strawberries.
All she could say, as they staggered to their feet, was, “I said I was fine!”
“And the sign said ‘Never open this door’,” said Flabberghast curtly.
“Well, I was never very good at doing what I was told.”
“Clearly!”
Nine looked down at the hopscotch trophy in her hand and slammed it into Flabberghast’s breastplate.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“Lady hurt,” said Eric, his mouth all downturned. He frantically began rummaging in his apron.
Nine became aware of the stinging and put a hand up to her cheekbone. She saw the smear of blood on her fingers.
“Just a scratch.” She glared at the trophy scornfully, reading the inscription carved along the base. “‘FLABBERGHAST. WORLD HOPSCOTCH CHAMPION 1835.’ Your most precious possession? I can’t believe it’s
for hopscotch.”
“Clearly, Madam, you have no appreciation of the challenge of wizard hopscotch.”
“Which, by the way,” snapped Nine, “I’m completely fine with.” She brushed her cheek again but refused to acknowledge the blood or the pain. Pain was weakness. Never show weakness.
She looked at the hexagonal clock, the three larger sword-shaped hands still whizzing backwards, and the smallest hand now pointing at the 7. “What now?”
Flabberghast looked at Nine. “The book specified that all persons who need to be involved must donate an item of personal sacrifice.”
“Yes, you’ve done that,” said Nine.
Flabberghast tilted his head slightly. “All persons. That, Madam, includes you.”
“What?” said Nine, throwing her hands in the air. “I’ve got nothing to do with it!”
“Ah, but you have,” said Flabberghast, waggling a finger at her. “I believe, as curse-breaker, your fate is now bound up with ours. You are, one might say, involved.”
Nine felt a little chill down her spine as she remembered the lava-voiced words of the faceless witch. And you are involved, aren’t you?
“I’m not … involved,” Nine said, more to the voice in her head than to Flabberghast.
“I beg to differ, Madam.”
“Beg away!” retorted Nine as a growing sense of unease crept over her. The House shrinking into nothing, vanishing for ever… It hadn’t occurred to her that she might disappear inside it too. And an item of personal sacrifice? There was only one thing it could be…
“You must bring your item, Madam, then the book specifies to place them in the cauldron, sprinkle them with water mixed with deadly nightshade gathered by moonlight.” Flabberghast looked towards the kitchen. “There’s some in the back garden. Then, one can only hope, the magic words will be revealed. We speak them – and the curse is broken.”
“And I get the floaty red ball with the jewel that’s worth a lot?”
“You receive the levitating scarlet orb which holds a jewel of immeasurable wealth, Madam.”
And freedom, Nine thought.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll come back tonight. And this had better work.”
As she wound her way through the streets towards Pockets’ Nest, Nine wondered how many people in the history of history had nearly gotten crushed in a cupboard full of magical junk. The sooner she could say goodbye to that House – the sooner she could get on with the rest of her life – the better. She passed the library and watched as Mr Downes locked the door. He stared sadly up at the near-derelict building. As he turned he noticed Nine, tipped his hat and gave a weary smile before he strolled away down the street.
Slowly, heavily, Nine walked on to Whinney’s Passage, turned down the alleyway and knocked on the terrace door. “No strawberries today,” she whispered.
Then she froze. Her heavy, tired senses burst into wakefulness. Someone was behind her. She could sense them staring at her back. Her breathing became quicker. She curled her hands into fists, widened her eyes, whirled round—
Nothing. No one. She looked left and right.
Wait… What was that, farther up the alley? Nine squinted. Something like a tiny little red light in the air? She tried to focus…
Then an arm shot out of the warehouse, roughly pulled her inside and slammed the door. Nine tumbled down through the trapdoor and into the Nest. Every now and then she managed to land on her feet – thanks to years of practice – and today was one of those days. When she looked up, she found Pockets glaring up at her from his bed. Nine felt a sickening lurch as she saw him holding the little music box – her music box – in his hands.
“Where has you been, girl?” slurred Pockets.
“Out,” she said warily, waiting for the inevitable next question.
“What you bring for Nockets’ Pest?”
“Er…”
“Worst thiefling in the world!” wailed Pockets, sitting up and pointing a wavering finger at Nine. “Useless! You’s all useless!” He waved his hand at the cellar. Mary and the others wisely slunk back into the shadows. “Go live on the streets then! See if Pockets cares! No freedom, no life, nothing.” The old man slumped down onto his bed and the melancholy tinkling of the music box filled the cellar. Nine’s heart stung at the sound. “Pockets took you in. Never strawberries,” Pockets slurred and sniffed loudly. “Never.”
The music box tinkled on. Nine crept to her corner, waiting twitchily. She brushed her fingers over the library book on her bed but this was no time for reading. After what seemed like for ever, the sound of the tinkling music was replaced with the sound of loud, even snoring. Nine stood up and tiptoed towards the old man. Her heart sank as she saw he still clutched the little music box in his grimy hand, his fingers curled around it.
Just like a cat: sighting her prey, stalking it quietly, pouncing at the right moment.
Pockets stirred. Nine froze.
“Never…” he murmured.
Nine held her breath.
“Strawberries…”
Life had never brought him anything, either. A pang of pity stung Nine’s heart and she fought it down. The old man let out a loud, rattling snore.
Nine breathed again. Her senses were on alert. Her muscles tensed. One wrong move and the moment was gone. She moved into position, clenched her fists, stretched her fingers – her pre-pounce ritual.
She was on in three…
She swallowed down the tight, choking feeling in her throat.
Two…
Focus on the prey.
One…
This was everything.
Go!
Her heart thumped in her ears as she reached for the silver box. She started sliding it out from the old man’s fingers, not daring to breathe. Her fingertip knocked the tiny handle and – her heart leapt – tinkling notes rang out.
Pockets snorted and stirred, his grip tightened – this time around Nine’s fingers. For one sad, strange moment, Nine held her music box and Pockets held Nine’s hand. Then the moment vanished into memory. Pockets’ grip slackened and he began to snore again, his rotten breath wafting over Nine. She slipped the music box free, dropped it into her satchel and softly stepped backwards … and backwards … and backwards…
There was a sudden rustling behind her.
“Hey!” Tom stood there half-awake but pointing at Nine. “Pockets! She’s—”
Nine leapt forward and clasped her hand over his mouth. “No!” she hissed, looking him in the eyes. Tom glared back and tried to pull her hand away.
“Please,” she whispered urgently. “This was mine, always mine, and now I have to take it back. I have to get away. Please keep quiet and I’ll let you have something.”
Tom’s expression softened and his body relaxed. Nine unclasped her hand from his mouth.
“There’s a book on my bed,” Nine whispered, glancing over her shoulder as Pockets stirred again. “Go and get it, look at all the squiggly letters. Someone I know can teach you to read them. It’s incredible. Just take it to the library when you’re ready. All right? And sniff those pages – they smell really good.”
Tom nodded uncertainly. Nine nodded back as the boy began tiptoeing over towards Nine’s bed.
“And Tom?” The boy looked up, his face half-covered in shadow. Nine gave a little smile. “Let the librarian catch you.”
The boy looked thoughtful as he slipped away to claim his prize.
Pockets snored on, unaware of the best thiefling in the world. Nine tiptoed across the cellar towards the dangling rope in the corner. Time to get that deadly nightshade, break the curse and get her own strawberries.
She put both hands on the rope, ready to climb. She paused for a moment and, with one last look at the place she called home, Nine clambered up the rope and flew the Nest.
As she scurried through the dark, chilly streets, Nine glanced up at the sky. The ghostly orb of the moon was barely visible behind a huge, thick cloud; not the most hopef
ul start when you had to pick a plant by moonlight. She sighed and marched on, clutching her precious treasure, aware that everything now rested on a curse, a glowing red ball and the promise of a hopscotch-obsessed wizard.
Snatches of melancholy music tinkled as the music box jolted around inside the satchel. But now, as she neared the House, Nine could not bear to hear it. She knocked on the doorknocker, forcing back the burning, prickling feeling that threatened to overrun her eyes. The troll, wearing a fluffy yellow dressing gown, opened the door and stared at her.
“MOVE!” she barked, the troll already stepping aside. And if she felt the sweet pushed into her hand as she passed by, she made absolutely sure she didn’t let on.
“Make haste, Madam!” cried Flabberghast as Nine entered the kitchen. “The moon may shine at any moment!” He was still in his indigo pyjamas and purple slippers, topped now with a well-worn blue nightcap.
The spoon swung into view wearing – to everyone’s great relief – tartan pyjamas. He landed at Nine’s feet. “About time,” he muttered.
Flabberghast glanced nervously at the cauldron beside him. “You have brought your item of personal sacrifice?”
Nine said nothing but reached inside her satchel. Her hand closed around the little music box and didn’t move.
“Madam! Did you bring it?”
“Yes!” said Nine as she walked across the kitchen. Slowly she pulled it out of the satchel and held it above the cauldron. She looked at the sacrificed items: the feather duster, the kilt, the trophy…
“Madam, make haste! Unless you wish us all to be shrunk beyond reality –”
“No shrink! Eric shrink!”
“– I must urge you to—”
“YES!” snapped Nine. “FINE!” She tilted her hand slowly … slowly … until the music box – her beloved music box – finally dropped from her palm into the cauldron. It landed with a soft thud on the feather duster, tinkling one last note, and then it was silent. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, feeling a strange lump in her throat. Swallowing it down, she whirled around to the wizard.
“This,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes, “had better be worth it.”