by B G Denvil
With a blank stare, Rosie swallowed meekly, not understanding. “What on earth for?”
“That’s the one thing we just don’t know,” said Peg. “And it must have been such a strong wizard, which doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the story. But never mind about that. We know enough, for clearly your mother employed someone to do it for her.”
Rosie didn’t know why that would have happened either. “If she wanted me as a baby, why make me stupid?”
“That’s something else we do know now,” smiled Edna. “We know almost everything, since I had some information from Whistle a long, long time ago.”
“And now I’ve been able to read a lot of Whistle’s papers,” nodded Peg.
“But in the meantime,” Edna continued, “wouldn’t you like to know what score you earned in the wizarding Wiccan Test?”
“Not really. Fifty-one, fifty-two? Even fifty-five? Not forty-five I hope, though I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Oh, dear me no,” said Edna. “You’ve scored ninety-eight.”
Twenty-One
Rosie’s sigh was both anticipation and boredom. She was well aware accepting Dickon Wald’s invitation had been absurd and even greedy. He was not a revolting person for a plain human, but like most humans, he spoke more nonsense than sense. However, she had grown to enjoy the food and atmosphere on offer at the Juggler and Goat, and after years of her mother’s cooking, a mixture of magical manifestation along with genuine production, anything else was preferable. She also liked knowing what sort of official clues this sheriff’s assistant might have discovered.
Rosie was therefore ready for Dickon when he turned up, and they walked together down Kettle Lane towards the village and its colourful tavern. As summer approached, the days had grown steadily longer, and now the sky was a huge blue blanket of warmth, although the bliss of blossom had long finished and blown away. Bluebells still followed the paths and banks, but the delicate froth of the lilac had hidden and dropped as new leaf crowded trees and bushes.
Feeding their young, the crows were more aggressive than usual and had no time for chats on the fence, and with no wish for interruptions that would be extremely difficult to explain to a human, Rosie walked more quickly than Dickon had expected.
“You must be hungry, Rosie, dear,” he said. “Longing to get a cup of ale, perhaps?”
Trying not to sound scornful, Rosie nodded. “Thirsty – yes. And I thank you for the kind invitation. But you really shouldn’t call me ‘dear’, you know.”
“The second special meeting?” Dickon grabbed her hand and thrust it through the crook of his arm. “We are quite a little pair, you know.”
Uncertain as to the practices of humans, Rosie accepted this but still pulled her hand away. “Business meetings,” she insisted. “After these shocking murders, a discussion with an expert is simply sensible.”
Clearly, Dickon was disappointed, but knew females had the reputation of saying ‘no’ when they meant ‘yes’, so he pushed open the tavern door, and pulled out a stool for Rosie to sit. From the peaceful twitter and sunny breezes outside, they had suddenly entered the raucous laughter and clank of cup to jug, the deep dark shadows and the reflections of candle flicker in the rich red wine.
The dark shadows reminded Rosie of her recent education in the shadow side of magic, and she shivered. More importantly she continued to ponder on the absolutely unbelievable number of ninety-eight that she had been given.
Knowing it as a mistake and utterly wrong, it did not bother her too much. But how had it come up, and what did such a ludicrous test reveal? Even accepting the test as the right way to judge a witch, it made no sense. If she had been suffocated of power when young, how could a crazy number like ninety-eight pop up?
“Dreaming, my dear?” asked Dickon, carrying over the two brimming cups of ale. “Now, I know you were quite fixed on the odd idea that your mother had been involved in some way with that last shocking death at your home, but I do trust by now you’ve realised that is unjust. As you know, I interviewed everyone at the residence, and I have come to a tentative conclusion. Would you like to know?”
Since he had chucked the whole idea of privacy, Rosie nodded immediately. “I need to know, to keep myself safe,” she said with conspiratorial appreciation.
“Your gardener,” smiled Dickon. “Quite obvious really. He’s very large and wide-shouldered, he must be strong for the work he does, and he has many weapons at hand, such as a spade and an axe amongst others. I also gather he is paid almost nothing beyond his keep, so is bound to be somewhat sulky, of course, being the one working so hard for so little, when many of your inmates are wealthy folk who do nothing to help.”
“I don’t think anyone would commit such a brutal crime because of simple sulks,” Rosie said. “Besides, I like Dipper. He’s a nice and generous man. And it’s true, he earns very little, but he only works when he feels like it and has his own room and food supplied. Kate, the maid who was killed, she lived next to him, and they were close friends.”
“Ah,” said Dickon, clearly thinking of himself, “but men often have an idea of what they’d like to do with a female friend, and if she says no, then he may get angry.”
“Is that a warning?” Rosie blinked.
“What a shocking thought,” said Dickon at once. “Certainly not. But—” and he watched her carefully over the brim of his cup, “I am certainly hoping that we can become better acquainted.”
Luckily, the platters of food arrived at this moment, and Rosie was able to escape answering. Instead she hurried to fill her own platter with the three dishes on offer, drained her cup and concentrated, eyes down. Earlier that day she had already explained the situation to Peg, and there was a solid arrangement for Peg to turn up and save her. But Peg had not yet come.
As the thick sliced lamb’s liver soaked in Burgundy and stuffed with smoked bacon, onions and a variety of herbs was quickly finished, and both Rosie and Dickon had started on the dried figs boiled in milk with sliced apple baked in pastry, Dickon abruptly leaned across the table and, gazing into her eyes, said, “Indeed, my dearest Rosie, I would like you to be my wife.” His mouth was full so he was spitting apple juice as he spoke, but none of it reached Rosie as she had quickly pulled away, almost falling backwards off her stool.
Rosie hadn’t meant it, but she knew that, somehow, she had caused it, when Dickon started coughing. The heaving, gargling cough was clearly uncontrollable, and with a splutter of misery he disappeared behind his sleeve as he continued to cough and then sneeze.
With a huge effort, which made Rosie feel guilty, Dickon closed his mouth, but his face puffed up and turned quite purple. Then as he stood, in the hope of clearing his chest, he found himself hopping. Desperate, but unable to stop, Dickon hopped around the small table, but when he tried to apologise, all that came out was another coughing fit. The hop then turned to a wild and energetic dance, and with a huge leap he started to kick and bounce, twirl and twist, encircling the entire width of the tavern.
Several of the folk sitting around began to clap and cheer, thinking it intentional, but in an agony of disbelieving embarrassment, Dickon rushed from the Juggler and Goat.
As he hopped out, Peg marched in. She sat on the stool Dickon had abandoned. “That will serve him right.” she said, arranging her skirts and eyeing the remaining platter of food.
“Did you do that?” asked Rosie, half laughing.
“Goodness no,” Peg told her. “You must have done it yourself, my dear. Your strengths are starting to reappear.”
Amazed and somewhat horrified, Rosie stared. “It couldn’t have been. I don’t know how to do things like that, and I never intended it. Honestly, it wasn’t me.”
But Peg insisted. “This is how it happens,” she said, “when someone has been under a suffocation spell for years. Your ninety-eight was squashed down to almost half. Now that full power is pushing its way through. I’m quite sure you’ll have a lot of fun over the ne
xt year, finding out just what you’re capable of.”
Peg ate the rest of the fig and apple tart with loud appreciation and magicked up some cream to plop on top. As a final moment of pleasure, she ate the remaining quarter slice of liver and smiled widely. “Right, off home.” And she paid the tavern owner, took Rosie’s hand, and they left, closing the door behind them. Once out of sight, they flew back to The Rookery and straight through Edna’s window.
“I doubt that silly young human will bother you again, my dear,” smiled Edna. “Come and sit down with us.”
“I feel a bit sorry for him,” Rosie muttered, “but he decided poor old Dipper was the killer, and we don’t want that.” She took the cup of wine Edna offered and added, “has anything happened with mother? Has she – perhaps – run away?”
Twizzle, having escaped from her perch in the other room, proceeded to answer everyone with a continuous flap around the room until she finally settled on Edna’s shoulder. She insisted, “Good day, mate. Mind the billabong.” Edna took no notice.
Peg frowned, tapping her fingers on her knees. “No such luck. Your wretched mother is protesting her innocence. And no one here is sure what to do. After all, she owns this building, the grounds and almost everything in it. Everyone is nervous that if we press the guilty accusation, she’ll burn it all down or produce a few trolls to threaten us or something like that. As a fifty, I doubt she’s capable of trolls, but we can’t be sure, and burning the place down could be too easy.”
“I’m never going to do anything more for her,” Rosie said, staring down sadly at her lap. “No beds or buckets of water. Besides, my bed’s upside down. And I’ll never call her Mamma again. But she did bring me up. I just feel so strange.”
“Hardly surprising,” Edna said. “But perhaps you are beginning to realise, my dear, that the terrible murders taking place here, actually have a great deal to do with you after all.”
Rosie felt the slide of tears down her cheeks and bent her head further down. “Not really,” she said. “None of it makes sense to me. And you two understand a lot more than I do, but you won’t tell me.”
“We know bits and pieces,” nodded Peg. “But not how it all comes together. So even if I wanted to explain everything to you, I couldn’t. And besides, a glorious ninety-eight should be able to explain it to me, not the other way around.”
“I’m not a real ninety-eight,” Rosie said a little sullenly. “You know I’m not.”
“It’s your potential, my dear,’ Edna cut in. “But first you have to thrust your way out of the fifty you’ve been living in. Only you can do that.”
“Then perhaps, number one, I ought to fix up my bedroom instead of stealing yours,” she answered. “And number two, I should talk to Dodger about where he found the silver cup and what else was there. And then number three, look for my father – I mean, Alfred – and make sure he’s alright. Is there a number four?”
“Yes indeed,” Peg replied. “Number four, relax and take your time. Everything will happen as is meant, and when it is right. Most of your learning will probably be slow, and not one single itsy bitsy is your fault, my dear.”
The option of talking to the silver trio or even Oswald occurred to Rosie, but that made her feel strangely vulnerable, and in front of Peg and Edna, Rosie knew she’d be judged as a failing ninety-eight sinking down to the level of a fifty or less, so she stood, straightened her shoulders and said she’d start with number one. Rosie then trotted down the stairs with no attempt to fly, and opened the door to her old room. Outside the crows were calling, the babies had stopped squawking and the sun had sunk below the horizon. The gloaming turned the sky a luminous blue, and every tree was a black maze of branches.
Her room, however, was unchanged. So without much hope of compliance, Rosie raised both hands and said softly, “Totally true but totally new, turn back how you were – make it gleam, nice and clean.”
Then Rosie watched with a delighted smile and the entire contents of her room tumbled back into their proper places with very little noise and not a single mistake. The bed covers arranged themselves in order and tucked themselves in. The window polished itself, and the floorboards blew away the dust. A very small pink mouse scurried out from under the ruin of her best tunic on the floor, apologised with a sniff of whiskers, and ran out of the window, interrupting the mullions’ dutiful polishing. The gown itself gathered up all its torn pieces, managed a few twists and turns, put itself all back together with a little shake and hung itself on a hook. Other items of her clothing cleaned themselves to such an extent, Rosie knew they were cleaner than when she had last worn them. Even her second-best apron reappeared without the large splodge of candle wax which had previously been there, and the mud disappeared from her little black boots.
Gazing with pride and relief at her restored bedchamber, Rosie decided to add a few things. “Some paper, ink and pen,” she said, clicking her fingers. “And with the quill, I’d like a very fancy feather.” It was a peacock feather, and since she’d never seen a peacock, Rosie was most impressed.
“Now a very large Turkey rug almost over the whole floor.” It appeared. Deep crimson and elaborately patterned, it was so thick, Rosie felt almost cushioned.
“And now,” she added, her smile almost splitting her face, “a big squashy cushioned chair beside the table.” Red, voluminous, as comfortable as a bed, Rosie sank down on the most comfortable chair she had ever known. So, incredibly grateful, she added, “And invite that mouse back again. He’s perfectly welcome.”
The mouse thanked her with sniffy gratitude and ran back under the bed.
Leaving her room with huge satisfaction, she even waved it goodbye, Rosie faced the stairs back up to the attic and Edna’s rooms, and for the very first time in her life without someone holding her hand, she flew. It felt wonderfully exhilarating, and Rosie was so excited, she flew straight into the room where Edna sat, and almost bumped into her. Twizzle shot up and demanded a cup of Vegemite.
“Done,” Rosie said. “I did it. I made it tidy itself. The bed flopped off the ceiling, and the table spun off the wall, and they all sorted themselves. Even my old clothes cleaned themselves and hung themselves up. And then – ” she almost danced, “I created new things. “A wonderful chair. A gorgeous rug. Oh, Edna, dearest, I am truly discovering myself.”
“I’m thrilled,” Edna told her. “But not surprised. This is real power, my girl, and the power is all yours. Enjoy it. So come and sit down. We have other things to attend to.”
“Why couldn’t I do it before?” Everything was still one huge confused puzzle.
“Because, my dear, you had been suffocated. presumably by your mother, if she had the strength, or someone on her behalf. And you had no idea that you actually had more strength hidden beneath, so you never tried to rise above it. And,” she grinned suddenly, “I’ve been knitting away to remove the suffocation cloud, stitch by stich.”
Leaning over with excitement and delight, Rosie put her hands on Edna’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “What a wonderful darling you are,” Rosie exclaimed. “And Peg too, of course. Where is she?”
And at that exact moment, the door was hurled open, and Peg rushed in, flapping three pieces of thick parchment. “I’ve found it,” she said. “This will solve it all.”
Twenty-Two
Now late, the night was closing in. But excitement ignored tiredness. They all three sat around the table again, where Peg laid out the three pieces of parchment. The pages were unmarked, and it seemed as though they contained nothing at all. But Peg began to whisper a spell, several times mentioning Whistle’s name, and concluding with a hearty “Done.”
The words began to appear. Edna leaned over eagerly to read them.
This is the document, officially verified by his highness Tulip Onceover, to state that the property in Kettle Lane, in the shire of Wiltshire, including all buildings thereupon, in particular that known as The Rookery and its out buildings, and the entire g
rounds, trees and other plants, including the well at the side of the property, are of one single occupancy and ownership, being that of Master Whistle Hobb, a proven ninety-one and three quarters.
As the sole owner since the year in human terms known as 1278, Master Whistle Hobb is entitled to do whatever he wishes with this property, except that of destruction. For this entire property has been originally built by one Spencer Ludgate Hobb, who has marked it with a damnation on any witch, wizard or human who attempts to ruin any part, including the trees, bushes and other plants.
Since this property was created for Mistress Flordal Bonnet Hobb, Whistle Hobb’s mother, it is protected in her name on her sad demise.
Whistle Hobb is free to designate whomever he pleases as the inheritor of this estate, but the inheritance must be accompanied by some relationship, however small. If absolutely no person can claim a relationship, then the entire property must be passed over to the country for the use of aged and disabled souls, preferably of wiccan descent.
In the meantime, the rights of this estate belong solely to Master Whistle Hobb and if any harm is done to him, then the consequences shall be as follows:
Whomever has performed or ordered to be performed an act of aggression towards Whistle Hobb during his lifetime with any relevance to the ownership of this entire property, will be held in contempt of the Wiccan Court. If found guilty, they will be exploded on the spot.
This consequence is under the ruling of the court, but any offender who manages to escape this sentence, will be immediately transformed into a common troilus bug, wherever it is, and be condemned to live in this manner forever during the criminal’s lifetime.