The Marvelous Magic of Miss Mabel

by Natasha Lowe

  “I adore Sundays,” Mabel said one weekend afternoon, a few weeks past her eleventh birthday. She was in the garden, watching Nora brush pollen from a little linen bag onto the Royal Duchess roses. Her mother did this every year, collecting the pollen from the wild roses that ran along the hedgerows. They had a much more powerful fragrance than the Royal Duchesses, which looked beautiful but had hardly any scent, and Nora was hoping to cross-pollinate the plants. She’d learned all about it at one of the meetings of the Rose Growers’ Association.

  “There!” Nora put down her paintbrush and sniffed. “Definitely more fragrant this summer,” she said, smiling in satisfaction. “Now, time for a nice cup of tea.”

  They sat at the table in the garden, and Mabel wriggled her toes in delight. She held a cherry tart in one hand and was pouring over the Potts Bottom Gazette, something Nanny Grimshaw never let her do. Newspapers were not for children, Nanny Grimshaw had said firmly, the first time she saw Mabel pick one up.

  “Mama, look at this,” Mabel said, dropping crumbs on the paper as she crammed her mouth full of tart.

  “Smaller bites, please, Mabel, and don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Mabel swallowed and said, “They’re inventing a flying machine so that nonmagical people will be able to fly too. Isn’t that amazing, Mama? Almost as amazing as electricity!” Last week Mabel had read about a powerful new form of energy that could light a house at the flick of a switch and been so excited by the idea, she had hidden the article under her mattress. “I wish we could use our magic to invent things like that,” Mabel sighed, reaching for another tart. “Imagine a rocket broomstick that could fly to the moon. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Perhaps classes will get a little more interesting now that you’re an Intermediate Witch,” Nora said, giving Mabel a sympathetic smile. She knew that magic hands and crystal ball gazing weren’t Mabel’s favorite subjects. And even Nora had to admit that learning love charms, or mastering the art of a “sparkling conversation” spell so you could converse with difficult guests at a dinner party, did seem rather outdated these days.

  “First broomstick flying lesson on Wednesday,” Mabel said with a shiver. “I’m excited about that. And nervous!” She felt around under the newspaper and pulled out a slim purple booklet. “It will be fun to fly myself to school, though. Only three more days of having to be chaperoned.”

  It was a strict Ruthersfield rule that all girls too young to fly must be accompanied to school and back by a twelfth former.

  “Do you know the handbook?” Nora asked, helping herself to a cucumber sandwich. “Miss Brewer made it quite clear that no girl would be allowed on a broomstick unless she has memorized the Ruthersfield flying rules.”

  “I think so. Can you test me?” Mabel handed the booklet to Nora. Reaching for the last cherry tart, Mabel began, “A witch must always be accompanied by her cat. No flying above the tree lines. No overtaking birds. No acrobatics or reckless steering. A witch must wear her hat at all times outside the academy. A witch must keep both hands on the broomstick and keep her shoes in her skirt loops. Ummm . . .” Mabel paused a moment. “Oh, I know, don’t tell me. . . . No shouting or eating allowed while flying. And most important of all, a ladylike posture must be retained at all times.”

  “Well done, Mabel. You have an excellent memory.”

  “I bet I get it from Papa,” Mabel said. “Doctors need to remember all those difficult-sounding diseases and long words, don’t they?”

  Nora got up and started to put the tea things back on the tray, stacking the plates and gathering spoons without looking at Mabel. “Can you take this through to the kitchen, Mabel? It’s getting a little cool out here.”

  “Of course.” Mabel licked her sticky fingers. She had a feeling that her mother still missed her father more than she admitted, because whenever Mabel mentioned him, Nora always changed the subject. Which was really rather hard since there was so much Mabel wanted to know. What his favorite foods were. The sort of things he found funny. Whether he felt excited when he found out he was going to be a father. “How old was I when Papa got the influenza?” Mabel asked softly. She wanted to know if her father got to hold her as a baby, but there never seemed to be a right time for such a question, especially when her mother was so good at avoiding all conversations about Mabel’s birth.

  “Frank died before you were born,” Nora said, picking up her shears from the grass. She gave Mabel a bright smile. “I must prune back the climbing roses,” she murmured. “They are getting quite out of control.”

  Mabel let the subject drop. But the following morning, while Nanny Grimshaw was still upstairs, Mabel tried asking Daisy some questions. Like which of her parents she had resembled as a baby? Daisy just shooed her away from the stove and said to stop pestering her, because she needed to get going on the porridge. Nanny insisted on porridge three times a week, saying it was good for the digestion, and if Mabel left any of the lumpy, slimy gruel in her bowl, Daisy had been instructed by Nanny to serve it up again for her breakfast the next day.

  “Porridge!” Mabel groaned.

  “Oh, here.” Daisy buttered a slice of bread and handed it to Mabel. “Take this outside before Nanny sees. And don’t say I gave it to you,” she added, as Mabel escaped into the garden.

  Letting out a long sigh, Mabel wondered why grown-ups were so good at avoiding questions. She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her skirt. The sun was bright this morning, showing up the smudges on her lenses. Not long after moving to Potts Bottom, Mabel had started bumping into things, and her squint got so bad that Nora finally took her to see the ophthalmologist over in Little Shamlington. He had recommended glasses, and all at once her surroundings took on a whole new focus. Everything became crystal clear and sharp edged, and Mabel still took delight in the clarity of the world around her, right down to counting the hairs on Nanny Grimshaw’s chin. It was like stepping out of a pea soup fog.

  She bent down to examine a cobweb, each tiny thread sparkling with drops of dew like crystal beads. They had been studying cobwebs in potions class, a common ingredient in many type of spells—healing balms, sleeping drafts, comfort cookies—but what fascinated Mabel the most was reading about cobwebs in the big leather encyclopedia her mother kept in the drawing room. Apparently some webs, depending on the spider that had made them, were remarkably strong, and that got Mabel thinking. Spider silk was so fine and light. What if she could find a way to strengthen it further, make it unbreakable, but keep the weight the same? There would be so many amazing uses for thread that strong and light. It would make an almost invisible net that could carry hundreds of pounds in weight, or a rope that could hold a mountaineer but take up no space in a pocket and weigh almost nothing.

  Mabel sighed and stared out across the garden. She had hundreds of ideas buzzing in her head, and nowhere for them to go. The sky was so blue this morning, so full of possibilities, and a sharp longing pierced her. Knowing how much trouble she could get in, but unable to stop herself, Mabel reached into her pinafore pocket and pulled out the glass vial of extra-strength repair potion they had made last week in class. It was supposed to be used to mend broken china. You sprinkled the potion over your shattered plate or vase and the china magically repaired itself. After Mabel had mended the broken cow creamer Miss Mantel had given her, she added a tiny puff of lion’s roar to the rest of her mixture, interested to see what might happen. Now, taking the lid off the vial, she sprinkled some drops over the cobweb and waited a few seconds. Then touching the web with a stick, Mabel was surprised to find it didn’t break. She dropped the stick on the web and it bounced back up. With a rush of excitement Mabel carefully peeled the cobweb off the grass and stretched it. The threads still held, but its texture had changed. She pulled and pulled, and the web continued to expand as if it were made out of rubber.

  “Fascinating,” Mabel murmured, shoving her glasses up her nose. She wasn’t sure what she had done exactly, but the results wer
e certainly interesting. “Ouch!” Mabel cried, feeling the curved end of Nanny Grimshaw’s umbrella hook under her armpit. With another loud “ouch!” she was yanked to her feet.

  Nanny Grimshaw looked her up and down. “Your pinafore is dirty, your braids need tidying, and you have crumbs around your mouth. You are a disgrace, Mabel Ratcliff. Is this how we dress for school?”

  “No, Nanny, sorry, Nanny.”

  “You have ten minutes to eat breakfast and make yourself presentable before your chaperone group comes by. Now, get going,” Nanny Grimshaw said, giving Mabel a smack on the bottom with her umbrella.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  The Problem with Liver

  THERE WERE SEVEN SENIOR STUDENTS who had the privilege of being Ruthersfield chaperones. These girls got to fly around the streets of Potts Bottom and collect all the young witches on their route. Every morning and afternoon, the chaperones could be seen flying sedately along, trailing a line of little girls behind them. They were not allowed to fly more than two feet off the ground or go any faster than the front walker. And the twelfth former on Mabel’s route was the “perfect” Violet Featherstone. Like the rest of the upper class, she wore her skirts down past her ankles and pinned up her hair. But it was the corsets the twelfth formers were obliged to wear that Mabel dreaded the most. This torturous undergarment squeezed your stomach in so tightly it was difficult to breathe. It was a well-known Ruthersfield fact that the twelfth formers competed with each other to see who had the smallest waist. That’s why they were constantly fainting, Mabel thought, because they couldn’t get enough air into their lungs. And it must make broomstick riding so uncomfortable. Not that you would ever guess this if you saw Violet Featherstone. She took great pride in perching sideways on her broomstick, her legs pressed together and her shoulders pulled back. Even her cat had impressive riding posture, his hind paws tucked under and his tail flagpole straight.

  “No running,” Violet said, as Mabel came dashing out of her house. “And put your hat on, please.”

  “Yes, Violet,” Mabel panted, pulling on her hat as she joined the end of the line behind her friend Tabitha.

  From somewhere close by a bell started ringing, and Mabel turned just in time to see their magic hands teacher barrel past on one of the big two-wheeled contraptions she had read about in the newspaper but never actually seen before. Wind blew in Mabel’s face and a fizz of excitement rushed through her. “Look, a bicycle!” she shouted, as Miss Seymour sped by, curls blowing in her face, her long purple cloak streaming out behind. Mabel was so busy staring at the huge metal machine that she stumbled into Tabitha. “Sorry!” Mabel apologized, watching their teacher wobble and swerve her way down Trotting Hill. “I just can’t believe Miss Seymour’s riding a bicycle!”

  None of the girls had seen such a sight before, and Violet Featherstone landed shakily on the pavement, her mouth dropping open in shock. Pulling some smelling salts out of her pocket and waving them under her nose, she gawked at Miss Seymour.

  “Where’s her broomstick?” one of the year-two witches squealed. “Why isn’t she flying to school?” Most mornings Miss Seymour would pass Mabel’s chaperone group, but never on a bicycle. In fact, as far as Mabel knew, this was the first bicycle sighting in Potts Bottom.

  Dashing out of line, Mabel began to run down the hill. She had to see that machine up close, examine what happened when the pedals were pushed. It was like a mechanical horse that didn’t need feeding, and Mabel wondered how fast it could go.

  “Mabel Ratcliff,” Violet called out, not raising her voice but making it clear enough and loud enough for Mabel to stop in her tracks. “Two demerits for disruptive behavior.” Violet pointed her wand at Mabel, and two black Xs flew through the air, attaching themselves to the front of Mabel’s pinafore. “One more this week and you will find yourself in Miss Brewer’s office,” Violet cautioned. Mabel swallowed the retort that was trying to escape from her mouth. She’d only get another demerit if she spoke back to Violet, and she could question Miss Seymour about her bicycle later.

  “Sorry about your demerits,” Tabitha said, holding her hand out to Mabel as they walked. “This will make you feel better. Quickly,” she whispered, “before Violet sees.”

  “Chocolate?” Mabel gasped, taking the smooth brown square.

  “My papa always brings me a bar back when he goes down to London on business.”

  “Oh, Tabitha, thank you. You are the nicest person. I only get it at Christmas as a special treat.” Mabel sniffed the thick square, breathing in the sweet, chocolaty aroma. “I shall save this for after lunch.”

  “To take away that nasty liver taste,” Tabitha said, shuddering in agreement. Every Monday they had liver, a day when the girls sat in miserable silence, staring at slabs of dense, evil-flavored organ meat lying on their plates. It was a Ruthersfield rule that you couldn’t leave the table until your plate was clean, so Monday lunchtimes were always the longest in the week, with tears and groans and enough leftovers to feed all the school cats. “I hate liver.” Tabitha gagged. “It is the most disgusting, foul-tasting food in the whole world, and it should be illegal to serve it to children.”

  “Ruby always gets sick after Monday lunch,” Mabel said. “Would you mind if I gave this chocolate to her, Tabitha? I think she hates liver even more than I do.”

  “I wish liver tasted like chocolate,” Tabitha sighed. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

  Mabel didn’t answer. Her mind had drifted off the way it always did whenever she was thinking about one of her ideas. The girls were used to it, and Mabel made little muttering noises as she walked. It was only as they climbed up the steps into school that she slid her arm through Tabitha’s and said, as if there had been no break in the conversation, “I think I can do it!”

  “Do what?” Tabitha asked, looking puzzled.

  “Make liver taste like chocolate.” Mabel gave an animated little skip. “Remember the taste enhancer potion we made last week?”

  “A hostess’s best friend.” Tabitha mimicked Miss Mantel’s voice. “When you want your meals to sparkle and your dinner party to be the talk of the town, use taste-enhancing potion to give food that magical lift.”

  “Yes, and those plain boiled potatoes we sprinkled it on in class were delicious,” Mabel said. “The most potatoey potatoes I’ve ever eaten. Like you could taste the rain and the sun and . . .”

  “Mabel, where are you going with this?” Tabitha said nervously, as they walked toward the fortune-telling room.

  “If I melt chocolate with the taste enhancer powder, stir it into wishing well water, which makes an excellent base solution, and then drizzle it over the liver”—Mabel paused a moment and gave another excited skip—“it should make the liver taste of chocolate.”

  “You know you’re not allowed to experiment,” Tabitha whispered. “You’ll get in so much trouble.”

  “I won’t because the teachers will never know. They’ll be happy because we’ll eat all our liver, and we’ll be happy because the liver will taste like chocolate.”

  “You are mad,” Tabitha said. “Completely crazy. Totally insane.” And then looking around to make sure no one was listening, she asked, “Do you really think it will work?”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ve already made the taste enhancing powder and that’s the hard part. I’ll just mix it all together at the end of potions class.”

  “Which is right before lunch,” Tabitha said with a grin. “The girls are going to love this!”

  Luckily, in potions class they were using cauldrons to make unicorn milk soap, guaranteed to give you a soft, milky complexion, and since Mabel finished early, she was able to rinse out her cauldron and mix up her liver potion without Miss Mantel noticing.

  “I thought we were only meant to use a pinch of enhancer,” Ruby whispered, watching Mabel liberally sprinkle powder over the tiny puddle of melted chocolate.

  “This is liver we’re talking about, not po
tatoes,” Mabel said. “It’s going to need a great deal more enhancing.”

  Mabel and Ruby cleaned up as fast as they could and managed to make it into the dining room ahead of most classes. One group of year-four girls was already there, sitting at a table, glumly staring at their plates of liver.

  “Poor things,” Mabel whispered. “If only they had come in a little later.”

  When they got to the head of the line, Mabel waited until Mrs. Bainbridge, the cook, had turned her back for a moment to stir a pot of peas, and then quickly, before she noticed, Mabel poured her homemade potion all over the liver. There was a hissing noise, and a cloud of brown steam rose from the pan.

  “Smells delicious,” Mabel said, as Mrs. Bainbridge turned around. She gave Mabel a suspicious glare. The girls behind her smothered their giggles, and Mabel guessed that Tabitha had been spreading the word.

  “Smells like it always smells,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, scooping a large piece onto Mabel’s plate. “Like liver.”

  Except as Mabel lifted the plate to her nose, a lovely chocolaty waft of steam blew into her face. She carried her lunch to an empty table and sat down. Ruby and Tabitha followed. Mabel sliced off a tiny corner of liver and put it cautiously between her teeth. The other girls watched as Mabel closed her eyes for a moment and moaned softly. “It’s delicious,” she said. “Really delicious.” Warm, creamy chocolate flooded her mouth, and Mabel laughed in delight. “The best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Not hesitating, she cut a large chunk of liver and shoved it into her mouth.

  “Oh, it is so good,” Ruby sighed, nibbling a piece off her fork. She looked around the dining room, sounding panicky. “I hope there’s going to be enough for seconds.” Picking the liver up in her hands, Ruby started gulping it down.