Clover led Snort out of his pen and down the hall, still wondering why he hadn’t responded to “Ruffles.” Before letting him go, she decided she would double-check to make sure that Snort really was Ruffles. How exactly she would do this, she wasn’t sure.
Back in the front room, Henry and his family were waiting in the corner (still arguing), and Sir Wickity was sitting on the couch, writing. He stopped when Clover and Snort entered, and stood up.
“Aha! Me dragon,” he said. “You have grown so big. You barely fit through the door. Look at your wings, your claws! They are so long.”
Snort took a few steps toward the wizard, thumping his tail on the floor, breathing heavily. It seemed as if Snort did know Sir Wickity after all. Clover breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good draggie. That’s me draggie,” said Sir Wickity.
But Snort’s breathing grew heavier and heavier as Sir Wickity spoke. His wings raised, as though he were afraid, and then …
Roar!
Snort let out a big flame.
It whooshed across the table covered in the adoption papers.
The papers burst into flames.
“Oh!” cried Clover, dropping the leash.
Sir Wickity jumped away from the burning papers and table, toward Snort.
“Fire!” cried Henry’s mother.
“Stay back,” commanded Henry’s father.
Henry didn’t listen. He stepped forward and pulled a wand from his pocket. He muttered under his breath and waved his wand in circles.
“I’ve got to get a bucket of water!” Clover exclaimed, mad at herself for not bringing one to begin with. She turned to go, when suddenly a bucket thumped down right in front of Henry.
“WOW!” Henry looked delighted. “It worked!”
He didn’t waste any time. Dropping his wand, he grabbed the bucket with both hands and tossed the water over the table.
The water splashed in a wave over the papers, putting out the blaze.
Clover glanced over at Sir Wickity just in time to see him pull out his wand! Sir Wickity waved the wand across Snort’s snout and said, “Sleep, sleep, fall into a heap!” Snort closed his eyes and sank to the floor. In a flash, Sir Wickity pulled out a pair of curved scissors from his cloak. With them, he clipped off Snort’s longest talon. Snap! The talon made the sound of a stick breaking. Snort grunted, but he did not wake up. Sir Wickity stuffed the clippers, claw, and wand into his cloak pocket.
“What are you doing?” Clover cried. She noticed something else too. “Your beard is smoking!”
“FIRE!” yelled Sir Wickity in a much higher voice than before.
Then he did something very odd. He didn’t try to smother the flames. Instead, he ripped the beard completely off his face, revealing three thin white scars.
He was no wizard….
It was that witch again!
“YOU!” exclaimed Clover.
Henry’s parents drew their wands.
“So long, unlucky little girl,” the witch crowed as she fled out the door and disappeared, before Henry’s parents had time to do anything.
Henry stomped on the beard, putting out the flame. When the fire was completely out, he ordered, “Open the windows and the doors,” and started to do so himself.
As soon as the windows were open, cool air rushed into the room. The smoke cleared. Water dripped off the burnt table and trickled across the floor in a tiny stream.
Snort lay perfectly still beside the rug. His left foot was stretched outward, his third talon clipped close to his toe. While Henry’s parents used magic to dry the table and rug, Clover hurried to his side, her shoes squishing with water. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from Snort’s nostrils. At least he was breathing.
“He was put under a sleep spell,” said Henry’s father, gently prodding one of Snort’s wings. “He’ll wake up soon enough. Sleep spells always wear off. But, tell us, what is this all about?”
Clover explained, as best she could, “That same witch tricked me yesterday and stole the hair from a unicorn’s tail. And now she’s tricked me again and stolen Snort’s claw. I don’t understand either. Why would a witch want a claw from a dragon?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry’s father. “I don’t know of any good spells that call for dragon claws. Dragon spit, yes, but dragon claws …”
“Will it grow back?”
“Dragons’ claws always do, but very slowly,” said Henry’s father. “Much slower than our toenails.”
Henry was crouching near Snort, watching the smoke spiral from his nostrils. “I never realized dragons were so amazing,” he said, lightly touching Snort’s scales.
“Careful, son. We don’t know exactly how long that witch’s sleep spell will last.”
“If the witch can cast sleep spells, why doesn’t she cast a spell on all of us and just come and get what she wants?” asked Clover.
“It is strange,” said Henry’s mother. “Usually wicked witches swoop in from far away, do something dreadful, then speed away in the dead of night. I wonder what she’s up to.”
“Well, at least the fire’s out,” said Clover. “Thanks to you, Henry.”
“Yes, well done, son,” said his father. “Water spells are extremely tricky. Your mother’s water spells cause floods, and mine tend to end with lightning.”
“Thanks. I made it up myself,” said Henry, looking proud. “I have other water spells too—depending on the type of fire. Firefighters must be on guard at all times.”
“You’d be the perfect owner for Snort,” said Clover. “He’s always lighting things on fire.”
The boy’s eyes went big. “I never thought about it like that, but you’re right. He needs someone like me.”
“A dragon?” His mother shook her head. “That’s a much bigger pet than we talked about.”
“Wizards don’t have dragons as pets, son. Toads, salamanders, owls …” said his father.
“Please can I adopt him? You said it wasn’t just about learning to be a wizard. It was also about learning to be a good person.”
“You did say that,” his mother said to his father.
“I did, didn’t I?” said his father with a sigh.
By the time new paperwork was made up and filled out, and Clover had found the pamphlets on dragon care for Henry, including one titled Your Dragon’s First Flight and Beyond, Snort had awoken. He rose and walked toward Clover with a bit of a hobble, his tail dragging on the floor. Suddenly, Clover’s heart felt like it was dragging too. Snort was tricky to deal with, but he was also the first dragon she had known. Mr. Jams cared about him a lot too. Would Mr. Jams mind that she had let him go? Then she remembered Mr. Jams’s words—Adoption is our Agency’s purpose—and felt better.
Henry would take care of Snort. Snort would finally have a family, a friend—a home.
“Good Snort,” said Clover, clipping his leash back on. “Look, you have a new owner.”
Snort thumped his tail on the ground and looked from her to Henry.
“Don’t worry, Snort. What happened with that bad witch won’t happen again. This is a nice wizard. He will make sure you’re happy.”
Henry smiled. “That’s right,” he said. He pulled out gloves from his pockets. “Firefighter’s fireproof gloves,” he explained. “I have a lot of stuff that’ll be good for taking care of Snort.”
“You’re going to keep his name the same?”
“Yeah, of course.” Henry put on the gloves and rubbed Snort’s nose gently. Snort let out a yawn.
Soon Snort, a very happy Henry, and his rather skeptical parents were on their way. It was the end of the day. And Mr. Jams still wasn’t back.
Clover frowned. Where can he be?
After feeding the animals, but before locking up, Clover dried her shoes by putting them on top of the salamander tank. While she waited, she played with the fairy horses, letting them gallop around her palms. Their tiny hooves made Clover’s skin tingle. Tansy seemed to like her the best, and
Clover had to use a sugar cube to coax the little horse to leave her hand. Secretly, Clover hoped she wouldn’t get adopted soon.
When she put on her shoes they were toasty warm.
I won’t let that witch trick me again, thought Clover, turning off the lights.
But she was worried that her bad luck had other plans.
8
Esmeralda’s Enchantment
Clover got up early again, skipping breakfast this time but promising her parents she’d eat at the Agency. She had a present to give to the gnome and she hoped he’d like it. But more than that, she was anxious to find out if Mr. Jams was back.
But the moment she started up the curved path, her heart sank. All the lights at the Agency were off. The garden gnome stood awake and alert at the front gate.
After finishing the morning feeding and grooming, Clover took the rug outside and beat it to get rid of ashes. She put it back, then went to check on the gnome, who was now fast asleep in the sun.
“Hi,” she said, trying to strike up a conversation.
He opened one eye a sliver.
“I wish Mr. Jams had left a number for me to call or something. Do you think he’s okay?”
The gnome said nothing. But his forehead creased.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Clover. “It’s just that he said he would be back yesterday.”
The lines on the gnome’s forehead grew deeper.
“You’re doing a great job,” added Clover quickly. “Nothing’s gone wrong at night. In fact …” She took her tortoise paperweight out of her pocket. “I brought this for you. I thought you might like it. It’s made of jade. Jade’s supposed to be lucky, you know.”
The gnome’s forehead relaxed and he closed his eye. The tips of his white mustache rose up a bit. Clover placed the gift beside the gnome’s boots. The tortoise, the same shade of dark green as the grass, became almost invisible.
With a brief glance past the gate into the mysterious Woods, Clover went back inside. Her heart was heavy like the paperweight. “I need a distraction,” she said out loud.
She remembered Mr. Jams had told her to help herself to cinnamon toast. And all this worrying had made her hungry, and she had skipped breakfast, after all. She opened Mr. Jams’s special cupboard full of sugar and cinnamon, butter and bread. Even after three days, the bread seemed remarkably fresh. The first slice burned in the toaster. But she popped the next slice up early and got it right. As she buttered the golden toast and sprinkled on the cinnamon and sugar, Clover remembered the Wish Book.
I’ll finish reading it, she thought. Then she had an idea. Maybe the witch had put in a request for animals before and it was recorded in the Wish Book. Maybe she could find out something more about her. Of course, she knew it was unlikely, especially since it seemed the witch just came in and stole what she wanted, but it was worth looking into.
With her snack in one hand and the book in the other, Clover curled up on the couch and opened the pages to where she had left off.
A tooth fairy looking for a toothless night-light bug (check mark). A troll looking for a hippogriff (no check mark). A fairy godmother seeking a coach mouse (no check mark). A prince looking for a peryton (no check mark).
There sure were a lot of animals she had never heard of before. She added them to her list of things to ask Mr. Jams. There were many more entries that weren’t checked off. But no witches.
She flipped the page, munching the last bit of her toast, scanning only for the entries that hadn’t been checked and for witches. A jockey looking for a winged horse. A professor looking for a sphinx. A giant looking for a three-headed dog. “Oh, that’s what the leash with the three collars is for!” exclaimed Clover.
She flipped to the next page. A wizard looking for a phoenix. A pixie looking for a starbird. Still no witches.
And then she noticed a wish that made her pause.
It was written very neatly at the bottom of a page: Miss Opal, fortune-teller, 22 Sibyl Lane, 222-222-SEER / Looking for a mood creature, firefly preferred, but any type will do.
There was no check mark in the right-hand column.
“Mood creature?” wondered Clover. Although she had never heard of a mood creature, she immediately thought of Esmeralda, and how the toad’s colors changed when she was excited. Esmeralda was cursed, Mr. Jams had said. But even so, it looked like the curse was there to stay. So maybe the toad was a mood creature now!
A toad wasn’t exactly a firefly, but still …
What should she do? Should she call Miss Opal? But where was the phone?
In all her time at the Agency, she had never heard the phone ring.
She got up and searched the room.
At last she spied it, perched on top of the bookshelf. It was an ancient thing, with a dial and a single receiver at the end of a twisty cord. She had to stand on a chair to reach it.
She could feel something else on top of the bookshelf, too. She stood on her tiptoes and could just see, lying behind the phone, a big sword in a leather sheath. The initials T.J. were inscribed on the handle.
I wonder where Mr. Jams got that, thought Clover, remembering the dark look he had given her when he spoke about knights. Careful to avoid the dusty sword, she picked up the phone and carried it to the desk. The twisty cord stretched out like a noodle.
She dialed Miss Opal’s number. The phone rang on the other end a few times, and then a voice answered.
“Miss Opal, your friendly fortune-teller, here. What can I see for you?”
“Well, I’m calling from the M.A.A.A.—” Clover started.
Miss Opal interrupted, “Oh, you must be Clover.”
Clover jumped. Wow, she must be a good fortune-teller!
“Go on….” said Miss Opal.
“Well, I was phoning because … because I was reading through the Wish Book, and I noticed your wish. I think we have a pet here that might be a fit for you.”
“A mood creature? A firefly?”
“Yes, possibly a mood creature, but she’s not a firefly. She’s a toad.”
“A toad?” Miss Opal seemed puzzled. Then, as though she had realized something suddenly, she exclaimed, “A TOAD!”
There was a sharp click as Miss Opal hung up.
Clover put down the receiver with a sigh. I guess she didn’t want a toad. It had been a silly idea to call. But she had distracted herself from thinking of what had happened to Mr. Jams—at least for a few moments.
She put away the Wish Book, cleaned up her plate, and fed the animals their lunches. She had just finished feeding Esmeralda, this time hiding the vitamin pill in a squashed fly, when the bell at the front rang. She hurried to see who it was.
An ordinary-looking lady in a pretty, yet plain, sweater and jeans and flats stood at the front desk. A thin golden chain hung around her neck. Her white hair was swept back in a ponytail. She looked a little like Clover’s mom, but might be as old as her grandma. It was impossible to tell.
“How may I help you?” asked Clover hesitantly. She didn’t want to be tricked by that witch again. But unless the witch had shape-shifted, there was no way this lady was her. Clover could tell she wasn’t wearing makeup and, although there were a few wrinkles around her eyes, her skin was rosy and free of any blemishes, much less scars.
“I’m Miss Opal,” the lady said.
“Miss Opal?” Clover blanched. This lady was the fortune-teller?
This was NOT at all how Clover pictured the fortune-teller. Fortune-tellers, at least the ones that she had read about, wore ropes of beads and rainbow-colored dresses and smelled of exotic perfumes.
“You must be Clover. I’m friends with Olaf, the woodsman. He and Susie live near me. They told me about you and how you helped them with Susie’s unicorn.”
“Oh, that’s how you knew my name,” said Clover.
Miss Opal laughed. “Of course. Now, please, I would like to see the toad you mentioned.”
“Yes,” said Clover, with
a smile. “I know it’s not quite the same as a firefly, but I hope you like Esmeralda.”
She led Miss Opal down the hall and into the first room. But when they reached Esmeralda’s tank, it was empty!
“Oh no!” cried Clover. The lid of the tank was partially open. “I just finished feeding her. But I thought I put the lid back on. In fact, I checked it. I’m sure.”
“Maybe she jumped and pushed it off?” suggested Miss Opal.
Clover puzzled. “Maybe. Perhaps the vitamin pills are making her stronger.”
“Vitamin pills?” said Miss Opal. “Do toads need vitamin pills?”
“Esmeralda does,” said Clover. “She was put under a curse that makes her change color. But I discovered that she changes color based on her mood. That’s why I thought you would like her. But now she’s lost! It’s just my luck….”
Clover bent down, searching for Esmeralda under the tables. “Esmeralda!” she called out. “Esmeralda!”
There was no movement, no sound. Not even one croak. “ESMERALDA!” She felt tears sting her eyes.
“Oh my dear,” said Miss Opal, crouching beside Clover and patting her shoulder, “Not to worry. Here, let me.”
Miss Opal took a breath and called, “FLIT! FLIT! Come here, Flit!”
“Flit?” said Clover, confused. “Why …”
But she didn’t have a chance to finish. With a chorus of happy croaks, the toad appeared in the doorway, hopping straight toward Miss Opal. She was jumping very high (the vitamin pills, perhaps), and each time she hopped her warts changed from violet to blue and back again. She leapt into Miss Opal’s hands.
“It IS you, Flit! Oh, Flit, I thought I’d never see you again!”
With that, the toad’s warts turned as pink as bubble gum.
Miss Opal looked at Clover, whose mouth was hanging open. “I guess you are wondering what’s going on?”
“Yes,” said Clover, nodding vigorously.
“It’s a long story. Perhaps we should get comfy.”
Clover made herself and Miss Opal slices of cinnamon toast as Miss Opal filled out the paperwork. After Clover checked it, they sat on the couch and Miss Opal told her story. Esmeralda—Flit—settled on Miss Opal’s lap. Her warts were now a calm sea green.
Clover's Luck Page 5