Castle Hangnail

by Ursula Vernon

  Molly screwed up her face. “How about . . . Majordomo? It’s like a butler, only . . . better.”

  “I like that,” said Edward. “Major Domo! Sounds almost military.”

  “It was on our vocabulary test last week,” said Molly.

  The guardian’s eyes widened.

  “In—err—Witch school,” she added hurriedly. “For very Wicked Witches. In training.”

  Everyone relaxed slightly. There was the feeling of a difficult social hurdle navigated.

  “Please forgive me, Mistress Molly,” said Majordomo. “The ravens were . . . not very specific about what you looked like.”

  “I love ravens,” said Molly, clasping her hands together. “They’re such intelligent birds.”

  “Ye-e-e-es,” said Majordomo slowly. “Yes, they’re very intelligent. For birds.”

  “I love owls too,” said Molly. “But I’m afraid they’re not as intelligent, even if people believe in wise old owls.”

  “It’s the eyeballs,” said Majordomo. “It leaves very little room in their skulls for brains. You can’t make a proper messenger out of an owl, they keep getting distracted by mice.”

  “My absolute favorites are turkey vultures, though,” said Molly. “They’re very intelligent. And social. And they throw up on predators!”

  This was starting to veer into Loathsome Hag territory, thought Majordomo, but at least it was properly unpleasant.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any vultures. We’ve still got a barn owl somewhere, I think. Cook can tell you all about it.”

  They left the foyer—Molly waved to Edward—and entered the Grand Hall. Two enormous staircases came spinning and slithering down from the heights of the castle. One was in complete ruin, but the other looked solid. Carved gargoyles crouched on the banisters and peeked out between the railings. The truth was that they hadn’t had the money to fix the ruined staircase since it had fallen down last year, but this didn’t seem like the proper time to mention it.

  “Awesome!” said Molly.

  Majordomo tried to remember if any of the previous Masters had called anything in the castle “awesome” before.

  He ushered her around the back of the staircase, to the dining hall. It was an enormous room, the far end lost in shadow, with great banks of candles flickering on the sideboard. The single chair at the head of the table was upholstered in black velvet and was carved into fantastical shapes.

  “Ooooh . . .” said Molly, suitably impressed.

  Majordomo sniffed. He knew that a proper Mistress should sweep in haughtily and accept such things as the bare minimum due to her station—but still, it was nice to have someone appreciate the work involved. The candles alone would have cost a fortune if not for the Clockwork Bees in the basement.

  “So how did you come to be a Wicked Witch?” he asked, leading her past the table, toward the kitchen. Cook would be sitting up waiting to meet the new Mistress, and Majordomo knew better than to offend her. Masters might come and go, but Cook was forever.

  “Uh. Right.” Molly rubbed the silver vulture’s beak thoughtfully. “It was perfectly logical. I’m a twin, you know.”

  “Oh, twins!” said Majordomo. He was on solid mythological territory now. “Do you have a special language that you use to communicate?”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “It’s called English. And no, I don’t know what she’s thinking all the time. I don’t know where people get these ideas.”

  Majordomo sighed. It appeared that Mistress Molly was not cut from the same cloth as the previous inhabitants.

  This was worrisome. If she couldn’t be a proper Master to Castle Hangnail—well, that was a problem. A castle needed a Master. They’d gotten on without one for this long, but every time he filed an extension with the Board of Magic, Majordomo had the sense of teetering on the edge of a cliff. If they couldn’t get a new Master soon, the Board would decide Castle Hangnail was more trouble than it was worth.

  Still, there were the boots.

  “Anyway,” said Molly, hurrying on, “she’s the good twin. I’m the Evil twin. So I had to go into Wickedness. I would have been a Sorceress, but I couldn’t figure out how to do the eye makeup.”

  “Are you sure she’s the good twin?” asked Majordomo. Perhaps the letter had gone to the right household, but the wrong person had picked it up.

  “Well, Sarah sings in the church choir. And she visits old people at the Shady Hills Rest Home. I used to go with her, but I got Old Man Parson to tell me about when he used to hunt trolls and he was acting it out and accidentally hit Miss Pennywidth with a bedpan. I wasn’t invited back. Sarah still goes, though. And her favorite color is pink.”

  Majordomo was forced to admit that this sounded like good-twin behavior.

  “I like black,” said Molly. “And silver. And purple’s good too.” She rubbed the vulture again.

  He pushed the door to the kitchen open.

  The kitchen was bright and cheerful and had red-and-yellow checked tile on the walls. It was not the sort of place you expected to find in a dark and dreary castle, but Cook liked it.

  Generations of Evil Masters had bowed before the whims of Cook. While a Vampire or a Beastlord might rule the rest of the building, in the kitchen, Cook’s word was law.

  The guardian realized that he was holding his breath.

  On the far side of the kitchen, between the fireplace and an enormous slab of a table, Cook rose to her feet.

  She came forward. Firelight played across massive shoulders, dagger-like horns, and deep-set, burning eyes. Her hooves struck the floor like thunder. The cleaver in her hand was the size of a battle-ax.

  “Whoa!” said Molly. “You’re a Minotaur!”

  Chapter 3

  Molly lay back in her bed—a real four-poster bed! With dark red bed-curtains and dark gray sheets!—and let out a long breath.

  She’d gotten away with it. The hardest part was over. She’d presented herself at the castle and no one had stopped her.

  Majordomo clearly suspected that she wasn’t really a Wicked Witch, but he hadn’t flat-out refused to let her in. Lord Edward, the enchanted armor, was a dear. (Molly was particularly proud of the word stalwart, which is a word that you often see written but which hardly anyone ever says aloud.)

  And Cook—

  Well. Cook was amazing.

  Molly had read all the books on magical creatures in the library twice. She knew the difference between a Wyrm and a Wyvern. She could tell a Hippogriff from a Griffin at fifty yards. She had once—she was almost sure—seen a Unicorn in the woods, even though her sister said it had been a deer.

  But a Minotaur! Eight feet tall, with a bull’s head—cow’s head, in Cook’s case, although there wasn’t much difference.

  Different than I expected, she thought. I thought it would be a human with a bull’s head, but Cook was shaggy all over, and she had hooves and her fingers were sort of stubby and hoof-like too.

  I wonder what else the books got wrong?

  Cook had a thick, guttural voice and a white apron with roses embroidered on it.

  “Is Minotaur,” she said. “Is problem?”

  “No! Not at all. I think it’s wonderful,” said Molly.

  “Good. Good.” She turned her head from side to side, eyeing Molly thoughtfully. Her eyes looked like a cow’s eyes, but with razor-sharp intelligence behind them. “You. Is child?”

  Molly, thinking very quickly, said, “Yes. Is problem?”

  Cook’s face split into a broad bovine grin. She slapped one hoof-like hand down on the table. “Good! Be sitting. Bring you food.”

  “The Mistress should eat in the dining hall,” said Majordomo.

  “Is here. Food is also here.” Cook went to the stove (which was black iron and the size of a small house) and pulled a tray from atop it.

 
Before Molly had a chance to worry what sort of food a Minotaur would cook, Cook set the tray before her. It had little pastries with jam and big meat pies oozing with gravy and medium-sized tarts with apples and pears sliced up and covered in syrup.

  “Keep warm on stove,” said Cook.

  Molly dove into the pastries. It had been a very long walk from the village and she’d been living on sandwiches and a thermos of cold tea. “These are delicious!” she said, around a mouthful of pastry.

  “Is learning to cook from first husband,” said Cook. “Then is cooking him. Lousy husband. Second husband is chef, much better.”

  Molly paused halfway through her meat pie. “You cooked your husband?” She looked at the meat pie. It was delicious.

  Probably nobody I know, anyway. She kept eating.

  “First husband,” said Cook. “Long time ago. Second husband is dying of natural causes. Third husband is running off with encyclopedia saleswoman, is leaving only encyclopedia, volume Q behind.” Cook snorted. “Not being fond of letter Q. Not allowing Qs in this house. Not be making quiche in this kitchen, understand?”

  “Seems fair,” said Molly. “I suppose quinces are out too?”

  “No quinces. And is not liking queens. Is not being Dark Queen?”

  “Nope.” Molly brushed crumbs off her shirt. It was her best shirt. It had black lace and everything. Unfortunately crumbs stuck to it, and lint and cat hair. Especially cat hair.

  “I’m a Wicked Witch,” she said, abandoning the crumbs.

  Majordomo made an imperceptible sound at that.

  Molly sighed, replaying the scene in her mind. No, Majordomo wasn’t convinced. Having Cook on her side was good, but she was pretty sure that Majordomo was the one in charge.

  But he’d let her inside. That was a start.

  She wiggled from side to side. The mattress was thick and yielding and there was a bit of a divot in the middle. If she slid herself into it and snuggled down, it was like being engulfed in a warm, cozy marshmallow.

  I’ll show him. He’ll see I’m the best Wicked Witch around. I’ll be great at being bad.

  She was a little worried about that part, honestly. There were lots of people that probably deserved to have something Wicked happen to them, but actually hurting people . . . well, that was different.

  I’ll just have to find people who deserve it.

  Once, some boys at her school had seen a bat hanging in the corner of the coat room and had knocked it down to the floor with a schoolbook. It had flopped sadly along the floor, half stunned and very frightened.

  Molly had been so furious that she forgot that the boys were bigger than she was. She’d stormed into the middle of them and shoved Todd, the biggest one—who had been about to step on the poor bat’s wing!—and told him that if he didn’t leave the bat alone, she’d turn him into an earwig and feed him to the toads.

  And it had worked. Just for a minute, they backed away, looking confused. And that had been long enough for the teacher to come and see what was happening, and for Molly to scoop the poor bewildered bat into her lunch box and take it home.

  If she could have turned Todd into a earwig, she would have.

  I probably wouldn’t have fed him to a toad. Maybe I would have shown him a toad, though. Just to scare him. Maybe then he’d realize what it’s like to be a little tiny creature that people pick on.

  The bat had been fine. She’d let it go that evening and it swooped around her head, making chattering noises, and then flew off into the night.

  That had been the moment when she realized that magic wasn’t just a fun thing she could do—it mattered. Not very many people could do real magic, but she could. She could smite people—not nice people, obviously, but the sort of people who were mean to innocent bats.

  And that’s why I’m a Wicked Witch, and not an Evil Sorceress. Evil is bad. Wicked is just a little bad.

  Well, that and the eye makeup.

  She pulled the covers up to her chin.

  She loved her bedroom. She loved everything she’d seen in Castle Hangnail so far, but her bedroom was the best.

  There was a window seat with bookcases built all around it. She had always wanted a window seat. The books were bound in black leather, with skulls on the binding. The walls were deep, warm gray, and the wainscoting was made of dark, gleaming wood. A tapestry hung on the back of the door, showing three ravens in front of a crescent moon.

  It was what she’d always wanted her room at home to look like, but Sarah would never go along with it. It’s very hard to make a suitably dark and gloomy retreat when one side of the room is full of stuffed animals and pink pillows.

  Sarah couldn’t do magic and didn’t think it was fair that Molly could. And she had always squealed when Molly brought home bones. “That’s so disgusting!”

  “It’s neat,” said Molly defensively. “Look, it’s not rotten or anything, it’s just a deer skull. It’s been picked clean. I found it in the woods.”

  “I won’t sleep in the same room with that thing!” shrieked Sarah, and went off to tell their mother.

  Here even the candelabras were made of bones, holding candles in their skeletal hands. It had taken her ten minutes to go around and blow out all the candles.

  Perfect.

  She could do it. She could be Wicked enough. And they’d let her stay at Castle Hangnail.

  And if she was very lucky, nobody would ever find out that the invitation hadn’t been addressed to her after all.

  Chapter 4

  She’s no Evil Sorceress, that’s for sure,” said Majordomo.

  The other two people at the table nodded. One said “Hmmmm” in a thoughtful fashion.

  The thoughtful one was only a person if you were feeling particularly generous with the term. He was a doll made out of burlap, with heavy pins stuck in his head like hair. His name was Pins.

  When you show people dolls full of pins, they tend to think of voodoo. Voodoo is a very interesting religion and is not, as some people believe, all zombies and pins stuck in people. Nevertheless, Pins was not a voodoo doll. Nobody was quite sure what Pins was. He had shown up a few decades earlier and taken over doing the laundry and tailoring in Castle Hangnail.

  He stood about eighteen inches tall and had a seam for a mouth and holes for eyes. You could see his white stuffing through the eyeholes.

  Pins lived in a small room over the laundry with a talking goldfish. The goldfish was intensely neurotic and convinced that she was always sickening for something. Pins took very tender care of the fish and was currently knitting her a very small waterproof scarf.

  “Does she not look like an Evil Sorceress?” asked Pins. “She’s a Wicked Witch, isn’t she? Or is it more than that?”

  Majordomo thought about this for a while.

  If anyone else had asked him this question, he would have defended Molly without question. One simply did not bad-mouth the Master to outsiders. It wasn’t done.

  But they were all minions here, and minions are traditionally all in this together.

  “She definitely doesn’t look it. Although,” he added, with the air of one being fair at any cost, “she does have very Witchy boots.”

  “Good shoes are the foundation for any wardrobe,” said Pins, knitting another row on the scarf. “If it’s just a matter of sewing, I’ll have her looking properly Wicked in no time.” Pins was very proud of his tailoring, because after all, nobody knows fabric like someone who’s made out of it.

  “I suppose,” said Majordomo dubiously. He had great respect for Pins’s sewing, but Molly was rather small and round and frizzy. He didn’t think any amount of costuming could turn her into a tall, elegant Sorceress with ice dripping off her fingertips.

  “Is she not magic enough?” asked the other person at the table.

  Then she went “Fssssssssss . . . .
” like a train coming into the station. The other two ignored this, because that was just how Serenissima talked.

  Serenissima’s father had been a djinn, a spirit of immortal fire. Her mother had been a shopkeeper in the capital. This sort of thing goes on all the time, and nobody pays much attention, except for the fact that one of her mother’s distant ancestors had been a mermaid.

  Mermaid blood can lie dormant for generations. Serenissima’s mother had been fond of the seaside and taking long baths, but those were the only signs. But when the mermaid blood met the djinn blood, they fought as only fire and water can fight and produced a creature of immortal . . . steam.

  It’s from the word djinn that we get genie, but you couldn’t have put Serenissima in a bottle. It would have exploded from the pressure. She lived in a teakettle instead. She dripped scalding water wherever she went, and clouds of steam rolled off her constantly. She could turn a room into a sauna just by sitting quietly in the corner.

  She couldn’t very well work in a shop with these handicaps, so when she was fourteen years old, she had answered an ad in the paper to come and do maidwork at Castle Hangnail and had been there ever since. She had even been granted her associate minion degree last year and was considering graduate minion studies.

  The huge rooms were too large to turn into saunas and wherever Serenissima walked, the stones would be scoured and the carpets steam-cleaned. She could clean most of the castle merely by taking a brisk walk around it, and she spent the rest of her time in her teakettle on the stove in the kitchen, writing epic poetry about boilers.

  “I don’t know,” said Majordomo, in answer to the question. “She says she can turn invisible if she holds her breath, which isn’t bad.”

  “Not really enough to make a career on, though,” said Serenissima.

  Majordomo sighed. “Well, she said she was in Witch school. I suppose they teach them witchery there.”