Castle Hangnail

by Ursula Vernon

  There was a long, awkward moment when Molly looked from face to face, knowing that she’d lied to all of them. A Witch takes responsibility for what she does. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, everyone.”

  “Ah, well,” said Edward, squeezing her shoulder with one mailed hand. “It’s not like you cut off anyone’s head.”

  All eyes turned to Majordomo.

  He sat down at the table and said, “The real Master of Castle Hangnail has returned. It’s time get rid of the imposter,” and everything was okay again.

  Molly pulled out the Tasks. There were lines through all of them, except for one.

  “Take possession of the castle” was no longer marked out. It was underlined in pulsing red.

  Molly frowned. “Oh, I wish it didn’t keep changing!”

  “It’s the nature of magical stationery,” said Majordomo. “We have to get Eudaimonia out of here, then perhaps it’ll change back.”

  Molly shook her head. “First, we have to save Miss Handlebram.”

  “So how do we get magic fire?” asked Pins. “Can you . . . ?”

  Molly shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s a different kind of magic.”

  Angus turned his teacup in his big hands. “What about dragon fire?” he asked.

  “Dragon fire melts just about anything,” said Molly.

  “That’s what that one Wizard chap said,” added Edward. The Imperial Squid around his neck gleamed. “The one from a few hundred years ago—you remember him, Majordomo, tall old fellow, wanted that magic ring melted? We were fresh out of dragons, but I think he found a volcano or something.”

  “Well,” said Pins, “where do we get a dragon?”

  Molly grinned. “There’s one on the south lawn,” she said. “At least, there will be.”

  It is no easy thing to smuggle a donkey into a castle. Eudaimonia had retired for the night, after writing forty-three letters to various individuals announcing Clockwork Bees for sale. Majordomo had bowed and scraped and promised faithfully to deliver the letters, after which he chucked them into the fireplace and came downstairs.

  “Is bringing this to bodyguard,” said Cook, handing him a cup of hot milk. Brown flecks floated on the surface.

  “What is it?”

  “Is useful.”

  Majordomo did not inquire further. The bodyguard—not Gordon, but the other one, who didn’t seem to have a name—sneered at him, but took a sip. A few minutes later, he was snoring gently against the wall.

  They led the donkey in through the garden gate, through the kitchen, into the dining hall, and into the Great Hall. His hooves clattered on the stone floor and Majordomo cringed. “Can’t we do something about the noise?”

  “Yes!” said Pins, whipping a set of napkins off the table. A snip with the scissors and a few quick stitches, and the donkey had a bootie on each hoof, secured at the top with a string.

  The donkey seemed puzzled by his new footgear, but when he walked on the flagstones, he went “thunk” instead of “CLOP!” and that was a vast improvement.

  Angus led the donkey to the block of ice and pulled off the sheet.

  Molly stroked the donkey’s neck, came away with a hair, and recited:

  “Accreus Illusus Equine Accomplicia Margle Fandango!”

  The donkey yawned hugely and stretched and somewhere in mid-stretch, the yawn got larger and his legs got shorter and his ears went somewhere else and wings arched over his back.

  “Grrraww?” said the dragon.

  “Marvelous!” cried Serenissima, applauding.

  Edward pulled the sheet from Miss Handlebram’s block of ice. A thin veil of frost had formed on the outside of the ice, and the sheet left complicated triangular marks where the folds had pressed against the frost.

  “Now we just need him to breathe fire on the ice,” said Molly. “Not a lot—not enough to roast Miss Handlebram!—but enough to melt a little hole in the magic. Then Serenissima ought to be able to steam it away.”

  “That’ll be an awful lot of water, won’t it?” said Majordomo. “Once the ice melts. Where will it go?”

  “I think I’ve got that worked out. I hope.” She hugged the Little Gray Book to her chest. “There’s a spell for turning water into fog. I thought if I could turn the water into fog, then we could open all the doors and it’d drift outside.”

  Molly had hoped that someone would say “That’s bound to work!” or “Great idea!” or “It can’t fail!”

  “Well, it’ll probably be better than a foot of water on the floor,” said Pins. “Now, how do we get him to breathe fire on the ice?”

  “. . . um,” said Molly.

  For the dragon showed no interest in breathing fire at all. He was quite a nice little dragon and everyone in the room had been kind to him, particularly Molly and Angus. He had no desire to set fire to any of them.

  In fact, he was starting to show signs of turning into a donkey again. He was starting to get extremely shaggy.

  “I’ve got it!” cried Angus, and dashed for the kitchen. The sounds of his hooves on the floor were a great deal louder than the donkey’s had been, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it.

  Majordomo looked up the stairs nervously. How strong had Cook’s potion been?

  The Minotaur dashed back into the room, brandishing . . . a carrot.

  The dragon sat up, suddenly alert. He loved carrots.

  Angus held up the carrot—on the far side of the block of ice.

  “Graaaaww?”

  “It’s over here, buddy,” said the Minotaur, waving the carrot. Through the distorted lens of the ice, the carrot appeared even larger. “You just have to get through that nasty ice to get it . . .”

  “Brilliant!” whispered Edward.

  The dragon bobbed his head up and down, following the movement of the carrot. He seemed confused. He stretched his muzzle out, bonked the ice, and pulled back, looking surprised.

  “Just melt that ice, buddy, and you can have the carrot . . .”

  If the dragon had still been a donkey, it would never have worked. Donkeys are quite intelligent, and he would simply have walked around the block of ice to get to the carrot.

  Dragons, however, are not terribly intelligent, and they do not go around things. Part of being a dragon is a bone-deep belief that you are the biggest thing in the world and everything else gets out of your way.

  Dragons have been known to have staring contests with mountains. They usually win.

  The dragon saw the carrot, saw something cold and unpleasant between himself and the carrot—and went “HUFFFF!”

  Quite a large bit of the block of ice vanished.

  “Careful!” cried Molly, diving toward the dragon. Angus had held the carrot as far from Miss Handlebram as he could, but the dragon had produced a very impressive flame. She wasn’t burned, but the tip of her sun hat had turned to ash.

  “Good dragon!” said Angus, coming around the edge of the ice. “You showed that ice who was boss! Have a carrot! Have all the carrots!”

  The dragon munched a carrot, terribly pleased with himself.

  An enormous puddle was forming under the block of ice. Much of the ice had turned into steam, but the rest poured over the floor and soaked the rugs and ran zigzags between the flagstones. Majordomo ran for towels.

  Serenissima stepped up and put both hands on the remaining ice. It went FSSssssssssssssssss . . .

  The ice melted. Water dripped off Miss Handlebram’s shears and her sleeves and the tip of her nose. The temperature in the Great Hall went up by twenty degrees until it felt like a greenhouse.

  Molly’s hair, always frizzy, looked like a dandelion gone to seed.

  “This is going to mildew,” said Pins, studying the upholstery with a professional eye.

  “Let it,” said Majord
omo, surprising everyone.

  Serenissima shoved the last of the ice away and put her arms around Miss Handlebram.

  The embrace of a steam spirit would warm the heart of a glacier. Miss Handlebram blinked a few times, lowered her shears, and said, “Wh . . . what . . . Serenissima? My dear, what is going on?”

  “We’ll explain everything in just a minute,” said Molly. “But I’ve got to do something about this water!”

  For the floor of the Great Hall was now several inches deep in water. A rug floated by, tassels rippling. Edward had climbed laboriously halfway up the staircase, trying to keep his metal ankles dry.

  Molly took a last look at the Little Gray Book, hoped she’d gotten the words right, dipped up a palmful of water, and recited:

  “Mistus Horrengious Noseferatus!”

  There was a brilliant flash of light . . . and nothing happened.

  Molly looked back at the book, worried. Had she gotten all the ingredients right? It was a cupped palmful of water and a thyme leaf under your tongue, and she had the thyme—her mouth was puckered with the taste—so that was all right, and the words looked right, and it certainly felt magical . . .

  The water sloshed gently along the floor. The dragon—now almost entirely donkey-shaped again—chomped a floating carrot.

  “I’m not a good enough Witch,” Molly said miserably. “It shouldn’t be that hard a spell, but—”

  “Look!” said Pins, pointing.

  Across the surface of the water, almost imperceptibly, white mist was starting to form.

  “It’s turning to mist!”

  “I think it’s going to work!”

  “It’s starting to get foggy!”

  “. . . really foggy.”

  “Can anybody see me?”

  Water was no longer sloshing over Molly’s very impressive boots . . . at least, as far as she could tell. She couldn’t actually see her feet. All she could see was a solid wall of white.

  She could see her hand in front of her face, but only just.

  “Can anybody hear me?”

  Their voices echoed weirdly in the fog. Molly put out her hands and tried to walk toward one of the voices.

  “Has anybody got the donkey?”

  “Someone open a door!”

  “I’ve got the donkey right here.”

  “HEE-HAW!”

  “My dears, can you please explain what’s going on? Are we having a blizzard?”

  There was a crash of metal as Edward ran into something.

  Creeeeeaaaaaaak . . . Someone had gotten to the front door. The mist began to swirl as the night air tugged at it.

  And then, from overhead, came the one voice that none of them wanted to hear.

  “What is going on down there?” shouted Eudaimonia.

  Chapter 41

  In the fog and the damp, Molly heard a whoosh beside her. From somewhere nearby, armor clattered, the voice of Miss Handlebram said “Oh my!” and then the dragon—who by now was probably a donkey again—said “Hee-haw?”

  Hooves clicked on the flagstones. Molly saw a dark shape loom briefly out of the mist, then vanish.

  “What’s going on?” shouted Eudaimonia.

  Light flared overhead, at the top of the stairs. The fog was thicker toward the floor and thinned as it climbed the staircase. Staring upward, Molly could see Eudaimonia on the landing, holding up her wand. Cold white light streamed from its tip.

  Molly sank down on her heels. Several feet of water vapor seemed like the flimsiest possible protection. She held her breath, hoping it would take effect before she was spotted.

  “Majordomo!” snapped the Sorceress.

  “Err . . . yes . . . Mistress?” asked Majordomo. There was a noticeable pause before the word Mistress. Molly wondered if Eudaimonia would notice.

  “What is the meaning of this? Why do I hear livestock? Why is my castle full of smoke? Is something on fire?”

  “Errr . . . yes!” Majordomo seized on this explanation. Molly crept toward the wall, hoping to find a doorway she could duck into. “There was—ah—a small fire in the kitchens.”

  “Is being the quiche,” said Cook from somewhere in the fog. “Is catching fire. Stupid quiche.”

  “The fire’s out now,” said Majordomo hurriedly. “Just—err—cleaning up. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Mistress.”

  Eudaimonia made an exasperated noise. “I see that I shall have to do everything myself.” The light moved as she swept the wand in a circle.

  The fog began to roil and shift, then to fray apart at the edges. In a few seconds, Molly could see the stairs quite clearly, and the shapes of Majordomo and Edward. Cook, farther off, was dim and gray, but still visible.

  No Angus. No donkey. Angus must have gotten him out the front door. Good old Angus!

  At the top of the stairs, looking pale and regal and angry, stood Eudaimonia. Her hair was mussed from sleeping and stood out in wild white ringlets around her face.

  At the moment, thankfully, she was looking at Majordomo. “Very—ah—impressive, Mistress. I assure you, though, it’s under control . . .”

  Molly looked hurriedly along the wall and saw the bathroom door. She opened it silently—Majordomo’s love of creaking hinges did not extend to bathrooms, thankfully!—and slipped inside.

  There is something about a bathroom that feels like a fortress. A closed bathroom door may only be about two inches of plywood, but it feels like an iron bar. Molly had to fight against a sudden sense of safety.

  I’m not really safe. She’s right out there. Not that I think she’d hurt me . . . probably . . . but . . . well . . .

  Miss Handlebram might not be hurt in that block of ice, but I don’t think she’s having much fun either.

  I’m going to have to face her eventually, if I want her to leave the castle.

  And she has to leave. Castle Hangnail isn’t big enough for both of us.

  It was weird, she thought. Deep down, she and Eudaimonia weren’t that different. They both wanted a place of their own, a place where they could do magic without someone coming along and stopping them. Eudaimonia’s mother was just a lot meaner about it than Molly’s family was.

  She scowled at the mirror. The fog had left her wet and clammy, and frizzed her hair out in all directions. Bugbane clung behind her ear and shivered in his sleep.

  Well, she couldn’t do much about the hair, but at least she could towel the worst of the wetness off.

  She kept an ear to the door while she toweled off.

  “Perhaps the Mistress would prefer to retire to her room, and I shall bring a full report in the morning?”

  “I shall do no such thing! Where is my block of ice with that meddling old woman in it?”

  “Ah . . . that is . . . the fire melted it.”

  “Melted it?”

  “The quiche was . . . err . . . on fire. So Cook . . . err . . . ran it out this way to . . . err . . . get some ice . . . and threw the quiche on it . . .”

  Molly put a hand over her eyes.

  “You are telling me”—Molly could almost hear Eudaimonia pulling herself up to her full height—“that a block of ice five feet thick was melted by a burning quiche!?”

  “It was a very large quiche,” said Majordomo.

  “Is having lots of garlic in it,” said Cook. “Also red peppers.”

  “And the old woman? Did she melt too?”

  “Err . . .”

  “Lots of garlic.”

  There was a pause, and Molly could hear footsteps on the flagstones.

  “I don’t wish to have to do this,” said Eudaimonia, and Molly jumped back from the door, because it sounded like the Sorceress was right outside. “But you’ve left me no choice.”

  There was a noise that sounded like Zzzzot! Majordomo yelpe
d.

  “Now,” said Eudaimonia coldly, “perhaps we could have a little less lying, dear Majordomo, and you could tell me what is really going on?”

  She zapped him! She zapped Majordomo!

  Molly was suddenly, instantly furious. It was like seeing those boys in school tormenting the bat all over again—somebody big and strong was kicking something little and weak that hadn’t done them any harm.

  Nobody zaps minions on my watch!

  She yanked the bathroom door open.

  Chapter 42

  Majordomo was halfway on the floor, being held up by Cook, who had a murderous look in her eyes. Eudaimonia was looming over both of them, her wand raised, and there was a flicker of ice around the tip. It was clear that she wasn’t going to stop at just one zap.

  Molly caught a glimpse of Edward stock-still by the staircase, of Pins in the open doorway, one hand to his mouth—but none of them were close enough to help.

  It was up to her.

  Molly threw her shoulders back, marched up to Eudaimonia, and yelled, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?!”

  “I’d love to,” said Eudaimonia. “Why don’t you run along and find someone like that?”

  This is the problem with Evil people. They are usually very, very good at snappy comebacks.

  Being Wicked, about the best Molly could do was say “Yeah—yeah—well, you better stop or I’ll turn you into an earwig!”

  “Dear Molly,” said Eudaimonia. She turned away from Cook and Majordomo. “I wondered where you had gone off to. I didn’t think you’d leave—not when we’re such good friends, after all.” She paused. “And still talking about earwigs, I see . . .”

  Molly scowled and folded her arms. She kept one eye on Eudaimonia’s face, and the other on the sparkling wand.

  Cook helped Majordomo to his feet. The old minion cleared his throat.

  “I fear, Miss Eudaimonia,” he said, “that there has been a misunderstanding. I take full responsibility, you understand. However, it seems that the post at Castle Hangnail has already been filled.”