Castle Hangnail

by Ursula Vernon

The shadow nodded.

  It went up the side of the tower as slow and sinuous as a snake. Eudaimonia took a step back, turned as if to run—and realized that the inside of the tower lay completely in shadow.

  She fired three bolts of ice into the shadow in rapid succession. They didn’t pass through. They didn’t freeze. They just vanished, as if swallowed up by nothing.

  The shadow arched itself up like a cobra and reached out its hands.

  Eudaimonia’s face was white as ice, white as china, white as bone. Terror made her look young, as young as Molly, a teenage girl and barely a Sorceress at all.

  “No!” cried Eudaimonia. “No! Molly, don’t let it get me!”

  The shadow’s impossibly long fingers closed over the wand, and the shadow snapped it in two.

  There was a shattering, clattering noise, like dropped crockery, and the wand blew up. Cold air exploded outward, and there was a brief, unseasonable snow flurry.

  The shadow chuckled.

  Everyone immediately clapped their hands over their ears. The basilisk was lying on the ground, with Miss Handlebram’s hat over its eyes and Miss Handlebram herself sitting on its neck, but it moaned and tried to fit its entire body under the hat.

  “That’s enough,” said Molly. “You’re done. Go home.”

  The shadow picked Eudaimonia up in long tongues of darkness and slithered down the wall of the tower. Eudaimonia began to cry.

  “Go home,” said Molly. Her voice was shaking terribly. “The spell’s over. Go.”

  The shadow started to fade.

  So did Eudaimonia.

  It was really quite horrible. Molly could see right through the older girl, as if she were made of gauze. The tower was stark and visible behind her.

  “It’s taking me with it!” shrieked the Sorceress. “Molly! Stop it! I’m sorry I ever tried to take your castle—I’m sorry I wasn’t a good friend—please, don’t let it take me!”

  “Stop!” yelled Molly. “Stop, shadow! You can’t take her along.”

  The shadow had no face, but Molly had a sudden feeling that she had its attention.

  What had the Little Gray Book said about shadows? There had been a spell, hadn’t there? She could see the words of the Little Gray Book as if it was open before her.

  A spell to feed the hunger of shadows.

  Use only in the direst emergencies.

  Molly took a deep breath. Her chest ached as if she’d been kicked in the heart.

  She could let the shadow take Eudaimonia. Castle Hangnail would be hers, really and truly, and no one would say otherwise.

  They hadn’t really been friends.

  Eudaimonia twisted in the shadow’s clutches and wept silently.

  It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t let a shadow eat my worst enemy. That’s . . . worse than Wicked.

  That’s wrong.

  Molly took a pin out of her hat and jabbed her forefinger with it.

  It was a very simple spell. The simplest spells are often the most powerful.

  She held out her hand. A single drop of blood fell onto the mint leaves.

  “Here,” she said. “For you.”

  The shadow crept toward her. It didn’t look like a person now, but like some dark liquid pouring along the ground. The tower’s shadow bent in her direction, against the light. The shadows of the minions crawled across the grass.

  Let it work, let it work, let this be enough to satisfy it—I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s not enough—I don’t think it’ll be content to just dance now, it’s gotten so big . . .

  Her shadow reached the drop of blood.

  “Now go,” said Molly. “And leave Eudaimonia here.”

  There was a vast roaring in her ears. Her heart pounded, skipping beats, as if she were asking too much of it. She thought perhaps she might die, or at least faint, if the shadow didn’t leave soon.

  It reared up. For a moment, in Molly’s eyes, it blotted out the sun.

  She stared through it, into the Kingdom of Shadows, and learned what some Witches live and die without learning—that every shadow everywhere is a portal to that dark kingdom. That the Kingdom of Shadows is vast and terrible and hungry, and yet there is an awful beauty to it, the kind of beauty that can stop a heart.

  Rivers of ink flowed past obsidian stones. Great black mountains stretched toward the black sky, backlit by a dark, un-shining sun.

  If I step forward, just one step, I’ll be inside it.

  I could learn things. I could be more powerful than any Wicked Witch has ever been. I could be ten times as powerful as Eudaimonia.

  From the other side, her shadow beckoned. In the light of the shadow sun, it was no longer just a blot—it was her, down to the last detail, a shadow-Molly the color of jet.

  I could do anything. No one could ever make me stay home or tell me not to do magic. I’d never have to share a room with somebody or go to school or anything.

  It wouldn’t matter what anybody thought of me.

  She leaned forward. The shadow-Molly stretched out a hand.

  The other Molly’s eyes were dark and black and deep . . .

  Something streaked across her field of vision—something small and silvery bright, wildly out of place against the shadow. Molly’s eyes followed it, involuntarily, and her gaze broke from her shadow-twin.

  She dragged her eyes away, turned her head—and saw her minions. Saw Cook, who was standing over the fallen Gordon, holding a frying pan. Saw Angus and Serenissima and Pins. Saw Majordomo, who was helping Miss Handlebram hold down the basilisk, and Edward—who had just thrown the Imperial Squid and broken the gaze of her shadow.

  Saw her friends, who loved her, and who wanted her to stay.

  She looked back at the shadow-Molly and almost, almost laughed—because she’d spent her whole life being the bad twin, and here was a twin of her own, dark and terrible as the shadow-world itself.

  No. I’m the bad twin. And I’m just bad enough to do it right—but I’m not like that.

  And I don’t want to be.

  I will never cast this spell again.

  She pulled back, and away from the Kingdom of Shadow.

  The shadow vanished.

  Eudaimonia let out a sob of gratitude and Molly fainted.

  Chapter 49

  The Lugnasadh party was, everyone agreed, the finest that Castle Hangnail had ever held.

  The halls were hung with streamers sewn by Pins, and the table in the dining hall groaned with the weight of canapés and baklava and bowls of strawberries with whipped cream and little squares of fudge and pastries stuffed with sweet and savory fillings. There was even a chocolate fountain that sprayed molten chocolate high in the air. (Bugbane could not resist flying through it, and was now hanging in the corner licking chocolate off his wings.)

  A huge bowl of honeyed punch glistened under the lights. The Clockwork Bees had worked around the clock making honey for the occasion. The frozen Bees had all recovered once they were thawed out in warm water and the rosinweed honey was the finest that they had ever produced.

  “These are lovely deviled eggs,” said Postmistress Jane. “So large!”

  “They’re basilisk eggs,” said Majordomo. “Angus said the poor creature just needed a flock of its own, so Cook put it in the henhouse. It’s never been happier.”

  All the village had come up for the party. Harry Rumplethorn the plumber looked uncomfortable in his suit, but it did cover all the relevant parts of him.

  His wife beamed at him, and his two apprentices took turns flirting with Serenissima. Farmer Berkeley and Angus were discussing the finer points of modern threshing machines and the waitress from the café was swooning over Cook’s famous shortbread scones.

  Postmistress Jane had even brought two very small black kittens up with her. “Not a white hair on them,�
� she said stoutly. “I knew they must be for you.” They were curled up in a basket under the refreshment table, with Edward standing guard over them. “Will you look at their little toes?” he whispered to passersby. “And their little whiskers?”

  Majordomo saw Molly in conversation with Stonebreaker the mole and made his way toward them. The moles had their very own tray of hors d’oeuvres, including cookies in the shape of earthworms. Their little gray shapes trundled between the taller human guests.

  The white mole smiled at Majordomo’s approach and bowed his head. “Witch and minion,” he said. “Leave you to talk.” He patted Molly’s boot and went off for another canapé.

  Molly smiled as she looked after him, but her smile was rather sad.

  “I’ve had a letter from Andrew,” said Majordomo. “The second bodyguard. He’s out of the hospital, and we’ve all been invited to the wedding.”

  Andrew had slept through the battle, and indeed, clear through until the next day. What with one thing and another, everyone had quite forgotten about him, until Serenissima had tripped over him while cleaning the hallway. He’d let out a yell, jumped up, and chased her.

  Unfortunately for him, he chased her into the room with the hole in the floor. Majordomo never had gotten around to putting up a warning note, and Andrew had fallen through the carpet that was over the tarp that was over the hole that was over nine feet of empty air. Andrew had broken his leg and they’d had to take him down to the village and send him off to the hospital. While there, he had fallen madly in love with his nurse and become quite a reformed character. The same could not be said of Gordon, who was recovering from his frying-pan-related injuries in the county jail.

  “That’s nice,” said Molly. She sighed. “I won’t be here for the wedding, you know. My parents are going to be here tomorrow to pick me up.”

  “I know.” Majordomo took her hand and squeezed. “I’ve got some ideas.”

  She tried to dredge up a smile. He could see that she was worried.

  “I’ll come back next summer,” she said. “Will that be enough for the Board?”

  “It would be,” he said. “But it might not yet come to that. As for the Board . . . well, you could ask him.” He nodded his head toward the foot of the table.

  The representative from the Board stood there, holding a glass of punch.

  After all their fears, all the Tasks, all the nerves, Molly had half expected the man from the Board to be nine feet tall and breathe fire.

  Instead, he was a little rabbity fellow, not all that much taller than Molly, with thick glasses and a hairline that had not so much receded as gone into headlong flight.

  His expression, however, was fierce.

  “Miss Utterback,” said the representative of the Board. “I must have a word with you at once!”

  Molly gulped.

  “Do you know how old this is?!”

  “I’ll be thirteen in three months!” said Molly. “And I read at a tenth-grade level!”

  They stared at each other.

  “Wait—” said Molly, finally realizing what he had said. “This? Not me?”

  “This!” he said, and pointed dramatically at—

  —the Complicated Metal Thing.

  They had run out of vases early on in the party, and the Thing had been pressed into service as a bouquet holder. A sprig of rosinweed stuck out at a jaunty angle.

  “Do you know what it is?” asked Molly cautiously.

  “Of course! I have three! Lesser ones, to be sure, only good for voles and perhaps very small bats—one is for walnuts, and of course you can imagine how much use that is—”

  “Oh, naturally,” said Molly, who hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  “But to see one so old, and in such perfect condition . . .” The representative of the Board paused. “Why are there flowers in it? Does it work on flowers?”

  “Like a charm,” said Molly firmly.

  “Amazing! And do they bite afterward? The walnuts try, poor devils, but of course they haven’t the teeth for it . . .”

  “We’re still working out all the details,” said Molly. “It’s at the top of my list for research, but what with completing the Tasks, it’s been difficult to find the time.”

  She paused. The representative gazed at the Thing and waved a hand vaguely when she mentioned the Tasks. “Yes, yes . . . of course . . . quite right . . .”

  “In fact, if you have any books you can suggest that might give us a clue to this particular one, Majordomo would be happy to compile a list—I’d like to make sure we don’t overlook anything.”

  “Certainly!” said the representative. “There’s the definitive monograph by Sonney the Alchemist, but of course you have that already—”

  Molly tried to look like someone who was of course already in possession of a definitive monograph.

  “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate to demonstrate in front of the other guests,” she said cautiously.

  “Oh, certainly not! There are children present!”

  Molly paused. “Err . . . ”

  “Present company excluded, of course,” said the representative. “Obviously you’re a Wicked Witch, so that’s a different matter. Oh dear, wait, we haven’t done the thing yet, have we?” He began patting his pockets.

  “The thing?” said Molly, who was now cautiously optimistic but would have preferred a specific noun.

  “The thing! The thing! Oh dear, where did I put it . . .”

  Majordomo appeared at his left elbow with an envelope and said, “Sir, I believe you have left this in your jacket.”

  “There it is,” said the Board representative happily. He took the envelope. “Had a few doubts,” he confessed, opening it up. “Power’s no indication that you know how to run a castle. There are terribly powerful magic folk out there that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But you’ve done the Tasks and your minions speak highly of you.” His gaze strayed to the Complicated Metal Thing again. “And of course, if you’ve got one of those working . . .”

  Majordomo looked at Molly, who shook her head imperceptibly and shrugged.

  “Ah, there we are.” The representative adjusted his glasses. “A few questions, Miss Utterback—purely a formality, you understand.”

  “Sure,” said Molly. Majordomo gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Do you promise to protect and defend Castle Hangnail and those within it, up to and possibly including with your last dying breath, assuming you’re not a Vampire or otherwise undead?”

  “No. Err . . . yes? I mean, yes, I will. No, I’m not undead.”

  “Do you promise to cherish the minions who serve you?” He looked over his glasses. “They don’t have to serve you, you know. They can always leave. Most of them won’t, because it looks bad if a minion leaves, but that means that it’s twice as important for the Master to make sure they don’t want to leave.”

  “I understand,” said Molly. “I promise.” Her gaze slid to Majordomo again. The old minion looked solemn.

  “You understand that the Castle Hangnail is given to you, not as property you own, but as a sacred trust to protect and pass down to the next generation of magicians?” He paused, and added, “Well, in your case, probably the generation after that. Which is all advantage, believe me—turnover in castles is a dreadful amount of paperwork.”

  “I do,” said Molly, thinking briefly of Freddy Wisteria and people who wouldn’t understand that a place can own you far more than you own it.

  “Wonderful! Now, if you’ll sign here, my dear, and here . . . and here . . . and initial here . . .”

  He laid a complicated document down on the table. Majordomo hurried to shift a plate of baklava.

  Molly signed the paper with a flourish. (She was a bit relieved to see that it read “Ms. Utterback, Wicked Witch�
�� with no mention of first names. She still didn’t know if the Board thought she was named Eudaimonia, and it was nice to see that it wouldn’t be an issue.)

  “There we are, then,” said the representative. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands loudly. “Ladies and gentlemen—esteemed minions—if I may have your attention please?”

  The room quieted and everyone looked over at Molly and the man from the Board. Molly concentrated on standing up very straight and trying not to look scared.

  “By the authority vested in me as a representative of the Board of Magic, I hereby declare Miss Utterback the Master of Castle Hangnail, Wicked Witch in Residence!”

  He began to applaud. Everyone else joined in. Bugbane did acrobatic loops and swoops overhead, cheering in a tiny, high-pitched voice.

  Molly’s throat was tight. She could feel the tips of her ears getting hot.

  Majordomo reached out and took her hand. “You did it,” he whispered.

  “We did it,” said Molly.

  The little man from the Board dusted his hands off. “Well, that’s that, then. Good job.” He went back to gazing raptly at the Complicated Metal Thing.

  “If you leave your address, we’d be happy to send you any information we turn up on this particular device, if you like,” said Molly.

  The representative babbled a few words that seemed to indicate that he would like this very much.

  “Nicely done,” whispered Majordomo, drawing her aside. “I imagine he’ll give us quite a glowing review. Not that it matters now, but it never hurts to be on good terms with the Board.”

  “The Thing gives walnuts teeth!” Molly whispered back. “We’ve got to figure out what it does!”

  “I’ll order the definitive monograph tomorrow.”

  Molly sighed, deflated. She wouldn’t be around tomorrow to read it.

  Majordomo gripped her shoulder briefly. “It’ll be okay.”

  Molly laughed softly. “Hey, you’re my minion. Aren’t I supposed to be cheering you up?”

  Majordomo smiled. “Sometimes you cheer up the Master, sometimes the Master cheers you up. Sometimes the Master hooks you to a lightning rod. It’s a complicated job, minioning.”