Castle Hangnail

by Ursula Vernon

  “I’m fresh out of lightning rods,” said Molly.

  “I never really enjoyed that part of the job anyway.”

  Sir Edward clomped over to them. His freshly oiled armor gleamed, and the Imperial Squid around his neck glinted in the light. “You’re supposed to be mingling!” he said. “The kittens are asleep. Miss Handlebram was just looking for you.”

  Majordomo cleared his throat and looked at Edward meaningfully.

  “Oh! Yes! Right!” He patted his breast plate. “Ah . . . where did I put that . . .”

  The minions drifted toward them. Serenissima left a damp silvery path. Angus and Cook loomed up on either side of her.

  “We got you a present,” said Majordomo.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” said Molly. “I mean, you put together this whole party—”

  And I’m leaving tomorrow! she cried out internally. Don’t make it harder than it is!

  “Nevertheless,” said Majordomo, “I will not have it be said that the minions of Castle Hangnail did not treat your investiture as Master with proper ceremony!” He sniffed.

  “It was here a moment ago . . .” muttered Edward. “I know it was—oh, there it is!” He pulled off one of his gauntlets and pulled a tightly rolled scroll out of it. He offered it to Molly with a flourish.

  The scroll was sealed in dark bronze wax, which Molly recognized as coming from the Clockwork Hive. There was a lovely black ribbon embroidered with a tiny silver bat. Molly opened the scroll, holding her breath.

  In a clear, strong hand, at the top, it read “An Infallible Spell for the Temporary Turning of Humans into Earwigs.”

  Molly sucked in her breath.

  “You’re always muttering about it,” said Pins, grinning up at her. “We had to scour the place for it. The author was named Quentin, so Cook had dumped it in the dungeon, but Serenissima saw it when she was cleaning and Angus copied it out for us—”

  “Oh—oh, everybody!” Molly didn’t know who to hug first. She threw her arms around Serenissima and Angus. Pins put an arm around her knee. “Cook—Majordomo—” She had to wipe away a tear. “You’re the best minions anybody ever had.”

  “It was Edward’s idea,” said Majordomo. “Now go on, Miss Handlebram’s waiting.”

  Molly stood on her tiptoes and kissed Edward’s metal cheek. “Thanks, Edward.” She clomped off toward Miss Handlebram, her boots thudding on the floor.

  “Well!” said Edward, gratified. “The old Vampire Lord never did that!”

  Miss Handlebram was in conversation with Postmistress Jane. “Molly, my dear! I was just telling Jane how you dealt with that awful young Sorceress who was here.”

  Molly gave an embarrassed cough. “Oh . . . well . . . it was nothing . . .” She dipped up a cup of punch, and flicked a droplet into the goldfish bowl. The goldfish waved a fin. Other than a dreadful cold, she had come through her adventure just fine, and Pins had knitted her a tiny party dress for the occasion.

  “Nothing!” Miss Handlebram snorted. “She froze me in a block of ice for two days! I shan’t forget that in a hurry!”

  “You’re sure she won’t come back?” asked Jane.

  “Positive,” said Molly. “All her spells broke and her mother came and got her. She’s gone to a reform school for incorrigible girls.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” said Miss Handlebram. “Nasty girl. Just goes to show that being powerful’s not worth much if you haven’t got heart to go with it.”

  “A magical battle, right in our own town,” said Jane. “And we all missed it!”

  “You’re happier having missed it,” said Miss Handlebram. “She was a nasty piece of work. Is it a good reform school, Molly?”

  Molly shrugged. From her point of view, reform school was never very good. “It’s supposed to have classes on ethics for magical people. I guess that’s good?”

  It couldn’t hurt Eudaimonia to have some classes on ethics. I guess she’ll be happier being away from home, anyway. Although wearing a school uniform will drive her crazy . . .

  She stared into her punch. If her parents found out that Castle Hangnail wasn’t a summer camp, she’d probably be in the reform school alongside Eudaimonia.

  What were they going to say?

  Would they even notice?

  She rubbed her thumb over the side of her glass, making a track in the condensation on the side. In fact, there was a great deal more condensation than usual, which meant—

  “Hi, Serenissima,” she said, turning around.

  The steam spirit smiled at her and squeezed her shoulder. “Cheer up!” she said. “This is your party.” And then she leaned down and whispered, in an echo of Majordomo, “It will work out.”

  She excused herself, and took Postmistress Jane off to talk to the Widow Carrboro.

  Miss Handlebram caught Molly’s eye. “Worried, my dear?”

  “I might have to leave tomorrow,” said Molly. “Err. I will have to leave tomorrow. My parents are coming to get me. They . . .” She took a deep breath. “They think I’ve been at summer camp.”

  To her surprise, Miss Handlebram laughed out loud. “Camp? Oh, Molly!”

  Molly didn’t think it was all that funny.

  “How novel,” said Miss Handlebram. “So they think you’ve been—oh, making lanyards and singing around a campfire, and instead you’ve been saving a castle and running off Evil real-estate developers and defeating Evil Sorceresses? Oh my . . .”

  One corner of Molly’s mouth crooked up. “Well . . . I guess . . .”

  Miss Handlebram grinned down at her. “You just leave everything to me and Majordomo.”

  And the last thing Molly saw, as Miss Handlebram swept away to find the chief minion, was that extraordinary grin.

  Chapter 50

  The car chugged up the long approach to Castle Hangnail with a maximum amount of complaint. It was a road better suited to mountain goats than to elderly family sedans, particularly when the trunk and the luggage rack were already overflowing with suitcases. The car sounded as if it were about to expire.

  Draped across the front of the castle was an enormous, hastily sewn banner that read “Camp Hangnail Welcomes Parents.” Pins had been up half the night with it, and it looked very good, if you ignored the fact that the letters were mostly made out of old dishtowels.

  The car ground to a halt. Doors slammed. Molly stood on tiptoe, looking out the window.

  “That’s them,” she said gloomily. Not that there had ever been any doubt.

  Molly’s mother had sensible hair and sensible shoes. Molly’s father had round glasses and a vague, cheerful expression.

  Molly’s twin sister . . . well . . .

  “Hecate’s ghost!” said Majordomo. “She is the good twin, isn’t she?”

  “That’s Sarah,” said Molly.

  Sarah was exactly the same height as Molly and had exactly the same slightly frizzy hair, but she wore it in a ponytail with a pink scrunchie. Her shirt had a comical kitten on it and her shoes were covered in sequins. Her expression was one of saintly good temper, and Majordomo wondered how anyone lived with her for more than five minutes without going barking mad.

  Majordomo waited until they were a few feet from the door and then threw it open. “Hello!” he said heartily. “You must be Molly’s family!”

  (He had practiced saying this in the mirror for over an hour. Heartiness was not in his nature.)

  “Oh, you poor man,” said Sarah. “Does it hurt much?”

  “Does what hurt?” asked Majordomo.

  “Err—you’ve got all those stitches—”

  “Oh!” said Majordomo. “Yes. Um. Accident. With a . . . um . . . lanyard. Looks worse than it is. All part of running a summer camp, you understand.”

  He extended his hand, and Molly’s father shook it, then h
er mother. They looked around the castle.

  “Goodness,” said Molly’s mother. “You’ve . . . err . . . got a lot of space here . . .”

  “We need it,” said Miss Handlebram, sailing into view.

  She was dressed in a neat gray suit, with an old-fashioned wax flower pinned to the lapel. The creases in her pants legs were sharp enough to slice through cheese. She looked like an elderly businesswoman.

  “It’s not just the camp, although of course that takes a lot of room,” Miss Handlebram continued. “It’s the facilities for the school.” She smiled warmly at Molly’s parents. “And I am so glad that all the other campers have left, for it gives me a chance to speak with you personally without distraction.”

  “Speak with us?” asked Molly’s father. “She hasn’t done anything bad, has she?”

  Miss Handlebram laughed. “Not at all! In fact—Molly, my dear, are you ready?”

  Molly had been waiting for her cue. She hurried down the intact staircase. (The other staircase had several sawhorses on either side of the gap, and a large sign that said “Renovations in Progress—Please Forgive Our Dust.”)

  “Mom! Dad!”

  She ran down the stairs, jumped the last few, and flew toward her parents. She hadn’t realized how much she missed them. Even though she wished, more than anything, that she could stay at Castle Hangnail—well, it was her mom and dad.

  Unfortunately Sarah stepped in her way and flung her arms around Molly’s neck. “Oh, Molly! Sister! I missed you so!”

  “Ugh,” said Molly, prying at her sister’s arms. “Get off.”

  “It felt like forever!”

  “I was at camp,” said Molly, “not dead.”

  “Part of me felt dead without you!” declaimed Sarah.

  “That’s enough . . .” said Molly’s mother. Molly managed to wriggle free, while Sarah blinked back tears of joy and Majordomo tried not to gag.

  “Hey, squirt!” Molly’s dad picked her up, said “Oof!” and set her back down, the way he always had since she was five years old. Her Mom held her at arm’s length and said, “Molly! Goodness! You look wonderful—and that coat!”

  “Sewing is one of the many things we teach here at Castle Hangnail,” said Miss Handlebram. “We have a truly excellent instructor, and Molly was kind enough to volunteer as a practice model.”

  “It’s very dark,” said Sarah dubiously.

  “Now, then,” said Miss Handelbram. “If you would be so kind as to step into my office . . . ?”

  The office she stepped into was actually the old armory. It was the only room on the ground floor that could be made presentable in a hurry. There were picture frames hung up over arrow slits in the wall, and a large area rug covered places where old swords had rusted to the floor.

  Angus had dragged an old desk in and they had leveled it hurriedly with an old brick. While Molly had been sleeping, the minions had been steaming chairs and mending upholstery, and there were very convincing stacks of papers scattered about the desk.

  “If you’ll have a seat, Mr. and Mrs. Utterback?”

  Her parents sat. Molly and Sarah engaged in that time-honored tradition of sisters everywhere, nudging each other in the ribs and then looking immediately innocent whenever anybody looked in their direction. (Good twin or not, some things are universal.)

  “Now then.” Miss Handlebram looked over her glasses at them. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that your daughter Molly is extremely bright for her age.”

  “Oh, well . . .” began her father.

  “We’re aware,” said her mother firmly.

  Miss Handlebram nodded. “Very bright. In the ninety-ninth percentile, in fact.”

  (Phrases like “ninety-ninth percentile,” as Witches and advertising executives know, sound very impressive and don’t have to mean anything at all.)

  “That high?” asked Molly’s father.

  “Perhaps higher.” Miss Handlebram folded her hands together. “She is, I can honestly say, one of the brightest students to ever attend our camp, and I would like to extend an offer to her to attend our boarding school.”

  “Boarding school?” asked Molly’s mother, raising her eyebrows.

  “Indeed,” said Miss Handlebram. “Castle Hangnail is not merely a summer camp, you understand—dear me, no! We also offer a very exclusive boarding school for young ladies, particularly those who have displayed an . . . ah . . . magical disposition.”

  Molly held her breath. She knew perfectly well that her mother didn’t really approve of magic, and Miss Handlebram would have to proceed carefully.

  “So often,” said her neighbor, “so often—as you undoubtedly know—young women with magic in their blood go untrained and it comes out in the most unfortunate ways.” She waved a hand, as if dispelling an unpleasant smell. “Here at Castle Hangnail, we believe in channeling that energy into constructive and socially acceptable ways. Otherwise—well, I’m sure we all know the stories, don’t we?”

  Molly didn’t know the stories. Apparently her parents did, however, for they both murmured agreement.

  “This sounds expensive . . .” her father began.

  “Absolutely,” said Miss Handlebram. “It is. We are very choosy about our students.”

  Molly winced. Sarah elbowed her in the ribs again and Molly scowled.

  “Girls . . .” muttered her mother.

  Molly moved a few inches away and tried to look innocent.

  “Girls will be girls, yes? Although I believe that’s quite enough, Molly.”

  “Yes, Miss Handlebram,” said Molly dutifully, and was rewarded with a twinkle from Miss Handlebram’s eye. Molly’s mother looked impressed.

  “As we were saying,” the gardener continued, “this is quite an expensive school.” And she named a figure that made her father turn gray and which would have fixed the boiler several times over.

  “Per year,” she added.

  “Well—that’s—very flattering, of course, but I’m afraid—” stammered Molly’s father, while Molly gaped at Miss Handlebram.

  “However,” Miss Handlebram continued, “as I was saying, Molly is extremely bright. And I do have some discretion in these cases, as Headmistress.

  “We can, I believe, offer Molly a full scholarship against the school fees. Perhaps with a small stipend to cover incidentals, though I shall have to consult with the Board. Majordomo!”

  Majordomo shuffled in, laid some papers on the desk, and winked at Molly.

  “Here are our credentials,” said Miss Handlebram, handing the papers to Molly’s parents. “My contact information, should you have any questions. As you can see on page three, one hundred percent of our students place in institutions of higher learning, and over seventy percent go on to extremely exclusive colleges.”

  The murmurs this time were surprised and appreciative. Molly craned her neck over her dad’s shoulder and got a look at the papers. They had elegant letterhead and did not look at all as if Majordomo had been up until the small hours of the morning typing them.

  “At any rate,” said Miss Handlebram, rising from her chair, “I hope that you will think about it. We very much enjoy having Molly here and we would like to see her return in the fall. If money is an object—well, it shall not be an object, I’ll see to that.”

  Molly’s parents rose too, shaking hands with Miss Handlebram. They had thoughtful looks on their faces.

  Molly had already said her good-byes to most of the minions. As they went to the door, though, she threw her arms around Majordomo and whispered, “I’ll come back! I swear!”

  “Yes, Master,” said Majordomo, and smiled.

  Miss Handlebram gave her a brisk embrace. “Very good, Molly. Now, behave well, remember all that we have taught you about deportment, and we shall hope to see you in the fall. Mr. and Mrs. Utterback, if you hav
e any questions at all, please contact me at once. We are all very impressed with Molly’s potential, and hope to see her in the future.” She squeezed Molly’s hand.

  “Yes, Headmistress,” said Molly demurely. “I hope to see you again.” And she dropped a very small curtsy.

  Sarah gaped at her. Molly’s mother lifted an eyebrow, surprised and approving.

  They got into the car. “Mom,” said Molly as she buckled her seat belt, “can I come back to boarding school? I’d really like to go. They’re really nice.” She thought for a minute about the things that her mother approved of, then added, “Strict, though. You have to make your bed every morning.”

  “We’ll talk,” said her mother firmly.

  “There’s no doing magic outside of class, though,” added Molly. “That’s kind of annoying. But they say it’s important.”

  “We’ll talk,” said her mother again, but Molly thought her tone of voice boded very well indeed.

  “A full scholarship . . .” muttered her father, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t that be a thing?”

  Molly watched Castle Hangnail shrink in the distance. She waved until the towers were out of sight, then slumped back in her seat.

  The car chugged down the long road, toward Molly’s house.

  But not home, thought Molly fiercely. Home was behind her. And sometime very soon, with a little luck, she’d be coming back.

  Bugbane moved against her neck and poked his face out under her ear.

  “Ew!” said Sarah, “Gross! What’s that in your hair? It looks almost like a bat . . .”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Molly, pushing Bugbane back into her hair. “A bat in your hair? That’d be Wicked . . .”

  Acknowledgments

  I sat down at the Cafe Diem coffee shop one day and hammered out the first thousand words of this story, so the staff there is probably at least partly to blame. But it wouldn’t have gone much farther if my agent, Helen Breitwieser, hadn’t said “YES!” and then my editor, Kate Harrison said “YES!” I owe them a great debt of gratitude for shepherding Molly along, and to my art director, Jenny Kelly, who was patient when I announced my desire, somewhere around page thirty-five, to never draw humans again and to write all future books about talking hamsters.