The Witch's Glass

by Holly Grant

  Anastasia surfaced from the chronicle, her thoughts in a dander. For all Calixto’s hearts and flowers about the Merrymoons, he certainly hadn’t balked at sealing Nico into a poisonous silver box! Fink! Traitor! Double-crosser! It angered Anastasia, and it perplexed her, too. She again wondered why Calixto had turned against her family. Was it just the wicked nature of witches?

  She struggled through the warlock’s cursive to read about a trip to the ice creamery, a quibble with Dagfinn, and woes about thinning hair. None of it seemed relevant to the Dreadfuls’ great mission. Anastasia sighed and picked up the second volume pilfered from Calixto’s office.

  It proved to be a diary, too, albeit from a later period in the warlock’s life. Anastasia muddled through a few rambling entries about shadow puppets and a witch fondue party, the script blurring beneath her sleepy peepers. Her eyelids were just drooping shut when her gaze snagged on the word glass.

  Jozzled awake, Anastasia returned to the beginning of the section.

  February 28, 1755

  Oh, how I crave an ice lolly! Today I spent hours in the Glass Lady’s workshop, and her ovens burn hotter than a thousand dragon sneezes. In exchange for her work on my doors, I helped the Lady craft a pair of magic lenses. They are to be a gift for her father; although shut away from the sky, the old man still likes to build telescopes.

  A telescope’s power, of course, dwells in its lenses. And no lenses in the world could compete with the ones the Lady and I cooked up today—they are charmed to peer through solid rock! The old astronomer will be able to stargaze even beneath the stalactites! Ingenious, if I may say so myself. And I’m doubly pleased with today’s work, because it gave me a most marvelous idea….

  Anastasia stared at the page in shock. An idea was starting to take shape in her brainbox, and she didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  She scanned ahead to find any further mention of glass embedded in the warlock’s sprawling cursive. The next one came months later, in Calixto’s final journal entry.

  December 1, 1755

  My experiments with my magnum opus have gone well—too well, I fear. There are times when magic outwits the warlock and starts growing in strange and unexpected ways. Now I know too much; yes, more than I ever wanted to know.

  Knowledge is the fire that lights the world—and sometimes it burns. In the wrong hands, the magnum opus could consume us all. It is too powerful; too dangerous. And yet I cannot bring myself to destroy it—for it could be used for good. I must hide my magnum opus, and hide it well. I especially fear Dagfinn finding it—he who demands knowledge without work and time. Knowledge is not the same thing as wisdom, have not I oft told him? But I fear my words dissolve in his ears like smoke. Yes, I must hide the magnum opus.

  To that end, I visited two artisans today with secret commissions. First I went to the silversmith Zebedee. He shall forge me a silver trunk to stow the opus, and eight nails to seal its lid, and a hammer with which to bind the nails. Of course, I will be the one to enchant the silver sledge and pins: enchantment upon enchantment, lock upon lock. When the last nail drives home, the Silver Chest will vanish to a secret place, and the Hammer will away to my secret study at the top of old Aggie’s chimney—to the special glass strongbox I commissioned from the Glass Lady.

  Neither the Lady nor Zebedee knows the dark need behind my requests—only Aggie knows about the magnum opus. I do trust the Lady—her time in Murano engrained secrecy into her very marrow—but I don’t trust those around her.

  Aggie! So addressee A of the cuckoo clock note was Calixto’s old witch-nanny. And, Anastasia thought, the identity of the Glass Lady was—even through Calixto’s scrawl of scrambled handwriting—now crystalline clear.

  And that Glass Lady had fashioned the glass chest stashed in Calixto’s secret lair.

  But what was this mysterious magnum opus? Anastasia was too weary to go back and untangle the warlock’s cursive to find out that night; she resolved to do so the next day. She did, however, reread the final diary log. Thrice. After her third review, she slumped back into her pillows and gazed at the roses stitched on her canopy, speculations tumbling through her addled wits.

  What could have happened during that fateful December to twist Calixto’s intentions from hiding a magical doohickey in the Silver Chest to instead locking up Nicodemus Merrymoon? And, since Nicodemus was now in the sterling strongbox…where was the dangerous magnum opus that threatened to consume the world?

  AMBIVALENCE, DEAR READER, is a fancy word that means you feel two different and opposite ways about the same thing. Anastasia was ambivalent indeed about her discoveries in the warlock’s diaries. On the one hand, she itched to report her findings to her fellow Dreadfuls. She itched to tell the league about the magnum opus and the two chests designed to hide it. She itched to tell them about the Glass Lady.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t itchy at all to divulge certain of the new details gleaned from Calixto’s memoirs—at least, not to Gus. Anastasia was 99 percent positive, you understand, that the Glass Lady was Celestina Wata. How would Gus react to the notion that his aunt Teeny had been chummy with Calixto Swift, villain extraordinaire? It would rattle him. And Anastasia had no desire to rattle one of her best friends.

  At the same time, Calixto had noted the Glass Lady knew plenty of his witchy secrets—more secrets, even, than his apprentice, Dagfinn. If Celestina Wata was, in fact, Calixto’s glass-crafting pal, then she could have oodles of crackerjack clues stashed up her sleeve. She might even know how to open the glass cabinet!

  Anastasia kept her suspicions bottled up all that morning through her breakfast pancakes and the gondola ride to school. But where were her classmates? The pier lay abandoned. She glanced at her pocket watch and confirmed: yes, it had stopped again.

  “Crumbs!” Anastasia grabbed her satchel and scrambled to the dock. “I’m late! Marm Pettifog will probably lock me in the academy basement for the rest of fifth grade!”

  However, Marm Pettifog was not stationed behind her lectern as Anastasia scurried into class. Miss Ramachandra was.

  “Good morning!” The art teacher beamed at her over the edge of Francie Dewdrop thriller number eighty-four, The Clue in the Lapis Lazuli. “Oh, you’re just in time! You wouldn’t want to miss a minute of Storybook Tuesday, would you?”

  “Storybook Tuesday?” Anastasia echoed.

  “That’s what we do every Tuesday, dummy,” Saskia called from her desk. “Remember?”

  The twenty-odd fifth graders stared at Anastasia with scorching intensity, and through that special mischief-telepathy particular to children of school age, they communicated this message to her without uttering a word: Smile and nod and just go along and for Pete’s sake don’t ruin this for everyone, you nitwit!

  “Oh, right,” Anastasia said, taking her seat. “Storybook Tuesday. Er—where’s Marm Pettifog?”

  “Out sick, I’m afraid!” Miss Ramachandra lamented. “She’s stuck in bed with some kind of flu.”

  “Do you think it’s fatal?” Jasper asked hopefully.

  “Oh no,” Miss Ramachandra cried. “You mustn’t worry about that, dear! Marm Pettifog will be right as rain in a few days or so.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Jasper grumbled.

  “In the meantime, I’ll be your substitute,” Miss Ramachandra went on. “I know you’ll miss Marm Pettifog, but we’ll do our best to soldier on without her. And, of course, we’ll be visiting the Dinkledorf Yodeling Museum tomorrow! That should cheer you up!”

  Anastasia wheeled her gaze across the cavern, noting her classmates’ high jinks:

  Ollie—brazenly eating toffees

  Saskia and Taffline—giggling over an origami fortune-teller

  Jasper—launching spitballs at the stalactites

  And so forth. Through it all, Miss Ramachandra dutifully warbled the tale of Francie Dewdrop’s run-ins with a murderous jeweler.

  Under normal circumstances, Anastasia would savor every delicious moment of
a read-aloud, but she had her own mystery to think about. The secrets bottled up in her brain threatened to fizz out her nostrils like soda. The Dreadfuls had scarcely settled down for lunch in the caveteria before she burbled forth the clues collected from Calixto’s diaries.

  “Magnum opus!” Ollie echoed in bewilderment. “What’s that?”

  “A masterpiece,” Gus said.

  “And Calixto Swift’s magnum opus could destroy the world,” Anastasia whispered. “What do you think it was?”

  “Calixto Swift was pretty powerful,” Gus said nervously. “He warped gravity in Mrs. Honeysop’s cave, after all.” He started. “Do you suppose the magnum opus is the M.O. Calixto planned to hide in Stinking Crumpet?”

  “It must be!” Anastasia gasped. “He said in his diary that only Aggie knew about the magnum opus!”

  “And now we’re planning a trip to Stinking Crumpet,” Ollie quavered.

  “We don’t know whether the M.O. ever got there,” Anastasia said. “Besides, we need to figure out the glass cabinet and Calixto’s magic doors before we make any trips.” She looked at Gus.

  “Aunt Teeny isn’t the only glass smith in the world, you know.” Perturbed, Gus picked at his sandwich.

  “But she was probably one of the only glass smiths in Nowhere Special back when Calixto Swift lived here,” Anastasia said. “And it makes sense that she would give her dad a telescope. How many glass smiths have astronomer dads?”

  “And she’s secretive,” Ollie said. “She’s renowned for her secrecy!”

  “So were all the other Venetian glassblowers,” Gus argued, his eyes flashing. “My aunt isn’t a witch-sympathizer!”

  “Lots of Morfolk were friends with witches before the Perpetual War,” Anastasia said softly. “My grandfather was friends with Calixto Swift. My entire family was! Calixto fooled lots of people.”

  “Sure,” Gus said, “but lots of people didn’t make glass chests for Calixto to stash away his witchy tools. If Celestina helped Calixto Swift stow the Silver Hammer, it would make her an accomplice to the Dastardly Deed! It would make her guilty of treason!”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Anastasia reassured him. “Calixto said in his journal that the Glass Lady didn’t know what he planned to do with the cabinet.” She reached out and squeezed Gus’s arm. “We have to at least ask her. If Celestina knows how to open the glass cabinet, we can get the Silver Hammer. We’d be closer to freeing Nicodemus and finding my dad.”

  “And Celestina might know what Calixto’s magical doors look like, too,” Ollie suggested. “She might even remember which one leads to the Silver Chest!”

  Gus sighed. “Well, even if Aunt Teeny really is the Glass Lady, and even if she knows anything helpful, do you really think she’ll tell us any witch secrets? I can’t imagine her spilling the beans just because we asked.”

  “Maybe if we tell her about our Mission of Life-and-Death Importance…,” Ollie suggested.

  Anastasia shook her head. “No! We can’t tell anyone we’re looking for my dad and grandpa. If Penny and Baldwin find out, they’ll try to stop us. They think messing around with magic is too dangerous.”

  “How can we get a secret out of an expert secret-keeper?” Ollie pondered.

  “First you’ll have to figure out a way to see her,” Gus grumped. “Aunt Teeny hardly comes down to the Cavelands.”

  “Couldn’t you invite her over for tea?” Anastasia asked hopefully. “In Francie Dewdrop books, people always let secrets slip during teatime.”

  “My dad and grandpa would be around,” Gus said. “Celestina certainly isn’t going to chitchat about witch glass in front of them!”

  “Maybe we could visit her instead,” Ollie suggested. “Maybe Prince Baldwin and Princess Penelope could take us up to Dinkledorf again. You know Baldwin would jump at the chance to go clock shopping!”

  “He’d jump at the chance to go snow globe shopping, too,” Anastasia groaned. “We wouldn’t be able to ask Celestina anything about Calixto. Besides, Celestina knows Gus isn’t allowed abovecaves. She might tell Mr. Wata.”

  “But Celestina’s great at keeping secrets!” Ollie nudged Gus. “You don’t think she’d tattle, do you?”

  Gus lapsed into thought. “No,” he admitted, “I guess not. She’s not really the meddling type.”

  “So…should we just sneak into Dinkledorf by ourselves?” Anastasia asked.

  Ollie shook his head. “Too risky.”

  “Because of CRUD?” Gus asked.

  “I wasn’t even thinking about them.” Ollie dismissed the murderous minions of CRUD with a wave of his fork. “Even if we manage to escape our families for an afternoon, Morfolk own businesses with all the secret doors leading into Dinkledorf. They would wonder why four Morflings were abovecaves without their parents.”

  “They might even recognize Anastasia from her photograph in the newspaper,” Gus reasoned. “Remember? The Nowhere Special Echo printed photos when she arrived in the Cavelands.”

  Anastasia sagged against her seat. What a quandary! The Dreadfuls couldn’t visit Celestina with adults in tow, and they couldn’t risk sneaking into Dinkledorf alone. Unless—

  She smiled. She smiled the smile of someone who has hit upon the answer to a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. “I know how we can see Celestina. We’ll just have to break a few rules….”

  “ALL RIGHT, CHILDREN!” Miss Ramachandra called. “Does everyone have coats? It’s going to be chilly up in Dinkledorf! Into the boats, now! Grayson—no shoving! We’ll row to Bumbershoot Square—you all know the way, right? That was one of your Applied Navigation assignments?”

  “Yes, Miss Ramachandra,” the Pettifoggers chorused.

  “Super! We’ll row to Bumbershoot Square and from there head up to our great Dinkledorf adventure!”

  “Here, Miss Ramachandra.” Gus flourished a permission slip. “I forgot to give this to Marm Pettifog.”

  “Oh!” Miss Ramachandra accepted the slip and shoved it into her pocket. “Better late than never, dear. You’ll hide your snakes under a hat? Good. What seems to be the problem, Jennifer? You forgot your gloves? Tsk! Let’s find you something from the cloakroom—” Miss Ramachandra hurried off to mitten a few unprepared students.

  “Come on,” Gus said. “Before I lose my nerve.”

  The Dreadfuls rummaged paddles from the bin and hurried to the pier. A train of pink Pettifog rowboats was already snaking from Old Crescent Lagoon and into the canal system.

  “Miss Ramachandra didn’t even look at our great forgery,” Ollie grumped as the Dreadfuls hopped into their own craft.

  “It was Anastasia’s forgery,” Gus pointed out. “And we’re lucky Miss Ramachandra is so absentminded. I heard that Marm Pettifog actually examines the signatures on permission slips with a jeweler’s loupe.” He scrooched down in the belly of the boat. “If you don’t mind, I’m not going to help row. I’m going to hide.”

  “Lazy,” Ollie complained.

  Gus grinned up at him. “What if my dad is out running errands today? I can’t risk being seen.”

  Anastasia and Ollie churned their oars, propelling their boat toward the Pettifog flotilla ahead. They rowed through the Spelunker Straits, and under Gardyloo Bridge, and angled down Gypsum Alley. Anastasia swiveled her head, collecting mental bread crumbs for the Applied Navigation exam. There! The pickle shop at the corner of Gypsum Alley and Bumbershoot Gutter was a distinctive waypost. She stared at the shop window, letting the view of rubbery green fruits imprint her memory. Then the Pettifoggers turned toward Bumbershoot Square, where they awaited the last stragglers. Anastasia danced from galosh to galosh, impatient to get up to Dinkledorf. Finally Miss Ramachandra’s boat glided up to the pier.

  “All right!” she cried, clambering to the dock. “To Penumbra Alley! Er—it’s to the left, right?”

  “No, Miss Ramachandra,” piped up Jasper Cummerbund. “It’s to the right.”

  “Of course! Silly me. This way, children!” Miss
Ramachandra waved them down a side tunnel. “Now, if you’ll give me just a smidgen of help…is this the way up to Die Zuckerhutte?” She hesitated by a stone stairwell curving up between a calligrapher’s and a pharmacy.

  “Yes,” Saskia snickered. “Obviously. Look at the sign.”

  “Oh!” Miss Ramachandra blinked at a wooden plaque reading TO DIE ZUCKERHUTTE/GREATER DINKLEDORF. “Excellent!”

  “What’s dee—dee zookerhooty?” Anastasia asked as they puffed up the stone flight.

  “Chocolate shop,” Ollie said. “Whenever we go on a school field trip, we come up through its back closet. Nobody’s surprised to see a bunch of kids suddenly hanging around a candy store. I wonder if Miss Ramachandra will let us buy some sweets? Marm Pettifog never does.”

  As they neared the stairwell’s zenith, Gus pulled his knit hat tightly over his snakes, and Anastasia flipped her hood over her braids to hide the snoozing Pippistrella. Miss Ramachandra paused at the wooden door leading to the chocolatier’s and withdrew a letter from her pocket. “Marm Pettifog sent me a note to read to you,” she announced.

  The students groaned.

  “I know you’re anxious to get to the Yodeling Museum, but this will only take a second. Ahem.” Miss Ramachandra rustled the letter. “ ‘Students: I trust you will all be on your best behavior (as shabby as that may be) for Miss Ramachandra. Stay close together—no dawdling, no lollygagging, and absolutely no wandering away from the group. If any of you misbehaves, Miss Ramachandra will see that you all return to Pettifog Academy immediately, where you will spend the rest of the day scrubbing mildew from the gym lockers.’ ”