The Witch's Glass

by Holly Grant

  “It was an accident,” Anastasia mumbled.

  “Really?” Marm Pettifog drew the word out. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

  “I was scared,” Anastasia said. “It’s only my second morph, Marm Pettifog. And I didn’t mean to shift! I started feeling really sick, and then suddenly I was a bat.”

  “Pettifog Academy has been educating Morflings for three hundred years, Anastasia,” Marm Pettifog said. “I have personally witnessed hundreds of Morfo children grow up. And while the occasional whippersnapper has shifted by accident, no one has ever wreaked the havoc you wreaked today. No, Princess, I think you intended every bit of your great performance this afternoon.”

  “It wasn’t a performance!” Anastasia protested. “I couldn’t help it! I’ve never flown before, Marm Pettifog. I was flapping all over—”

  “Yes,” Marm Pettifog said icily. “I saw. And I have never seen anything like it. A Morfling’s first shifts may be awkward, but no one crashes about like a deranged demolition ball. Don’t try to fool me, little girl. I’m older than you and smarter than you.” She adjusted the small bust of Machiavelli adorning her desktop.

  Anastasia clamped her mouth over her response. Fighting with Marm Pettifog wouldn’t achieve anything.

  The schoolmistress eyed a clock in the corner. “It’s nearly three. Are your guardians picking you up this afternoon?”

  Anastasia swallowed. “My uncle Baldy is.”

  “Baldwin!” Marm Pettifog huffed. “Baldwin won’t take this seriously! He doesn’t take anything seriously. You and he are two delinquent peas in a pod.” She grasped a quill from her desk and jabbed it into an ink bottle. “I’m going to send a note home with you, and you’re to give it to Penelope.” And she scratched out a full page of angry cursive before flinging the stylus down.

  “While we wait for that ink to dry, I shall tell you a little bit about the contents of that note,” she said. “Introduction: Dear Merrymoons, et cetera, I write in barely contained fury to inform you of Anastasia’s latest mischief. Body: Today she—well, you already know what you did; suffice it to say the summary is plenty long. Conclusion: Anastasia is forbidden from participation in the Pettifog Academy Art Club for the next month, as are Oliver Drybread and Gus Wata.”

  “But, Marm Pettifog!” Anastasia spluttered. “Why would you keep Ollie and Gus from going to art club because of something I did? It isn’t fair!”

  “Fairness?” Marm Pettifog said. “I don’t give a fig about fairness! I’m interested in results. And plenty of able tyrants have enjoyed great success controlling their underlings with distributed punishment. If you don’t believe me, just pick up a history book!” She smiled an evil smile. “Remember that when you’re considering your next prank, Anastasia: I’m happy to dole out punishments, and you’ll be sharing with your friends.”

  “It wasn’t a prank!” Anastasia said.

  “So you’ve already said; and I’ve already told you I don’t believe you. You’re officially on my naughty list, Princess. Ah. The ink is dry.” Marm Pettifog folded the grim memorandum, inserted it into an envelope, and handed it over to Anastasia. “Now remove yourself from my office.”

  Reader, have you ever heard the expression “run the gauntlet”? It’s a saying derived from an old punishment. In the jolly days of yore, a wretch running the gauntlet jogged between two rows of soldiers who whacked and walloped and clobbered him with cudgels. Gauntlets nowadays feature fewer cudgels and more public criticism. Anastasia ran the gauntlet all the way back to her classroom, all the way through the mob of students jumbling to leave school. Titters and whispers swept around her as she scurried.

  Saskia hovered in the doorway. “Congratulations, cousin. Your very first flight was a crashing success.”

  “Shut up, Saskia.” Anastasia pushed past her.

  “I can’t wait to share the exciting news with Mumsy,” Saskia called after her. “And won’t Grandwiggy be proud?”

  Ollie rushed to hug Anastasia. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head and told them Marm Pettifog’s decree.

  “She banished us from art club?” Ollie cried. “All of us?”

  “But—but how are we going to sneak into Calixto’s study?” Gus asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anastasia snuffled, grabbing a few books from her desk and stuffing them into her satchel.

  Quentin poked his head into the classroom. “Salutations!” he said. “That was a heck of a concert, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m so sorry I spoiled it, Quentin,” Anastasia said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve seen worse.” He waved her apology away, grinning. “So you finally flew! Well done, you!”

  “But it wasn’t well done,” Anastasia said, her eyes welling with tears. “I couldn’t control it. And I wouldn’t even know how to shift again on purpose.”

  “It’ll come to you in time,” Quentin said.

  “When I first started umbrating, I would squish my eyes shut and concentrate very hard until I felt hot all over,” Ollie said. “I would concentrate and imagine myself as a shadow, and then suddenly I’d be one.”

  “That might help,” Quentin said. “You should try it, Anastasia.”

  “Maybe.” Anastasia shut her desk with a thump. “But I don’t want to metamorphose again for a very, very long time.”

  “CHEER UP, MY girl,” Baldwin said, clapping Anastasia’s shoulder as Belfry angled the gondola away from the academy. “You mustn’t worry too much about Marm Pettifog.”

  “She said I’m on her naughty list,” Anastasia whimpered.

  “You and everyone else in Nowhere Special,” Baldwin chuckled. “Including yours truly. And who does she think she is, anyway? Only Santa Claus gets to make naughty and nice lists, and I’m sure he’ll put you on the latter. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “It’s not just the naughty list,” Anastasia moped. “I’m terrible at metamorphosing, Baldy. I’m afraid I’ll never get it right.”

  “Oh, come now.” Baldwin gave her braid a gentle tug. “You haven’t given yourself very much time, have you? Sometimes we just have to wait and let nature work her wonderful ways. I didn’t even morph until I was fifteen, and now I make a smashing wolf.”

  Anastasia managed a wobbly smile. “Yes, you do.”

  “Darn tootin’! So stop stewing and turn that frown upside down and let’s go have a little fun. We’re here.”

  Dark-o’-the-Moon Common was a wide, cobblestoned plaza at the very heart of Nowhere Special. Morfolk bustled through the town center, carrying about their business in the little cave shops that lined the square, sipping coffee in murky cavern cafés sibilant with the shhhhh of monstrous espresso makers. It was a busy, jolly, crowded place, full of chatter and life. But as Anastasia followed Baldwin across the plaza toward the Wish Hags’ home, she trod the cobbles with trepidation. Despite the merry everydayness of Dark-o’-the-Moon, a sinister episode lurked within its history. Calixto Swift had been staging a puppet show in the common when Morfolk learned of the Dastardly Deed, and the pantomime had ended with the warlock’s death.

  It was strange, Anastasia thought, that Calixto had bothered with children’s puppet plays—especially on the very day he sealed Nicodemus into the Silver Chest. Surely he would have realized the Morfolk would seek revenge as soon as they discovered his crime. She shivered, wondering where, exactly, Calixto had kicked the bucket.

  Reminders of a more recent misadventure papered the common, too: Jasper Cummerbund’s face gazed from the MISSING MORFLING posters plastering stalagmites and shop fronts and even the side of the maggot vendor’s cart. And as Anastasia ventured deeper into the plaza, her keen Morfling ears picked up whispers amidst the espresso machines’ hisses: witch…witch…witch. Everyone in Nowhere Special was still on edge, wondering whether witches lurked in Dinkledorf. Anastasia trained her eardrums on the conversations of passersby.

  “All I’m saying is, a little tax raise
is worth it. We need to keep the Cavelands safe from those magic-mongers,” declared a woman emerging from Winkler’s Watch Emporium. “And you’d think so, too, Chester, if you weren’t such a miser.”

  “Oh, Lydia!” her husband grumped. “You eat up that Merrymoon propaganda like it’s candy. Everyone knows the queen just wants to line her coffers.”

  “Really?” Lydia gestured at one of the MISSING MORFLING notices. “Mark my words, Chester, witches snatched that boy! Witches are at our doorstep, and it’ll be another horrible battle if they come back to the Cavelands! They’ll kill us all!”

  “Now, Lyddie, you know how you overreact—”

  The couple’s quarrel faded as they passed out of earshot.

  “Merrymoon propaganda!” Baldwin huffed. “How do you like that?”

  Anastasia nibbled her lip. “Do you think the bill will pass, Baldy?”

  He stroked his mustache. “I hope so. But it’ll be a close call, even with Senator Cummerbund’s support. He switched sides after Jasper disappeared.” He shrugged and smiled. “Let’s forget about politics for the afternoon. Should we get a sundae at the Soda Straw before we head to the well?”

  Tempting as a trip to the Cavelands ice creamery was, Anastasia shook her head. She was on a mission. “No. We’re almost there.”

  The Be-Careful-What-You-Wish-For Well was on the far side of the common, outside a haberdashery and an antique bookshop. A lady with bright red hair now stood beside the well, and she cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered:

  “Wishes! Wishes! Come and get ’em! Wishes for what ails ye! Wishes big and wishes small, guaranteed to charm and thrill!”

  Anastasia turned a quizzical glance to Baldwin.

  “The hags just reopened their wishery,” Baldwin said. “And that lovely lass is Sonia Elbow, although I’m not sure why she’s whooping outside the well. See how muscular her arms are? She used to be a trapeze artiste in the circus. Zounds, she’s fetching!” He raised his voice. “Hellooo, Miss Elbow!”

  “Well, hello, Prince Baldwin,” Sonia said. “And this must be the princess Anastasia.” She smiled, revealing glittering white teeth. She really was pretty. “The hags hired me to operate their new pulley system.”

  Anastasia peered at the contraption dangling in the well. Wells normally have a pulley system of joists and rods and a rope to lower a bucket down to fetch water. The Be-Careful-What-You-Wish-For Well had such a system, but two ropes dangled from the rod, and hitched to these ropes was a carved wooden seat upholstered in green velveteen.

  “Business has been booming ever since the hags reopened shop,” Sonia explained. “But the first customers found it a bit awkward to get down the well, so they rigged up this elevator chair. Now anybody looking to buy a wish may ride down in comfort and style—I just crank the pulley for them.”

  “Ingenious!” Baldwin declared. “And might I say you’re perfect for the job? My goodness, your arms are herculean! I think you could wrestle an alligator without batting an eyelash!”

  Sonia giggled, batting her eyelashes now. “Oh, you! Now, are you two in the market for a wish? Big or small, they charm and thrill!”

  “I’m sure they do, but this is a social call,” Baldwin said. “My niece is friends with the hags, you see.”

  Sonia grasped Anastasia beneath the armpits and hefted her into the seat. “Are you visiting the old dears, too, Prince Baldwin?”

  “I think I’ll stay up here,” Baldwin said. “I have loads of questions about the circus, and you’re just the artiste to answer them! Those trained bears, for example. Are any of them metamorphosed Morfolk? Er, do you mind going down alone, Anastasia?”

  Anastasia shook her head. It worked to her advantage if Baldwin stayed behind to flirt with Sonia Elbow. She didn’t want him to hear her wish order.

  Sonia twirled the crank, and the chair creaked downward. Candles guttered along the well’s curved stone walls, illuminating hand-drawn posters. OONA, MAUDE, AND TWYLA, THE FOREMOST EXPERTS IN WISH-BREW SINCE 1599. WISHES FOR YOUR HEART’S EVERY DESIRE (ALMOST). WISHES GRANTED SUBJECT TO HAGS’ APPROVAL. WE OFFER PAYMENT PLANS.

  The last time Anastasia had glimpsed the Be-Careful-What-You-Wish-For Well, a heap of coins and a plashet of clammy water had camouflaged the secret trapdoor at its base. Now the coins and puddle were gone, and the trapdoor yawned open. The pulley seat creaked down through the hatch, coming to a stop in the Wish Hags’ parlor.

  Anastasia hopped from the chairlift, her galoshes splooshing through the shallow pond flooding the hags’ weird house. A tumble of loopy fur and big paws leapt off a soggy sofa and dashed across the parlor to greet her.

  “Borg!” Anastasia cried, patting the dreamdoodle’s ears. A dreamdoodle is a bit like an anteater-labradoodle hybrid, but instead of snuffling insects or fire hydrants, these wonderful creatures snuffle dreams. Borg now snuffled Anastasia in great excitement, his long nose making adorable kazoo noises.

  “Who goes there?” rasped an ancient woman, straightening up from a cauldron burbling in the corner.

  “Anastasia Merrymoon.”

  “Oh, Maude! Oona!” the hag cried. “The princess is here!”

  The Wish Hags’ chain mail tunics clinked as they flurried over to welcome her. “My dear girl!” said Oona, crunching Anastasia in a metallic hug. “We’re so very glad to see you!”

  Of course, the hags couldn’t really see Anastasia. The hags were troglodytes. In case you don’t know, a troglodyte is a kind of eyeless cave creature.

  The hags ushered Anastasia over to a mildewed love seat. “Would you like a cookie, dear? We baked cookies.”

  Maude thrust forth a platter of bumpy oatmeal cookies.

  “Thanks.” Anastasia took one of the unpleasant lumps, but she did not eat it. Instead she thrust it into the pocket of her Pettifog jacket. “Yum!”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you like them!” Maude beamed. “Would you believe I’m just now learning how to bake? Six hundred years old, and this is only my third batch of cookies!”

  “Normally we just brew a wish for sweets,” said Twyla.

  “Ollie likes to bake,” Anastasia said. “He’s going to be a pastry chef when he grows up.”

  “Oh, dear little Ollie!” Maude twittered, settling into a chair. “Perhaps he can offer me some culinary tips.”

  “Now, tell us, Princess,” Oona said, “did your birthday wish come true?”

  “Yes, it did,” Anastasia said. “Thank you.”

  “Rather an odd wish,” Twyla mused. “Most eleven-year-olds wish for ponies or fancy robots or that sort of thing. But, of course, we were glad to grant your wish.”

  “We’ve been brewing all sorts of wishes these past few weeks!” Maude said. “We’re backed up on wish orders until next year!”

  “Next year?” Anastasia cried.

  “Oh, everyone has a wish,” Oona said. “And we do our best to help everyone—”

  “Everyone who pays,” Twyla interjected with a little chuckle.

  “But you wouldn’t believe some of the things people ask of us,” Maude confided.

  “Like what?”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about wish requests,” Oona said. “People won’t come to us with their hearts’ secret desires if they worry we blab.”

  “We only have to keep secrets if we grant the wishes,” Twyla pointed out. “There’s no secrecy clause if we refuse the order.”

  “So you sometimes tell people no?” Anastasia asked.

  “Indeed we do!” Twyla huffed. “Just yesterday we told Senator Dellacava we would not interfere with Caveland politics! No, sir! And kindly remove yourself from our parlor and don’t come back!”

  Anastasia stiffened. “Senator Dellacava came down here?”

  “He was most impolite,” Twyla said. “He carried on like a colicky infant when we told him no.”

  “Twyla, hush,” Oona said. “It’s bad form to gossip about our customers.”

  “Oh, Oona, don’t be such a
stick-in-the-mud,” Twyla retorted. “Princess Anastasia isn’t going to tell anyone about Senator Dellacava’s wish! And besides, Senator Dellacava isn’t our customer, remember?”

  “What did he wish for?” Anastasia asked.

  “It had to do with some bill Congress is reviewing,” Twyla said. “To be honest, dear, we don’t follow politics very closely.”

  “But we wouldn’t go against the queen,” Maude said. “We’re very grateful to Queen Wiggy for signing our diplomatic treaty. And we’re grateful to you for your part in it.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Anastasia said.

  “You most certainly did!” Maude said. “Perhaps you didn’t mean to, but you and your friends got us out of this well and back into life. Fate has many agents, dear, in all shapes and sizes.”

  “And you’re one of them!” Oona reached over to squeeze Anastasia’s hand.

  Anastasia grinned. She liked to imagine herself as an agent of fate. It sounded important.

  “Now, tell us,” Oona said, “is there a special wish pit-a-patting within your heart today?”

  “We’ll put your wish to the front of the list,” Twyla promised. “Perhaps you’d like to spruce up your wig? We have wish-shampoo that’ll make your wig grow three inches per night!”

  “You might wish for another batch of my cookies,” Maude said hopefully. “We wouldn’t even need wish-brew for that.”

  “We could plague your worst enemy with dandruff! We have vats of dandruff brew!”

  “Those things all sound very nice,” Anastasia said politely, although they did not. “But I have a certain wish in mind, actually.” And she told them what it was.

  “Oh, Princess,” Oona protested. “I don’t think—”

  “If you want to go into your grandmother’s private chambers, why don’t you just ask her?” Maude queried.

  “Er—because I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Anastasia said. “I…um…embroidered a pillowcase for Grandwiggy, and I want to leave it on her bed, but no one can enter without her orders. So the Royal Guard Bat won’t let me through the door.”