by Amy Boyles
"Not a spit from a spat," I said.
"Hmm?" Bertie said.
I waved my hand. "Oh, nothing. I was just saying what my grandmother would have said."
"Yes, Hazel always did have a way with words," Bertie said.
"You could say that again."
We wove past paper piled to the ceiling and a hill of broomstick ends. We reached a bubbling cauldron.
"I thought this was a museum," I said.
Bertie smiled. She adjusted her glasses and said, "It is. This is the Everlasting Cauldron. It always bubbles. Never stops. It's been here for five hundred years. You remember it, don't you, Roman? From when you were little?"
Roman nodded. "Oh yeah. It's always been here. All these things have."
I crossed to the squat cauldron made of cast iron and peered over the lip. A green liquid simmered inside. Bubbles burped and popped on the surface, releasing fumes that smelled vaguely of fish oil. I wrinkled my nose. "The Everlasting Cauldron?"
"Yes, child. It was created by one Aphrodite Tinker. She kept the cauldron going in her home every day. After she died, someone noticed that it kept bubbling, and it was brought here and has remained ever since."
I pulled away from the gurgling beast. "What's the stuff inside? Something to cure warts?"
Bertie ladled out a bit of the liquid. "A wonderful concoction that ails a cough and cold. Helps stop the stuffies. Care for a sip?"
I cringed. "No thanks."
"Bertie," Roman said. "We're here because Dylan needs the reversal spell."
Bertie pursed her lips. She looked from me to Roman and adjusted her glasses. She waddled over, placed a hand on each of my shoulders and squeezed.
"Let's see," she said. "We've got good tone here. Feels fairly solid there." She pinched my face. "Hmmm." Bertie stood back. "Legs look strong. I must make sure you're physically ready for the spell, you see. Mentally is another thing entirely, but the physical comes first." She walked around me. I shot Roman an are-you-kidding-me look, but his face didn't betray even the tiniest hint of emotion.
Great. So I was stuck with crazy old Bertie. Don't know why it surprised me. Every old lady in my life was bat crazy. Why should this one be any different?
Bertie ended her weird circling business and stopped in front of me. "Physically you look ready to go, but the reversal spell isn't only physical. It is a deep, difficult spell that takes much mental focus.
"But it also takes belief. You must believe in the spell. Without belief as hot as the hottest of pokers, it won't work." She exhaled. "So, child, do you believe what you are? Do you believe you can work the deepest of magics in order to quench your foe?"
Oh well, when you put it like that, it all seemed so…hard. "Umm. I mean. I guess so."
Her gaze flashed over to Roman and then back at me. "There is no guessing. Either you're ready, or you're not."
"Okay, well. What foe do you mean, exactly? Are you talking about that scary Helga and her friends with the pointy teeth?"
Bertie tapped my chest with two fingers. "The foe inside you. The one that lives in your heart. The one that tells you nasty little lies. The one that says you're not good enough. The one that tells you that you aren't capable."
"Oh, that foe. I don't know. I guess I'm ready to tackle it."
She shook her head. "You can't guess. You have to know without a doubt."
Hesitation creeped in. I swear, I was so darn wishy-washy. I was confident five minutes ago, but when Bertie started poking and prodding, it vanished. "Maybe I'm not quite ready."
Bertie nodded. "That's what I thought. When you're ready, come visit me and you'll learn it. Until then, I'm afraid I can't teach it to you."
I glanced at Roman. He only shrugged.
"So what's the deal with the spell? Why does it take all my confidence?"
Bertie smiled. "The reversal works so that if someone attempts any sort of magic or even physical harm on you, it bounces back on the giver. It sort of makes you a mirror. In order to do the spell, you first have to drink a poison. But to drink the poison, you must believe in it. If even you have the tiniest of doubts…" She paused to sneeze. "Ah-choo!"
"Bless you," Roman said.
Bertie pulled a tissue from a box and blew her nose. "Thank you. Winter allergies get me every year. Anyway, what was I saying?"
"You were talking about how if I drink the poison and have the tiniest of doubts, something bad would happen." Yeah, that's right. I totally jumped the gun. Went right for it. I clenched my fists against my queasy gut. "Will I die? Is that what will happen?"
Bertie grabbed me by the ears and yanked me down to her height. She was really short, couldn't have been any taller than five feet. "My dear, if you drink the poison without believing, it'll be worse than death."
I gasped. "It will? How?"
"You'll be hugging the toilet for twenty-four hours."
I pulled back. "What?"
"You'll have a stomach bug so bad you won't believe it."
"Ew," I said.
Bertie shrugged. "That's how it goes. The reversal spell can make you sick as a dog. There's no magic that will cure it. In fact, ninety-nine percent of witches who drink the potion get so sick they never try it again. So your chances of being sick as the day is long are pretty high."
I glanced at Roman. "Am I supposed to want to try it now, or not?"
He chuckled into his fist. "That's up to you. I told you that belief is key to the spell."
"Yeah," I said. "It's the key to hugging the toilet." I turned to Bertie. "So if I have the tiniest of doubts?"
She shook her head. "The spell won't work and you'll be sick."
"Then I guess there's no point."
She poked the air. "Because you have doubt."
"Looks like."
Bertie walked over to a dark dome. She twirled her fingers. The covering lifted, hovering patiently. "This is it. It'll be here when you're ready." She dipped her hand into the recesses of the case and pulled out a vial filled with inky black liquid.
"That's it?"
"This is it. Only takes a teaspoon or so of liquid." She handed me the flask.
I tipped and turned the vial. Thick, ebony liquid glugged down the sides. I'll be honest. It didn't look like anything I wanted to drink. But it did, in fact, look like something that would give you food poisoning.
Which I decided was probably why it never worked on anybody—because it wasn't a spell at all. It was just something that made you sick to your stomach.
I uncorked it and sniffed. Cinnamon and licorice filled my nose. I really, really wanted to be strong enough to do it. I wanted to believe.
But I just couldn't. Of course, I also didn't want to be skinned alive. I figured when my time was up and Helga came for me, I'd have all the belief I needed then.
At least, I planned on having it.
I corked the vial and handed it back.
Bertie placed it back in the case. "It'll be here." She smiled warmly. "We're not going anywhere. I've been around for forty years, and I doubt that'll change in the next couple of days."
"Thanks," I said, following Roman back toward the door. A glint of light caught my attention. "What's that?" I said, crossing to it.
Displayed on a silk cushion sat a small, square crystal. The bloodred stone reflected the light like a prism. It was beautiful. Yet the more I looked at it, the more an eerie feeling crawled around in my belly.
"That," said Bertie, "is the crystal of the third witch in the hall."
I frowned. "You mean the witch statues?"
She nodded. "You'll have noticed that each of the sisters have their elements with them, except for the sister with the wand."
I recalled the statue from the pit of my memory. I would have liked to say the well of my memory, as in the kind that you dump a bucket into. But it was actually more like a black hole. A place that sucked up information. A place from which nothing returned.
Not really, obviously. But sometimes that'
s definitely how it felt. Fortunately for me, I'd passed by the sisters like a hundred times in the past few days.
"Yes, I remember," I said.
"This is the stone that goes in that wand. The Crystal of Power, it's called."
"Oh," I said. "I didn't realize there was actually a stone for it."
Bertie wound her fingers around the gold chain hanging from her glasses. "There is and it's here." Her tone was clipped, as if there were more she wasn't saying.
"Is it very powerful?"
Bertie turned to Roman. "Sir Roman, is the crystal powerful?"
Roman nodded. "Its power is indescribable." He paused. "You want me to tell her what happened." It was a statement.
Bertie raised her palms. "You know better than I do."
I rubbed the crease that was chiseling its way into my forehead. "Know what?" I said.
Roman inhaled deeply and said, "That crystal is what killed my family."
TWENTY
I reached out and rubbed Roman's shoulder. "The crystal killed your family? How?"
We sat in the kitchen sipping hot mugs of coffee. He stretched his fingers over his cup and brought it to his lip. "I was thirteen. My family had just returned from a witch's conference. From what I've come to understand, it didn't go very well. There were accusations of abuse of power against my mother."
I took a sip. Bitter liquid spilled over my tongue and down my throat. It wasn't sweet tea, but it would do. "Abuse?"
He nodded. "Some said she was trying to use her power to give the citizens of Fairyland a bigger say in the witch government." Roman grazed a hand over his bicep. "There've always been two schools of thought on Fairyland. One is that we embrace them."
"Let me guess the second. That the witches take over and decimate the masses."
Roman nodded. "Pretty much. And that's been going on for years."
"From the magic-stealing sect, perhaps?"
Roman chugged his coffee and laid the mug on the table with a thud. "That's what I think. That's what a lot of others believe as well. But my mother’s and sisters' deaths were the first time any of it seemed real." He inhaled deeply, his chest ballooning. "A witch broke into the museum the night after we returned from the conference. She killed them while we slept. I was in my bedroom. Heard some noises and left to investigate. I saw the shadow of the witch as she was leaving. I attacked and knocked a wand from her hand. She fled, I guess too afraid of being caught to wait around for her wand."
I gnawed the inside of my cheek. "And in the wand was the crystal."
His eyes flickered to mine. "It had been stolen. Bertie had been knocked out without one thread to be found on her head. Meanwhile, the witch took the stone. She killed my mother and sisters."
I swiped my thumb over the lip of the mug. "Was that when your father disappeared?"
Roman's jaw twitched. "No one knows what happened to him. Some people said that he was in on it, but I knew better. I know better." His sea-green eyes darkened to nearly black. "He never would've hurt any of us. Not him. He loved us. Loved us all."
I brushed my fingers over his knuckles. "So what happened to him then? Where'd he go?" I asked it as gently as I could, but I knew the words might sting. I mean, was there really any way around that? Could you, pretty please with sugar on top, tell me what happened to your father the night your mother and sisters were murdered?
It just didn't sound right at all.
You're right. I didn't have to ask, but he was my legit boyfriend so I needed to.
Roman threaded his fingers through his blond hair. "He disappeared. I always figured the witch cast some sort of spell on him, but I don't know. Plenty of time has passed. If he'd been spelled, it would've broken years ago. Spells don't last twenty years."
I smirked. "The Everlasting Cauldron did."
He scrubbed a palm down his cheek. "That's true. Let me rephrase that. Spells other than that one don't. A normal spell worked by a regular witch wouldn't last any longer than a few days, maybe some months."
"So that's why they thought he was guilty."
He nodded slightly. "Them including Pearbottom."
I blinked my eyes wide at that. "He did?"
Roman sipped the steaming liquid. "Does that really surprise you?"
"I guess not. He seems suspicious of everyone. He'd probably be blaming me for Gertrude's murder if he could."
Roman smiled sadly. "He does have a way of pinning murders on folks." He paused, then inhaled and rubbed his thighs. "Feel better?"
I smiled. "Yeah. It's just that this place is one thing after the other." I sighed. "I mean, it's been one thing after the other. I can't get away from all this witchy madness. It's crazy."
"Which part? The murders?"
I scratched my scalp. "That and everything that's followed it. Why does this Helga person want to take my powers? What use are they to her?"
Roman quirked an eyebrow. "Do you really have to ask that?"
I stretched my arms over the table. Roman took my hand. Warmth washed up my bones. "So you're certain it's all part of a magic-stealing ring?"
"One hell-bent on starting a war? Certainly. That's why they can't win."
"But she wants Brock hanged or boiled or whatever witches do to execute one another."
"And she won't," he said with a bite in his tone that startled me. "She won't see him dead, and she won't get your powers. We'll get rid of her before that."
I perked up. "We will? How?"
"I've been thinking."
My insides jumped and jiggled. "About what?"
He smiled. "About a plague."
***
"I need you to spell Polly," Roman said to Milly.
She smooshed her lips up to her nose. "Now why would I want to spell my companion like that?"
We stood in the room she was sharing with my grandmother. Hazel opened a drawer and riffled through a selection of tiaras. She picked up one with a teardrop rhinestone in the center and pushed the combs down into her hair. "He is very sensitive."
Roman crossed his arms over his chest. "I need him to deliver a message."
"To who? The queen?" Milly cackled at her joke.
"No," Roman said in a voice so hushed you could have heard a pin drop over it. "I need Polly to deliver a message to the entire house."
An hour later I peeked out the bedroom door. "Is this going to work?" I whispered to Roman. He hovered above me, glancing out into the castle.
"It should. I've already got Bannock on my side about it. He's told the servants to disappear for the next few hours."
I grasped the lip of the door so hard my knuckles whitened. "How will we know for sure?"
"’Cause we're gonna see what Polly sees," Milly said gruffly.
"How?" Sera asked, folding her arms.
Milly snapped her fingers. A cloud appeared in the middle of the room. It changed from a thick gray mass to shine like a mirror. A silvery image appeared. We watched someone's point of view as they moved through the castle. Then I realized, not someone—Polly. We were looking through Polly's eyes as he flew through the halls, bee-lining straight for Queen Helga's room.
He reached the door and hovered. I heard the thwap of his wings as they drummed the air. He pecked on the door. After several seconds a woman with a dark crew cut answered. She snarled. Her pointy teeth stuck from her gums like little daggers. My stomach twisted in total grossness.
"What?" she said.
Polly extended his talons. The woman snatched a small scroll from his grasp.
"Helga," she yelled over her shoulder. "There's some stupid bird here for you. He's got some kind of stupid message, it looks like."
"Well, what is it?" I heard Helga shout back. "Is it stupid or is it a message?"
Oh, come on.
"It's a message with your name on it."
"For cripe's sake," Helga muttered. She appeared in the doorway and glared at the woman. "Well, what do you want? Me to tip you or something?"
The woma
n grimaced and slunk back into the room. Helga looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching and uncurled the scroll. She pinched it like it was dripping sweat.
As her gaze slid over the message, the look on her face changed from disgust to concern to absolute horror. Helga tossed the paper in the air, gripped her face and screamed. Her entire entourage charged into the frame.
"What is it?"
"What's wrong?"
"What's going on?"
Helga, lips blubbering, cheeks pumping, looked at the group with tears in her eyes. "There's…there's…there's…"
"Yes?" said the crew-cut lady.
"What is there?" asked a woman with bright red locks.
Helga fanned her hand over her face. The wicked witch of the north looked pretty pathetic at the moment. "There's a witch plague!" The other witches glanced at each other in horror.
They screamed. Like little girls stuck in the haunted ride at an amusement park. They threw their arms in the air and unleashed a chorus of screeches that made everyone in my grandma's bedroom plug their ears.
"We've got to get out of here," one screeched. She disappeared into the room.
"Someone pack my bags!" Helga shrieked.
The other witches ran into the room. Helga followed them inside. I heard objects thrown and shoes clomping.
"Get my things," Helga demanded.
"Like heck I will! I'm outta here!"
"Norma!"
"I'm outta here, too. If you want your stuff, you've got to get it yourself." Well, I guess there went Norma's allegiance. Whoever Norma was.
"You desert me, I'll make sure you get boils on your face for the rest of your lives!"
The commotion paused. Crew-cut Lady burst through the door. "You'll have to find me first!" A gaggle of witches followed her. One shrugged into her coat while another tugged on a boot. Helga flew into the doorway. "Get back here! I need my queenly things!"
"Get them yourself," one yelled.
Helga glanced back into the room, a look of torment on her face. After half a second of obvious deliberation she snarled and deserted the room in a gust of falling hairpins. "Wait up!"