The Extremely Inconvenient Adventures of Bronte Mettlestone

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Over time, all the mages learned to do their magic with imagined thread. These days, they simply move their hands about as if they are actually sewing (or knitting, weaving, crocheting, etcetera).

  The mines have long since disappeared; nobody remembers where they were, and you rarely see actual thread these days except in a museum.

  Or in lawyers’ offices, it turned out. When your parents have found a Faery to cross-stitch bright thread around their will.

  ‘They got a hold of bright thread,’ Aunt Isabelle muttered, shaking her head. ‘What were they thinking?’

  The lawyers nodded gravely.

  I was growing annoyed.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘But what does that mean?’

  Both lawyers swivelled towards me.

  ‘It means, Bronte, that you must follow the instructions in this will,’ said Mr Crozer.

  ‘If you don’t,’ Mr Ridgeway put in, ‘you break the cross-stitch.’

  ‘And if the cross-stitch breaks,’ both lawyers chanted, ‘so does your home town.’

  They waved their hands at the windows, indicating Gainsleigh, all around us.

  ‘Breaks?’ I was still annoyed. ‘My home town breaks?’

  ‘It is ripped apart,’ Mr Ridgeway clarified, ‘like threads torn asunder.’

  He jabbed his finger at the parchment. ‘See here? In exactly three days, you must take the 7.15 am train to Livingston.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t, roads will crack.’

  Mr Crozer reached over to jab a finger, too. ‘See here? On this day, you must take the Clybourne Overnighter to visit your Aunt Claire. Or trees will be uprooted.’

  ‘You must stay with each aunt for exactly three days,’ Mr Ridgeway intoned.

  ‘With two exceptions,’ Mr Crozer said, still jabbing. ‘You stay with these two aunts on their Cruise Ship for a month, and you stay with this aunt for two weeks.’

  ‘If you don’t,’ said Mr Ridgeway, ‘bridges will fall.’

  The lawyers’ voices grew louder. They were punching the paper with their fists.

  ‘The final aunt is Aunt Franny in Nina Bay!’

  ‘Aunt Franny must hold a party, inviting family and friends, to celebrate your parents’ lives!’

  ‘When that party is complete, Bronte, you are free!’

  ‘But before that party, follow these instructions exactly!’

  ‘You must give the aunts their gifts at the time specified!’

  ‘Or windows will shatter!’

  ‘You must go to this café!’

  ‘Or rooves will cave in!’

  ‘You must order cheesecake here!’

  ‘Or buildings will collapse!’

  They were shouting now. Pounding the desk. The room was shaking violently. So was I.

  ‘You must follow these instructions precisely, Bronte!’

  ‘Or people could die!’

  There was a sudden silence. Or not a silence exactly, because the lawyers were both panting. They dabbed at their sweaty foreheads with handkerchiefs.

  ‘But she’s only a child,’ Aunt Isabelle whispered.

  I looked at her face. It was as white as fresh snow—and now I was truly afraid.

  Over the next three days, I did not breathe.

  Well, I probably did breathe, otherwise I’d be dead. But it really seemed as if there was no time to breathe. We ran from the lawyers’ office, and kept on running. Planning, packing, folding, zipping, visiting the seamstress for new frocks. I read my parents’ instructions over and over, and had nightmares about losing them or spilling lemonade on them. ‘The ink has run!’ I screamed in my sleep. ‘I can’t read the words!’

  The treasure chest turned out to be very small, the size of a large shoe box. For a moment, I thought it shimmered with jewels, but those were only glued-on sequins.

  Accompanying the chest was a small sack of silver coins ‘for expenses’ on my journey. ‘Handy,’ sniffed Aunt Isabelle, but then she pivoted and ran out of the bank.

  As we raced about, Aunt Isabelle drilled me on the dangers of Dark Mages.

  ‘How can you tell if somebody’s a witch?’

  ‘They look confused. They wear socks with sandals.’

  ‘Good. What do you do if you see one?’

  ‘Stay quiet. Try to blend in.’

  ‘How do you know a Sterling Silver Fox?’

  ‘Lots of jewellery. Sharp ears.’

  ‘What do you do if you see one?’

  ‘Laugh loudly. They can’t stand the sound of laughter.’

  ‘How do you know a Whisperer?’

  I paused. A Whisperer was the most frightening Dark Mage. The others tended to leave you alone unless you bothered them, but Whisperers kidnapped children. ‘But I won’t see a Whisperer, will I? They’re all safely bound in the Whispering Kingdom?’

  ‘True,’ Aunt Isabelle nodded. ‘But what if a Whisperer escapes? How do you know a Whisperer?’

  ‘They don’t escape, do they?’

  ‘Bronte. How do you know a Whisperer?’

  I sighed. ‘They never cut their hair. You hear a voice in your head like burning steel.’

  ‘What do you do if you see a Whisperer?’

  ‘Run.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘As fast as I can.’

  ‘Faster, Bronte. Faster.’

  We went through all the other Dark Mages—ghouls, radish gnomes, fire sirens and so on—and covered other dangers, too. Getting my new frocks muddy. Forgetting to say thank you. That kind of thing.

  In the middle of this, a telegram arrived from my grandfather. Now, I knew that my father had eleven sisters and that his parents had died before I was born. But I didn’t know much about my mother’s family. She had run away from home when she was fifteen, wanting to have adventures.

  Her father, however, sent me gifts every birthday and sometimes invited me to come and visit him. He always offered to send a carriage to fetch me. Aunt Isabelle had never allowed this, as he lived outside of Colchester, which is very far away, and he was ‘a perfect stranger to us’. This is what his telegram said:

  Aunt Isabelle telegrammed back to say that she was very sorry but I was going on a journey until August the First. On that day, I would be in Nina Bay, visiting my Aunt Franny, and attending a party to celebrate my parents. She added that he was welcome to come along to that party himself.

  My grandfather replied at once.

  ‘He sounds lovely,’ I said.

  Aunt Isabelle said, ‘Hmph,’ and consulted her map.

  ‘I suppose Colchester is very close to Nina Bay,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘And I suppose the Butler and I will be there for the party ourselves. It is right that you visit him now, and see your mother’s special items.’

  ‘So you will allow it at last?’

  ‘I will allow it.’

  I smiled. It was one gleaming thing in my future.

  I didn’t see the Butler much in those three days, as he was so busy sending telegrams to aunts and checking timetables. Sometimes I would hear him and Aunt Isabelle talking in low voices in the study. The night before my journey was to begin, I passed the study very late and heard my aunt’s voice: ‘Faery cross-stitch,’ she said. ‘What were they thinking?’

  I paused and knocked on the door.

  ‘Bronte,’ said Aunt Isabelle. ‘Why aren’t you sleeping?’

  ‘Another nightmare,’ I said.

  They were sitting at Aunt Isabelle’s desk, which was scattered with books and maps. Both held glasses of brandy and their faces glowed from the rich, crackling light of the fireplace.

  The Butler took off his reading spectacles, and reached into his pocket. ‘A gift for you, Bronte,’ he said, and handed me a little vial of pale pink liquid. It was marked Gainsleigh Dewdrops.

  ‘They don’t do much,’ he said. ‘But they’re pretty. And they’ll help you remember home.’

  I almost cried then, but Aunt Isabelle told me to skedaddle to bed.

  Early the nex
t morning, we were climbing into the carriage to go to the station when my governess rushed up to pass a package through the window to me.

  ‘That will be the schoolwork I asked her to prepare,’ Aunt Isabelle said. ‘There’s no need for you to fall behind while you are travelling.’

  But when I opened the package, it was only a few storybooks, along with a gift card:

  ‘Good gracious,’ complained Aunt Isabelle. ‘Why do we pay her?’

  The Butler banged on the side of the carriage with his palm. ‘Hurry along. It’s a quarter to seven already.’

  That afternoon, I arrived at the first aunt’s home.

  It was 2.30 pm in Livingston. The heat here was vivid.

  Aunt Sue met me at the mailbox at the end of her driveway, one hand to her forehead for the glare. The other hand was deep in the mailbox, and I had the impression from her dreamy smile as she looked up at the approaching milk cart, and from the quick startled expression that crossed her face when she spotted me there by the driver—I got the impression that she’d forgotten I was due. She’d come down to check for letters, and it was pure luck she’d done this at just the right time. You could hear her relief in this luck in the splendour of her welcome.

  ‘Look at you, and the sight of you!’ she shouted. ‘It is not young Bronte arrived for her visit! It is not!

  ‘It is,’ I corrected her, and the driver beside me, clicking at his slowing horse, agreed.

  ‘Aye. I’ve brought young Bronte to you as planned.’

  ‘And look at you!’ Aunt Sue repeated, her voice bursting like rockets. ‘It is not Bronte!’

  The driver nodded again. His quiet grey beard prickled across his chin and around his mouth.

  ‘Aye, Sue, and it is. Perhaps if you learn to accept that fact, you’ll raise a hand and help her from the cart?’

  Aunt Sue rushed to reach her arms to me. The moment her hands touched mine, large and warm—from the sun I suppose—the moment her fingers curled tight around mine, the last three days seemed to fall through my body like a rapid fall of notes on the pianoforte. My feet hit the road with a thud and twin bursts of dust. I smiled at her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Aunt Sue.’

  We walked the long driveway towards the farmhouse. I could see it emerging from the haze now. It seemed to have lost one of its chimneys. There was one tall chimney and there was a sort of pile of rubble where another matching chimney should have been.

  ‘Look at you and the walk on you!’ Aunt Sue said. ‘Look at the walk on you!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said politely. I looked down, trying to see what she meant. But it’s tricky. You can’t get the sense of your own walk.

  I suppose she just meant I held my back very straight. I always do that when I’m nervous.

  It was much cooler inside Aunt Sue’s house. The floorboards had cracks and, if you looked closely, grit inside the cracks. As soon as we stepped in, Aunt Sue sat on the floor and gestured for me to do the same.

  I obeyed her, bewildered.

  Perhaps this was a county-folk ritual?

  Then I saw that she was wrenching off her boots—their soles were clumped with mud and bits of grass, so this seemed a good idea. Next, she crammed the boots into a wooden crate that stood beside the door. It was already all a-tumble, this crate, with muddy boots of every shape and size, the laces intermingled.

  Once Aunt Sue’s boots were safely stowed, I made ready to stand again. But she was smiling down at my shoes in a friendly, patient way. I twirled my toes. It was the only way I could think to show her that the bottom of my shoes were perfectly clean. But she only waited.

  So I removed my shoes. I placed them on top of the crate and stood, feeling shy in my stockings.

  Aunt Sue wore thick white socks and dungarees. With her knee, she inched my suitcase forward, and the floorboards creaked in such a wretched way that I jumped and blurted, ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Look at you and the sight of you,’ Aunt Sue murmured. She grasped my suitcase by the handle, swung it high, and marched down the hall.

  The house was big and airy, filled with golden light, and the furniture seemed also big and golden. A spider web caught the light in one corner, and a lampshade was missing a jagged piece. We passed bedrooms crowded with colourful rugs and toys. A row of tiny undershirts draped the side of a cot in one room; a huge black dog stared out at me from another. Aunt Sue opened a door at the end of the hall.

  ‘This will be your room while you stay,’ she declared, and swung the suitcase onto a bed. It cried out beneath the weight just like the floor had. ‘Oh, my.’ Aunt Sue pointed at a patch of mould on the ceiling, but she quickly lost interest in it, smiling around at the stacks of boxes and suitcases instead. It was a storage room: there was a crumpled accordion, a basket of frayed towels, and a shelf crouching gamely beneath its overload of books and magazines. The bed was pressed against one wall. Lime green coverlet and fat white pillow.

  ‘And you’ll be staying?’ Aunt Sue inquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, alarmed. There was any doubt?

  ‘And you’ll be staying...?’ she repeated.

  ‘Oh.’ I understood. ‘Two nights. And on the final morning, I’m supposed to drink a glass of juice squeezed from oranges that I myself have picked in your orchard. I hope that’s all right … my picking your fruit … and I hope that … there is fruit … Aunt Isabelle worried that you might not have the orchard any longer or that—’

  ‘Hush,’ said Aunt Sue gently. ‘We still have the orchard. And aren’t the oranges perfect to be picked as we speak? Aren’t they perfect to be picked?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I confessed.

  Aunt Sue beamed, warming to her theme. ‘And aren’t they the finest, brightest oranges in all of Livingston? Livingston! Listen to me and the sound of me! The finest in the Kingdom? In all of the Kingdoms and Empires!’

  I congratulated her, and she seemed pleased.

  Then she frowned.

  ‘Well, they’re not so fine as oranges grown in the tiny Empire of Ricochet,’ she admitted. ‘Have you ever tried a Ricochet orange?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘They spoil you for all other oranges. They’re so fine, they’re so ridiculously fine!’

  I blinked. Aunt Sue blinked back. ‘And are there more instructions?’ she asked next, giving her shoulders a shake as if to shake the Ricochet oranges from their branches.

  ‘One other,’ I said. ‘There is a café I’m to visit tomorrow for my lunch. I have to walk along the river to reach it. I think it is called … the Upturned Chair?’

  ‘The Upturned … Ha! You mean the Dishevelled Sofa!’

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’ I was embarrassed. ‘I think that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  I glanced towards my suitcase and remembered.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course. I am to give you your gift from the treasure chest on the final morning. Just after I drink the orange juice.’

  Aunt Sue nodded in a distracted way as if that was neither here nor there.

  ‘And then I must depart at once,’ I said.

  ‘At once,’ Aunt Sue repeated, falling into this phrase with great sadness. ‘Really at once?’

  ‘The instructions are very clear,’ I said. ‘And if I don’t follow them exactly, the Faery cross-stitch will break.’

  Aunt Sue frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And Gainsleigh will begin to come to pieces. I can’t think why your parents added the cross-stitch.’

  ‘Neither can Aunt Isabelle,’ I said. ‘Or the Butler.’

  Aunt Sue gazed down at me, her frown fading. ‘Oh, my child, your parents. Your dear, dear parents and their mad ways, and ah, look at you, and the sight of you, so much like your father, and like your mother, too, so beautiful the pair of them, and you, just like them, with that sweet, bewildered smile, and the tiny not-quite-a-dimple here.’ She reached out to touch my cheek but seemed to change her
mind, and grabbed me into her arms instead. I wasn’t prepared, so it was rather as if I were a rag doll being jigged about, but then I settled myself and politely hugged her back.

  Eventually she straightened and was cheerful again.

  ‘You’ll be longing to see your cousins!’ she said, which surprised me. I wasn’t really. I had imagined she was going to say I was longing to wash, or to rest, or take refreshments. The usual things.

  ‘I am curious to meet them,’ I allowed. I knew that there were four boys, and that the eldest, Sebastian, was the same age as me. I also knew that I had met him once before when Aunt Sue visited us in Gainsleigh, but that was when Sebastian and I were babies. So I did not recall it.

  ‘No,’ Aunt Sue agreed. ‘You would not.’ There was the sound of a slamming door, and she said, ‘Why, that will be the boys! Home to meet you!’

  Now I could hear it too, a rush of footsteps and a blare of voices, tangled together like the laces in the crate.

  We went directly to the kitchen, which had a big stove and an oak table. The table was jumbled with objects: a teapot, a picture book, a plate covered in pastry flakes, coloured papers, scissors and glue—and that’s just a sample. There was plenty more.

  All but one of the boys were smaller than me, and all were noisier. They tore about, grabbing at this and reaching for that. One flung open a drawer and took out a large knife; another slid sideways along the floorboards—with pizzazz, like a dancer—and threw open a breadbox to grab a loaf of bread; a third wrenched open the refrigerator with such vigour that it rattled and shook; and a fourth—a very little one—was clambering from chair to chair, to what end, I was not sure.

  ‘Boys!’ said Aunt Sue. ‘Look and if it isn’t your cousin, Bronte, arrived to stay!’

  All four stopped, turned and stared at me.