The Tragical Tale of Birdie Bloom

by Temre Beltz

  Nine

  The Oldest Tragical of All

  That night, the Winds of Wanderly wrapped around the manor. They rocked the manor back and forth like a babe and then, when it was time, rapped gently against the window of the Tragicals’ dormitory.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Mmmmm,” Birdie said, stirring sleepily. It had been quite a day. Certainly, the Tragicals had suffered many such days at the hand of Mistress Octavia, but the disastrous visit from Mistress Peabody seemed to raise Mistress Octavia’s ire to new heights. Quite literally, because she ordered Sir Ichabod to bring forth every rickety ladder he had and prop them up in various locations around the manor. She then forced each Tragical to climb to the top rung, where they had to balance for the entire rest of the day.

  Though it was Mistress Octavia’s great hope one of them might topple down and incur a fantastic injury, no such thing happened. Mildred, whose cracked eyeglasses slipped clean off midafternoon, and young Amelia, who was still dreadfully sleepy, came closest to disaster, but even they survived, in part through the nonverbal signals of the other Tragicals, including a semicoordinated series of foot-banging, artificial sneezing, and throat-clearing guffaws.

  Unfortunately for Birdie, ladder balancing was not the sort of activity that permitted letter reading; nor was Mistress Octavia’s requirement that, at bedtime, Sir Ichabod weave about the dormitory whispering terrible endings into the Tragicals’ ears until every one of them was fast asleep. Indeed, Birdie’s last thought of the day had been nothing more comforting than “wandering alone in an overgrown jungle of child-eating plants.”

  Tap-tap-tap, the Winds insisted a bit more loudly. Birdie rolled over, and her rusty bedframe trilled, Squeeeeak!

  Not unlike the squeak a mouse might make. Or maybe even a rat.

  A rat! Birdie bolted upright. It wasn’t just an ordinary night full of the usual nightmares, discomforts, and endless tossing and turning. It was the night upon which Cricket’s rat must be saved. But first, Birdie had to take one moment to read the letter she’d waited all day long to read. If it turned out to be the friendly letter she hoped, it might even provide just the right boost for a night of heroism.34

  Birdie set her bare feet on the cold floor and slipped against the window. All the windows in the dormitory were covered in the manor’s customary thick black-out curtains and outfitted with four different sets of locks. But on the window closest to Birdie’s bed, there was a small nick in the fabric that allowed for the teensiest sliver of moonlight to spill out onto the floor. On that night, the sliver was so bright Birdie could scarcely imagine how very full the moon must have looked hanging high above the manor. Full and lovely.

  Lovely. Birdie wasn’t at all used to thinking about lovely things. As a Tragical, there had been times when it was nearly impossible to imagine there existed anything lovely at all. But it was getting easier. It seemed one lovely thought led to another, and that it was even the sort of thing one could practice.

  Birdie pulled Ms. Crunch’s letter from her pocket while the Winds of Wanderly pressed tight against the glass. She read:

  To Birdbrain:

  Is that name better? If not, tough. As for you being all alone without any parents, I say, “Congratulations!” No matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to make my mother disappear. Sure, she abandoned me in a pit of vipers when I was six, but I still bump into her from time to time. Every time I do, she manages to do something rotten like lob a bucket of slugs at my face or dump a fistful of beetles down my pants. She stinks like rotten fish eggs!

  Speaking of stinks, there is simply no other word to describe that book you’ve got. First off, there’s no way I’m reading that thing. Not that the idea made me faint in the corner—ha!—but it did make me want to throw up. Second, if you’re still holding out a flicker of hope that I might actually want to be your f f frie— BLECH! We’ve gotta come up with something better. That word is simply not meant to roll off my evil fingers. In fact, the best a witch could ever hope for in the witching community is a . . . barely foul foe. Ooh! That sounds about right. Barely Foul Foe. But just because I’m lazy, let’s call it a “BFF” for short.

  As I was saying, I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR BFF!

  Lucky for you, I’ve also changed my mind about eating you. Okay, fine, I’m not actually that sort of witch, but I might have been planning to do you in. Are you scared? You should be. You should also be thanking your lucky stars, because if that Octavia lady wasn’t so awful, I probably would have kept my sights set on you. That ought to teach you a thing or two about taking risks, because for crying out loud you’re doomed! What’d ya expect???

  So, back to Octavia.

  First and foremost, Council people drive me batty. What do they know except what the Chancellor tells ’em, and he’s a total nincompoop! Second, what business does she have hoarding mail, banishing little brats to the dungeon, and getting fussy over a bit o’ magic? My stone-cold witchy heart’s stirred up! There’s nothing I love more than putting people in their places.

  So, here’s where you come in. I need all the info on Octavia. Everything! Tell me all her weaknesses. Tell me all her routines. Tell me every last thing you can think of, and don’t leave a single thing out! Everyone’s got a breaking point, and it’s just a matter of time before we figure out hers.

  Now, it’s possible you might be thinking this gets us a little closer to that BFF thing. Hint: it doesn’t! Not even a smidge. Even though me doing Octavia in might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you and all those other bad endings you live with, that’s not why I’m doing it. In fact, if there was a way around helping you out, I’d take it. I’m doing this for me.

  Because all of a sudden, wouldn’t you know it, I’m not feeling so bored anymore.

  Agnes Prunella Crunch is back.

  Not Your BFF,

  (You know who)

  PS: Since that cupcake thing made you all googly-eyed, you’ll probably be glad to hear your last letter came as a—yuck—butterfly, and I almost smashed my nose trying to trip after it. If you feel bad about that, think how disappointed I was to hear my crow saved you from a scorpion.

  PPS: I’m still waiting on your address. Even if the Winds of Wanderly are willing to deliver a wicked letter, I doubt they’re up for delivering a whole witch. How can I do your headmistress in if I don’t know how to find you?

  The letter fell from Birdie’s hands. She couldn’t believe she’d waited all day long to read it. She couldn’t believe she’d drawn even an ounce of comfort from feeling it rustle about in her pocket. A wicked witch openly admitted that she wanted to do Birdie in! Surely Birdie had never come so close to her Tragic End before. It felt like Ms. Crunch’s hands might reach through the letter to snatch her up right that instant!

  The worst part of all was Birdie had hoped upon hope that Ms. Crunch—a witch—might be the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world. The best thing Birdie could imagine. Birdie thought Ms. Crunch was going to be her friend.

  She felt so foolish.

  It was an awful feeling; a feeling she couldn’t remember ever having had, because in all her days past, she’d never felt responsible for any of the awfulness—it was just part of a Tragical’s way of life. But this was different. Writing back to Ms. Crunch had been her idea. No one had forced her to do it.

  Birdie sighed. She folded the letter up and slipped it beneath her pillowcase. If friendship was complicated, being a BFF—whatever that was exactly—promised to be a heap more complicated. Birdie couldn’t imagine it would be a good idea to cooperate with Ms. Crunch, who couldn’t even bring herself to write the word “friend,” but neither could she deny Ms. Crunch had a point about doing Mistress Octavia in. If Mistress Octavia wasn’t around to torment the Tragicals, wouldn’t their lives—and maybe even their futures—simply have to improve? Birdie wished she could ask Cricket for advice, but she still hadn’t breathed a word about Ms. Crunch’s identity, and such
an admission hardly seemed appropriate on a night of grave importance.

  Birdie tiptoed four beds over to where Cricket lay shivering beneath a holey blanket with a pillow stuffed over her head. Birdie reached her hands out, placed them gently on Cricket’s shoulders, and shook her ever so slightly. Cricket sat up with a great heaving gasp.

  “Shhhhh!” Birdie whispered. “It’s me. It’s just me. It’s Birdie.”

  Cricket’s eyes glistened in the dim light. “You didn’t hear anything, did you? I’ve been trying my hardest not to hear anything.”

  “Not a thing,” Birdie promised. “But let’s keep it that way. Let’s go save Sprinkles!”

  “Save him?” Cricket said, as if the thought never occurred to her. “But how would we do that?”

  Birdie reached over and began rolling Cricket out of bed. “Simple. We’ll just undo all the rattraps.”

  “But didn’t Mistress Octavia say there would be three—”

  “Hundred? Yeah, I know. I didn’t say it was a genius plan, but well, it was the only thing I could think of.”

  “And so we—we have to go out there?” Cricket lifted one shaking hand toward the door leading out to the hallway. “In the dark? With Sir Ichabod creeping around?”

  As if the word “creeping” had caught her attention, Francesca Prickleboo, five beds over, stirred. A single orange braid tumbled across the edge of the mattress. Birdie and Cricket waited with breath held tight, but Francesca must not have fully woken because a series of soft, wheezing snores escaped her lips.

  “We’ll simply have to try our best not to get caught,” Birdie finally whispered.

  Cricket nodded and placed her feet on the floor. Her black gown swooshed around her tiny frame, nearly swallowing her up. She turned to Birdie. “You could get in big trouble for this. And I never even told you I had a pet.”

  “I know,” Birdie said.

  “Do you like rats a bunch too?”

  “No, not at all, really.”

  “So then, are you doing this because of that . . . book you’ve been reading?”

  “Maybe,” Birdie said softly.

  “Hmph” was all Cricket said. But then she reached out and scooped Birdie’s hand into her own. “Just so we don’t get lost.”

  And together, the two girls pushed through the door of the dormitory35 and slipped down the hallway. It was as dark as Birdie expected, but hanging a few feet away was the lantern Sir Ichabod Grim always kept burning. Birdie knew this because she often fell asleep to the flickering shadow it cast beneath the dormitory door. And when she would awaken from a bad dream, with nothing but her own arms to hold her, the flicker would lull her back to sleep. The light was as constant as the darkness, and never overcome.

  Birdie shone the lantern in all directions, hunting for traps. She gasped when she saw the first one. Its shiny metal jaws gleamed sharp in the lantern’s light. Birdie gestured for Cricket to stay put while she scurried closer. She breathed a sigh of relief that the trap did not yet contain any unfortunate rodents and, most of all, not Sprinkles.

  Being ever so careful not to snap her own finger, Birdie turned the trap this way and that. She looked at it from above, and she looked at it from underneath. She flipped the trap on its side and even nudged it with her toe. Birdie didn’t have much experience with rattraps, but there could be no mistaking the one before her was already broken. Broken beyond repair, even. Birdie frowned. She wondered if Sir Ichabod had simply been too exhausted to set the traps correctly or if something else (or rather someone else) was at work?

  Birdie’s stomach flip-flopped.

  What if Ms. Crunch had figured out where she lived? Or if Ms. Crunch really had convinced the Winds of Wanderly to deliver her whole witchy self, and she was sneaking around the manor right that instant?

  Shuffle-shuffle. Shuffle-shuffle.

  Birdie clamped her hand over her mouth so as not to holler out loud. Behind her, Cricket bounced up and down. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The trap’s already broken!” Birdie managed to choke out.

  “But—but—but . . . isn’t that good?”

  “And someone’s coming!”

  Shuffle-shuffle. Shuffle-shuffle.

  This time Cricket heard the footsteps too. She stepped forward and tugged on Birdie’s hand. “We’ve gotta get back to the dormitory! We’ve gotta go now!”

  “We don’t have time. We have to hide!” And though it pained Birdie to do so, she bent her head low and snuffed out the lantern’s faithful little flame so as not to be detected.

  “Oh!” Cricket said. “It’s so dark! How can we hide if we can’t see?”

  And for the next few moments, the two girls bumped up and down the hallway, until the striking of a match on the wall caused them both to jump.

  The bright orange spark cast an eerie glow on Sir Ichabod Grim’s face.

  “What do you two think you are doing?” he said. And he yanked the lantern right out of Birdie’s hand. Judging by his tone, Birdie thought he might toss the lantern against the wall, but instead, he reached in toward the center and used the match to light it once more. The hallway was again filled with a dim, warm flicker.

  Neither Birdie nor Cricket said a word.

  “Was it you two who were responsible for this?” he asked.

  “Um, responsible for what, sir?” Birdie finally managed to say.

  “The traps! All of them broken! Every single one!”

  “Every single one?” Birdie echoed at the same time that Cricket exclaimed, “Sprinkles is saved!”

  Sir Ichabod frowned. “So you two didn’t know about this?” When Birdie and Cricket shook their heads, he put his hands on his hips. “Well, then, why are you roaming about in the dark?”

  Without answering his question, Cricket leaned forward. “How do you see so well in the dark? You came right up on us when it was pitch-black!”

  “I suppose I’ve been fumbling about in the darkness for so many years I’ve simply grown used to it. Most times I don’t even notice if the light is there or not.”

  Cricket shivered. “I don’t think the dark is something I would want to get used to.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is.” And then Sir Ichabod lifted one bushy eyebrow, still awaiting the answer to his last question.

  While Birdie wondered what she could possibly say to avoid getting into trouble, Cricket took matters into her own hands. She crossed her short arms against her chest, tapped her foot, and said, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Me?” Sir Ichabod said.

  “Yes, because we were here doing the only thing that makes sense. We were trying to save my pet rat. But you were doing something terrible. You were trying to kill my pet.” And every time Cricket said the word “we,” she looked straight at Birdie with a fierce nod of her head, and Birdie was certain her heart would burst.

  We.

  Sir Ichabod, on the other hand, was wilting. Apparently, he didn’t just cower beneath Mistress Octavia’s tone, but even at the honest accusations of an eight-year-old Tragical. He shrunk back against the wall, his hair fell across his eyes, and he merely shrugged his shoulders while saying, “Mistress Octavia told me to.”

  Birdie’s heart sank.

  Sir Ichabod made it sound so simple.

  But nothing that happened to the Tragicals ever felt simple. Wasn’t the constant rattle of their broken hearts proof of that? Couldn’t Sir Ichabod see that?

  Birdie’s voice trembled. “But you’re a grown-up. Grown-ups don’t have to do what people tell them. You could say no.”

  “I did say no. Once,” Sir Ichabod whispered. “And because of that, I can never say no to her again.” Sir Ichabod sucked in a shallow breath. His fingers grazed across his bronze medallion. “I am cursed.”

  And outside the manor, the Winds of Wanderly howled.

  “Cursed?” Birdie whispered.

  “Yes, because I refused to sign my Oaths. My Tragical Oaths. And now I can never leave
this mountain. I can never refuse her command. I don’t pick blueberries because I like them.”36

  Birdie’s hand flew against her mouth. “But Sir Ichabod, if you refused to sign your Oaths, that means—you are—”

  “Just like us,” Cricket finished.

  And Sir Ichabod’s eyes widened. But only for a moment. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I am not just like you. You are children. And for the time being that is far more important than being a Tragical.”

  So many thoughts were flying through Birdie’s head. She was having difficulty pinning down even one of them. She tried to focus. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “But why did you choose not to sign your Oaths?”

  Sir Ichabod Grim met Birdie’s stare. “Because words matter.”

  And Birdie knew instantly that he was right. In a kingdom where lives unfolded precisely as they did in storybooks, words did matter. Very much even. And hadn’t the single word “friendship” made everything different for Birdie? Were there other such words out there? Words that gave wings instead of chains?

  “That was very brave of you,” Birdie said.

  The corners of Sir Ichabod’s lips lifted up just a hint. If it was a smile, it was the saddest one Birdie had ever seen. “Or perhaps I am the most foolish of all.”

  Foolish. Birdie was surprised to hear the word again. And most especially in the context of being brave. Birdie didn’t think the two words could have anything to do with each other, but maybe the line wasn’t so clear. Maybe a person could appear both brave and foolish at the same time.

  “Do you wish you had made a different choice?” Birdie said, breath held tight.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. For a man in Sir Ichabod’s position, Birdie supposed that was saying quite a lot.

  “Sir Ichabod,” Cricket began, “if you’re a Tragical too, then how come sometimes you’re bad to us even when Mistress Octavia doesn’t tell you to be?”

  “I don’t think there’s any good way to answer that question.”

  Cricket blinked. “Then how about you just say what’s true?”

  A shadow crossed Sir Ichabod’s face. He leaned in close. He whispered hoarsely, “Sometimes I feel as if I have fallen fast asleep. And in my slumber, I haven’t a clue who I am or if I am even anything at all.”