by Temre Beltz
“So we just need to find some way to keep you awake?” Cricket asked. “Like loud noises?”
“I don’t suppose it’s that easy.”
“Oh,” Cricket said. And then: “How come you didn’t ever tell us any of this before?”
Sir Ichabod was quiet for a moment. He looked up and down the hallway as if he were trying to remember something. But his expression was blank. “No one ever asked.”
Birdie’s heart squeezed tight. Sir Ichabod was right, of course. In fact, no one had ever asked him much of anything. The children had trudged past him day in and day out without ever once wondering. For all their looking, for all their probing around the manor for trinkets to treasure, they had continually failed to see one another. They had failed to see that stories didn’t just exist in books; they existed in people too. Stories that, despite what the Chancellor decreed, were not yet finished.
Sir Ichabod straightened up and gestured at the broken rattraps propped in the corners. “Mistress Octavia will not forget, you know. Tonight your rat is saved, but she will find another way. For now, you should go back to bed.”
Cricket nodded solemnly. She linked her arm through Birdie’s. But before she could wheel around with Birdie in tow, Sir Ichabod cried out, “Wait!” And he plunged his hand deep within his pocket and pulled forth the drawing of Cricket’s that had hung temporarily in Griselda Peabody’s place. “Does this belong to one of you?” he asked.
With flushed cheeks, Cricket took a step forward, but Sir Ichabod pulled the drawing just out of reach. “I know where this came from,” he said. And Birdie began to wring her hands because it had come from the book she’d discovered in Sir Ichabod’s kitchen cupboard! The one she suddenly felt terribly guilty about taking because Sir Ichabod was so much more than a shadowy figure with callused hands.
“I know,” Sir Ichabod continued, “that this paper was torn out of a book. I only hope it was one of Mistress Octavia’s worst. But regardless, you must promise to be careful. Something is afoot at this manor. I—I can’t put my finger on it, but something. And whatever that something is, I have not yet decided if it is good or bad. Frankly, I don’t know if I can tell the difference anymore.”
With that, Sir Ichabod shuffled toward the wall. He dropped down to his knees, untied an empty sack from around his waist, and began shoveling the broken rattraps in. Lantern in hand, Cricket and Birdie turned in the direction of the dormitory, but they made it only a few feet when Birdie paused. She looked back at Sir Ichabod. A circle of darkness waited eagerly around him, and only promised to grow thicker still.
“Hold on,” Birdie whispered to Cricket. She ran back to Sir Ichabod and plunked the lantern down beside him. “The light helps,” she said. “Even if you don’t think it will, and maybe especially then.”
When Birdie returned to Cricket, Cricket gripped her hand fiercely. Birdie assumed it was a result of the darkness or perhaps their chance meeting with the oldest Tragical in all of Wanderly, but it was the sound of crinkled paper that accompanied Cricket’s whisper.
“I should’ve told you about my drawing,” she said. “I should’ve never used something like your book page for that. I-I’m sorry.”
Birdie’s heart thumped. She thought back to Cricket’s drawing. The paper falling from the sky like magic. How Cricket had chosen to draw her. Birdie couldn’t imagine there existed any words in the world to tell her more about friendship than that.
“Don’t be sorry,” Birdie said softly. “I told you that book was different. Maybe it was never meant to be finished in an ordinary way. Maybe this is what it’s been waiting for.”
Cricket gasped. “To be torn apart?”
“To come true.”
And the two girls slipped through the doorway of the dormitory, for once buoyed by the hope that accompanies the miraculous rescue of a pet and the glimmer, however faint, that perhaps not everything in Wanderly was against them.
Ten
Impossible Customer Service
Agnes Prunella Crunch crossed her arms.
She bore a most quizzical expression.
On five separate occasions, she had lifted her fingers toward her jar full of worms and zapped ’em good! But all they did was cackle devilishly at her. As unnerving as a jar full of diabolical worms can be, it was—for once—the exact opposite of the effect Agnes was aiming for.
“Bah!” Agnes exclaimed. She slumped against her cauldron and snatched up the corner of the Bird-Girl’s latest letter in her glittery grip. Agnes wished for once the girl’s letters would explode into something useful like gooey slime or even a nice lump of malleable mud—anything would be better than glitter. Not to mention how unnerving it was to know something egregiously adorable could sneak up on her at any moment.
That morning it had been a bunny. Not a hare. Not even a rabbit. A baby bunny. And it had nuzzled its way past Agnes’s cabin door and snuggled up against every grimy thing, like it hadn’t just strolled into a properly horrific witch’s abode. The nerve!
But none of that was as frustrating as the letter itself. Agnes read it aloud one more time:
Dear Ms. Crunch,
I guess the first thing I ought to say is I’m real glad you changed your mind about wanting to do me in (and that you’re not the child-eating sort of witch, of course). I’m also trying to get excited about you wanting to do Mistress Octavia in, but I have a few important questions.
First off, if we’re going to work together on this, I need to know exactly what you mean by “doing her in.” As much as I would love to have a break from Mistress Octavia, there’s a real difference between sending someone off on an indefinitely long vacation (even if that happens to be on Snaggletooth Isles) and stirring them up whole in a boiling cauldron.
Second, I never meant to make you feel sick to your stomach with my book talk. And if it’s that big of a deal, we don’t have to use the F-word ever again. Especially since your “BFF” idea has a real nice ring to it. Almost like the letters were just meant to go together. It also makes me feel like we’ve got our own secret language, which is definitely a BFF-ish thing to do, don’t you think?
I know you still don’t actually want to be my BFF. I know you’re a witch, and I’m a Tragical. I know you think that me knowing all of this and still wanting to be your BFF proves I have half a brain, but maybe being BFFs is about more than just the facts. Maybe that’s why the Winds of Wanderly chose us. And I think it’d be a real shame if something big like the Winds was moving, and we didn’t move along with it.
You asked me to give you all the info on Mistress Octavia. Honestly, I don’t know much. When she’s not smacking her broomstick handle against the blackboard, whispering horrible things into our ears during instruction time, or eating with her back turned toward us in the dining hall, she spends every other minute (except for the three hours she sleeps) in her Room of Sinister Plotting. Considering the blood-red door and three hissing cobra snakes that guard the knob, no one has ever tried to find out what she does in there. I know I’m a doomed kid talking, but to me, she seems just about invincible.
There is one thing though.
One small thing that seems sort of silly, but I figure I at least ought to mention it. I think Mistress Octavia is allergic to laughter. Not just any laughter, but genuine laughter. Maybe even as specific as genuine kid laughter. Because a week or so ago, it happened with an eight-year-old. She laughed. And Mistress Octavia collapsed! Mistress Octavia wriggled all over, broke into itchy red hives, and couldn’t even talk she was sneezing so bad. I think if Sir Ichabod hadn’t have been around, we almost could have gotten away with anything we wanted. So . . . I’m not sure how that helps, but you asked.
As for my address, I still feel sort of squeamish about handing it over. I know I’ve kept you waiting, and I am sorry about that, but maybe if you give me some more details about your plan (specifically the Mistress Octavia parts, so I’ll know it’s not still me you’re after), that will help? In any ev
ent, I was real glad to find out your whole name. As soon as I saw it, I wanted to say how pretty it was (especially that Prunella part!), but I figured you’d appreciate it a whole lot more if I told you it was awful. So I will. It’s the awfullest name I’ve ever heard.
Very truly yours,
Birdbrain (I’m not really a fan of this nickname, but it only seems fair considering you’re not a fan of BFFs.)
PS: This will probably seem like a weird question, but you didn’t happen to figure out a way into our manor and dismantle three hundred rattraps, did you? If so, it made Cricket’s whole year (and maybe even her life).
Agnes tossed the Bird-Girl’s letter in the air.
It sounded even worse than the first time she’d read it.
And to be honest, she was starting to understand why most witches avoided children at all costs. For goblin’s sake, were they always so stubborn? Why couldn’t the girl just let Agnes commit her wicked deed in peace? Why couldn’t she give up the BFF thing? Why couldn’t she get it through her doomed little head that witches didn’t need anybody!
Much less the Winds of Wanderly. Bah! Agnes knew full well what she was made of. She knew the inky darkness of her stony heart, and frankly, if the Winds were recruiting the likes of her, that was reason enough not to put much stock in them.
But the cherry on top of the whole mucky mess was the laughter bit.
Of all things, Octavia’s one known weakness had to be laughter.
Whatever instruction the Bird-Girl was receiving, she didn’t know a thing about witches. Conjuring up laughter was out of the question! Of all the wonderfully horrific spells witches could cast, they couldn’t squeeze out a drop of intentionally good magic.
And laughter—genuine laughter—was an expression of joy. Laughter—genuine laughter—sprang forth from (gulp) the heart. Agnes snarled. She wasn’t used to dealing with such wishy-washy things as feelings. The thought alone left a terrible taste in her mouth, as if she had been chewing on too many icky-sticky jelly beans at once.
Still, there Agnes was.
Trying to make a jar of worms giggle.
All the while, they kept cackling at her. Like a heap of witches would cackle at her if they knew what she was up to. Agnes wondered if it would just be easier to accept Rudey Longtooth’s ultimatum and attend the Annual Witches’ Ball. To elbow a bunch of witches she couldn’t stand, jaw off a mediocre curse, and maybe even waltz off with a fool’s golden egg–laying chicken she could use to torment some commoners.37 Maybe she didn’t need to win the top prize, but just a prize. Maybe that would be enough to take the edge off her boredom.
But half-baked spells and mischief were a dime a dozen. Agnes had done all that before. Agnes wanted to experience something different; something important. Doing in an uppity Council member like Octavia felt awfully important. Maybe the most important—and most wicked—thing Agnes would ever accomplish. It was Agnes’s chance to show everyone what witches could really do, and she’d be a fool to throw in the towel!
And so she wouldn’t.
She would do whatever it took.
Even if that meant stooping to the level of purchasing premade magic. It was embarrassing; it was humiliating; it was what witches stuck in a never-ending loop of Wickedry 101 did, but surely the best-laid plans were not without sacrifice.
As such, Agnes Prunella Crunch, supremely wicked witch of Wanderly, swallowed her pride (which, if you haven’t tried it—and Agnes never had—tastes like an awful combination of old fish sticks and sour grapes) and stomped toward the door with a gruesome scowl on her face. Without even being summoned, her trusty broomstick swept beneath her and scooped her right up. Her ever-ready cauldron flickered a cheery goodbye of hot-pink and purple flames.
For the first time in decades, Agnes Prunella Crunch was headed to town.
In a kingdom of Wanderly’s size, there were very many towns.
But there was one that was the most famous.
It was called Pigglesticks.
Pigglesticks’s town square wasn’t really a square at all, but instead a whole network of narrow cobblestone streets, a few heart-pounding side passages, and even a tangle of underground tunnels (used by only the most sinister sorts). The bevy of stores were stacked one on top of the other, with those at the tippy-top being connected to foot traffic by the use of great sliding ladders the citizens of Wanderly scurried up and down like a colony of hardworking ants.
At the heart of it all, at the place that connected the self-proclaimed noble north side of Pigglesticks to the unapologetically seedy south side of Pigglesticks, was a store known, quite simply, as Wands and Broomsticks, Inc. Wands and Broomsticks, Inc., was the oldest magic-dealing establishment in all of Wanderly. It was also, not surprisingly, highly regulated by the Council.
It didn’t always used to be that way.
Before the Council stepped in, Wands and Broomsticks, Inc., did a fairly booming business. It was the central hub for new and fantastical sorts of spells that magical folks were eager to sell and trade. Others would gather round just for the fun of it. But such was no longer the case. The Council had severely limited the potency of the type of magic that could be sold in Wands and Broomsticks, Inc., citing the tired maxim: “If you can’t brew it, you likely don’t know how to use it,” and yada, yada, yada.
When Agnes Prunella Crunch breezed through the glass door with the annoying little chime, she was hardly surprised to find it empty, save for the on-the-clock magic dealer who had fallen asleep in his chair. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, and a glistening trail of drool dribbled down his chin.
Agnes turned up her nose. She hadn’t a single intention of seeking his assistance, but the clickety-clack of her witchy boots must have woken him. He tipped all the way over in his chair, thumped hard against the ground, and made a most unbecoming snarfling noise.
“Can I help you?” he called out.
Agnes didn’t bother answering.
A moment later, however, the stubborn little bugger shuffled to catch up with her and had the nerve to ask much more pointedly, “Can I help you?”
“NO,” Agnes said with a gusty exhale. The man’s face paled because, in addition to the scent of rotten quail eggs, you must remember how very many toothbrushes Agnes owned. (Hint: not one.) Nevertheless, he rushed to bob up and down alongside her again.
Agnes skidded to a halt. She turned full upon him. She thrummed up her most awful, horrible, terrifying smile—the one that showed every crooked tooth, and the bug legs stuck in between. Indeed, a witch’s smile is a most fearsome weapon! Remarkably, the man barely flinched.
Instead, he pushed his wiry glasses up along the bridge of his sweaty nose and gazed into the gaping black abyss of Agnes’s nostrils, because standing side by side with her, he barely reached the top of her well-rounded bosom.
“I’m afraid, ma’am, that in order to shop at our fine establishment, you must first request assistance. I see you are of . . . hmm.” He paused and narrowed his eyes a bit, as if in doing so, he could actually see past Agnes’s row of artfully stolen gold doubloon buttons; through the gnarled cage surrounding her stony, little heart; and into the twisted chambers of her heart itself. The magic dealer nodded with full certainty. “Yes, most definitely of the wicked variety. You will be shopping over there.” He gestured toward the half of the store that led out to the seedy south. It was cloaked in darkness. It swarmed with squeaking vampire bats. Beetles skittered about on the floor; a thin green haze was wafting about; a rickety wooden sign hanging from the ceiling said in scrawling script “Wicked Witches and Dark Magicians Only”; and it smelled as stale as a loaf of moldy bread.
The magic dealer prattled on, “You will not be disappointed with our latest additions. Why, just today, we received two vials of frog croaks, a gallon of serpent venom, and”—he drew near, like he was sharing a delicious secret—“a dragon’s toenail clipping!”
Agnes’s blood began to boil. “A dragon’s toenail clippin
g? Frog croaks? Serpent venom?” she screeched. “Do you even know who I am? I am AGNES PRUNELLA CRUNCH, and the day I need assistance procuring those beginner’s trinkets is the day I die a slow and miserable death!”
The magic dealer stared at her. He adjusted the name tag on his wrinkled shirt that read “Bob.” “Oh” was all he managed to say. And then, quite aggravatingly, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to even take a look at the toenail clipping? I think there’s a bit of fungus on it.”
Agnes leered at him. She wrapped her long, curly fingernails around the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Look, Bob—I once flew over to Snaggletooth Isles and trapped an entire full-grown dragon myself. Do you want to know what I did to it? I barbecued it! Limb by limb. So I’m not impressed by your toenail clipping. I came today for a laughing potion, and I bet my last eyeball it’s sitting on one of those shelves over there.”
Agnes jerked her head toward the noble north side of the store. It was full of light and sparkles. Glitter rained down periodically from the ceiling, and a kaleidoscope of colorful butterflies flitted in and out and sometimes even in the formation of hearts and rainbows. The delicate aroma of iced lemon cake abounded, a flowery sign posted along a white picket fence said in perfect penmanship “Wizards and Fairy Godmothers Are Welcome Here,” and a chorus of sweetly chirping birds burst spontaneously into song every few minutes.
Bob gulped. He tucked his chin against his chest and refused to meet Agnes’s gaze. Below his breath, he mumbled, “I’m smommy, dwat’s gingossible.”
“What did you say?” Agnes barked.
“I said,” he yelled out, but then grew terribly quiet again, “I’m smommy, dwat’s gingossible.”
Agnes stomped her foot. She stuck her hands on her hips. “I don’t give a hoot about your mommy and whoever Gingossible is. I want you to take me over there and get me a laughing potion, NOW!”