by Temre Beltz
“Maybe,” Ralph said. “But Birdie deserves to live. And that’s why you’re going to free him and”—Ralph took a deep breath—“that’s why he’s going to fly us back to Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical. He’ll get us there as fast as your broomstick would have. You still can’t brew that laughing potion you were after, but, well, he’s a dragon! A huge dragon! That ought to count for something.”
The Blue Dragon couldn’t shake his head fast enough.
“Ack! I mean, eek! I mean, no way!” The Blue Dragon took a breath. He slid Agnes down the tip of his snout and gently pushed her in Ralph’s direction while depositing the remnants of her broomstick into a little vial Agnes capped with a snarl. “In other words, thank you very much for the offer, but I’ve heard quite enough about this Birdie of yours and her impending death. I don’t like the sound of that Tragical place, and I’m not a fan of any sort of foul weather. Indeed, this whole episode has proven to be terribly anxiety inducing, and perhaps I’m more accustomed to a life of complete and total isolation than I thought. So, good luck to you, and ta-ta!”
Agnes plunked the vial beneath her pinafore and placed her hands on her hips. “Sorry, Blue. The kid’s right. You owe me big-time. And anyways, you said yourself you’ve been dreaming of this day for twelve long years. If I can figure out a way to free you, then the least you can do is figure out how to scare Octavia Foulweather silly.”
The Blue Dragon gulped. “But I’m not scary. I’m gassy.”
“You’re still a dragon!” Agnes said.
“Real dragons aren’t gassy.”
“Well, you’re certainly not a fake dragon.”
“How can you be so certain? The Chancellor says—”
Agnes stomped her foot on the ground. Her cheeks caught fire. Her hands tingled, and she shrieked at the top of her lungs, “If one more person tells me one more time that the Chancellor says this or the Chancellor says that, I’m going to SCREAM!”
Ralph cleared his throat. “You are screaming. Already. Just saying.”
Agnes hissed in Ralph’s direction before turning back to the Blue Dragon. “Be a gassy dragon!”
The Blue Dragon met Agnes’s gaze. “Be a good witch,” he said.
Agnes’s eyes widened. How maddening! What an impossibility! There was nothing good about a witch. Didn’t the Blue Dragon know anything?
But her small stony heart beat faster.
Her small stony heart beat out words.
Words Agnes had been collecting. Words that made Agnes wonder. Words that were good . . . weren’t they?
I like you. Trust. Friend.
Agnes was sure she never used to have anything good inside of her. But that was before she met Birdie. That was before she became a friend. And now that good had become a part of her. Oh, it was a meager offering to be sure, and nothing compared to the decades of dark deeds that trickled through her veins, but maybe a wee bit of light would be enough; maybe a wee bit of goodness could find a way to shine even in someone like Agnes.
Agnes felt the familiar crackle and pop of magic. It raced up her bones and warmed itself in her fingertips. A shiver rippled down her spine, and she wet her lips in anticipation. She thought of the best thing she knew. She thought of friendship. And she loosed her magic on the Blue Dragon with a great and mighty whoosh!
The impact knocked Agnes to her knees. She hovered low with her face inches from the mud.
And the Blue Dragon rose up. The Blue Dragon flapped his wings.
The Blue Dragon was free. . . .
Agnes was too.
The Blue Dragon flapped his wings over Agnes. The leaves of the trees rippled back and forth in celebration, and Agnes’s purple hair whipped about. Still on the ground, she turned her face up.
The witch marveled.
“Look at me!” the Blue Dragon exclaimed. “Look at me!”
Ralph laughed out loud. He revved up his hands and feet as if fully prepared to take a flying leap onto the back of the Blue Dragon, but he paused. He looked over his shoulder and held out his hand to Agnes.
“Come on,” he said. “We better hurry up before he takes off without us.”
Agnes nodded, but then, at the very last moment, yanked Ralph hard enough that he plopped down in the mud beside her.
“Sucker!” she said with a gleeful snort. She pressed her hand on his head for leverage and launched herself into the driver’s seat atop Blue. Once Ralph lifted his scowling self out of the swamp sludge, and Pooky nestled into Agnes’s lap for a long overdue snooze, Agnes dug her heels into the Blue Dragon’s scaly sides.
“Yee-haw! Spread your wings, Blue. It’s time to go save Birdie!” she bellowed.
And so they went. Despite the unlikeliest of circumstances, and the strangest of companions, for the first time in over a decade, the Blue Dragon soared with the Winds of Wanderly whistling beneath his wings.
Twenty-One
An Extraordinary Explosion of Glitter
Birdie knelt beneath the glow of a candlelit sconce.
It glowed brighter, stronger than normal. As if the manor were preparing for battle.
Birdie knew she had precious little time before Cricket’s life would be dangling from the Drowning Bucket. But there was one last thing she had to do. And quickly!
Birdie pulled her nubby pencil free from her pocket and flattened out the final sheet of paper tucked within her gown.
Dear Ms. Crunch,
I can’t believe we finally got to meet. You’re a lot like what I pictured. But possibly even more impressive-looking. I’m not trying to butter you up. Because, honestly, I can’t imagine there’s any amount of buttering in the whole world that will make up for what I’ve put you through.
Ms. Crunch, I didn’t want to leave you behind at Castle Matilda.
I really, really didn’t.
But I was so confused. And Ralph was so . . . nearly cooked. I came all that way to save him, and it just wouldn’t have made sense to put his life in danger a second time. Ralph doesn’t remember a whole lot of what happened, except he did say he thought you never meant to hurt anyone. Especially not me. Considering Ralph’s not a big fan of witches, this is especially meaningful.
Anyways, I’m back at the manor, right where I started. I’m about to take Cricket’s place in the Drowning Bucket, because it was always supposed to be me in there. It’s funny how all this time I’ve been fearing my Tragic End, but now that it’s here, it’s not nearly so scary as I imagined it would be.
I owe a lot of that to you. For a long time I thought it was your magic making things different, but now I realize it wasn’t just about storm clouds and spiders, but about friendship. Friendship changes things just like magic does, and maybe even more. Your friendship changed me.
And that’s my main reason for writing. Because even if things look the same on the outside, everything is different on the inside. And it turns out that’s what matters most of all. I hope it’s the same for you, Ms. Crunch. I hope now you know you’re more than just a witch. I hope you never ever forget it. I know I’ll never ever forget you.
Your BFF (I hope it’s okay to call myself that),
Birdie
PS: If you think of it, maybe you can check in on the other Tragicals from time to time? That’s probably asking a lot, but if Mistress Octavia gets nastier after I’m gone, they’re really gonna need somebody.
Birdie swiped at her eyes and tried not to think about the look on Ms. Crunch’s face when Birdie left her behind at Castle Matilda. She folded the letter for safekeeping, tucked it into her black gown, and slipped down the hallway in the direction of the dormitory. Birdie intended to move quietly, but the manor wouldn’t have it. The manor celebrated Birdie’s return as if she were the star of a parade. The candles flickered, the curtains wriggled, and the echo of Birdie’s footsteps was magnified like a round of thunderous applause. If Birdie hadn’t been trying to steer clear of Mistress Octavia, it would have been terribly flattering, but all she could
think to do was move faster.
And so she picked up her feet. The manor spurred her along. Before Birdie knew it, she was skipping. She skipped right through the Dark Hallway and past the row of Council portraits knocked so far askew they could barely see straight. She skipped right past the library with the boarded-up window, where a little wisp of the Winds of Wanderly swept alongside her. She skipped right up to the dormitory with the dim light Sir Ichabod always kept burning and pushed against the door Mistress Octavia never bothered to lock. By the time Birdie burst into the room, her chest was heaving, her cheeks were glowing, and not one thing about her looked the slightest bit Tragical.
The other children were gathered in the center of the room, piled on two separate beds, holding tight to one another. Cricket was at the center of it all, and when she saw Birdie, a cry escaped her lips.
She rolled off the bed. She held a hand out in Birdie’s direction.
“Birdie,” Cricket asked. “I-is it you?”
Birdie rushed toward Cricket and threw her arms around her. “Yes, and it turned out just as we hoped!” Birdie paused and looked at the other Tragicals. “Because of each of you, I found my way to the Annual Witches’ Ball. And Ralph is safe now.”
Cricket looked around Birdie’s shoulder. “Safe?” she echoed. “But where is he, then?”
“He—he’s bringing help. He should be back here any minute, I’m sure.”
“You didn’t stay with him?” Cricket asked, wide-eyed. “Did Mistress Octavia send someone after you? Did the witches drop you off? Did—”
Birdie placed her hand on Cricket’s arm. “Cricket, it was me. The Council cloak took me here because I asked it to.”
“But why?”
Birdie cast an appreciative glance in Francesca’s direction and said to Cricket, “Because friends are meant to be together.”
“No,” Cricket cried, shaking her head to and fro. “Mistress Octavia—the Drowning Bucket! You were supposed to be safe. All of this was going to be okay because you were supposed to be free!”
“What makes you think that’s not still true?”
Cricket looked up at Birdie with tears in her eyes. “Because you’re here.”
“Being free isn’t just about where you are; it’s about what you believe. Mistress Octavia can do all sorts of things to us, but she can’t change what we know is true. And no matter what she says, no matter what she does, we’re not nobodies. We’re children. We’re friends. And I don’t think Wanderly ever meant to write us out of the story.”
The door to the dormitory crashed against the wall.
The lantern fell clean off its hook, and a puddle of wax spilled onto the floor. Miraculously, the flame did not go out. If Mistress Octavia had eyes to see, she would have gladly snuffed it with her boot, but she did not. Instead, she stormed right past the lantern with her nostrils flared. Birdie placed herself in front of Cricket and scooted them both backward.
Mistress Octavia pricked her finger hard into Birdie’s chest.
“You noisy little thief!” she hissed. “What an audacious return you’ve made. Now give me back my cloak!”
Birdie swallowed. She reached beneath the collar of her gown. The brilliant purple fabric spilled out of her hands, and Mistress Octavia snatched it away. “I-I’m sorry. I think it might be a bit broken,” Birdie said.
Nevertheless, Mistress Octavia slipped it across her shoulders, and her eyes narrowed. “Did you bring that ridiculous witch with you? Is she here somewhere?”
“It’s only me, ma’am. And I was hoping you might change your mind about my punishment.”
Mistress Octavia sucked up a sharp breath. “Change my mind? Oh, but I already have. And it’s all so utterly tragical! With your return, not one but two will meet their dooms. Today, you and Cricket will go down in the Drowning Bucket! Today will be a Tragic End for you both!”
The Tragicals gasped.
A wave of cold washed over Birdie. It was what Sir Ichabod had predicted; it was the precise tragedy he was trying to save her from. But the reality of it made her knees buckle.
“Please,” Birdie whispered. “Please. Cricket didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I was the one who did everything. You don’t have to punish her when I’m standing right here! Let it be me. Just me.”
Mistress Octavia smiled her awful smile. “This is just about you, Birdie. All because of you. No one cares for Tragicals. No one. And because you so obviously care for Cricket, she has to die too. If you bothered to take the rules seriously, none of this would have to happen. Now, come along, children, it would be rude to leave our guests waiting.”
Francesca’s head snapped up at the unfamiliar word. “Guests?” she said. “But we never have gu—”
“Shut your mouth, you little traitor!” Mistress Octavia hissed. “And line up! All of you! Slouch your shoulders and trudge!”
The children filed into line and trudged down the hallway as they had so many times before. At the helm, Mistress Octavia kept her eyes fixed forward, but she lashed out at the walls with her broken broomstick every now and again as if she sensed the manor’s disloyalty. With each mighty whack, the children flinched.
Except for Birdie.
All Birdie could think about was who the guests might be. Had Mistress Octavia finally convinced the Chancellor to come and visit the manor? Or would it be a reporter from the Wanderly Whistle eager to see a Tragical meet their doom? Whoever it would be, Birdie was trying to stay focused. She was trying to plan. She was trying not to despair because until she and Cricket were scuttling toward the Black Sea inside of the Drowning Bucket, she had learned the value of time.
The children climbed up the ladder leading toward the trapdoor.
Mistress Octavia used her broken broomstick to push the door open, and the raucous sound of hissing and spitting tumbled near. As the children climbed up the ladder and onto the Plank, Birdie could see the guests weren’t Council members or reporters, but a nasty handful of witches from Castle Matilda.
A shrill, wild cackle erupted behind Birdie, and she wondered if Ms. Crunch had come back too. If in the hour Birdie needed her most, Ms. Crunch would come through for them all! But when Birdie whirled around, she didn’t catch a single glimpse of Ms. Crunch’s unruly purple hair, jaunty hat, or exceptionally large and warty nose.
Mistress Octavia called over her shoulder, “See any one you know, Birdie? I daresay you have done me a service by so foolishly returning. It would have been heartbreaking to send these unusually patient witches home without a full meal. They’re starving, you know. My only condition was I drown you first before they dig in!”
Several of the younger children began to cry. Great, big, sniffling tears rolled down their sunken cheeks. The witches surrounding the Plank squealed in delight, clicking their heels beneath their broomsticks and pumping their wicked fists in anticipation. The older children, with trembling chins, stretched their hands out to the younger ones. Soon, all the Tragicals were linked like a tightly wound chain. At last, they had learned what to do. They had learned how to comfort one another. They had learned they were stronger together.
And just like that, Birdie remembered the letter in her pocket. The last letter she would ever send to Ms. Crunch. However unremarkable a single letter seemed, Birdie knew better than to underestimate anything surrendered to the Winds of Wanderly. Birdie reached her hand toward her gown, but Mistress Octavia ripped Birdie and Cricket away from the line of Tragicals and shoved them in the direction of the Drowning Bucket.
At the end of the Plank, the Drowning Bucket lunged against its metal chain. It clashed and clanged three hundred jaw-dropping feet above the swirling Black Sea. Cricket buried her damp cheeks against Birdie’s gown.
“I’m so scared, Birdie! I’m so scared!” Cricket whispered over and over.
“Faster! Walk faster!” Mistress Octavia screeched.
“Faster! Faster!” the witches hissed in unison, all of them floating with narrowed eyes gleam
ing eerily.57
“Birdie, what are we gonna do? There must be something we can do!” Cricket said.
Birdie bit her lip. Mistress Octavia leaped onto a small platform near the Plank that held the Drowning Bucket’s pulley system. Mistress Octavia placed her hands upon the wheel and barked, “Get in! Get in, now!”
Cricket shook her head vehemently back and forth, and Birdie placed her hands on Cricket’s shoulders. “Remember, fear isn’t what’s most important. Friendship—friendship is bigger. We have each other. We’re together. And I promise I won’t let go of you.”
“Wait!” a hoarse voice cried out.
Birdie and Cricket turned toward the trapdoor. Sir Ichabod’s large nose poked free, and he swung himself onto the Plank. His medallion thumped heavy against his chest as he scrambled down the Plank in their direction. None other than Sprinkles, who had also been hiding in the dungeon since the spinning wheel incident, was positioned proudly on Sir Ichabod’s shoulder.
“Go back to your hiding spot, Tragical!” Mistress Octavia hissed at him.
All around, the witches jeered in agreement.
Sir Ichabod tucked his long, scraggly hair behind his ears. Though he trembled, he met Mistress Octavia’s gaze. “No,” he said.
“No? No? But you can’t tell me no!” Mistress Octavia shrieked.
“I am not just a Tragical,” Sir Ichabod said. “I never was. I am a grown-up, and I won’t let you hurt these children. Not anymore.”
And, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, the medallion slipped free from Sir Ichabod’s neck.
Sir Ichabod’s face was alight! But before he had even a moment to celebrate, the green-haired witch with the awful tooth swooped near and shrieked, “Actually, you look a whole lot more like a billy goat than a grown-up to me!” With a lazy twirl of her crooked finger, she transformed Sir Ichabod into exactly that.
“No!” Birdie cried out. “Sir Ichabod! Sir Ichabod, is it still you? Can you still hear me?”
The billy goat swimming in Sir Ichabod’s tattered gray garments turned its head miserably in Birdie’s direction. “Baaaaa,” it bleated pitifully, while a wide-eyed Sprinkles bounded down the Plank, scrambled bravely over Mistress Octavia’s boot, and soared through the air where he landed in Cricket’s waiting hands.