The Tragical Tale of Birdie Bloom

by Temre Beltz

  The Blue Dragon’s mouth fell open. “But—but—but none of that was really true. It was all a made-up story!” He lifted a bushy eyebrow at her. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Hogwash!” Ms. Crunch said. “We made it this far, didn’t we? Now, stop your dawdling and take her away, Blue!”

  The Blue Dragon stretched wide his mighty wings. With a new and decidedly determined tilt to his head, he reached out his claws and snatched Mistress Octavia up by her scrawny waist. She screeched and she shrieked, but soon, she was gone. And for the time being, the children felt something they had never felt before: they felt safe.

  Back on the Plank, Birdie knelt beside Sir Ichabod. She leaned her cheek against his rough fur and patted him in between his nubby horns. “Ms. Crunch, I don’t suppose you’ve got magic left enough to turn Sir Ichabod back into himself, do you? Even though he’s been freed from his curse, that can’t mean much considering he’s still a goat.”

  “Enough magic?” Ms. Crunch said. She paused to exchange a knowing glance with Pooky seated beside her. “Of course I’ve got enough magic left! I’ve got magic oozing out of my eyeballs. The real question is what kind of magic. As far as the good kind, I don’t have a whole lot of that. But I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

  Ms. Crunch lifted her hands but then stopped. “If I were you, I’d move it,” she said, gesturing for Birdie, Ralph, and Cricket to join the other children along the Plank.

  As the children ran past her, to Pooky’s wide-eyed horror, Sir Ichabod tried to gallop right along with them. Fortunately, Ms. Crunch caught him by the horn and tossed him back out in front before nary a delicate kitten paw could be trampled. “Don’t be a ninny!” she chided Sir Ichabod. “We’re doing this for you after all.”

  And she promptly turned him into . . . nothing.

  “Oh no!” Amelia cried out, throwing her small hands over her eyes. “He’s disappeared! He’s gone!”

  Looking the slightest bit smug, Pooky pranced over to investigate.

  “Wait! Hold on just a minute there. I see him!” Ms. Crunch said. “He’s that pipsqueak slug crawling about. I guess I better try again.”

  Ms. Crunch wriggled her fingers and turned him into . . . CRASH!

  A rhinoceros exploded onto the scene, wearing an astonished kitten! The Plank groaned; it began to split and crack. The children squealed and grabbed on to one another while Ms. Crunch wiped a bit of sweat off her brow. “Oh, goblin’s goo!” she said before closing her eyes and bending her knees and turning him into . . .

  “Sir Ichabod!” Birdie cried.

  And it was.

  Sir Ichabod slumped along the Plank, looking terribly exhausted, but whole and complete.

  “Sir Ichabod, you’re back!” Birdie said, rushing to his side. “And you’ve broken the curse! But how do you suppose you did it?”

  Sir Ichabod’s eyes shone, and his voice was thick. “It was just as you said, Birdie. I stopped believing I was merely a Tragical, and I acted instead like who I knew I could be, like who I always was.” Sir Ichabod paused and turned toward Ms. Crunch. “I owe you a great debt of thanks, as well.”

  “Hmph,” Ms. Crunch muttered. “Were you paying attention to the part where I turned you into a rhinoceros?”

  “Yes, and the slug, too,” Sir Ichabod said with a grin and a wink in Pooky’s direction.

  Though Birdie had never seen Sir Ichabod exude such joy, Pooky didn’t seem to appreciate it one bit. For there was nothing to be taken lightly about changing from a billy goat to a slug to a rhinoceros and back to a person all in one breath! Judging by Pooky’s unabashed stare, she would be keeping a close and careful watch on Sir Ichabod for quite some time.

  Ms. Crunch shrugged and got to shimmying and shaking her black garments all about. She dug her hands into her pockets. She fished out a few vines of black licorice and a perfectly moldy slime sandwich and tossed them over her shoulder. Finally, she located a small vial full of ash and prepared to uncork it.

  “What’s that, Ms. Crunch?” Birdie asked, with Cricket and Ralph by her side.

  “Evidence the last twenty-four hours was a total disaster! This here is all that remains of my broomstick. With Blue watching over Octavia, it’s my only way back to the Dead Tree Forest. It shouldn’t take more than a few household ingredients to cobble back together, but I’ll need a minute or two to raid your pantry.” Ms. Crunch spun on her heel and marched toward the trapdoor.

  But Birdie put her foot down. She gulped. Ever so softly, she said, “No.”

  Ms. Crunch continued to bustle around a few wide-eyed children. “Yes, well, like I said it should only be—” She paused. She turned to meet Birdie’s gaze. “Did you just tell me no?”

  Birdie’s heart began to pound. It was an awfully scary endeavor to tell a witch no. But Ms. Crunch wasn’t just a witch. She was her friend. Birdie had never been more certain of it. She nodded.

  Ms. Crunch’s eyes gleamed black as coal. “So you’re telling me that I hauled my witchy self to your awful mountain, got stuck on more than one occasion with that kid”—she jabbed her finger in Ralph’s direction—“had to hightail it out of Castle Matilda with hundreds of hissing witches spitting at me, went traipsing after a mopey dragon, pulled you and your little friend out of the Drowning Bucket, and you’re telling me I can’t spend a few minutes inside your creaky old house?”

  “Y-you said it yourself, Ms. Crunch. All those things you did. Things you did for me. Even when I let you down. Even when I left you behind. You never gave up on me.” Ms. Crunch opened her mouth in protest, but Birdie barreled on. “I know we’ve got room for all your things, and I bet we could even park your entire haunted cabin on the front lawn, but Ms. Crunch”—Birdie’s eyes filled with tears—“I really don’t want you to go away. I could search all of Wanderly and never find another friend just like you.”

  Ms. Crunch swallowed. Hard. “I warned you about using that F-word in person. It makes me feel itchy, it makes me feel—”

  “So this time I’m kidnapping you.”

  Ms. Crunch’s head snapped up. Birdie cleared her throat and corrected, “Er, witch-napping you.”

  “That’s not a thing,” Ms. Crunch said. “No one wants a witch.”

  “I do,” Birdie said. She looked around at the other children. Despite the fact that Ms. Crunch was the spitting image of all the terrible witches they’d read about in stories, they were trying to smile. Trying to nod. Trying to see what Birdie had seen from the very beginning. Because friends see more than what’s right in front of them. “We do,” she corrected herself.

  Ms. Crunch’s cheeks flushed. The ends of her purple hair began to curl. She was having a hard time spitting out words. “Well, then, you—I mean, all of you—are . . . are even more Tragical than the Chancellor’s led everyone to believe! Whoever heard of a witch caring for orphans?”

  Sir Ichabod took a step forward. “Speaking of the Chancellor, I daresay Birdie might have a very necessary idea. I fear we shall only be able to cover up Mistress Octavia’s absence for so long. When the Chancellor realizes she’s gone, if there is no one here to protect the children, what shall become of them?”

  Birdie shivered. She thought back to Mistress Octavia’s Room of Sinister Plotting. She thought back to the plaque beneath the Chancellor’s portrait. She thought back to Mistress Octavia’s letters soaring chaotically around the room. Dear Uncle . . . Even if the Chancellor never bothered to visit, family was family, wasn’t it? And the Chancellor already despised the Tragicals; surely the overthrow of Mistress Octavia would be the perfect excuse for revenge.

  Ms. Crunch crossed her arms against her chest. “If you’re that worried, why not ship them off Tragic Mountain?”

  “Because it would be mere weeks, maybe even days, before the Council finds and returns them. Or worse.”

  Ms. Crunch jutted her chin into the air. “Why does it have to be me?”

  “Perhaps the better question is, why shouldn’t it be you?” Sir
Ichabod said.

  Birdie took several steps in Ms. Crunch’s direction.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ms. Crunch said.

  “I already told you. I’m witch-napping you. And . . .” Birdie paused. She cleared her throat. In her strongest and most authoritative voice, she continued, “And you should think twice about putting up a fight. There’s no reason for this to get ugly.”

  “Ugly, huh?” Ms. Crunch said, wrinkling up her face, twitching her hairy warts, and sticking out her squiggly tongue.

  But with Ralph and Cricket following closely behind, Birdie kept moving forward.

  She thrust her hand out in front of her.

  She slipped it into Ms. Crunch’s gnarled, crooked one.

  And Ms. Crunch, for once, was speechless.

  “Come on, now,” Birdie said, pulling Ms. Crunch toward the trapdoor leading into Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical. “It’s long past time we all went home.”

  “Home?” Ms. Crunch croaked.

  “Home,” Birdie said.

  And that is exactly what they did.

  The witch, the butler, the one-eyed kitten, and the children formerly known as Tragicals slipped into the manor one by one. The manor let out a long, happy sigh, and the Winds of Wanderly twirled through the sky, pausing merely once to close the door behind them ever so gently.

  Epilogue

  Hello, again.61

  I bet you thought I would say goodbye.

  Books, however, never say goodbye. Not merely because after so much time spent together, the idea of farewell makes us hopelessly teary, but for the quite obvious reason that we haven’t any legs and can’t budge an inch on our own.

  And so, my story rests wholly in your hands.

  You may wish to lend me to a friend, potential friend (books are fantastic conversation starters), or even a so-called enemy (let us not forget how things turned out with our favorite tattletale, Francesca). You may wish to grab the nearest sheet of paper (I hear in your world paper is readily available without a single restriction!) and pen a brand-new tale because words, whether you happen to live in a storybook kingdom or not, have a magic all their own. You may wish to talk about me with your family (pet snails make extraordinary listeners, by the way) or write a letter to someone far, far away like Agnes did.

  I know you will make the right choice.62

  And once you have finished, I shall still be here.

  Waiting.

  Always and ever ready to say:

  “Hello.”63

  Acknowledgments

  Much like Agnes’s first letter, this book began as little more than a hope cast into the wind. It is my great joy that the incomparable Molly O’Neill answered. Molly, thank you for taking a leap of faith on me. Neither Birdie nor I would be the same without your astounding talent, wisdom, kindness, and wholehearted generosity. Of course, as Pooky would adamantly insist, an extra special thanks to Captain Von Smooch, who is tops among all “feline literary assistants.”

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Stephanie Stein, who kindly read this story, believed it could be a real book, and then magically transformed it into one! I have no doubt that among fairy godmothers in Wanderly, you would be the very best. Thank you for making my lifelong dream come true.

  My deepest thanks goes to the entire team at HarperCollins. Thank you for pouring your talents and time into this book. I am especially grateful to cover designer Jessie Gang and artist Melissa Manwill, who captured Birdie so perfectly it still brings tears to my eyes. Thank you to copy editors Jon Howard and Jeannie Ng for their extraordinary attention to detail. Much thanks to Erica Sussman for supporting and believing in this book from the start. Thank you to Vaishali Nayak and Jacquelynn Burke for their dedication in connecting this book with readers. Thank you to Kristen Eckhardt for so diligently overseeing production from beginning to end. And thank you to Louisa Currigan for keeping all the very many strings tied so neatly together.

  Thank you to the entire staff at Root Literary Agency. You inspire me every day with your passion for books, their makers, and their readers. And special thanks to Heather Baror for her work in bringing books into children’s hands all around the globe, giving Birdie wings!

  I am ever so grateful to the one-of-a-kind Liesl Shurtliff for her kindness, generosity, and support. Liesl, as a writer I have learned much from you, and as a reader I am utterly delighted by your stories.

  Mom and Dad, I’m not sure it’s possible to thank someone for an entire lifetime of love and support, but please know how much I love you both. Mom, thank you especially for your contagious passion for books and love for others—it helped shaped my dreams and my heart.

  And thank you to my little family. This book, and this dream, would be absolutely impossible without you. Jerad, you are my best friend and my forever love. My favorite place will always be right beside you. Ellie and Violet, I love you so much it makes my mama heart burst! Thank you for being the best daughters ever simply by being you.

  Finally, thank you to each reader who has chosen to journey alongside Birdie, her friends, and one rather chatty book. As Sir Ichabod would say, a book is not truly a book until it has found a reader, and you, dearest readers, are so much more than this writer ever hoped for.

  About the Author

  Kendall Haines Photography

  TEMRE BELTZ used to work as a lawyer but never outgrew her childhood love of fairy tales (or chocolate chip cookies!). Temre lives in sunny California with her husband, two daughters, two fancy rats, one guinea pig, and one chocolate lab named Dusty. She loves to read bedtime stories to them all. You can visit Temre online at www.temrebeltz.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Copyright

  THE TRAGICAL TALE OF BIRDIE BLOOM. Text copyright © 2019 by Temre Beltz. Illustrations by Melissa Manwill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  www.harpercollinschildrens.com

  Cover art © 2019 by Melissa Manwill

  Cover design by Jessie Gang

  * * *

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018958457

  Digital Edition MARCH 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-283585-7

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-283583-3 (trade bdg.)

  * * *

  192021223CG/LSCH10987654321

  FIRST EDITION

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  1. It is a pleasure to meet you. Truly. Life as a book is not as easy as one might think. A book waits. A book waits some more. Sometimes a book waits for years. And then one day, a reader much like yourself happens upon it. Plucks the book right off the shelf and opens it up. I am glad you have chosen me.

  2. I promise there is much more to me than a single line on every page. So much, in fact, that I sometimes cannot say all that needs to be said within the story (especially when that story happens to involve a witch). So I have given you notes. Footnotes. Not because books have any grand delusions of skipping about the way humans sometimes do, but simply because they are found at the bottoms of the pages. Also, considering you have already gone and found my footnotes, I doubly like you. You are not only a reader—you are a very smart reader! We shall get along splendidly.

  3. Mud pie was Agnes’s favorite. Lest you nod eagerly because you love it too, let me inform you that Agnes’s mud pie was not the sort you order in a restaurant. It was not even the sandy sort you might make on the playground. It was the real deal. Real, stinking, goopy mud with a few juicy worms tossed in for good measure.

  4. But this, of course, was impossible. Like every book in Wanderly, The Book of Evil Deeds was penned by a carefully trained scribe and personally inspected by Wanderly’s infamous ruler, the Chancellor. This was likely why most witches tossed The Book of Evil Deeds out with yesterday’s dinner carcass.

  5. Fear not, dear reader! Books rarely lash out of their own accord and instead use their hefty weight merely for defensive purposes.

  6. For example, what witch in her right mind would ever giggle instead of cackle? And if a witch couldn’t commit at least three evil deeds a year, was she even a witch at all?