Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Nettle pushed herself to her knees, marvelling at how she’d survived the fireball. It was a moment later when she noticed how silent the kitchen seemed. Claudine was openly gaping. Stunned and bewildered.

  It was Jack who spoke first, his voice a baffled whisper. “Run.”

  Nettle lurched to her feet, just as the red door blew open. Dolcie stood in the doorframe, her hand holding a vibrating wooden spoon. “What’s going on?!”

  Nettle took one frightened look over her shoulder and fled. She threw herself through the swing-doors that led to the stairwell. She could have taken the door to the beauty annex and kept running for home but there was no way she was going to leave Jazz behind. She had to rescue her cousin and had a fair idea she’d find her upstairs in the sisters’ private quarters. They just might be able to get out through a window and climb their way out of this.

  Nettle ran, stumbling up the flight of stairs, her heart hammering.

  Inside the sisters’ quarters, she slammed the door shut, but there was no bolt. She frantically looked about the kitchen. What else? Her gaze lit upon the dining table. She ran over and dragged a chair back to the door to lean awkwardly on two legs to prop under the door handle. It might hold them for a bit.

  She took a couple of small steps backward, she could hear clattering footfalls coming up the stairs. They’re here!

  Nettle hurried through the living room to the hallway, pushing open Claudine’s bedroom, a feeling of excited anticipation came upon her at finally finding Jazz, quickly dropping away to confusion. There was no one in the bedroom, just the dressmakers dummy with Jazz’s outfit. The other bedrooms proved empty too. A moment of horrifying uncertainty came over Nettle, she felt leaden under its weight. What if I can’t find her in time?

  She heard a sudden noise, dulled by the distance from the kitchen, something big had hit the front door. Nettle’s heart jolted and her mouth went dry. What will they do to me?

  A weird sound of scratching and clicking came from behind the walls. The noise sounded as if it was travelling upward, scuttling past her overhead. It was the same sort of noise Nettle had heard when she’d visited Jazz in Claudine’s bedroom a few days ago. Whatever it was, it seemed to be heading in the direction of the end of the hallway where the fifth door stood. A wave of overwhelming gratitude washed through her being. Renewed hope buoyed her spirits.

  The Atelier!

  Jazz has to be in there!

  The door swung open with a creak.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Atelier

  The place where Nettle presumed the Atelier was actually revealed itself to be another stairwell, with books lining the walls, that led up to the third floor. She barred the door, drawing the bolt. She wouldn’t have very much time, the sisters would check the quarters first before looking for her up here. She quietly stole up the staircase, hoping not to be heard - she knew Margot had to be lurking somewhere inside.

  The Atelier took up the entire third floor with a gaping hole in the centre of the roof. Sunlight streaked through the hole. That’s weird, she thought, surely the elements would damage everything in here. Rainwater would make a damp soggy mess of everything, even the wind might stir up what was inside. But everything seemed to be in pristine condition.

  It was a large room, divided up like a rabbit warren with tall shelves and bookcases and tall things covered in dust sheets. Nettle walked softly, edging toward what she hoped was the far side of the room where she might find Jazz and a means of escape through a window. The Atelier was cluttered with all manner of things: shelves filled with candles, various skulls – animal and human and faerie; vials with crushed insects and odd slimy creatures still alive, liquids and powders and gases; toe and finger joints; daggers and knives and swords; ancient tomes; goblets; sawn off horns and bowls of teeth.

  What was this place? Claudine had said it was where they tested things for their tea house but it looked nothing like a test kitchen. It looked more like… a witches lair…

  There came a horrible snapping sound directly behind her. The fine hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She went to turn around, slowly, when whatever it was caught hold of her jacket. Nettle nearly screamed. She caught herself in time. She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket, but whatever it was held tight. It was some sort of crustaceous arm – black with thick bristles and a pincher - poking out from between the bars of a cage. It was fierce and strong and it pulled at her, tugging her close. To her growing horror, Nettle saw it was a hideous creature, a large tick-like thing the size of a small dog, snapping and biting at her. Its thorax was a sack, shrivelled like a deflated balloon. The fabric of her jacket tore and Nettle wrenched herself free. The tick’s pincher snapped around the material and dragged it back inside the cage and Nettle had a sense that it was mad with starvation, as it stuffed the material into its mouth. She pressed herself away from the cage, careful to keep her distance from the tick thing. She scuttled away.

  The next area held a heavy oak table, nicked and worn, encrusted with candle-wax. On top sat several scrolls, a miniature cauldron, scales, and a chopping block with vicious knives scattered about. Nettle drifted close to inspect a scroll. Something crunched underfoot. She glanced down, and drew back her foot. There were trimmings of something spiky and brown on the floor. Nettle realized, with a sickening feeling, that it was bits of broken shell with grey rotten flesh still attached.

  She steeled herself and inched forward to look over a scroll. Someone had drawn a night sky, indicating celestial bodies. Beside the scroll there was a note written in a heavy hand. It was pinned on the table with an ornate candle holder so most of the note was hidden, but a few lines were revealed.

  When the dead dance upon the earth

  Find the bones of those you seek

  A vessel named

  Nettle’s stomach grew ice cold. What is this? A spell?

  Then she saw something on the table – white and quite envelop-ish. Didn’t Barber Tuttlebee have something for Claudine in a white envelope? The end was slightly open and she could see something stuffed inside that looked distinctively red. Is that Jazz’s hair?

  Nettle was just about to call out for her cousin when she heard a muffled voice – Margot!

  Nettle edged closer to a tall bookcase that blocked her view of the other side, and very slyly peered around. Margot stood in front of the only window in the room, the morning sunlight cast her figure into a blinding silhouette, brightening her hair to a fiery copper. Thankfully Margot hadn’t noticed she’d entered the Atelier, she was too busy addressing somebody that Nettle couldn’t see. She was saying, “Welcome, welcome my Lady. Welcome.”

  A flurry of black beetles swarmed into the Atelier through cracks in the walls, congregating into an enormous sinuous ball before the sister. As the beetles swarmed together in a concentrated, synchronized manner, always moving, flowing around one another, the way they rubbed against one another allowed them to mimic a spoken voice. The voice sounded grating but audible. “Do you have all in order?”

  Nettle shrank back, puzzled. What was going on?

  Margot sunk into a curtsey. “We have possession of the blood sacrifice.” Nettle’s blood ran cold. Dad?! Margot was still speaking. “The mining has almost reached the Heart and we are confident of obtaining it before All Hallows’ Eve.”

  The ball of beetles grew bigger as more insects joined the horde, an incandescent shimmering sphere of blacks and greens and blues. Its voice reverberated around the Atelier. “Unearthing the Heart is a delicate procedure. Gradlow will oversee it. We cannot afford the Heart to be disturbed or awakened in any way.”

  Margot inclined her head in deference. “Of course, my lady.”

  “And the dagger?” The creature asked.

  Margot’s back was to Nettle, so she couldn’t see Margot’s expression, but from the lengthy hesitation, she guessed the sister was reluctant to reply. “Dolcie is making progress, but the fae is hard to break.”

  The
beetles clicked and grinded and said, “We need those Tears.”

  “Be assured, we will wrangle enough to make the dagger by the time we have need of it.”

  “Well and good then, everything is as planned.”

  Margot inclined her head once more. “Yes, my lady.”

  It was only then, as the ball of insects collapsed, as they scuttled back through the gaps in the walls in which they came did Nettle realize with a lurch, that Jazz wasn’t in the Atelier. Claudine must have been lying… Lying through her rotten teeth! All this time, Jazz must have been in the kitchen, in the other room with the red door! Nettle frantically wondered what to do, how to get out of here. But it was too late. She heard the Atelier’s door burst open and footsteps stomping up the staircase. She was trapped.

  All sorts of thoughts were running through her - the sisters at the forefront – their hunger for Jazz, their desire to possess her father. The lies that dripped from their tongues like molten honey, sticky and sweet, and they’d caught her like they’d intended. Something exploded within, surging through her, something primeval and honest and pure. Rage. She felt the blood in her veins catch fire with a fierce kind of fury. She screamed, a bloodcurdling screech of wrath.

  Nettle stalked out of her hiding place.

  Margot swivelled around caught completely unaware.

  Nettle grabbed the first solid thing that presented itself to her, it was the enormous deformed skull of a troll.

  “What are you-” was all Margot got out because Nettle was running at her, her features contorted with blinding rage.

  Nettle threw the skull at her. Not so much wanting to hit her, but because Margot stood in front of the only window in the Atelier.

  Margot ducked out of the way and the window behind her exploded outward, the shards of glass raining upon the ground below like deadly icicles.

  Through the open window was a tree. She could make it, she was positive she could. Nettle ran as fast and as fleet-footed as she could. There was nothing in her mind but to reach that tree. She flew past Margot and hurtled out the window, just as Claudine screeched, “Stop her!”

  Only as she soared through the window did Nettle realize with a horrid jolt, that she’d misjudged the distance to the tree. It was a strange sort of sensation, falling, her limbs flailing, as if she could grab hold of something substantial. As she plummeted to the ground, she squeezed shut her eyes. It was unlikely she would survive the fall, she knew that - the Atelier was too high.

  The impact seemed to her like she was experiencing it in slow motion. It was her shoulder that hit the ground first, cracking against wood, pain shooting through her arm and chest; her neck dipped forward, then whipped back and for a split second she was confused. Surely she should have slammed headfirst into brick, not wood? Then the strangest of sensations - she bounced upward to fall again and be safely caught.

  Opening her eyes she found she was less than a meter from the cobbled ground, cradled by branches that had woven themselves together like netting. But how was that possible? She thought the tree had been too far away. She saw that the tree trunk was leaning over to such a degree, its roots were half exposed, as if it had reached out to catch her fall.

  The sisters were leaning out the uppermost window, shrieking at her. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, her mind was befuddled with how the tree had saved her life.

  Nettle tumbled from the tree’s branches and landed awkwardly below. She staggered down the tea house’s alleyway, reaching the cobblestone path. She tore down the flight of stairs, frightened and terrified, pushing her way through laughing crowds, and locals going about their daily duties. Except now as she shoved her way though, she didn’t see bright friendly jugglers and singers or helpful shop owners; instead their sunken features looked sinister, their gazes covetous.

  The Crone had warned her to be wary and at the time she hadn’t understood the significance. The old woman had said the Balfreys’ were going to take what they wanted, and what they wanted was her father and Jazz. A horrified sick feeling came over her as she realized that it had been her who’d thoughtlessly handed them over to the sisters, without any qualms.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Jack Bedden-Trogg

  It was eerily quiet out on the front porch. The forest’s bleak mood suited the present situation; the overcast sky enshrouded the cottage in a gloomy light and the mist, rising in grey wisps, created a world of shadows.

  Bram sat next to Nettle. The golden hue of his skin had bleached and grown sickly, and his intense blue eyes had shifted to the murky colour of a wind-whipped lake. He rubbed at his eyes, his knuckles pushing beneath the lenses of this glasses causing the spectacles to bob up and down.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He’d found his sister on the porch a good while ago, sitting in a stupor. As far as he could tell she’d made it as far as the top step where she’d slumped against the porch railing, sliding to the boards and kind-of sat there like a broken doll, staring vacantly ahead, into nothing that he could see. She was adrift in her own little world and everything he’d tried couldn’t snap her out of it.

  At first he’d asked plenty of questions, begging her to respond; finally yelling, shaking her by the shoulders, pinching an arm. On Quary’s advice, he’d even given her a good slap – which he now suspected was just something to entertain the spriggan - his fingers had marked her cheek a brilliant cherry red. But it elicited no response, not even a flicker of an eyelid. Nothing. She remained as still as a statue, her bewildered expression just as frozen.

  “Nettle, come on…” He took her clammy limp hands in his own. “Tell me what’s happened.” What was he to do? She was his big sister, she had always been there looking out for him. He leaned his head on her shoulder. She smelt of citrus soap and the familiar trace of cinnamon. “I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice cracking, tears stinging his eyes.

  Egnatius placed a hand gently on his back. Bram straightened, and even though he hastily rubbed at his eyes before turning, when his gaze met the elderly spriggans, his eyes still shone with tears. Egnatius’s wizened face was etched with pity. He said softly, “There’s little you can do, lad. She’ll come out of it in her own time.”

  Bram gave a curt nod, his mouth pressed together in a hard line as he struggled not to cry and lost. He watched as Egnatius slowly hobbled back inside the cottage. He assumed the old spriggan was right, but how much time do we have? His gaze fell downward to linger on the porch’s floorboards, his fingers chipped away at the flaking paint. Nettle’s state really had him worried - could it have to do with Jazz? Had something terrible happened to her? Jazz was a jerk at times, but he’d never wish her ill - although she probably would hate to hear it from him - he actually cared for her. She was his only cousin after all.

  Spix came to sit down beside him and silently handed him a handkerchief. Bram took it, giving his friend a ghost of a smile in appreciation. He took off his glasses, wiped away his tears and blew his nose. They sat beside one another in silence. It was chilly and damp and Bram had earlier changed into a pair of dark brown corduroy pants and a blue striped rugby jersey, pulling onto his feet thick woollen socks that bunched around his ankles. Spix polished his stones, slipping them into a pouch at his waist, while Bram stared ahead at the curtains of mist obscuring the copse, his mind a whirlwind of considerations as he mindlessly tugged at his sleeves.

  The quiet solitude of the porch was disturbed by a scuffling and growling and muttering coming from inside the house, growing louder, as, whoever it was, approached the front door. Both Bram and Spix half-swivelled to look behind them. Quary emerged, dragging a battered old suitcase he’d found in the attic.

  While Nettle was hunting for Jazz in Olde Town, the spriggans had been helping him pack, of sorts. Well to be fair, thought Bram wryly, helping themselves to our food supplies. They’d puffed themselves into the size of dwarves and spaced themselves about the house so they could easily toss to one another
the things they wanted to bring – mainly food. In Quary’s case, he was only interested in Nutella.

  Bram’s brow furrowed and his mouth set in a crooked line. It looked like Quary had managed to stuff all the jars of Nutella into the bulging suitcase he was awkwardly navigating around Willoughby’s birdcage.

  Sandee had tended to the wounded bird while Nettle was away. She’d ripped the stuffing out of a soft pillow and jammed it into the birdcage and softly placed the thrush onto the makeshift nest. The little bird was in bad shape, but Sandee reassured him he’d live. She had rubbed something greasy through her fingers that glistened like glitter and smelt of earthy mushroom and stroked it through Willoughby’s burnt feathers, gently rubbing it onto his scorched flesh. She’d fed him a potion with an eyedropper that Bram had procured, to ease him into sleep and tucked one of Nettle’s woollen beanies over him like a blanket to keep him warm. As the little bird slept he gave the odd shudder, but at least his heart was pulsing with a more regular beat.

  Bram heaved a heavy sigh. What am I to do? Everything was a mess. Jazz was gone, so was their father, and Nettle who always knew what to do in any situation wasn’t even conscious. He rubbed her limp hand, willing her to surface from wherever her mind had taken her.

  Suddenly the copse erupted into a deafening noise. A horrendous alarm boomed throughout the Wilds like cannon-fire. Bram leapt to his feet. His heart near exploding in his chest. What now?

  BaaarrroooooMMMM!

  BaaaarRRROOOOOOMMMM!

  BAAAAARRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM!

  Birds took flight scouring the sky, circling above in a whirlwind of beating wings and caws of distress; Hetty Hen and her gang of wild chickens bolted toward the safety of the rickety old hen-house; butterfly and moth blew out of the black-stemmed thicket in a haze of delicate papery wings, while rats and mice scurried away from the copse-line through the tussock-grassed lawn.