Jazz blinked at her cousin, but she spoke to Jack. “Just what exactly is a Witches Curse?”
He gave a half-hearted kind of shrug and tucked his hands into his pockets. “It’s a branding of sorts. It’s much like being owned by a witch. When the witch calls, you have no option but to go directly to them, and do whatever they command.”
Jazz pushed up the sleeve of her jersey and showed him her forearm. She asked in a small voice. “Is this one?”
On her arm was something Nettle had seen before up in Claudine’s bedroom, but this time it was defined. It was a name repeated down Jazz’s arm. Claudine Adeline Balfrey – Claudine Adeline Balfrey – Claudine Adeline Balfrey. The flesh around the Curse looked sick, the veins were black, the skin a mottled green.
“Ah, yes,” said Jack nodding slowly, bringing his startled gaze to meet Jazz’s. “That’s a Curse.”
Jazz gulped. She looked anxiously at Bram who turned to Nettle, his blue eyes imploring her. “We need to do something.”
“You need to remove it.” Nettle demanded of Jack, jabbing a finger into his shoulder.
He frowned. “I don’t have that kind of talent.”
“But I thought you said that the sisters were, like, low level magic users?” Nettle’s voice sounded panicky even to herself.
“Yes, they are,” the goblin drawled, “But someone with darker and older magic than they possess is teaching them the ways of the Wilds.”
A fragment of memory came to Nettle about Margot. Her long fingers fluttered as she struggled to remember. “Margot was talking with something… in the Atelier!”
“Yes?” Jack urged rolling a hand as if to say – quick-quick.
“It was this crazy ball of bugs, but they were speaking, telling her what to do.”
Jazz pulled a creeped-out face. “Talking bugs?”
“No, not the bugs,” she said to Jazz as she began pacing the room. “The way they were working together allowed someone to talk through them. Margot was telling whoever it was about some sort of machine reaching the Heart.” She turned to Jack. “Is that what’s buried in your goblin mound?”
He nodded. “They’ve almost reached it. And trust me, you don’t want them to reach it.”
Bram was still thinking about Jazz. “What if we tie her up, or lock her in a room? She won’t be able to go to them then.”
Jack gave an apologetic grimace. “That’s been tried before. I’ve seen an ensorcelled fae chew off their own hand to free themselves to go to their master. There’s only one way to reverse the spell and that’s to steal back from the Balfrey’s whatever it is they have of yours.”
Jazz looked stricken. She spun immediately to Nettle. “What is it? What do you think they have of mine?” There was a frantic hitch to her voice.
Nettle shook her head. She had no idea. It could be anything.
“Do you think Claudine stole it when she was here visiting us?” Bram suggested.
Something tugged at Nettle’s memory. An image, a memory, of something crisp and white with a lock of red hair. “No…” she said carefully. “Barber Tuttlebee.” Her gaze whipped towards Bram’s. “Remember, he came into the tea house and gave Claudine an envelope…” Her fingers flew to her mouth. She gasped. “Oh, no…” Then mentally groaned, what have I done?
Bram was immediately by her side. “What is it?”
“I saw the envelope up in the Atelier.” A sick feeling crashed over Nettle and sweeping behind it, guilt. She’d had a chance to take the envelope with Jazz’s hair stuffed inside, but she hadn’t.
Jazz grabbed hold of Nettle’s jacket, her fingers knotted in the material. Her gaze looked unhinged. “I’ve got to get it back!”
“We will, Jazz. I promise.” The promise felt hollow, and she knew Jazz knew it too. Suddenly her cousin’s expression crumbled and she pushed herself away and ran from the kitchen, her shoulders hunched, a hand wiping at her eyes. Nettle’s gaze followed her out of the room. What were they going to do?
Jack’s voice lazily said, “I’ll strike a deal with you, if you like. I’ll help you - if you help me. That’s essentially why I’m here.”
Nettle turned back to him, frowning. He was casually leaning against the kitchen bench with an air of indifference about him.
“‘Ere,” Quary interrupted, his mouth full of Nutella. “What do you want with her?”
Jack leisurely pushed himself from the bench. “The Balfrey’s have spells all over Olde Town, restricting access all over the place, in particular the tea house and their personal quarters.” He jerked his head at Nettle. “She’s able to trespass where I cannot.”
“The Atelier,” Nettle sagely guessed.
“What’s that?” Bram asked, looking up at her. He’d drawn close, reaching out to hold her hand.
“Their lair,” Nettle softly explained.
“I need to know how, exactly, the sisters are intending to perform their ritual. Now is the time to strike. They’ll not be expecting it.”
It made sense and she couldn’t bear waiting any longer.
“But what about the sisters’ magic? You haven’t explained what they can do?” Bram asked concerned.
“There’s little they cannot do.” Jack said. “But your sister has her bracelet and the best way to combat their spells, is by simply avoiding them. They’re still preoccupied with gaining the last few things for tomorrow so we should be able to sneak into the Atelier before they throw their defences up.” He spoke to Nettle. “You steal back Jazz’s hair, find out as much as you can about their spell and what they need. Pocket anything you think will upset their cause and in return, I’ll rescue your father.”
She considered him for a moment, he stared back at her, his eyes glittering with self-assurance. Could she trust him? He had assisted her – I guess saved if I were truthful - several times already, and really she had no other choice. She gave a brusque nod. “OK. Let me get a few things. You,” she said while pointing at Quary, who startled at her stern tone, “Look after my brother while I’m gone.”
Nettle bolted up the staircase to her bedroom and found her sword. She wasn’t going into Olde Town without some form of protection. She slipped in into her rucksack along with a few other items, including the Swiss Army knife her father gave to her on her ninth birthday, and her skipping rope – maybe she might need to climb out of something or tie something up. She quickly changed into new clothes, selecting muted shades of grey and a pair of worn weathered boots with a softer sole, better for sneaking around.
As she wound her long hair into a messy topknot, a thought swiftly came to her - a camera - it’d be easier and faster to take photographs of the sisters’ Atelier and any clues she might find.
It had been a very, very long time since Nettle had last been in her parent’s bedroom, and judging by the fact the bed was covered in dust, her father hadn’t slept here either, merely dumping his gear in the corner of the room.
She rummaged through his bags until she found what she was looking for – his camera. She tucked it into the side pocket of her rucksack, and for a moment stood quietly in the room.
It was a simple rustic room with a four poster bed her father had carved into the likeness of a tree-top canopy with gauzy green curtains hanging at either post. Beside the wardrobe were two oak tallboys with photographs of her parents in simple wooden frames. Nettle drifted over, picking one up. With a fingertip she gently cleaned the glass free of the thick layer of fluffy dust. Her mother’s face smiled back at her.
Oh mum, she thought, I miss you.
Her mind wandered down to the living room. When they’d arrived earlier this week, the ransacked room looked like the scene of a fight. Jack had said those scorch marks had been made by someone from the Wilds... The same night their mother had abandoned them, so had they abandoned the cottage. Her father had bundled her and her baby brother up, and they’d left, taking little with them. An idea began to take shape in her mind.
What if mum hadn’t aban
don-
A noise startled her, scattering her thoughts. Rumbling. It was coming from outside and it sounded like an engine.
When she came back downstairs, the front door was wide open.
She ran outside, her heart thumping in her chest, and a hand reaching up for the pommel of her sword. Had someone come? Was everyone all right?
She came to a stand-still out on the front porch. Her rapid heart-beat eased and she lowered her hand. The engine noise was Bessie.
The motor-home sat in the driveway, rumbling. Wisps of mist rose from the dewy ground and made Bessie look as though she was hovering over a cloud. Her door was open and as she approached, Nettle could see Bram was standing on the driver’s seat facing Bessie’s interior. He was arguing with Quary, who sat astride his rooster.
Jack nonchalantly leaned against Bessie’s side. He gave a shrug and one corner of his mouth tugged upward, as if to say, I couldn’t stop them.
Nettle gave the goblin an irritated glare. “You could have tried harder,” she said before stomping up the steps into Bessie. She kicked out at the rooster who squawked and jerked away, almost unseating Quary, who cried out, “Oi!”
The spriggans had been quite busy while she was upstairs. The couch was piled high with a variety of pouches and random items - what Nettle could only assume was their stolen hoard. Even the battered suitcase full of Nutella had found itself inside the motor-home. They’d fitted themselves up with all manner of weapons they could stuff into their belts or slide into their boots or strap to their backs. Roq looked like a walking armoury. He was squatting down in the drivers foot-well, in between the brake and accelerator, testing the pedals by lowering them one at a time. Sandee assisted Egnatius into the seat at the dinette, placing cushions around him to make him comfortable.
“No, no, no, no,” Nettle said, shaking her head, a few tendrils had come loose from her top-knot. There was no way her little brother was going to come on something this dangerous. But Bram wore that same expression of their father’s that brook no argument. Nettle’s hands had curled into fists by her side and her mouth pinched together, determined to win this fight. “I’m going, alone. You stay here with Jazz. The spriggans will stay and guard her, and protect you at the same time.” She raised a fist, a finger uncurling to point outside Bessie. “Burban and the copse have got the perimeter.” But she knew as she spoke, he had made up his mind already. It was pointless arguing with him.
Bram frowned at her. “We can’t leave her. We can’t run. She’ll only find a way to get back to the Balfreys when they call for her.”
Spix sat on top of the driver's headrest, dangling his legs over the side. He gave a perplexed glance sideways as Jazz’s voice came from behind Nettle.
“Bram’s right. Even if you don’t save me, I can help for as long as I can.” Nettle half-turned and saw that Jazz stood just outside the door to Bessie, one foot resting on the first step. The gloom of the day had drawn stark shadows about her, carving her expression into stoic determination.
“And you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve got this,” Bram said dangling his wrist with the Blackthorn bracelet before her. “Besides, the spriggans have taught me a thing or two,” and his mouth twisted into a wry grin. “While you steal into the Atelier, Jazz and I can help break Dad out of Madam Bawdsworths.”
“Who’s going to drive?!” Nettle protested, her thick brows drawing together at the audacity of his plan.
“It’s an automatic, how hard can it be?” Jazz scowled.
Nettle gave an exasperated growl, squaring her shoulders at her cousin. “You’ve had a chauffeur drive you everywhere your entire life, how would you even know.”
“Like, who cares.” Jazz snapped back. She gave Bram a pointed look. “Can you drive us there?”
“Of course,” he said, with a little look of annoyance that his capabilities were in question. “I mean, I can’t reach the peddles,” he amended, poking his glasses back up his nose. “But Roq is going to take care of that. I just have to steer, right?”
Jazz angled a sarcastic look at Nettle, silently asking – satisfied?
Nettle’s jaw clenched and she sawed it back and forth. She could have ordered them out, but she knew when she’d lost a battle. “All right,” she ground out, defeated, “Lets get going.”
Jazz stepped into Bessie. She hefted her hockey stick up and rested it on her shoulder. The wedge was studded all over with bent and twisted nails.
Quary, still astride his rooster, gave an impressed whistle. “ ‘Ere girly, you look like one of us.”
Jazz’s voice was a whispery threat as she leaned low to give the spriggan a menacing glower. “No one messes with my family, and no one abducts my Uncle Fred and gets away with it.” Quary gave a little gulp and urged his rooster to step back to allow Jazz to slide into the seat across from Egnatius and Sandee, who’s gleeful mad smirk hadn’t left her face since boarding the motor-home.
Bram turned to slide down into the driver’s seat. He’d fitted it with several cushions to give him height to see over the dashboard. As Jack opened the front passenger’s door and seated himself, Bram shot the goblin an excited grin.
Nettle mentally sighed, shaking her head at the motley bunch within the motor-home. It was completely mad, she knew it. There wasn’t much of a plan and little hope they would actually succeed. But the spriggans were better than having no-one and this ill-conceived plan was better than doing nothing.
She stood behind Bram, gripping the back of his seat to brace herself . She looked about Bessie, meeting all their expectant faces. “OK. Ready everyone? Let’s go and save Dad.”
Bram pulled the gear lever into reverse and kicked a foot toward the accelerator. Roq pushed the peddle down and Bessie jerked backward, rocking everyone inside. He put Bessie into drive and the motor-home trundled toward the copse under his careful guidance. The thorn-stems parted, allowing Bessie to leave. Bram had his window down and Nettle heard Burban call out, “Good luck, young Blackthorns!” The sentiment was repeated by Dodkin, Winger, Krinsky and the others that made up the copse.
“Be safe...”
“Find your father...”
“Best of luck...”
As Bram drove down the driveway, in their wake the copse was still calling out good-luck, like monks chanting litanies, fading with distance. Nettle stared straight-ahead through the wind-shield at the wavering mistiness. The Wilds enclosed either side of the driveway, its trees and their craggy branches reached overhead and blocked out the morning’s dim light, leaving them lost in darkness.
Jack glanced up and over his shoulder at Nettle, his violet eyes gleamed with a sense of adventure. She returned a small grim smile, her fingers biting into the soft material of the head-rest. That familiar tingling feeling was scouring down her back once more. They were going to need all the luck they could muster.
... to be continued.
Drop by Winter’s Blog, feel free to ask questions about the Forgotten Wilds or anything else, like, just what is Winter’s favourite meal or why most of the movies she LOVES just happen to be science fiction.
WinterWoodlark.com
Nettle Blackthorn and the
Three Wicked Sisters – Part Two
Nettle, Bram and Jazz, along with the goblin – Jack Bedden-Trogg – and a motor-home full of spriggans, race back to Olde Town determined to rescue their father from the clutches of the Balfreys’.
The wicked sisters of Olde Town have sinister plans for Fred and Jazz. A plan that needs to be thwarted, not only to save their father and cousin but every innocent mortal caught up in the Balfreys’ wicked trap.
For Nettle and Bram saving everyone from the Accursed Lysette is a rather tricky predicament one that will require all their skill and cleverness.
Along their journey Nettle’s swept beyond the Thicket where she’s brought face to face with Solstace Wittle; Bram encounters the dwarf that crafted Nettle’s sword; and the siblings discover just what is buried within J
ack Bedden-Trogg’s goblin mound.
Winter Woodlark
Winter grew up beside the sea and her very own wild woods which was the perfect place to spend her childhood.
She always had her head in a book and one day, quite young, decided that she was going to be an author. Winter set up an old Imperial typewriter at the back of her parents' store and when she wasn't working she wrote stories of trolls, goblins and witches.
She and her partner live in a small seaside community with their two boys, Tee Tee the dog, a resident wild rabbit and a couple of chickens that refuse to believe they don't live in the house.
Acknowledgements
This book, book one in a series as sprawling as the Forgotten Wilds, took an awfully long time to write. It was written during a time in my life when I had a toddler and a baby on the way. So there were long nights, early mornings and moments snatched whenever I could and sometimes months when I couldn’t write at all.
There is no way I could ever have written a single word without the support of Nigel, who always pushed me to be a better writer. Nigel read and edited and encouraged. He had an unwavering belief in the story I was telling even when I fell into self-doubt. He made the best coffee whenever I wrote and took care of the little lads while I rambled within the Forgotten Wilds alongside Nettle and Bram. I couldn’t have done this without you, thank you.
I am eternally indebted to my mother, Marilyn (and Dad, who I think was quietly surprised this book was actually finished), who always believed in my dream of being a writer when I was a child. She read, re-read, and then re-re-read, proofed, re-proofed – you get the idea - my work, and patiently listened to the reasons why I was changing the characters and plot after handing her draft after draft to be read. She is my champion, an artist and writer, and one of my best friends.
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