by Alane Adams
“Are you trying to take my job?”
The cheerful voice came from a witchling who stood in the doorway. She held a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. Slender, with pale skin and wide eyes, her dark hair was cut in a bob with bangs across her forehead.
“I have detention,” Abigail said, pausing her mop. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No. I work here.” The girl set the bucket down and began mopping.
Abigail joined in. “I’ve seen you around. You’re a secondling, aren’t you?”
“Unofficially, yes. My name is Calla.”
“I’m Abigail. What do you mean unofficially?” Abigail leaned on her mop to study the girl.
Calla kept mopping. “It means I’m a glitch-witch.”
“Then you don’t belong here,” Abigail blurted out. She flushed, quickly adding, “I’m sorry. That was unkind.”
Calla shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m used to it. Madame Hestera is my great-aunt. She lets me clean her chambers and work around the school. In exchange, I’m allowed to attend classes.”
“That must be hard,” Abigail said. “To be unable to use magic.”
Calla smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “That’s okay. My magic will come in someday.”
Abigail smiled back politely and wrung out her mop. She had never heard of a glitch-witch getting her magic. It seemed cruel to let Calla continue to learn spells and potions she would never be able to use.
“Would you like to hang out?” Calla asked. “I’m all done with my chores for the day. We could go to the Library and read spellbooks. There’s a book on magical mushrooms—” She stopped at the look of hesitation on Abigail’s face.
“It’s not that I don’t want to . . . ” Abigail would love to have a friend inside the fortress walls, but today she had a plan to meet Hugo, detention or not.
Calla’s sparkle dimmed. “Never mind. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
She picked up her bucket and marched out of the room.
Abigail started to call her back to explain, then stopped when she heard the click-clack of shoes in the corridor signaling Madame Vex’s arrival.
She followed Madame Vex up the dormitory stairs, quietly entering her room and waiting for the snick of the lock. As the sound of footsteps faded away, she went to her window and threw it open.
Her room was on the back side of the tower, high above the ground. She leaned out, feeling a bit dizzy at the height. Thick strands of ivy wrapped around the building. She tugged on a vine. It was tough, but was it strong enough to hold her?
She climbed out on the ledge, gripped a ropy length, then slowly lowered herself from the window. Her feet found toeholds in the leafy vines. She didn’t dare look down. By the time the ground came into view, her arms ached. Puffing from exertion, she dropped the last few feet and brushed her hands off.
Time to find Hugo. She only hoped he hadn’t given up on her.
Checking the courtyard was clear, she quickly crossed into the gardens. As she hurried down the path, movement caught her eye. There was someone pacing under a mulberry tree. Probably a witchling practicing her magic.
Abigail turned around to go a different way and then froze.
Endera was coming straight toward her.
Chapter 9
Endera carefully combed her hair into place, tucking the long strands behind her ears. Smoothing her hands over her uniform, she made sure there were no wrinkles or marks. Satisfied her appearance was perfect, she skipped down the steps of the dormitory and went into the gardens.
Her mother had sent a note she wanted to see her, which meant it must be important. Melistra rarely bothered with her—which of course, Endera understood. A High Witch had many important duties. One day, Endera would take her place alongside her mother, and together they would knock that fusty Hestera off her perch as leader of their coven.
Heart thudding, Endera approached the tall figure that waited under a mulberry tree.
“Mother.” Endera curtsied. “Did you hear I got high marks in Magical Maths?”
A flash of annoyance crossed Melistra’s face. “I don’t have time for your prattling. What have you done about getting rid of that witchling Abigail?”
Endera flushed. “I’m trying, Mother. She doesn’t have her magic yet. She’s going to fail Spectacular Spells any day.”
Melistra grabbed her by the collar of her dress, twisting it painfully. “That’s no excuse. I want her gone now.”
Endera nodded, gasping out, “Yes, Mother.”
Melistra let go, her stiff shoulders easing slightly. “I have something for you.” She held out a thin leather tome. “My old spellbook. It will make your magic even stronger. I expect you to win High Witchling and make me proud.”
Endera took the book, staring at the old leather cover in awe. “Thank you. But isn’t that cheating?”
“A witch does whatever it takes to succeed.” Melistra turned to go.
Endera hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering her. “Mother, may I ask, why is it . . . I mean . . . is Abigail so bad?”
Melistra froze and then turned slowly, her face white with rage. She raised her hand as if she were about to strike Endera. “Never challenge me again. Her mother was a traitor to the coven. That’s all you need to know.”
With a swish of her skirts, Melistra strode out of sight.
Endera watched her go, clutching the spellbook to her chest. She angrily swiped at the tear that escaped. She was a Tarkana witch, not some weepy girl. If her mother wanted Abigail gone, she would make the girl wish she had never been born.
Chapter 10
Hugo waited in the branches of the jookberry tree. For the third day in a row, Abigail hadn’t shown, which meant either she didn’t want to see him anymore or something bad had happened.
What if she had been thrown into the dungeons for using her blue magic? Hugo swallowed back dread as he clutched the limb. He had heard stories about the rathos that lived down there, fiendish rodents the size of large housecats.
“Please, Abigail,” he whispered. “Just give me a sign that you’re okay.”
“I’m right here, silly.”
Hugo was so surprised to hear Abigail’s voice he nearly fell out of the tree. He turned to find her standing on top of the wall behind him.
“How did you get up there?” he asked.
“I climbed a mulberry tree.” She stepped onto the branch and carefully made her way over to Hugo, plopping down next to him. “I’ve been in detention all week, but I snuck out to meet you. As I was heading through the gardens, I nearly ran into Endera and her mother, Melistra.”
“And?”
“I hid in the tree and listened in. Melistra gave Endera a spellbook and told her to get rid of me. And then she said my mother was a traitor.” She shook her head, looking confused and frightened. “Why would she say that? And what am I going to do about it?”
Hugo squeezed her arm. “We need to get some answers. How long can you stay?”
“Supper’s not for two hours.”
“Perfect. I know just who to talk to.”
Like every good scientist, Hugo had his sources—experts he could call on to answer questions. And the wisest person he knew was a sea captain named Jasper, who, if he was to be believed, was a Son of Aegir, the sea god who lived under the sea with the mermaids and mermen.
It was a quick walk from the Tarkana Fortress to the seaport of Jadewick. They slipped in among the sailors and Balfin soldiers who paraded along the docks. Hugo spied Jasper’s ship at the end of the wharf. It listed to one side, as if it were slowly sinking. Ragged brown sails hung limply, looking as if a stiff wind would tear them to pieces.
The old sailor sat on the deck, sharpening a fishing knife on a stone. Long gray hair fell to his waist in a tangled mess. A length of rope belted up his weathered canvas pants. His skin was leathery brown, but his blue eyes were sharp as he looked them over.
“Who’s you
r friend, lad?”
“Hello, Jasper, this is Abigail. May we come aboard?”
At his nod, they hopped onto the deck.
Hugo took his journal out. “What can you tell us about blue witchfire?”
The old sailor glanced around quickly. “Fool! You don’t say things like that in public.” He stood, bending on knobby knees to open a hatch. “Come below before you get us thrown into the Tarkana dungeons.”
The cabin was small and cramped. A pair of bunks took up one end, leaving just enough space for a rickety table and two benches. Jasper sat down and lit a small oil lamp. The flickering glow cast long shadows on the walls.
“Tell me why you want to know,” Jasper growled. His eyes looked a little wild in the light.
Hugo’s heart hammered loudly in his ears. “Well, I . . . that is . . . we were just curious.”
Jasper leaned forward, driving the tip of his knife into the table. “You’re lying to me, boy. Do it again and I will drop your body at sea so only the fishies know where you end up.”
“It was me,” Abigail said quickly. “I used my magic to save Hugo from a sneevil in the swamp.”
“And that awful beast,” Hugo added.
“That’s right. Each time my witchfire was—”
“Blue as the morning sky,” Jasper breathed, his eyes glinting with excitement as he studied Abigail. “You must be Lissandra’s child.”
Abigail frowned. “Lissandra? No. My mother was Penelope. She died a long time ago.”
“Who’s Lissandra?” Hugo asked, writing her name down in his journal.
“She was a witch I knew.” Jasper leaned on his elbows, studying her face. “And I’d stake my life you’re her child.”
Abigail bit her lip. “Old Nan’s the one who told me her name was Penelope, but Madame Hestera had never heard of her. I overheard another witch say my mother was a traitor.”
Jasper nodded. “Lissandra was running away with her babe when she died.”
“Why? What happened?” Hugo asked.
The sailor rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I’ll be needing a favor first. I’m looking for a creature about this high”—he put his hand to his waist—“covered in green fur. Talkative fella. You find him for me, and we’ll talk.”
Hugo nudged Abigail, and they got up and climbed the steps, but Jasper called after them.
“You mentioned a beast. What did it look like?”
Hugo turned. “Ugly as a Shun Kara but much bigger. It had beefy shoulders covered in a thick mane and teeth that looked like they could chew through granite. Professor Oakes called it a viken.”
Jasper paled, putting a hand on the table to steady himself. “Stay out of the swamps, both of you. Whatever you do, don’t go back in there.”
Chapter 11
Abigail hurried to her History of Witchery class. Witchlings were expected to be in their seats ready to recite the Witches’ Code aloud when Madame Greef hobbled in on her walker. Any noise or fidgeting and the old witch would freeze, turning slowly to stare at the offending girl.
Then strange things would happen.
A whispering girl might find a frog suddenly leap out of her mouth. Or a squirming witchling might find a troop of fleas under her uniform to really give her something to fidget about.
But that’s not why Abigail was hurrying.
Ever since Endera’s mother had given her that spell-book, Endera had used spells from it to get Abigail into trouble.
The first day, Endera had cast her voice across the room, pitching it to sound exactly like Abigail’s.
She had tasted frog in her throat all day.
The second day, Endera had made Abigail’s seat hotter and hotter, until she finally shot to her feet with a yelp.
Madame Greef had not been pleased, which had earned Abigail an army of biting fleas under her uniform.
So today, Abigail planned to get to class early, so she could take a seat in the last row. If she was in the back, she could keep an eye on Endera and stay out of Madame Greef’s sight.
Abigail rushed around the corner and ran straight into another witchling.
“Calla!”
“Hello, Abigail.” The witchling’s voice was cool as she leaned on her mop.
“Er, I haven’t seen you around,” Abigail said.
“I’ve been busy, you know, mopping floors and sitting in on classes, even though I don’t belong here.”
“Calla, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
The glitch-witch’s face darkened with anger. “I saw you in town with that Balfin boy. You know why he’s so nice to you? It’s not because of your charm. He just wants your magic. That’s right. That’s all the Balfins want from witches, a token with magic. Just wait, he’ll ask you for one. They all do.”
The girl shoved past, leaving her mop and bucket behind. Abigail wanted to follow, make amends somehow, but there was no time. She ducked into the classroom and quickly scanned the rows. Endera sat in the center, an empty seat in front of her. With a wicked grin, she motioned Abigail to sit down.
No chance. There was still one seat in the far corner. She raced for it, elbowing another girl aside and sank down, sighing in relief.
Behind Endera, Glorian and Nelly burst into fits of laughter, elbowing each other as if they were in on some huge joke.
Uneasiness trickled down Abigail’s spine. What was Endera up to now?
Madame Greef entered the room. The girls sat up straight in their chairs and began to recite the code.
“My witch’s heart is made of stone
Cold as winter, it cuts to the bone.”
The ancient hag shuffled her way forward, bent over her walker. Abigail tensed, waiting for something to go wrong. She stared at the back of Endera’s head. The hateful witchling was sitting with her hands folded primly on her desk.
“My witch’s soul is black as tar
Forged in darkness to leave a scar.”
Abigail mouthed the words, but she began to sweat under her collar. There was a tension in the room, like an explosion about to happen.
“My witch’s blood, it burns with power
Cross me not or you will cower.”
Madame Greef was halfway to the front when Endera slipped her hand into her lap and lifted the old spellbook. With a sly look over her shoulder, Endera opened it and ran her fingers down a page, her lips moving silently.
A sudden charge of electricity made the hair on Abigail’s arm stand up.
She tried to speak the words to the next verse, but her voice wouldn’t work. She opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out. A heaviness settled over her limbs, as if they weighed a ton. She stared at her hand, willing it to move, but was unable to lift it off the desk.
The door to the classroom quietly opened. Abigail had the power to turn her head, but that was all. The other girls went on reciting the code as if nothing at all were amiss.
“My witch’s hands will conjure evil
I plot and plan, I’m quite deceitful.”
Something hovered in the doorway. Abigail squinted, trying to see.
Was that Calla’s mopping bucket?
It hovered in the air under its own power, then began to drift over the heads of the girls. No one blinked or even looked up as the bucket passed. Abigail lost sight of it, unable to tilt her chin back.
“My witch’s tongue will speak a curse
To bring you misery and so much worse.”
As the last verse finished, the room went quiet. A cold drop of water splashed on her head. And then another. And then, in a deluge of cold muckiness, the entire bucket spilled over her.
The class erupted into laughter as Abigail blinked away the liquid. Soapy grit stung her eyes. Strength returned to her limbs, and she shot to her feet, ready to give Endera a thrashing, but the door flew open, and Madame Vex swept in.
“What is the meaning of this ruckus?”
She gasped when she saw Abigail standing there dripping
wet. The floating bucket dropped to the ground with a bang. Madame Vex marched over and held it up.
“Who is responsible for this?”
The room fell silent.
She held the bucket higher, marching up the aisle to the front of the class. “One of you cast a clever spell and dropped a bucket of water over Abigail’s head. Stand up this instant—” she paused, and the pitch of her voice lowered to a purr “—so I can recognize that girl for being an outstanding witch.”
There were shocked murmurs.
Surely, they were all going to be punished. Or made to do countless Magical Maths exercises.
But Madame Vex just smiled.
“My little witchlings, have you learned nothing in the weeks you’ve been here? This isn’t the Balfin School for Ill-Mannered Boys. It’s the Tarkana Academy for Witches. Witches,” she added for emphasis as she prowled back and forth like a panther in front of them. “And witches are wonderfully wicked. So, I ask again, which delightful witchling used magic like this?”
Endera slowly raised her hand, but before she could speak, Minxie jumped to her feet.
“I did it,” she said.
Madame Vex looked surprised. The entire class gasped.
“She’s lying,” Endera said, leaping to her feet. “I did it.”
But it was too late. The rest of the girls had caught on. One by one, they jumped up, shouting they had done it, until the entire class was clamoring.
Even Abigail joined in, grinning as Endera’s face grew redder and redder.
Chapter 12
Hugo waited in the bushes behind the jookberry tree for Abigail to arrive. Today was the day he was going to ask her for a medallion. Surely, she would understand why he needed one once he explained. Gravel crunched on the path, and then Abigail came into view. Her pigtails were askew, and she smelled like musty wet wool.
“Abigail, finally!” he said, jumping out from behind the tree.