A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Y-yes,’ Fliss stammered. ‘I’m seventeen next month.’

  ‘Good.’ Pike nodded curtly towards Betty. ‘Old enough to supervise this one, then.’

  Had the circumstances been less serious, Betty would have bristled at this. She was thirteen – she didn’t need supervision! But now was not the time for eye-rolling or sarcastic remarks. Now was the time to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open.

  The warders left, and the girls bolted the door to the Poacher’s Pocket for the second time that evening. As the lock slid into place, Fliss rested her forehead against the dark wood and let out a muffled sob. Betty, already halfway to the stairs, turned back, fizzing with impatience and worry. If one of them dissolved into tears now, then there was a good chance the other would, too. And they couldn’t afford for that to happen.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘I know you’re upset, but neither of us has time to cry. It won’t help us – or Charlie!’ She raced up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Help Charlie?’ Fliss protested, running after her. ‘How exactly do you think we’re going to do that? We’re stuck here in the middle of a fog, and—’

  ‘No, Fliss.’ Betty reached the top of the stairs and went into the bedroom, pulling out warm clothes from the drawers. ‘We aren’t stuck here, that’s the point. The warders were fake, and so is our curfew.’ She scooped Hoppit out of her dressing-gown pocket and thrust him at Fliss. ‘Here.’

  ‘Eeeeeeeeh!’ Fliss squealed, shuddering as the rat squirmed in her hand. ‘Oh, you know I don’t like wriggly things! Can’t I just put him down?’

  ‘Not unless you fancy telling Charlie that her pet got eaten by Oi.’ If we ever see Charlie again, said a horrid little voice in Betty’s head. She shook her head, trying to quieten it. ‘Just hold him, for crow’s sake!’

  Fliss grimaced, holding the rat at arm’s length. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Betty retorted, flinging her nightclothes aside. ‘I’m going out to look for Charlie.’ She raked through several pairs of woollen stockings, grabbing the least holey ones and tugging them on. As she sat on the bed, she felt it shift with an invisible weight and sensed Willow next to her, silently listening. The wisp had gone from the lamp, but there was a faint glow coming from under the bed.

  ‘G-go out?’ Fliss stammered. ‘But the warders – the real ones – they’re already out looking! Shouldn’t we trust them to track Charlie down?’

  ‘How can they when they only know half the story?’ Betty said fiercely, pulling on her boots. She buttoned up a thick cardigan over her dress, then took Hoppit from Fliss and tucked him in the pocket. ‘Anyway, you know as well as I do never to trust a warder. Half of them are corrupt, just look at Fingerty – and those two who went missing earlier this year. Who knows what they were mixed up in?’

  ‘But not all of them are corrupt,’ Fliss argued. ‘And they have power, and weapons. Not to mention experience of tracking people down.’

  Betty grimaced. ‘So do I. I found you and Charlie last year, didn’t I?’

  ‘That was different,’ Fliss muttered.

  ‘The only difference then was that Charlie was taken because she had something valuable,’ Betty hissed. ‘This time she’s been taken by mistake and, as soon as they realise that, she’ll be worthless to them! And then—’

  ‘Then she’ll really be in danger,’ Fliss finished, her breath coming in quick little gasps. She went to the wardrobe and began dressing quickly, but the fear and hesitation on her face were plain. ‘Even if we find her, how will we get her back?’ she asked. ‘We can’t hope to overpower those impostors. They’ll laugh in our faces!’

  ‘No,’ Betty agreed. ‘But perhaps we can outwit them, because we have two things on our side. Two things the real warders don’t have.’ She took the nesting dolls from the chest of drawers. ‘First, they won’t be laughing in our faces if they can’t see us.’ She snapped the dolls apart and immediately Willow became visible, poised on the side of Betty’s bed as if she were about to flee. ‘And second we have her, and she has answers – or at least some of them.’

  ‘But I thought she was leaving?’ Fliss asked. ‘We can’t risk being caught with her!’

  ‘We’ve hidden her up till now,’ said Betty, lacing her boots determinedly. ‘And, the way I see it, we don’t have a choice. Whatever it is they want her for, and whatever she knows, she’s the key to finding Charlie.’ And getting her back, she thought, as a darker idea entered her mind. Could they do a deal – exchanging Willow for Charlie? It was a shameful thought, but one that Betty couldn’t completely dismiss. Charlie’s safety came first, whatever the cost.

  ‘What about that?’ Fliss asked, nodding at the wisp, which had emerged from under the bed and was circling Willow’s feet. ‘We can hide her, but we can’t hide a wisp!’

  ‘You’re right.’ Betty stared at it. ‘Perhaps we can release it on the marshes or something.’

  ‘I can hear you, you know.’ Willow’s voice was soft but fierce. She coaxed the wisp back into the oil lamp. ‘And you won’t be able to get rid of it that easily.’

  ‘What is it?’ Fliss asked. ‘Why does it follow you?’

  Willow remained silent.

  ‘You have to start talking,’ said Betty urgently. ‘We need your help to find Charlie, and there’s no time to waste. Every minute that passes, she gets further away. Do you know who these people are, and why they’ve taken her? What is it they want from you?’

  Willow swallowed noisily. ‘I know . . . I know why they’ve taken her,’ she said at last. ‘But, if I tell you, you have to help me, too.’

  Betty glanced at Fliss. At that moment, it was clear that both of them would say almost anything – whether they meant it or not – if it would lead them to Charlie. ‘What is it you want us to do?’

  Willow gazed at the wooden dolls in Betty’s hand with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. ‘I have to get somewhere,’ she said finally. ‘But I don’t think I can make it on my own. It’s too far, and I need a boat, and . . .’

  ‘We have a boat,’ Betty said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. ‘Just tell us where you want to go.’

  ‘It’s probably easier to show you,’ said Willow, reaching into the folds of her shabby dress. From it, she withdrew a square of waxed paper, yellowed with age. It had been folded several times, and was slightly worn at the creases and edges.

  Betty took it, her heart beginning to thud fast again, but this time it was with excitement rather than fear. She unfolded the paper carefully, but even as she did so she knew it was a map. Hand-drawn in black ink, with a decorative nautical star in the corner. For a moment, its beauty quite took her breath away as she skimmed over the detail, but then she frowned.

  ‘It’s just a map of Crowstone and the surrounding areas,’ said Fliss, peering over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you have one a bit like that, Betty?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Betty, puzzling over something. She turned to Willow. ‘I mean, I’ve got maps of Crowstone, but they’re larger, more detailed. On this, Crowstone and the Sorrow Isles are too small to hold many details. Most of this seems to focus on the water – and there’s nothing much there besides that old shipwreck.’ She paused, scratching her head. ‘This is a pretty strange map. Where exactly is it you want to get to?’

  Willow bit her lip, hesitating. Then she rested a trembling finger on the yellowing paper. ‘Here.’

  Betty studied Willow carefully. She was starting to wonder if this strange girl was what Granny would describe as one feather short of a duster. ‘Willow,’ she said gently. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  Silently, Willow reached into her pocket and placed something in Betty’s hand. A round grey stone with a hole all the way through the middle.

  ‘A hagstone?’ Betty asked. She ran her thumb over the stone’s surface. It was scratchy with tiny barnacles. ‘Granny has one of these. They’re supposed to be lucky, and ward off evil.’

  �
�And help you see things that aren’t usually visible,’ Fliss added. ‘Remember, Granny always told us if you looked through one you’d see pixies and other hidden creatures?’

  Betty rolled her eyes. ‘Hmph. All I ever got from looking through one was sand in my eye.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Willow whispered.

  Her words sent a shiver over Betty’s skin. She lifted the stone to her eye – and gasped. For there on the map, where there had been only water, something else appeared.

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ she breathed, taking the stone away, then putting it back to her eye once more. ‘How is this even possible?’

  ‘What?’ Fliss asked, grabbing at the stone. ‘What is it? Let me see!’

  Betty handed the stone to Fliss with a shaking hand. She stared at Willow again, brimming with questions and wonder, and the slightest niggle of fear. Finally, her voice emerged as a disbelieving croak.

  ‘It’s an island.’

  Chapter Seven

  Bootleg Beak

  FLISS GASPED AS SHE LOOKED through the hagstone.

  ‘What is this map? Is this some sort of trick?’

  ‘No,’ Willow replied. ‘It’s real, all of it.’ She gestured to the dolls. ‘Just because something can’t be seen, doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

  ‘I’ve got almost every kind of map there is on Crowstone and the surrounding areas,’ Betty said hoarsely. ‘I’ve never seen or heard anything about a secret island.’ She was breathless and slightly dizzy, the same way she had felt when she’d discovered the nesting dolls and seen their magical ability for the first time. And, while she had always craved adventure and the chance to explore the unknown, the magic of this map had a swirling undercurrent of danger about it.

  ‘If everyone knew about it, it wouldn’t be a secret,’ Willow replied.

  Betty took the stone from Fliss and examined the map more carefully this time. There it was again, inked in just the same as the rest of the map, with coves and cliffs, and an area of water at the centre of it.

  ‘It looks like there’s some kind of lagoon in the middle,’ she said. ‘But none of it’s labelled.’ She glanced across at Crowstone and the Sorrow Isles, tinier than they were on the maps she owned, but still large enough for some of the areas to be named: the Devil’s Teeth, the prison and the Three Widows, for instance.

  ‘Why would it be labelled if no one knows about it?’ said Fliss.

  ‘But someone does know about it,’ Betty answered. ‘Well enough to draw it on a map, at least. Unless . . .’ She hesitated, watching Willow. ‘I mean, how sure are you that this place really exists? How do we know the map’s not a fake? Something made by pirates or smugglers to lure people off somewhere? Where exactly did you get it?’

  ‘It was my father’s. And it’s all I’ve got.’ Willow’s bottom lip jutted out obstinately, reminding Betty of Charlie. A lump rose in her throat. Charlie!

  ‘We can’t stay here if we’re to have any chance of finding Charlie,’ she said, swallowing down the lump with effort. ‘We have to leave now if we’re going to catch up – we’ve taken too long already.’

  She handed the map back to Willow. ‘If you want our help, then you have to be honest with us. Who are these people searching for you?’

  ‘Trappers,’ said Willow. ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘Trappers?’ Fliss asked fearfully.

  Willow nodded. ‘They take people . . . people like me.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Betty. ‘Is this something to do with the wisp?’ It was all she could think of that seemed to make Willow different. ‘They didn’t try to capture it, though . . . They just wanted Charlie – well, you, I mean.’

  ‘They didn’t want the wisp, not this one, anyway.’ Willow chewed her lip. ‘They only want me because . . . because they know I can catch them.’

  I can catch them . . .

  The words echoed in Betty’s head like unwelcome guests. Even when they faded, they left questions, but she forced herself to put them aside – for now. It didn’t matter how Willow could do what she did. All that mattered was that Charlie couldn’t.

  ‘So where would they have taken Charlie? Think!’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ Willow whispered.

  Betty turned away from her, frustrated. She grabbed a handful of dry clothes from Charlie’s drawer and bundled them at Willow. ‘Change into these,’ she said, frowning. ‘Your clothes are still soaked through.’

  ‘I’m not cold,’ Willow said faintly.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ Betty said, as Willow’s hand brushed hers. ‘Even your hair is still dripping wet.’

  From the rolls of maps next to her bed, Betty selected one and pulled it out of the box. ‘Hold this,’ she told Fliss, then went into the kitchen.

  She paused, her heart racing. She had spent so much of her life in the Poacher’s Pocket, dreaming of adventure. Now she was about to embark on a real one and, like the last time, it wasn’t unfolding in a way she had imagined at all. From a row of hooks above the sink, she took a set of keys. Then she grabbed a loaf of bread from the pantry and filled two flasks with water. Her eyes rested on the potato sack that Fliss had stuffed the tobacco into earlier. She grabbed it and threw the other things inside – they could get rid of Granny’s stash on the way. Returning to the bedroom, she pulled another thick shawl from the wardrobe. In the freezing fog one of them was bound to need it. ‘Let’s go.’ She pocketed the nesting dolls after rendering Willow invisible once more. ‘And you’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Willow didn’t reply, but the lamp containing the wisp trembled. Betty took it from her, shivering as their hands brushed each other’s. Willow’s fingers felt like slivers of ice.

  • • •

  The fog was still thick outside. They left the Poacher’s Pocket in silence, creeping away from Nestynook Green with the damp air chilling their noses. Betty watched and listened for any sign of warders – or the impostors – but the streets were empty, windows dark. People always kept their curtains tightly shut when the prison bell rang. Little would anyone watching know, Betty thought grimly, that the person who’d escaped was this fragile girl beside them – or that the glow from the lamp lighting their way wasn’t all it seemed. Daylight was still some hours away, and she found herself longing for it. Everything seemed worse at night – that was what Granny always said. Fears and worries were bigger when there were shadows for them to prowl in.

  ‘Betty?’ Fliss whispered. ‘Where are we going? What’s the plan?’ She paused. ‘Is there a plan?’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ Betty muttered, pulling her scarf up over her rapidly frizzing hair. ‘All I know is that we should get to the harbour. That’s where the real warders were keen to search, so it makes sense for us to look, too – there’s no other safe way off Crowstone than by boat from there.’

  ‘There are plenty of places they could take a boat from that aren’t safe,’ Fliss said anxiously. ‘Like the caves at Smugglers’ Point—’

  ‘Too risky,’ said Betty, hoping she was right. ‘They’re pretending to be warders. Surely leaving from anywhere else would look more suspicious? And perhaps, if Charlie’s been clever, she’ll have dawdled, the way she usually does, and we might intercept them.’ She sped up, cursing herself for losing time by poring over the strange map. It had cost them valuable minutes, and already she had the feeling they were too late.

  When they reached the harbour, it appeared empty, as Betty had feared. There were no signs or sounds of movement, except for the faint creaking of boats on the grey water. They crept through the mist, footsteps light on the path as they traced it from one end of the harbour to the other. Their own boat, recently painted a merry green, bobbed along in time with its neighbours. It tugged lightly on its mooring rope as though eager to set sail.

  Fliss pointed past it. ‘Look. The warders’ boat.’

  Through the curling fog, Betty had almost missed it: a small boat at the very edge of the harbour. It
was plain and black, but for a crow motif made of iron at the bow, and held three rows of seats. Two were for warders, and the middle one, complete with shackles, was for prisoners.

  ‘So where’s the other boat?’ Betty wondered. ‘Pike said there was another couple of warders searching the other side of the island.’ Something crunched under her boot. She reached down, finding crumbs on her fingertips.

  ‘Gingerbread! Charlie must have dropped it – she was here.’

  ‘Not any more.’ Fliss’s voice was solemn. Betty followed her gaze to a thick rope dangling from an iron ring next to the warders’ boat. It had been tied with a complicated knot that Betty vaguely recalled seeing in one of Father’s boating books.

  Her stomach twisted. ‘At least we know for sure now,’ she said, pointing to the rope. It had been sliced clean through. ‘Charlie’s not on Crowstone any more. They’ve taken her in the warders’ other boat.’

  ‘Bother it!’ Fliss’s eyes filled with angry tears. ‘Why us?’ She glared at the harbour, her dark brown eyes fierce. ‘Even the stupid tide had to be in, didn’t it! And this hateful fog, too. Why is luck never, ever on our side?’

  Betty touched her sister lightly on the arm. ‘Don’t give up. And don’t blame luck for getting us into this. It didn’t. Choices did.’ My choices, she added silently.

  ‘And Granny?’ Fliss added tearfully, scanning the harbour, even though it was impossible to see far in the smothering mist. ‘Do you think she’s gone, too?’

  ‘No,’ Betty said, feeling helpless. The burden of what had happened lay in her stomach like a stone. Normally, Fliss was the one who reassured and comforted, but tonight everything had changed. ‘It’s Charlie they’re interested in.’ She gazed back the way they had come, past their boat, to where a rocky path rose up. Following it would take them past the ferry point, and then on to Crowstone’s headland. ‘If those trappers were honest about anything, there’s only one place she can be.’

  ‘Bootleg Beak.’ Willow’s voice sounded next to her, making Betty jump.