The Triumphant Tale of Pippa North

by Temre Beltz

  Until that day, Pippa hadn’t known Castle Cressida had a dungeon.

  Most respectable castles were in possession of a dungeon, but it wasn’t the sort of thing Mistress Peabody liked to advertise. Indeed, it begged the question of who should be put in the dungeon, and that becomes difficult to explain when one insists one has zero enemies.

  As far as dungeons went, however, Castle Cressida’s wasn’t all that bad. True, it was buried two stories underground. Its rickety staircase was supported by one broken and splintered handrail, and it emptied out into two narrow rows of nine lonely cells. But, for Pippa’s sake, Castle Cressida seemed intent on putting its best face forward. This included trying to keep its dank dripping to a minimum, periodically sending forth gusty drafts to fan the candlelit sconces ever brighter, and keeping its resident spiders tucked discreetly into the shadows.

  Pippa sighed. She glanced down at her feet. Though Mistress Peabody had ordered Bernard and Prudence to remove the magician’s thread around her wrists, it remained very much intact around her ankles.36 The magician’s thread wasn’t wrapped around too tightly, but it was enough to keep her from running, hopping, or climbing.

  Pippa shuffled slowly over to the corner of her cell. She leaned her back against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. For perhaps the first time in her life, Pippa did not feel like thinking. If Pippa were to spend time thinking, she would inevitably think about her family and how soon they would be traveling to Triumph Mountain. She would think about magicians and secret plans, and then, of course, she would think of Oliver trapped in a dungeon of his own. Pippa was certain things had never been more wrong. Had it really all started with an unusual rainstorm that had driven a Council member magician, of all people, to knock on her family’s door? Was this what the Winds of Wanderly had envisioned when they had sent her letter scuttling into Oliver’s hands? Was there still time for anything to be set right or would it all remain utterly broken?

  Pippa started at the sound of the dungeon door creaking open, followed by a heavy thud-thud of footsteps. A shadowy figure emerged at the bottom of the stairs. Pippa was primed to let loose a healthy scream, but not a moment later, the shadow untangled itself into Viola, Anastasia, Simon, Connor, Willa, Maisy, and Ernest. They rushed to crowd around Pippa’s cell.

  Pippa let out a cry of delight. “But how did you know where to find me?”

  Before anyone could answer, Viola pushed her tiny arm through the iron bars. She slipped her hand into Pippa’s and asked, “Pippa scared?”

  Pippa smiled. “Not anymore, Viola. I couldn’t be, with all of you here.”

  Ernest slid his glasses up along the bridge of his nose. “It was Bernard and Prudence who told us. Well, not Prudence really, but Bernard. He showed up in the dining hall bragging about how you got exactly the punishment you deserved and that Mistress Peabody chose him to—to . . .” Ernest’s voice trailed off. He wiped his nose. “It’s not true, is it, Pippa? He didn’t actually put magician’s thread on you, did he?”

  “I wish I could say no,” Pippa said. “But honestly, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst is that Mistress Peabody is planning to keep me in here until after the picnic—”

  Anastasia gasped. “But your family, Pippa! How can she do such a thing?”

  The dungeon grew very, very quiet.

  Simon was the first to speak. “Well,” he began, looking tentatively around. “Considering we’re all here, and the picnic’s not getting any further away, I wonder if we ought to use this time to . . . practice?”

  “Practice?” Pippa echoed. “But, Simon, I’m stuck in here. I can’t even move my feet. And Mistress Peabody’s not planning to do anything about that until after the picnic is over.”

  “But we’re not locked in a cell. We can still help defend Triumph Mountain.” Simon swallowed hard and looked right at Pippa. His voice wavered. “Don’t you think we can do it?”

  “Of course I think you can do it!” Pippa exclaimed. “I just didn’t know how I could ask you to do something dangerous if I’m not right there with you.”

  From the back of the group, Maisy squeezed forward with her cooking spoon held high. “Don’t speak too soon, Pippa,” she said. “If I get my way, you’ll be out of this cell as soon as tonight!”

  The Triumphants cheered heartily, but the afternoon’s danger had proven all too real to Pippa, and she wanted the others to know exactly what they might be walking into.

  “The picnic’s not going to be like anything you’ve ever practiced in Mistress Peabody’s classroom,” she continued. “It’s going to be real. Ernest and I experienced it for ourselves on the night of the rainstorm. If Ferdinand hadn’t found us . . . I’m not sure what would have happened.”

  Anastasia hiccupped. “But if the danger’s real, and we win, does that mean we’ll be real heroes?”

  “No.” Pippa shook her head. “You’ll be real heroes at the start. You’ll be heroes for showing up, no matter what happens.”

  “Even if we’re . . . scared?” Anastasia asked.

  “Courage wouldn’t mean very much if you weren’t,” Pippa said.

  Ernest nodded in hearty agreement while stooping down for a basket overflowing with stuffed animals.

  “What’s that, Ernest?” Pippa asked, gesturing at the basket.

  “I borrowed these from the Castle Toy Shoppe to help us with illusion training,” he reported proudly. “I thought it’d be nice to have a real target, and maybe when the magicians throw out their worst, we’ll think of these instead. What do you think, Pippa?”

  Only Ernest could come up with the idea of substituting a snarling panther with an endearing teddy bear. Pippa loved it. With a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, she said, “I guess practice is on, then,” and Ernest hurried off to set up stuffed animals in every dark and dreary corner.

  Viola trailed after him, jumping up every few steps until she managed to snatch a pink teddy bear out of the basket and press it adoringly to her cheek. The other Triumphants reached eagerly for their umbrellas. They took turns opening them up like shields, spinning them through the air, and dancing right up to every stuffed gorilla, elephant, and kangaroo they could find, while shouting out “Take that!” and “Not at our castle!”

  Meanwhile, Pippa looked to where Maisy had since dropped to her knees and was eye to eye with the lock on Pippa’s cell. She stared fiercely at it, whirled her spoon in the air for the umpteenth time, and then—when nothing happened—gave it a hearty whop.

  She looked up at Pippa, crestfallen. “I don’t seem to know what to do if there’s not sugar involved,” she said.

  “You’ll think of something, Maisy. Don’t worry,” Pippa said.

  But Maisy shook her head. She rose to her feet and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a sheet of paper and pressed it into Pippa’s hand.

  “What’s this?” Pippa asked.

  Tears glistened in Maisy’s eyes. “Plan B.”

  “Plan B for what, Maisy?”

  “Helping you,” Maisy said. “Pippa, my granny was right. Even the best Triumphants need help sometimes. But right now, with my spoon not working the way I want it to, we don’t have time to sit and wait. You need magic. And as far as I see it, your best chance for that is to write a letter.”

  Pippa’s shoulders slumped. “But isn’t that how this whole mess started? With letters? With letters that went to all the wrong people in all the wrong places?”

  Maisy’s gaze swept around the room. She looked at Ernest, his cheeks flushed from exertion, pumping his fists in the air as he led the other Triumphants. She looked at Anastasia, her face set in grim determination as she snuck up on a stuffed rabbit, umbrella fully extended. Maisy tucked her wooden spoon securely back into her pocket and squeezed Pippa’s hand through the iron bars. “It’s hard to say where any of us would be without those letters, isn’t it?”

  Through welling tears of her own, Pippa nodded in understanding.

  It w
as funny how sometimes what you most needed to see could be right in front of your eyes, and you still might almost miss it. So much had happened. And even if Pippa and her friends weren’t exactly where they wanted to be, they were so far from where they used to be, and who was to say that wouldn’t continue so long as she didn’t give up hope?

  “Thank you, Maisy,” Pippa whispered.

  She reached into her pocket for a pencil. She settled on the ground and paused thoughtfully before scrawling the name of the one person who still might be able to fix things and, at the very least, was used to solving giant-size problems.

  Dear Ms. Bravo . . .

  Eighteen

  A Hat Worth Waiting For

  Buried in a mountainside in the Capital of Wanderly, within the Den of Traitorous Individuals, Oliver sat in a cell of his own. He stared at the small gap in the arrangement of boulders that served as the ceiling. And he listened.

  He did not hear the swoosh of the Winds of Wanderly.

  He hadn’t since he sent his last letter to Pippa.

  And he was beginning to wonder if he would ever hear the Winds again. It was funny how you could be mad at losing something you never expected to have in the first place. But Oliver had almost come to depend on the Winds of Wanderly, and he didn’t know if that made him very foolish or very wise.

  Oliver leaned back against the rock wall. It was the morning of the Fall Picnic, and he couldn’t believe he was indefinitely stuck. The Den of Traitorous Individuals was terribly uncomfortable to be sure, but that wasn’t the worst part about it. The worst part was how the cells were lined up all in a row; how the cells were close enough that, at times, Oliver could even hear the soft wheeze of the other citizens’ breathing, and yet no one spoke to one another. It was as if they were all alone.

  Oliver had tried several times.

  He’d announced his name. He’d announced his age. He even tried asking people whereabouts in Wanderly they were from, but after thirty-six attempts (he’d counted), only two people had bothered to answer him back, and they both mumbled the same thing: “I am loyal to the Council.”

  Oliver had tried to politely point out that the Council couldn’t actually hear them, so perhaps a simple hello wouldn’t hurt, but so far nothing had worked.

  So, the quiet had dragged on.

  And at night when it was time for sleep, the quiet became louder.

  It filled every square inch of physical space, and when it tired of that, it crawled into Oliver’s mind, leaving no room for thoughts of his own.

  The quiet was the sort of enemy Oliver had never expected.And he began to wonder if perhaps the Chancellor was smarter than he seemed. If all the very many strings he tied around the citizens of Wanderly had never been put in place to control the endings but only to control the people.

  The thought frightened Oliver.

  What if sitting all around him weren’t citizens who were disobedient but just miscast? What if the one who was tampering with the real story of Wanderly was actually the Chancellor?

  Oliver jumped at the heavy clang of the Den’s entry gate. The prison guard who had served their breakfast had left an hour or so ago, and Oliver hadn’t expected to see anyone until dinnertime. He tilted his head to the side and listened to the approaching footsteps.

  But it wasn’t just one set of footsteps, it was two.

  The footsteps drew nearer to Oliver’s cell.

  Oliver’s pulse quickened. There were lots of cells. Surely the footsteps were approaching one of the cells near Oliver, and not actually Oliver’s. Certainly they hadn’t come for Oliver already, had they?

  They had.

  The Den Master rattled the bars of Oliver’s cell. In the light of his torch, shadows leaped wildly about. Oliver’s chest squeezed so tight he thought he might burst.

  “Someone’s come for you,” the Den Master growled. He slipped a long, tarnished key inside the lock on Oliver’s cell. With a slight twist of the key, the lock burst open, and the Den Master jerked his head for Oliver to come forth.

  But Oliver’s feet were stuck.

  He couldn’t quite see the stranger standing just outside the circle of torchlight, but he appeared to be dressed all in black. Was it a Council member? Another officer of the Quill? Oliver swayed uselessly from side to side until the Den Master picked him up by the collar and tossed him out of the cell.

  Oliver fell onto his knees. He could feel the scrape and burn of his skin against the stone, but then a hand reached out to help him up.

  A hand that was dripping in gemstones. And Oliver’s blood ran cold.

  He looked up.

  “Master Von Hollow?” Oliver whispered, hoarse.

  Master Von Hollow pulled Oliver to his feet, and Oliver was able to make out the all-too-familiar silhouette of his magician’s hat.

  “Hello, Oliver,” Master Von Hollow crooned. “Happy to see me?”

  “But what—I thought—you said . . .” Oliver was at a loss for words. Master Von Hollow had been the one who turned him in for a Council detention. Why would he come back now?

  “Shhhhh . . .” Master Von Hollow admonished. “We needn’t bore this, er, gentleman with the piddly details of our visit now, hmmm? Let us wait until we can get a bit of fresh air.” Master Von Hollow turned toward the Den Master. He offered up his most charming smile. “Would you please direct us back to the entrance? This place is a bit of a maze.”

  But the Den Master did not look charmed. His eyes gleamed hungrily. “How many more grubins you got?”

  The smile slipped off Master Von Hollow’s face. He thrust his nose in the air. “Plenty,” he said, eyes flashing. And he tossed two grubins into the air, leaving the Den Master to drop to his knees and grapple about in the darkness. Once he found them, the Den Master straightened back up with a snarl, shouldered past Master Von Hollow and Oliver, and led them through the twisting network of dark tunnels.

  The other prisoners remained as quiet as they had during Oliver’s stay. No one asked where he was going. No one wished him luck. No one bothered to say goodbye. And now that Oliver was being plucked out, now that he was being given a temporary reprieve, even if it was at the hands of Master Von Hollow, Oliver became convinced he could never go back to that ruthless quiet again.

  They made their tenth turn and came upon a door with bright light glowing around the edges. Oliver’s pulse quickened as the Den Master cracked it open. He placed a hand on Master Von Hollow’s and Oliver’s backs and shoved them both through with a grunt.

  “Excuse you,” Master Von Hollow hissed. He carefully dusted off his cape where the Den Master had touched it, but the Den Master didn’t seem to notice.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the Den Master said, and he slammed the door shut, leaving Oliver and Master Von Hollow alone.

  Oliver stumbled forward a few steps. He blinked his eyes. After so many hours in his cell, the sunlight was too bright to take in.

  “Has it been a rough few days, Oliver?” Master Von Hollow asked with mock concern. “I’ve heard a few rather interesting reports regarding your recent activities.” He bent close enough that Oliver could smell his sharp, minty breath. “For starters, did you really steal Helga Hookeye’s broomstick? She was livid, you know. Telling anybody who would listen about it and then some. Even with your hat, I’d suggest keeping your distance from her. She’s quite volatile.”

  Oliver froze. “With my hat?” he echoed. “But, Master Von Hollow, I was kicked out of the Swinging Swamp precisely because I don’t have my hat. And now I’m stuck here waiting for a hearing on my Council detention. I think it’s safe to say that any chance I had of getting a hat is gone.”

  “Frankly, I’m a bit surprised at you, Oliver. True, you had an abysmally disappointing start, but it wasn’t for lack of effort. Are you really going to give up now? Now that I’ve come to deliver this?” Master Von Hollow asked.

  His eyes gleamed as he pulled his right hand out from behind his back. Oliver gasped. There, danglin
g from Master Von Hollow’s hand, was a hat. A perfectly sized, perfectly round, perfectly jaunty hat. And Oliver knew in an instant that it was his. It had to be. The hat he had been waiting for as long as he could remember. The hat he had nearly given up on.

  With his fingers twitching, Oliver lunged for the hat, but Master Von Hollow snapped it backward. “Not so fast, Oliver. Your hat may have finally arrived, but is it my fault your actions prevented you from being present to receive it? Surely you won’t be surprised to learn that many of us have concerns.”

  But Oliver couldn’t stop staring at his hat. Oliver had dreamed about his hat every night for years, and he was determined to fish out every last detail surrounding its arrival. “How did you find it? Was it on top of my pillow? Does anyone know precisely what time it arrived?” he asked in a rush.

  Master Von Hollow clamped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “You are not listening to me, Oliver,” he said. “And I am not handing this hat over until you do.”

  Oliver’s jaw gaped. “But it’s my hat, Master Von Hollow. It’s not yours. You can’t keep it from me. That—that’s not how hats work.”

  “Is that so? To the contrary, it looks like I am the one in possession of the hat, and a hat alone won’t make you one of us. So, if you would like your hat, you’ll need to prove you can be trusted. Lucky for you, I’m not asking for much. Indeed it’s something you’ve proven to be quite good at. I need you to write a letter to your friend . . . Pippa.”

  Oliver’s knees buckled. “Pippa? Why would you want me to write a letter to her? You said that we could get in big trouble with the Chancellor for doing that!”

  “Yes, Oliver, but all of that’s in the past. In just a few short hours, the Chancellor will have much, much bigger problems than a few little rule violations. You’ve established a nice connection with the girl, and now it’s time to make good use of that.”