by Kaye Umansky
Her anxious eyes swept the floor. The litter boxes needed changing, she could see that, and someone had dragged fish bones all over the place, but that wasn’t what she was looking for. Looking for and dreading to find …
She saw it, just behind the door. Another note. The third in as many days. With a little gulp, she bent down, unfolded it with trembling fingers, and read what it said.
“Oh dear,” sighed Miss Fly. “Oh dear.”
Back in the turret room, Mesmeranza’s green eyes gazed down into the crystal ball. The swirling gray mist had disappeared. In its place, a picture had formed.
A cottage. A small, ancient cottage in a tiny, sun-speckled garden. And in that garden, a girl in a green dress was standing beneath a miniature cherry tree, vigorously shaking out an old rug the size of a postage stamp. Tiny pink blossoms were floating down and landing in her hair.
“Hmm,” muttered Mesmeranza. She gave a frown. “And who might you be, I wonder?”
As she watched, the girl spread the rug on the tiny lawn and walked back into the cottage, shutting the door behind her.
Mesmeranza waved a hand, and the picture vanished in a gray swirl, sucked away just like water down the hole in a bath tub. Slowly, thoughtfully, she replaced the crystal on the table and sat back in her chair. This was new. This was something she hadn’t bargained for. A strange girl. She would need to find out more. Tonight, hopefully, when she interrogated the boy.
But first things first.
Wincing a little, she eased off her high-heeled shoes, one at a time. For a long, blissful moment, she wiggled her newly freed toes.
Then she opened the catalog to the right page, briskly tapped the relevant picture, clicked her fingers, stuck out her legs, and waited for the new red shoes to arrive on her feet.
Chapter Four
I’ll Have It!
“Where’ve you been?” cried Ma, as Clover entered, bringing with her a blast of night air. “It’s nearly dark! Yer potato’s in the oven, but it’ll be all dried up by now.”
“I’ll have it!” came the instant chorus from the table, where three small girls sat in a blizzard of paper, cutting out paper dolls.
“Covey!” shrieked Little Herby, hurling himself at Clover’s knees. His head was sticky, as though it had been dunked in syrup.
“It’s all right,” said Clover, hanging her cloak on the hook. “I’m not hungry. The kids can have it for breakfast. I’ve had some cake.”
She had, too. Mrs. Eckles had unexpectedly produced it from a cupboard, to go with the tea. It was a rich, moist fruitcake, and together they had demolished the best part of it. Clover had eaten so much that for once in her life she had felt really overfull and a bit sick. That was a novelty.
“Cake? Where’d you get cake from?”
“Got given it.”
“Lucky!” came the envious chorus from the table.
“Covey!” bellowed Herby again, clutching at her skirt, trying to climb up.
“Yes, Herby, it’s me. Have you been a good boy?”
“Ess.”
“No he ain’t,” said Fern. “Bracken put a pea up his nose, and he wouldn’t stop hollerin’.”
“I never,” said Bracken, pinching her sister’s arm. “Tattletale.”
“Did so,” insisted Fern, pinching her back. “Didn’t she, Sorrel?”
“Yes,” said Sorrel. “She wanted to see if it fitted.”
Bracken poked them both with the sharp end of her scissors.
“See what I have to put up with?” said Ma, wearily.
“What did you do to get it out?” asked Clover, picking up Herby and inspecting his nose, which did indeed look rather red.
“Poured honey up his nose,” said Fern. “Didn’t work, though. It went all in his hair.”
“Ma made him sniff pepper, and he sneezed it out,” said Bracken, and all three of them screamed with laughter.
“They’ve been little monkeys all day, the lot of ‘em!” cried Ma. “You wait ’til your pa gets home!”
“Aww, he won’t do nuffin’,” said Fern with a shrug.
“Where is he? Down at the pub?” asked Clover.
“I reckon.” Ma gave a sigh. “Sent him out to borrow a drop o’ milk. That was an hour ago. His potato’s in the oven an’ all, turnin’ black by now I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I’ll have it!” chimed in Fern, Bracken, and Sorrel. There were never any leftovers in the Twig household.
“No you won’t. You’ve had yours,” said Ma.
“But we’re still hungry,” whined Sorrel.
“Go to bed, then, and it’ll soon be breakfast time.”
“Ma,” said Clover, dumping Herby on the floor. “I’ve got some news.”
“You have? Like what?”
“I’ve got a job.”
“What? Is that where you’ve been all day? You could have said, I’ve been worried sick. Stop doing that, you three.” Fern, Bracken, and Sorrel were kicking each other’s legs under the table. “What job?”
“Cleaning. It’s for Mrs. Eckles.”
“The Witch?” Ma’s jaw dropped in shock. The girls gave a united gasp and sat bolt upright, eyes on stalks.
“Yes.” Clover picked up the broom and began sweeping up bits of paper.
“You’ve been to that cottage in the wood? On yer own? What were you thinkin’?”
“It’s six pence a week, Ma. Five for you and one for me. Think of that.”
“Six?” Ma sounded thoughtful. “Well, it’s good wages, I’ll say that.”
“I’ll bring it round every Sunday, regular. And she keeps chickens. She said she’d send round some eggs.”
“Why every Sunday?”
“Well, that’s my day off. I’d be living in, you see.”
“What—leaving home?” Ma sank onto the bench, weak at the knees.
Fern said, “Won’t you be scared?”
Bracken said, “Won’t you miss us?”
Sorrel said, “Can I have your blue dress?”
“Hush. We’re talking.” Clover turned to her mother. “You know it makes sense, Ma,” she said. “One less mouth to feed.”
“I dunno,” said Ma, doubtfully. “I dunno.”
“I get my own room. She showed it to me. It’s under the roof, and there’s a bed in it.”
“I want me own room,” whined Bracken. “Not just an ol’ curtain.”
Over in the fireplace, Herby was playing with the fire irons. Ma shot up from the bench and rushed over to stop him from inserting the poker in his ear.
“I don’t know how I’ll cope, mind,” sniffed Ma. “Run rings round me, they do. Who’ll mind Herby when I’m gettin’ supper? Stop doin’ that, you three.”
At the table, all three girls were pulling each other’s hair.
“It’ll be a better supper, though, won’t it? More to go ’round,” said Clover, going to fetch the little brush and pan.
“I think she should go,” said Fern immediately, and Bracken and Sorrel nodded their heads in a very unsisterly fashion.
“Can I have your blue dress?” Sorrel asked.
“No,” said Clover. “I’ll be taking it. I’m taking all my things. And I want a word with you about that later,” she added, darkly.
“I dunno,” said Ma, doubtfully. “I dunno what yer pa’ll say. Not when he hears it’s Mrs. Eckles. What’s she like, anyway?”
“All right. She’s got a cat, but it’s gone missing. It’s got a fancy basket with a cushion.”
“What’s the place like inside?”
“Don’t ask.” Clover rolled her eyes to heaven.“I’ll soon get it sorted, though. I think she was pleased. She said it made such a difference to eat off a clean plate.”
“You shouldn’t eat in a Witch’s house!” scolded Ma. “Everyone knows that. It gives ’em power over you. She could have put you under a spell. Turned you into a frog.”
“Do I look like I’m turning into a frog?” Clover held up her hand. “See? No we
bbed fingers. Anyway, I start properly tomorrow. I’m getting up early, so I’d better go and pack.”
“I dunno,” fretted Ma. “I dunno …”
Clover stood holding back the curtain of the small sleeping space she shared with her sisters. You could tell she hadn’t been home all day. The straw mattress was all of a heap. Ragged clothes and tangled blankets lay all over the floor, together with her torn blue dress.
Determinedly, she waded into the chaos. Tidy up first—and then, pack.
Tidying took quite a long time, but packing didn’t. Into Clover’s basket went a pair of heavily darned stockings, her spare pair of drawers, her old cotton nightdress, her comb, the green ribbon she’d gotten for her ninth birthday and the blue one she’d gotten for her tenth, her toothbrush, her face cloth, her sewing things, and her pin cushion.
That was it. She didn’t have anything else, apart from the clothes she stood in.
A short time later, as she sat on the edge of the neatly made bed sewing up the blue dress, she heard the door slam and the sound of muffled conversation. Pa was back, then. There came heavy footsteps, and he poked his head around the curtain.
“Yer ma says you got a job cleaning for old mother Eckles,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Clover. “It’s six pence a week.”
“My little girl,” said Pa, sentimentally. He wiped his eyes. “Goin’ off into the big, wide world.”
“It’s only on the other side of the forest, Pa. I’ll be back every Sunday.”
“Yer Ma’s worried. Thinks you’ll get magicked or somethin’.”
“I’ll be fine, Pa.”
“Ruben Barleymow showed me some stuff she gave him for his corns. Green ointment, it were.”
“Did it work?”
“I dunno. His wife wouldn’t let him use it.”
“Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Now we’ll never know.”
“She can read the tea leaves an’ all,” Pa went on. “Tilly Adams that serves down the pub went an’ had it done. Told her she’d meet a dark ’aired stranger who’d sweep her up off her feet.”
“And did she?”
“Well, Tobe Thomas hoisted her up to the top shelf the other night so’s she could fetch down a jar o’ pickles.”
“Tobe Thomas isn’t a stranger.” Clover bit off the thread with her teeth. “And he hasn’t got any hair, unless you count what grows out of his ears.”
“Still,” said Pa. “She got swept up. Um—did anything strange happen while you were there? Any—you know. Scary stuff? Magical goin’s on?”
Clover thought about the talking gate and the watering can that moved by itself. The tingling front door that wouldn’t open because it had a spell on it. What had happened to her finger when she stuck it over the threshold. The way the cottage … stared.
“Not really,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Aye. Well, you’re sensible. You can always come home if you don’t like it. But you watch out for yerself.”
“I will, Pa.”
“We’ll miss you, though.”
“And I’ll miss you, Pa.”
Clover jumped up and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek. He smelled of ale.
Chapter Five
They Remind Me of Eyeballs
The evening shadows were lengthening as Wilf trudged along the forest path. He’d done four deliveries that day, all miles apart, and had a lot of injuries to show for his efforts. He had scraped knees (fell down a quarry), a lump on his head (banged into a tree), a throbbing ankle (missed his footing when crossing a stream), and squelchy trousers (stepped into a bog). He would be glad to get home.
Wilf walked this path every evening on his way home. He knew every twist and turn. Every low branch, every root, every ditch. Well, he ought to. He’d banged into them, tripped over them, and fallen down them enough times. He and the path home had a long, painful history.
On he trudged, keeping his eyes to the ground in case someone had dug a new hole for him to fall down while his back was turned. It wouldn’t be long now before he reached the turnoff. Then, in no time at all, he would be back at the shack where Grampy would be cooking turnip stew for supper.
Wilf’s stomach growled at the thought. Delivering other people’s groceries always left him starving. Even worse was hanging around in the village shop trying not to weep as the ancient proprietor, Old Trowzer, weighed and measured and filled the boxes with all manner of good things: currants, buns, apple pies, sugar lumps, jars of honey, and sometimes—oh, the wonder of them!—fancy cakes. There were other items as well, but it was the sweet stuff that got Wilf excited.
He rounded the bend, then stopped short with a little grunt of surprise. A figure stood before him, slap in the middle of the trail.
It was a woman. A tall woman, made even taller because she was wearing a pair of very red, very high, very spiky heeled shoes. She wore a black velvet cape that ended at the ankles. On her head was a wide brimmed, floppy hat that cast a dark shadow over the upper half of her face. All you could see was her mouth, which was a crimson slash.
This woman was rich, you could tell. She had jewelled rings on her red-tipped fingers. Fingers that looked as if they did nothing but snap to summon servants or tap in a bored way on long, polished tables. She could probably afford to buy all the fancy cakes in the world, if she wanted.
She looked ludicrously out of place in the forest.
“At last!” cried the strange woman. “At long last, someone to help me!”
There was something about her voice Wilf thought he recognized. But that couldn’t be, could it? She was a stranger. Occasionally, strangers might stop briefly at the village shop to buy a bun or ask the way. But they didn’t look like this.
“Are you lost?” asked Wilf. He couldn’t stop staring at her shoes. They were the sort of shoes that are unsuitable for anything—dancing, walking, even standing. Just looking at them made his eyes water.
“I certainly am. I’ve been blundering about forever. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident.”
“Oh dear. You have?” Wilf knew all about accidents. He looked for the blood.
“Oh, nothing serious, although I believe I may have ripped my stocking.” The woman glanced down at her ankle and gave a rueful little laugh. “I was on my way to a ball in town. I’m not exactly dressed for a walk in the woods.”
“But the nearest town’s miles away.”
“I thought I’d take a shortcut. And I have a very good, fast carriage. Well, I did until it threw a wheel some way back along the trail. So tiresome. I waited for hours in the hopes someone would come along, but in the end I gave up. I set out hoping to find a wheelwright who could fix it for me.”
“Piffle,” said Wilf.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Piffle. The next village over. They’ve got a wheelwright.”
“And how far is Piffle?”
“I dunno. Three miles?”
“Three miles?” wailed the woman. “That far? I can’t possibly walk three miles in these shoes. This is a disaster. Whatever shall I do?”
An awkward little silence fell. Wilf felt sure she was waiting for him to offer to go for her. That would be the polite thing to do. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him. His aches and pains were aching and paining. Supper called, and Grampy got grumpy if he was late. He had to get up at stupid o’clock in the morning. The wheelwright might be closed. It was getting dark. He just couldn’t.
“Do you live nearby, boy?” inquired the woman.
“Not far,” said Wilf. “At the next turn off. It’s just a shack in the woods.”
“How quaint. And do you live all alone?”
“With my grampy.”
“Hmm.” Thoughtfully, the woman tapped her chin with a ringed finger. “Do you know, I’ve just had an idea. I could come along with you and wait in your little—shack—and you could pop along to Piffle and ask the man to come out here. I’d pay you fo
r your time, of course. Would two crowns be enough, do you think?”
Wilf’s mouth fell open. Two crowns! Two whole crowns!
He would do it, of course. You don’t turn down that kind of money. Grampy would make him anyway, once he knew there was money in it. He would turn into a fawning heap once he found that out. He would put his teeth in and dust off the best chair and insist that Wilf set off right away. While he was gone, the strange woman would probably eat his share of stew.
“I’ve never been in a shack,” said the woman. “What fun! And I’ll bet Grampy’s adorable.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” said Wilf. “But—well, all right, then. You’d better come along with me.”
“How kind,” said the woman. “How truly kind.”
Together, they set off along the trail. Wilf kept darting sideways glances at his strange companion. Try as he could to see beneath the hat, her face remained in shadow. But there was something familiar about her, he was sure of it. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“What’s your name, dear?” asked the stranger, tucking her arm into his.
“Wilfred Brownswoody.”
“Tell me all about yourself, Master Brownswoody. How old are you?”
“I’m not sure. Twelve, I think. Grampy’s a bit vague.” Politely, he tried to disengage his arm. There was something about her touch he didn’t like. But the woman firmly held on.
“Doesn’t your mother know?”
“I never got the chance to ask her. She and Dad ran off to be gypsies. They didn’t take me because I couldn’t get the hang of the tambourine.”
Wilf always said that for a joke, although in fact it was near enough true.
“I imagine there are wolves in these woods,” said the stranger. She peered into the trees and gave a theatrical little shiver.
“I doubt it,” said Wilf. “They stay away from this neck of the woods. They’re scared of Neville.”
“Neville? And who is Neville?”
“A cat I know.”