by Kaye Umansky
“Here,” he said, holding out the apple. “Stand still and put this on your head.”
“Not likely,” said Clover.
“I can do it, I know I can!”
“No, I said.”
“Get me some matches, then. I feel an urge to build a cathedral out of matchsticks.”
“No. You’re not wasting matches.”
“No, no, all you say is no. What about a dance?”
“What?”
“Come on, I want to see if I can do it without stepping on your toes!”
And before she knew it, he was expertly whirling her round the kitchen. He didn’t step on her toes once.
“You see?” he cried, twirling her to a halt. “There’s nothing I can’t do. I think I’ll become a brain surgeon and give dancing lessons in my spare time.”
“You’ll have to be quick,” said Clover, flushed and giggling a bit. It was fun to be silly for once. “It only lasts an hour, remember?”
“Then I’ll take some more.”
“No you won’t. You’ll give that bottle back right now.”
“Not unless you promise to try it.”
“Don’t be so silly.”
“Come on, you’ve got to try it. It’ll be fun. You can go on a rampage, and I’ll dance gracefully in the ruins.”
“Wilf,” said Clover. “Get this into your head. I’m not going to try the serum. I’m going to do some gardening. Give me the bottle. I’m going to put it upstairs, out of harm’s way.”
“Aww, but—”
“Now,” said Clover, firmly. “I’ve got enough to do without messing about with magic.”
Reluctantly, Wilf reached into his pocket, took out the vial and dropped it into her hand.
“You’re such a spoil sport,” he sighed.
“Thank you,” said Clover. And she marched briskly towards the stairs.
“What shall I do while you’re gone?” shouted Wilf, rather desperately.
“I don’t know. I’m sure you’ll find something.”
She ran up the stairs and along the landing, then climbed up the ladder into her room, which was uncomfortably hot and stuffy. She crossed over to the chest, opened the bottom drawer, and carefully placed the bottle next to her old, darned stockings. She shut the drawer, walked to the window, and opened it wide to let some fresh air in. Then she went back down again.
The whole thing had only taken a minute or two. But that was long enough.
Chapter Fifteen
The Secret of the Cottage
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Wilf was standing before Mrs. Eckles’s private cupboard with his back turned, fiddling with something.
“Opening the cupboard. Hang on, I’ve nearly—ah! There. That’s got it.” He turned around. In one hand was a small piece of wire. In the other was the padlock. “There’s no point in glaring, I’ve done it now.”
“Put it back on,” said Clover.
“No way.”
“Put it back.”
“Nope. I’m taking a look.”
Wilf grabbed hold of the handle and pulled. The door opened, revealing … bare shelves. Nothing but empty wooden shelves with dust on them. There were rings in the dust made by the dozens of little jars that Mrs. Eckles had taken with her.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Wilf. “Talk about a disappointment. And there was I thinking … hang on a minute, though. There is something, right at the back of the top shelf.”
He reached in. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a thin book covered in dust. He wiped it on his trousers, and a black cover emerged. On it, in gold lettering, were the words:
MANUAL FOR GOTTAGE
Wilf opened it to the first page and frowned.
“There’s writing. I don’t know what it says. I can’t read. Can you?”
“Yes, a bit. Give it here.”
Clover bent over the page. There were a few short lines of tiny, neat writing in the very center. She flipped through the book. The rest of the pages were blank.
She turned back to the first page.
“What’s it say?” urged Wilf.
“Users of this ma-man-ual are ad-advised that all sum-mon-ings will be ans-answered on a st-strictly first come first serve basis,” read Clover, slowly. “If we are cur-rently unable to provide imm-ediate response, contact cus-customer services.”
“What?” said Wilf.
“Don’t ask me. There’s a bit more. A poem, or something. Listen. To summon, repeat the foll-owing words:
Imp-et-us I lack
And need the bubble.
Arise and bring the sack
Or you’re in trouble.
What on earth is that supposed to m—”
BANG!
The noise was very sudden and very loud, like a thunder crack. It was accompanied by an almighty flash of blinding green light and the smell of singed eyebrows. Wilf reeled back, arms wind-milling to keep his balance. Clover dropped the book and threw up her hands to protect her eyes.
When she took them away again, the kitchen was full of thick, green, luminous smoke. Lazily, it coiled in the air—and slowly drifted towards all four corners of the kitchen.
There was something—no, someone—in the cupboard.
A little man. A really little man. A little man who was so little he could fit into a milk jug. He was standing slap bang in the middle of the central shelf, glaring out at them.
Everything about him was green. Green skin. Short green trousers, which ended at half mast well above his feet, which were bare and dirty, with horny, green toenails. Bald green head and bushy green beard. His ears were large and green. His little green hands had webs between the fingers. Over his shoulder was a green sack.
There was a short, shocked pause.
“Crikey!” breathed Wilf, recovering. He moved forward and stood peering up at the shelf. “What is it? A gnome or something?”
“It?” snarled the little green man. “I’m an it now?”
Clover recognized the voice. It was the one she had heard speaking to Mrs. Eckles. It had an irritable tone, like a clerk in the post office who has two more annoying customers to deal with before closing time.
“I thought all gnomes were its,” said Wilf.
“I am not a gnome!”
“Pixie, then. Whatever. Where’s your hat?”
“My what?”
“Pixies and gnomes wear little pointy hats. Everyone knows that.”
“Watch my lips, boy.” The little man leaned forward.
“I am not a pixie, gnome, fairy, sprite, elf, brownie, goblin, leprechaun, or flibbertigibbet. I am”—he drew himself up to his full height, which frankly, wasn’t much—“an Imp.”
“Fair enough,” said Wilf. “But where’s your hat?”
“Imps don’t wear hats!”
“Shhh,” said Clover. “You’re making him annoyed.”
“Look at his little legs, though,” said Wilf, enraptured. “Let’s take him out and make him run round on the table!”
He reached out an eager hand. Clover briskly slapped it away.
“So what do we call you?” she inquired. “Do you have a name?”
“Bernard,” said the Imp.
“Bernard?” cried Wilf. “What kind of a name is that?”
“Mine,” said Bernard, tightly.
“Well, it shouldn’t be. Imps should have cheeky, jolly names. Jimmity or Trippetty or—or Blackberry Joe. Tommy Tippytoes. Mr. Squeebles.”
“Not that,” said Clover. “Mr. Squeebles is silly.”
“Better than Bernard,” said Wilf. “That’s just not right.”
The Imp was scowling horribly. Clover felt she should intervene, before Wilf could say any more.
“There’s nothing wrong with Bernard,” she said.
“It’s a very nice name. Won’t you tell us what you’re doing living in Mrs. Eckles’s cupboard, Bernard?”
“I don’t live in the cupboard. I’v
e got a place of my own. I just answer the summons, do the job, and go home.”
“What, to your little cave?” asked Wilf.
“That’s dwarfs,” sneered Bernard.
“How does the summoning bit work?” asked Clover. “How do you just—appear? In a puff of green smoke?”
“Let’s just call it magic, shall we? Of course, I could tell you all about portal technology and enchantment theory and so on, but I won’t because it would all go over your silly heads. Can we get on? I take it you’ve made up your minds?”
“About what?”
“The destination, of course. Come on, out with it. I’ve got a pork pie waiting at home.”
“Imps don’t eat p—ow!” said Wilf, as Clover stepped on his toe. “Well, they don’t!” he protested. “They live in mushroom houses and drink dew.”
“That’s pixies,” snapped Bernard, witheringly. “Shows how much you know.”
“Well, I do know you ought to wear a pointy hat,” said Wilf, “if you want to be taken seriously.”
“Look,” said Clover, glaring at him. “Forget about hats. Ignore him, Bernard, he’s an idiot. What do you mean about the destination?”
“There you go again, asking me. I don’t make the decisions. I’m just the operator. You should have sorted all this out already, you know. Just tell me where you want the cottage to fly, and …”
“Fly?” said Clover.
“Fly?” said Wilf.
They exchanged astonished glances. Together, they said, “The cottage flies?”
“Of course it flies!” said Bernard, impatiently. “It’s a flying cottage. Didn’t she tell you?”
No, thought Clover. She didn’t.
“I’ve heard of flying carpets,” said Wilf, “but I’ve never heard of flying cottages.”
“No? A clever boy like you? Who knows all about hats?”
“They’re rare, aren’t they?” asked Clover.
“Sadly, yes. Very few still operational these days. Gone out of fashion. Times change.”
“Do all flying cottages come with an Imp?”
“Of course. Imps provide the impetus. If you don’t know what that means, look it up.”
“How does it work?” asked Wilf, excitedly. “Does it sprout wings or something? Is there a magic word? Wha?”
“Oh my.” Bernard gave a sigh. “Such ignorance.” He shook his head and tutted. When he spoke again, it was as though he was explaining to a toddler how to tie their shoelaces. “You say where you want to go. I float the bubble. We fly there.”
“What bubble?” asked Clover.
Bernard loosened the string of the sack he was holding. He reached in and produced a strange, wobbling, transparent object about the size of a small apple. It trembled in his hands, rather like a soap bubble. Carefully, keeping it steady, he held it out.
“Look inside. But whatever you do”—he glared at Wilf—“don’t touch.”
The bubble slowly wobbled to a trembling halt.
Inside was a minute replica of the cottage. Everything was there—front garden, back garden, cherry tree, gate, every last detail. Two little specks were moving around the lawn. The chickens. You needed good eyesight to spot them.
“It’s the cottage,” breathed Clover.
“Oh, give the girl a prize.”
“I don’t understand. Are we in there?”
“Of course. Everything is duplicated in miniature.”
“So—you’re in there too? Talking to us?”
“Yes.”
“Can we fly now?” burst in Wilf. “Right this minute?”
“Well, it’s very inconvenient, but if you insist, I’m contractually obliged to take you.”
“So we could just—whoosh off?”
“I wouldn’t say whoosh. Gets stiff after its been grounded. The creepers anchor it down. There are sometimes a few small teething troubles on take off. Once up, it should settle down.”
He sounded confident, but his eyes had a rather nervous flicker.
“How long since it—flew?” asked Clover.
“Seven years ago,” said Bernard promptly. “Every seven years she gives it a stretch, to make sure everything’s still in working order. Just a quick spin, over the forest and back again. She doesn’t like to do it more often these days. She says it wrecks the garden and upsets the hens.”
“And nobody notices a cottage flying over their heads?”
“It’s usually at night. Besides, once it picks up speed, it goes faster than the human eye can follow. From the ground, it just looks like a shooting star. All part of the design. We’re talking old magic here. Something you know nothing about.”
He’s right, thought Clover. I don’t. And it’s probably best to keep it that way.
Wilf, of course, felt otherwise. His eyes were shining with excitement, and he was running his fingers through his red hair.
“This is fantastic!” he croaked. “Can we go anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“Wilf,” said Clover.
“What—anywhere in the whole wide world?”
“Yes. I said, didn’t I?”
“Wilf,” said Clover, again.
“Could we go to … Palsworthy Fayre? They say you can buy that pink cotton candy stuff, I’ve always wanted to try …”
“Wilf!” shouted Clover. He broke off and looked at her.
“What?”
“We’re not going anywhere. We’re going to put the Imp away. No offense, Bernard.”
“Suits me,” said Bernard. Very, very carefully he placed the bubble back in the tiny sack, pulled the drawstring, and glared. “Kindly don’t bother me again. I don’t like being called out on false pretences. Put the manual back where you found it and shut the door behind me. Time wasters!”
And with that, he vanished. Just like that. No bang. No more smoke. The cupboard was empty.
“Well,” said Clover. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. Poking around in things that don’t concern you.”
Crossly, she picked up the thin black book from the floor where it had fallen.
“Ah, but I couldn’t help it, could I? It was the serum. The padlock was just crying out to be picked.”
“You weren’t supposed to drink the serum either. She gave it to me, not you.”
Clover stood on tiptoes, put the book back on the top shelf, shut the cupboard door, and snapped the padlock on the latch.
“There. Don’t touch it again.”
“All right. No need to be so bossy.”
“Or for you to be so nosy. It’s all very well for you. I’m the one who’s got to sleep here tonight, knowing I’m in a flying cottage with an Imp called Bernard in the cupboard.”
“He’s not in the cupboard. You heard him. He’s gone home to Imp Land to eat pie.”
“And that’s what I’d like you to do.”
“I haven’t got a pie. We’re having pancakes.”
“I mean go home. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
Clover stood with her hands on her hips, waiting.
“All right,” said Wilf. He still lingered, though. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? Staying here on your own?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll come round first thing tomorrow morning. On my way to the shop.”
“What, to try and sneak more serum? Or break into the cupboard again and get Bernard to fly you off on a nice trip somewhere?”
“No. To check that you’re all right.”
“Oh.” Clover felt a bit guilty. “Well, all right, then, if you must.”
Wilf moved towards the door, then paused and looked back at her.
“The cottage flies,” he said wonderingly.
“Yes.”
“I can’t get my head around that.”
“No. Can we just stop talking about it now?”
Wilf shook his head, then slowly wandered off into the sunlit garden—but not before he had stumbled over the step. Evidently, the se
rum was wearing off.
Clover stood where she was for a moment or two, watching the last faint tendrils of green smoke drift out the door.
So. She was standing in a cottage that flew. No wonder Mrs. Eckles said it was special.
She shook her head and went to find the shears. It was time to do a bit of sensible gardening. She’d had enough magic for one day.
Chapter Sixteen
Mesmeranza Prepares
And now we must move on a few hours. Back to Castle Coldiron where somewhere behind the thick gray clouds, the sun is setting. Light is draining from the sky, and soon it will be dark, since night comes quickly in the mountains.
Where is Mesmeranza? What is she doing?
She is in the dining room, inspecting a collection of items assembled at one end of a long, polished table. Tonight, she is all in red. Red gown, a red comb in her hair, and, of course, the red shoes. A small, bejewelled purse hangs at her waist from a golden chain.
The dining room is lit by dusty chandeliers. Several have lost their crystals and don’t look very nice close up, although they give a good effect from a distance. There is a long crack running across the ceiling. The wood panelling is chipped here and there. What the room needs is a good old face lift, just like the rest of the castle, but it won’t get it. Not tonight, anyway. More important things are afoot.
The items on the table have been searched for, found, gathered together, carted up and down long corridors and many flights of stairs, and finally laid out on the table by Miss Fly, who is still gasping from the effort. Her allergy is even worse. She has developed a cold sore, and can’t say her M’s, T’s, N’s, or P’s. Even her C’s have gone missing. In fact, she may well require a translation.
The items laid out on the table are as follows:
A pair of Hypnospecs. (We have seen these before, and in action.)
A plain, black, deceptively innocent stick, pointed at one end, like an extra long chopstick.
A furled umbrella, also black, with little lightning bolts carved on the handle.
Next to that is a large empty space and then, at the end of the table, a cake. A wonderful looking cake, sitting resplendent on a plate fringed with a paper doily. It is covered in white sugar icing and tied with a red bow. There is a single, succulent red cherry placed perfectly in the very center.