by Nina Clare
‘Has there been any evidence of magic abroad?’ the North Wind asked.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary as yet,’ said Myrtle. ‘We have been exercising our senses all over the village.’
‘But all we’ve sensed is that charms are failing or going rogue,’ said Rue.
‘You have a cunning thief,’ said Grand Godmother North with deep displeasure. ‘One who knows, or has learnt, how to conceal their work. If word gets out,’ she tapped a fingernail on the road leading to Faerie, ‘there will be far greater mischief than even a petty thief could dream of. The queen will not ignore her gifts being so lightly treated.’
She touched the globe again, to hone in on the Donwell estate. Harriet leaned nearer as Mill Farm came into view. Grand Godmother North was watching something closely.
‘I cannot see evidence as yet,’ she murmured.
‘Evidence of what, ma’am?’ Rue dared to ask.
‘The bridge.’ Grand Godmother North, peered at a point on the River Don, close to the mill.
‘The darkling bridge,’ said Myrtle in an awed voice. ‘Could it open?’
‘Stolen magic is exactly the kind of power to open it,’ said Grand Godmother North.
‘This is worse than we thought,’ said Rue.
‘This is ten million times worse than we thought,’ said Harriet.
‘I wonder if we’ll see darklings,’ said Myrtle.
The globe was dismissed with a flick of the North Wind’s hand. Highbury and Donwell and the Faerie border shrank into Surrey, and again into the kingdoms of Old England and Albion. They looked insignificant as they took their place among the great waters surrounding them and the mighty continents stretching away. The globe disappeared back into the North Wind’s pocket.
‘Find the wand, and quickly, before the bridge reopens and Highbury is exposed to the wickedness that haunts the Wild Wood.’
‘You’re not going to leave us?’ Harriet said. ‘You will stay and help us?’
‘My foolish child, I have an entire kingdom sixty-one degrees north teetering on the edge of war between fae bears and ice trolls, do you think I have time to spare here in the little village of Highbury?’
Harriet did not dare answer.
The North Wind was gathering up the train of her gown. There was one question the Sisters had been discussing anxiously since losing the wand. Rue now found the courage to ask it, but her voice shook in fear of the reply.
‘Grand Godmother North,’ she began. ‘Have we failed to graduate?’
There was a silence. The Sisters held their breath, hardly daring to listen to the answer. The North Wind looked at each of them in turn, as though peering into their very thoughts. When she spoke it was ice-clear, but not sharp.
‘There is a shard of hope for you,’ she said.
The Sisters exhaled with relief.
‘Find the wand. Undo the damage. Complete your assignments. Let all things be in order when I return. But you must hasten. The bridge must not open. I would not wish for the Order to lose a new generation of Godmothers. We are needed more than ever in these times of Reason quelling Poetry, and mortals growing increasingly dull to the Invisible.’
It was clear that the North Wind was roused up by this subject.
‘The folly of mortals, in thinking if they close their eyes and ears to their Faerie neighbours, that Faerie will cease to exist, when all that results from such ignorance in the name of modern advancement is a blindness to the beauty and the danger!’
As the North Wind’s indignation waxed, the air grew cooler, and a glimmer of frost dusted the furniture in Mother Goodword’s parlour. The Sisters shivered and huddled together. The North Wind gave a sigh, like a midwinter gale, and wrapped her cloak tightly to her to draw in the cold.
‘One last warning in parting to spur you to vigilance: if the queen should rise in anger against this carelessness, we may have a difficult political situation on our hands. Recall how many were blighted when Tom Huckaby dared steal a kiss from the Faerie princess? The whole county of Northmoor was driven out by Faerie knights. To this very day none but goats dwell there. Faeries are vengeful creatures. Their codes of honour are sensitive.’
The Sisters nodded miserably.
‘The thief is cunning enough to hide their work, but they will leave a trail of clues with each working they make. Exercise your senses to discern these clues.’
The train of her cloak billowed as she crossed the room, casting snowflakes and hail about the floor.
‘Until the setting of the Midsummer Day sun. I cannot cover this for one hour more.’
A wind arose, and the Sisters shielded their faces against it as the North Wind passed out of the door, down the corridor, out of the hall to the courtyard to mount her carriage of wind and ice. Students and teachers and sprites and servants all peered round doorways and out of windows to see her. Her carriage rose up with a roaring wind that rattled the windows and caused the heavy door of the school to slam shut.
She was gone. The Sisters staggered to the fireside where Busie had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as she was wont to do, to pile on more wood and set the kettle on to boil.
Cloe-Claws stayed close to Harriet’s side, until there came a tapping at the window, and the cat jumped up to warn away the sprites who were throwing hail and snowballs at one another.
16
Highbury Gossips
It relieved the residents of Highbury that the visit of the North Wind had not heralded a harsh and early winter. October resumed its usual mildness, for Highbury had always enjoyed a temperate climate, due to its proximity to Faerie.
The gnomes and mortal gardeners had plenty of time to plant their spring bulbs, but their delicate plants had suffered in the great gale that had passed through.
The crab-apple tree sprites found sport in dropping apples on unsuspecting mortals passing by. The cavernous kitchens of Donwell, and the tall, airy kitchen of Highbury were busy with salting and pickling and jam-making, and preserves of all kinds, but despite the baskets and stone jars and barrels of produce, there was still a feeling in the air that something was amiss.
When something is amiss in the magical energies, the mortal inhabitants perceive it as things being ‘out of sorts’, or ‘under the weather’. But the fae folk are more discerning and feel the uneven shift in the energy more deeply. They lit their pipes or took out their knitting and spinning in the evenings and gathered about their firesides, telling stories of past mis-alignments and the steps the royal fae took to bring back order.
Unfortunately, an imbalance in the energies gives an opening to all the disagreeable aspects of human and fae, in proportion to their propensity for disagreeableness. The schoolmaster of the village boys’ school complained wearily that he did not know what had got into his pupils, for they were at best unsettled and at worst riotous, and thoughts of early retirement and a quiet cot by the sea became more frequent.
The laundry woman of Highbury grumbled that her suds would not froth, nor her iron stay hot enough, nor cease from being too hot to scorch – what was the matter with everything?
Widow Wallis in the bakery was so vexed with her goods coming out of the ovens with burnt bottoms, that she threatened to sack the baker and send him packing, which would have been rather harsh, seeing as he was her son. Mischief was afoot in Highbury.
Master and Mistress Perry, the fae healers of Highbury, were disturbed by the shift in the energies of the plants and herbs. They had to travel farther afield, beyond the village border, to gather plants, for those within the proximity of Highbury were most definitely ‘off’. The chamomile ointment Mistress Perry sold for napkin rash turned the Highbury baby’s extremities a shade of puce, which, while harmless, was alarming. And the hair-thickening tonic Master Perry sold to gentlemen of a certain age, resulted in all the male inhabitants over forty sporting ringlets beneath their hats.
Mischief was most definitely afoot. The unexpected arrival of the North Wind last we
ek was testament to that – there should be no North Wind before Midwinter.
Word was spreading like dandelion clock that Highbury was not a safe place to be, and in ones and twos the boarding students at Mother Goodword’s school were removed by their parents, and mistresses and masters declined to come, and the school emptied into a sad silence as the classrooms and dormitories closed. Where Mother Goodword was, the residents could only speculate and shake their heads over disapprovingly. What were things coming to when their own Godmother had upped sticks and gone abroad at such a time? Surely the Wild Man would do something about it all, was the consensus? Master Woodhouse must go into Faerie through the door in the Great Hall and get help to put things right.
Even Master Elftyn, who lauded Master Woodhouse to the skies, had been heard to say that the Wild Man really ought to do something about this unpleasantness. What was the point of having a Wild Man Guardian if he did not do his job of guarding the village from mischief?
There were other rumours regarding Master Elftyn that flitted about Highbury like little sparrows, hopping from one parlour table to another. One pretty little rumour was that handsome Master Elftyn was a great favourite up at Hartfield, and it was not the Wild Man who bestowed such favour. No, indeed. It was the lady of the manor who invited Master Elftyn to drink tea and dine with regularity.
Mistress Baytes, who was a great source of information, had speculated that there would be a wedding by May Day, to be sure. And if Master Elftyn, who was not poor, but not rich, as the village Master of Ceremonies, were the choice of the beautiful Mistress Woodhouse, well that only heightened the romance of the match, and it was most delightful to see a marriage of affection in place of a marriage of mere worldly gain.
Mistress Cole, who was fond of her own husband, but would not have been half so fond of him had he not had an excellent business head on him and a knack for making money, declared that Mistress Woodhouse must see some sign in Master Elftyn that showed he would be a good steward of the Woodhouse fortune he would marry into. Perhaps he would double it in no time through sound investment. Master Cole had always said it was a great pity that Master Woodhouse only sat on his money and did nothing by way of speculation with it. Investment and speculation were the way to progress. Master Elftyn would bring Hartfield into modernity.
Mistress Cox added that it might be a very good thing to have a new Wild Man at Hartfield, for Master Woodhouse was a very good and gentlemanly man, but he had certainly lost his wildness since that incident twenty years ago.
Here, old Dame Baytes came into her own, for she was of an age to remember that incident, and to relay all the details of the witch of the Wild Woods, and her vow of vengeance upon Master Woodhouse and his daughter.
And what did Master Elftyn make of all these flitting birds of rumour? Did he swat them away with vigour? Master Elftyn laughed and smiled and was very modest and humble and handsome, but he swatted away nothing.
The loss of students caused Harriet the most grief, for she was very fond of all the girls, and could hardly imagine what Mother Goodword would say to know that her school had been closed through the Sisters’ folly. The last of the students left, and Harriet was so distressed that she could not even summon up the desire to walk to Hartfield. Not even Mistress Woodhouse could charm away Harriet’s unhappiness that day.
The cloud of worry was strong over all the Sisters as they sat in their sitting room after breakfast. Myrtle was still nursing the severe cold she had engendered during what Rue called The Nut Blunder. The icy blast of the North Wind had not helped, and Myrtle complained she’d been set back by three days of illness thanks to that untimely visit. She deepened Harriet’s misery further by expressing her frustration at finding no fae honey or speedwell in the storeroom to make her cold remedy with. Harriet had given the last of it all to Master Elftyn, of all people.
‘Why take our speedwell and honey?’ Myrtle had said in between sniffles. ‘He should go and get his own from Kingston.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Harriet, distressed. ‘I did not think he would take all of it. I thought he just wanted to borrow a bit. He took all the powdered sweetbriar too.’
‘Well, he’s selfish to have cleared out our entire stock,’ said Myrtle crossly. ‘What did he want with it, anyhow?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet. ‘I assumed it must be to make up a remedy for someone in need in the village. He is very kind to the poor, you know.’
‘He’s not kind to the poor out of his own heart, Harriet, he distributes aid to the poor because that’s his job. The aid comes from the rest of us who pay our communal offerings.’
‘Don’t scold her,’ Rue admonished, seeing Harriet’s expression. ‘She didn’t mean for us to run out of the stuff.’
‘I’ll ask Mistress Woodhouse if her housekeeper has any honey to lend us,’ Harriet promised. ‘And I’ll ask Mistress Perry if she has any speedwell or cold remedy.’
Myrtle had to be satisfied with such a promise.
‘Can we get back to this now,’ said Rue. She had the list of suspects laid out on the table between them; they had crossed out most of the names, and those remaining seemed unlikely thieves.
‘The Quilly sisters,’ Rue read, passing her finger over the names. ‘They don’t never leave the house, so they wouldn’t be poking around our storeroom.’
Myrtle twirled her knitting needle about her fingers as she thought hard.
‘The Coxes,’ read Rue. ‘They ain’t shown any sign of using magic. Them silly Cox girls couldn’t keep from magicking up gowns and baubles if they had use of a wand.’
‘I’m sure they were wearing new gowns yesterday,’ said Harriet, her eyes widening at the thought of a clue. ‘I never thought of it till now, for they often have new gowns.’
‘Ask where they got them from,’ Rue said.
‘I shall,’ said Harriet.
‘The Martins,’ mused Rue.
‘They could never do such a thing as steal,’ Harriet said firmly.
‘We have to consider everyone a suspect,’ said Myrtle, ‘until we can cross them off the list. Robert Martin is always coming here. He’s had ample opportunity to let himself into the storeroom. In fact, I would place him top of the list.’
Harriet gave a little gasp at such an idea. ‘He comes here so often,’ she said ardently, ‘because he’s so kind at helping. He oiled all the door hinges last week, and the window frames, because I happened to mention some of them squeaked. And he was kind enough to move the heavy desks about in my classroom so I could make some space for the girls to act out the stories. He even offered to play the part of Sir Greenshield. Such a kind person would never do something so terrible as steal.’
Myrtle could not resist a snort of humour over the image of the tall, young farmer in the garb of Sir Greenshield.
‘All the small magic has gone topsy-turvy,’ mused Rue. ‘Whoever’s got the wand is working against all the charms, either on purpose or to cause mischief, or ‘cause they’re using stolen magic for themselves.’ She turned back to her list of names.
‘Is there anyone in the village showing signs of increased prosperity or good fortune?’ Myrtle asked. ‘We must scrutinise everyone. Who is making advancement in business, or socially?’
‘The Coles had a new spinet delivered,’ said Harriet.
‘But they’ve always been rich enough to buy things like that,’ said Rue. ‘It would likely be someone with unusual good fortune.’
‘Or whose enemies are suffering unusually bad fortune,’ said Myrtle.
‘We have to keep watching,’ said Rue. ‘I’ll divide up the names and we’ll each have our list of suspects.’
‘If only we had Dust,’ said Myrtle. ‘I think it very inconsiderate of the North Wind to leave us without magic.’
‘We’re not to be trusted with magic,’ Harriet reminded her sadly.
‘Can I borrow your pocket knife, Myrtle?’ asked Rue.
Myrtle did not carry about a han
dkerchief and smelling salts and the usual things that a lady carried in her pocket. She carried a small, sheathed knife and several pencils, for she said they were more likely to be of use than court plaister and lavender water.
Rue cut up her list into three parts and handed them round. Harriet looked at hers. ‘The Fords, the Westons, Master Elftyn. It is not likely that he would steal magic.’
‘Everyone’s a suspect ‘til we can rule ‘em out,’ said Rue.
‘But he’s my ward,’ argued Harriet. ‘How can I suspect my own ward?’
‘Myrtle’s got to watch her ward, and I’ll be keeping a close eye on the Martins.’
‘Can’t we swap suspects?’ Harriet begged.
‘You spend enough time around him these days,’ said Rue. ‘You’re the best one to be able to watch him closely.’
‘I suppose.’ Harriet sighed. ‘Mistress Woodhouse has come up with a new project to keep him at Hartfield every afternoon, she’s painting a portrait of me, and has made him think it was all his idea. He comes to watch.’
‘Is this all part of your matchmaking?’ asked Myrtle.
Harriet nodded. Then she blushed. She was too embarrassed to admit that it was Mistress Woodhouse trying to matchmake Harriet, while Harriet was trying to matchmake Master Elftyn to Mistress Woodhouse. Rue was too busy examining her list to notice Harriet’s blush, and Myrtle was frowning over her own list, deep in thought.
‘At least you haven’t put Mistress and Master Woodhouse on my list,’ said Harriet.
‘Course not,’ said Rue. ‘Why would the Wild Man Guardian cause trouble by stealing magic? Not possible. The Green Man would sense stolen magic in Hartfield in a heartbeat. I hope you ain’t told Mistress Woodhouse about the wand?’ she added.
‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I thought it too horrible a secret to tell anyone.’
‘Best to say nothing to no-one,’ said Rue. ‘Word would get round, and that might cause more trouble.’