Starfell: Willow Moss & the Lost Day

by Dominique Valente

  There was a rather horrified hiss from inside the bag. “Kobolds don’ purr!”

  “But you just did.”

  “I is NOT a cat.”

  Smoke started curling from the top of the bag, and Willow stifled a laugh. “Sorry, my mistake.” Then she quickly picked up the bag and slipped inside the cart, Oswin muttering darkly under his breath, “I is the monster from under the bed . . . ,” while she pulled a pile of clothing on top of them.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, hoping that no one had seen them.

  Finally they heard the laundry man say, “Just so you know, the longer we stand here arguing, the more likely it is that the duke will think you were going through his unmentionables. . . .”

  Very shortly afterward the cart’s wheels were trundling inside the forbidden city of Beady Hill. Willow watched through a small gap in the piles of laundry as they passed by the guards, her heart in her throat.

  When the cart had come to a stop some time later and the coast appeared to clear, she slid out, hairy carpetbag in hand. As she began to sneak away she heard, “Oi, what you doing? You better not have taken any of the duke’s delicates!” from the laundry man, and she broke into a run, snaking her way down a maze of cobbled streets.

  When Willow’s heart had finally slowed down and she was sure that they were safe, she stopped and took a proper look around. Hundreds of tall grayish houses, taller than they were wide, were hunched together as they snaked around the sloping hill, their glossy windows seeming to look down at her with a beady glint. And right at the top, surrounded by a dark, hazy cloud, she could just make out the gray stone ramparts where the archers were waiting.

  She set the bag down as a group of people heading toward the market walked past. “I wish I had a robe or something—something to help me blend in better.”

  “I fink that would jes’ makes yew stands out worse,” observed Oswin from the hole in the bag.

  Willow had to admit that he had a point, as most of the townspeople who passed them were dressed similarly to her. Some even worse. Just then an old man with more liver spots than hair hurried past her. He was wearing a very old and tatty cloak and was carrying a threadbare, bulging knapsack. He was accompanied by an aging gray cat, who looked more than a little defeated himself. “Come on, Gurgle, we know when we aren’t welcome.”

  “Excuse me,” said Willow, approaching him slightly reluctantly, particularly when he shot her a very sour look. She cleared her throat. “Um, sorry, would you happen to know where I could find the Sometimes house? I was told they used to live in the Ditchwater district of Beady Hill.”

  The man looked at her, then snorted, mumbling under his breath.

  “Sorry?” said Willow.

  He harrumphed again. “Yes, well, you should be. The Sometimes family had the sense to move on years ago. . . . Never thought this would happen in my city. First they told us we HAD to live here, and now they tell us we must get OUT? Don’ even make sense. We’ve lived here for years peacefully, making the most of a bad situation, paying our taxes . . . contributin’. It’s not like we deserved this; we’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, then walked off, shoulders slumped, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders.

  Willow felt a pang of pity, realizing that he must be one of the magical residents now forced to leave his home. “He must have been a wizard,” she said.

  “Proberbelly,” acknowledged Oswin as a group of girls walked past.

  One of the girls had shiny blond curls and was carrying a basket laden with iced buns. She gave Willow a look of surprise at her speaking aloud, apparently to herself. The look soon changed to one of disgust when she noticed Willow’s hairy green carpetbag. The girl caught the eyes of her friends, and they erupted into whispers and giggles as they passed her. Willow picked up her bag, then followed the girls, though she really didn’t want to after the way they’d laughed at her. “Excuse me,” she said.

  They turned to her in surprise, and the one with the blond curls raised a pale eyebrow. “I’m sorry, we’re not interested in whatever you’re selling.”

  One of the other girls started giggling again. She stopped when Willow gave her a look.

  Willow took in a calm, steadying breath. She’d had a lot of practice, what with having Camille for a sister. “I’m not selling anything. I was just wondering if any of you know where I could find Ditchwater. . . .”

  The blond girl’s face twisted with scorn. “What do you want with that area? I heard they’re going to start tearing it down. . . . Not soon enough, if you ask me.”

  Willow’s frown darkened. “Those are people’s homes.”

  The girl shrugged. “Not anymore. Didn’t you hear about the new ruling? We’ve got Forbidden status now—no magical people allowed—which means that they’ve finally started kicking out the riffraff.” Then she paused and smirked. “Clearly they haven’t made much progress yet, though,” she said, eyeing Willow’s dress with some disdain.

  A girl with dark red hair, who hadn’t giggled along with the others, reprimanded her. “Kathleen!”

  Willow closed her eyes for a second, then counted to three. She pushed down the top of Oswin’s head as it began rising out of the bag in outrage. She heard him mutter, “I’ll show ’er riffraff. . . .”

  “Can you point me toward it, please? It’s important,” Willow said.

  The girl with the red hair answered. “If you follow this road, take a left by the river, and you’ll find Ditchwater a bit farther on. Er . . . be careful.”

  “Thanks,” Willow said, giving the girl a grateful smile, then picked up the bag and made her way up the street, hearing the friends argue as she left. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Mabel. You’ve been acting odd for days. Ever since you took my dress last week.”

  “I told you I didn’t take it.”

  “Then where is it? The last thing I remember was you trying it on Monday night.”

  Willow rounded the corner, and their voices died down. She could still hear Oswin’s mutterings from the bag. “Why’d yew push me down? I could ’ave taken ’er.”

  “Thank you, Oswin, I know—but I just want us to find what we need, and then get out of this city without being noticed—and you, unfortunately, are very memorable.”

  The kobold took this as a compliment and handed her an iced lemon bun that he’d stolen fromthe blond girl. Willow grinned and took a small bite from a bit that wasn’t covered in fur before handing it back.

  The gray clouds above were threatening rain and the sun was low in the sky by the time she found the Ditchwater district, and Willow stopped in surprise. It was a floating village that wound along the river. Some of the houseboats were a bit ramshackle and made of mismatched materials, but they were colorful, the paint vibrantly hued in shades of pumpkin, sunshine, and sapphire, as if the residents had tried their best to make this area as cheerful as they could. Suspended in the air by magic were lamps that still cast their amber lights on the water. Willow thought that this must be how the district got its name. She couldn’t help thinking of her mother and Moreg growing up here.

  As she walked along past the houseboats, the path alongside the river widened and she could see that some of the older floating homes were slightly bigger, with portholes and wide decks with potted plants and garden furniture spilling over onto the banks. But as she walked deeper into the district, the houses became more traditional homes built on the ground, away from the water. Most of these, though, were now empty and boarded up. Ditchwater reminded Willow of a ghost town, one where even the ghosts had left in rather a hurry. Doors hung off hinges and many household items lay abandoned on the street, as if the owners had decided it would be safer to run away than to go back and get them.

  Just when Willow was wondering if all the residents had fled, a hag with long greasy hair and a wart on her chin suddenly came tearing out of a stone house that was covered with moss. She was loaded down with an assortment of household goods, which she put onto a
n already overloaded wheelbarrow nearby. She pulled at her long, straggly brown hair. “The potions, can’t forget the potions,” she muttered, then went racing back inside the house for the rest of her things, not even seeing Willow.

  The hag had clearly heard about the new ruling and was making haste to pack up her things and get going before the Brothers of Wol came to take her away for trespassing inside the newly forbidden district.

  Willow set her carpetbag down with a frown. There was something about the hag; she seemed almost familiar somehow. And she’d mentioned potions. . . . There weren’t that many potion makers in Starfell . . . very few had the ability. She peered closer at the wheelbarrow, curious.

  “Wot you doing?” asked Oswin.

  “I don’t know. I might be wrong, but that might have been my granny’s old potions partner,” she said, looking from the wheelbarrow to the house where the hag had gone. “I met her once, I think, when I was little. She looked a bit like her. . . . Granny used to say that if there was trouble . . . Amora Spell was not far behind.”

  She turned back to the wheelbarrow, her nose wrinkling at the sight of curly rats’ tails and jars full of what looked like eyeballs, rusty nails, and toenail clippings. She picked up a jar and put it back with a shudder. These ingredients looked nothing like the sorts of things Granny Flossy used. . . .

  Suddenly Oswin’s mutterings turned into high-pitched wails from within the hairy bag. “Oh no, oh no! Oh, me horrid aunt! A curse upon you, Osbertrude, from all of us kobolds!”

  The hairs on Willow’s body began to stand on end. She snatched her hand away from the wheelbarrow, then closed her eyes in mortification as a high-pitched voice asked, “Can I help you, dearie?”

  Willow straightened with a gulp. She turned to find the hag behind her, peering at her with wide black eyes, and Willow thought that staring into them was like looking inside a deep, empty well. Oswin wasn’t the only one whose knees started knocking.

  “Or you just interested in stealing things that don’ belong to you?” she hissed.

  Willow’s eyes popped. “I—no—I was just looking. . . .”

  The hag’s eyes darkened. “Thought you’d help yerself, that it?”

  Willow shook her head fast.

  A faint scent of smoke began to curl from out of the carpetbag.

  The hag sniffed. Then seemed to consider Willow, head cocked to the side. “Is it a potion that yer after, eh? A love potion, dearie?” she asked, waggling a set of shaggy eyebrows that turned up at the corners. She gave her a gummy, gap-toothed leer, transforming instantly into the picture of friendliness at the idea of a sale.

  Willow shook her head and the hag frowned, her smile fading. Something that Granny Flossy said floated into Willow’s mind. The only potion maker daft enough to meddle with matters of the heart was old Amora Spell, though the only thing she’s ever managed to give anybody was heartburn. Heh-heh-heh. . . .

  “You’re Amora Spell, aren’t you?” asked Willow.

  The hag eyed her suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

  “I think you used to know my granny. . . . You came by the house once when I was little . . . after she had the accident.”

  “Oh?” said the hag, straightening slightly, her ink-colored eyes raking over Willow with suspicion. “And who is your granny?”

  “Florence Moss.”

  As she said her grandmother’s name aloud, a part of Willow’s mind waited, as if it were about to remember something important, but a larger, stronger part of her mind shut down quickly, as if it were a suitcase and someone had sat on it to keep it closed. She tried to hold on to the wisp of thought that had appeared, blue-tinged and plunged in sadness, but it was like holding on to the wind. She blinked, and all too soon it was gone, punctured by the sound of the hag’s wild cackling laughter.

  “Caw-caw-caw, ghn-ghn. Flossy Mossy?” She chortled as tears ran down her long nose while she slapped a knee in apparent glee.

  Willow managed to give her a haughty stare, which only made the hag laugh harder still. When at last she had composed herself with much “Ghn-ghn, oh my goodness, caw-caw-caw!” she took a deep, rattling sort of breath, which exposed blackened stubs for teeth, and asked, “You one of Flossy Mossy’s grandbabies? She still as crazy as a cackling crow then?”

  “She’s not crazy. . . . Well, not completely,” protested Willow. Granny couldn’t exactly help it; she just got confused sometimes.

  This only made the hag laugh harder still.

  At Willow’s dark scowl, Amora Spell wiped the tears from her eyes. “So which one is you, then? Which grandbaby?”

  News of her sisters had evidently spread. It was hard not to when one sister blew things up with her mind and the other used hers to move things. So, with all the confidence she didn’t feel, Willow declared, “I’m the one you’ve heard all about.”

  The hag looked at her for some time, and then very slowly she started to grin. “Yes-s-s,” she said, inching closer, looking at Willow’s hair, her eyes. Suddenly a clawlike hand snaked tightly around Willow’s arm. “That’s what I was thinking meself. . . . Coming ’ere, going through my things . . . Speaking about me old potions partner . . . I suppose she blamed me for that explosion, didn’ she . . . when it was her own daft fault.”

  Willow frowned. “She said it was an accident.”

  “Yes, that’s right, it was an accident. That’s what I tol’ her. . . . She had no right to question me the way she did. . . .”

  “Question you? Why did she question you? Did you have something to do with it?”

  “What did you just say?” hissed the hag. “Are you accusing me o’something? I don’ appreciate that, not one bit.”

  The StoryPass Willow was still holding was suggesting “If I Were You, I’d Run.”

  Amora sniffed. “I know exactly which grandbaby you are. You is the one who stays home to look after the old crone now that she’s gone banana doolally. The one whose magic is a bit, well, humdrum, ain’t cha? Finding people’s lost bits and bobs—it’s not really impressive now, is it?”

  Willow wrenched her arm out of the old woman’s grip, rubbing the skin. “Well, that depends,” she said.

  “On what?” asked the hag.

  “On what I find,” said Willow, closing her eyes and raising a hand to the sky. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a dripping-wet fishing net, twice as big as Willow, appeared in her outstretched palm.

  “Ha!” snickered the hag, slapping a skinny knee. “’Tis you! What you gonna do with that, girl?” she scoffed. “Ketch yourself my lost socks? Frighten my nostrils to death?” She threw back her head and guffawed. She took a potion from out of her robe and uncorked it. The liquid inside began to glow a dark, oozing sort of blood red and her hand snaked forward toward Willow’s mouth. “I think maybe I need to teach you a lesson about what happens to little girls who go around accusing people. . . .”

  Willow shut her eyes and held the fishing net up to the sky, and suddenly a wave of green briny water cascaded from the heavens and a colossal hairy fish with a set of razor-sharp, needlelike teeth landed with a whoosh into the net and began flopping around wildly, drenching them all.

  The hag jumped back, all traces of humor fading fast. A bit of spilled potion hit the ground and began to smoke in a dark-red puff.

  “This is the Buzzle Wuzzle,” said Willow as the thing inside the net thrashed around madly. “He’s a lost lake monster and he looks like he might like to teach you a lesson himself!” she said, flinging him at the hag, who screamed as he flew at her with all his needlelike teeth bared.

  Amora fell backward over the wheelbarrow, fighting off the fish, and in the kerfuffle Willow picked up the carpetbag with Oswin still inside and followed the StoryPass’s advice by making a run for it.

  8

  The Sometimes House

  WILLOW SLOWED DOWN only once she was safely away on a long, winding road deeper inside the district of Ditchwater.

  “Horrid old crook,”
she said, gasping for air, a hand on her knees. “You—know—” she said, sucking in big drafts of air, “Granny used to be the best potion maker in all of Starfell before that accident. . . .” She thought it was weird the way that Amora had seemed so cagey about it. . . . Was it possible that she did have something to do with it?

  “Was that before her hair turned green?” asked Oswin from within the bag as Willow continued on, walking past streets that widened into avenues with small front gardens that spread into bigger lawns. This must be the oldest and wealthiest part of the suburb, she realized.

  “I think so,” said Willow, who stopped to peer at some of the front gardens. Here and there the houses had names and plaques. But she couldn’t see any yellow door and none of the gardens looked unusual, just overgrown and a bit wild, really.

  Suddenly something bright caught the corner of her eye. She turned and looked, but she couldn’t see anything. Then as she began to walk on by she passed a narrow, long bridle path wedged between two houses and saw, at the end of it, something bright and yellow in the twilight. It was a door.

  She stopped. “Do you think this is it?” she whispered, peering up ahead at the long sweeping path, where very far in the distance she could make out what looked almost like a house.

  “Mebbe,” said Oswin.

  She looked at the StoryPass, which right then didn’t seem to be offering much help, as it was currently suggesting, “Cup of Tea?”

  They set off up the dark, overgrown path, Willow looking over her shoulder in case anyone was watching. She didn’t want another run-in with Amora Spell, that was for sure. But they saw no one.

  As they drew closer, it became clear that the house was old and dilapidated. It had chipped blue paint and a yellow front door. The garden was wild and covered in brambles. She saw dozens of colorful teapots fixed beneath the windows like curious flowerpots, with trailing plants spilling out of them.