‘Just as well,’ Betty said. ‘Seeing as there’s not much else.’
Buster chuckled. ‘You feel that way now, but you’ll soon be old enough to go off on all those adventures you’ve been planning. You won’t be stuck here for ever.’
A hard, achy lump formed in Betty’s throat. She fussed with her dominoes, avoiding Buster’s eyes. If only he knew . . .
‘The Tower itself is a mystery,’ Buster went on. ‘It should have collapsed when the rest of the ancient fortress was destroyed in the war, yet it survived. Something not right about that, if you ask me. But like I said, I’m not the best person to ask.’ Buster peered at his dominoes like a dragon hoarding its treasure. ‘But if you had more questions, there is someone else worth talking to.’
‘Who?’
Buster tilted his head. ‘Old Seamus Fingerty over there.’
Betty groaned. Buster had indicated the thin, straggly-haired fellow who always looked as though he was plotting a murder.
‘If anyone knows about that place it’d be him,’ said Henny. ‘That’s if you can get a civil word out of him.’
‘He was a prisoner, wasn’t he?’ Betty asked. There was no keeping this sort of thing quiet.
Buster nodded. ‘Did a long stretch, too. Because,’ he lowered his voice, ‘before that, he was a warder. And no one likes a crooked warder.’
‘What was his crime?’
‘Smuggling folk off Torment. They reckon he’d helped dozens escape before he was caught. I reckon that’s the only reason he’s not there himself now – too risky. Knows too much about escape routes.’
Escape routes. The words sent a tremor through Betty as she thought of Colton. She watched Fingerty with renewed interest. Perhaps the old crook might be of use in more ways than one.
She thanked Buster and Henny, then abandoned her dominoes. Fliss was wiping down the counter.
‘Where’s Granny?’ Betty asked as she drew level with her sister.
‘Out in the office, making a start on the banking.’
‘Reckon she’ll be back any time soon?’
Fliss shrugged. ‘She told me to call her if it gets busy. Why?’
Quickly, Betty recounted what she had learned about the tower and its mysterious prisoner. Fliss’s eyes went round and wide. ‘And Buster thinks he,’ Betty nodded at Fingerty, ‘can tell us more.’
Fliss looked doubtful. ‘Good luck with that. It’s hard enough getting a please or a thank you out of him.’
‘That’s where you come in,’ said Betty, giving her sister a meaningful look. ‘What’s he drink?’
‘Speckled Pig, usually. Port if he’s especially grumpy. Why?’
‘Give him his next two on the house.’
‘Betty!’ Fliss protested. ‘Granny will go barmy if she finds out I’m giving away free drinks, especially to a miserable old coot like him!’
‘Then don’t let her find out,’ said Betty. ‘If he knows anything, we need him.’ Excitement crackled through her like the candy she had just eaten. Perhaps Fingerty could provide a valuable clue to breaking the curse. With luck, they might not even need Colton. But he needs you, her conscience whispered as she remembered his desperation. She ignored it. This was about the Widdershins, not him.
Fliss pursed her lips, then filled a glass with frothy ale. ‘All right. But don’t let anyone else hear or they’ll all come scrounging.’
‘I’m going over,’ said Betty, taking the glass. ‘Warn me if you hear Granny coming. Ring the bell or something.’
‘I can’t!’ Fliss said, indignant. ‘Everyone would think it was time to leave!’
‘Something else, then,’ Betty said, impatient. ‘Start singing. That old nursery rhyme: The Magpie and the Merrypennies.’ She pulled herself up to her full height which, admittedly, wasn’t very impressive. Then she walked over to Fingerty’s table. She had never been this close to him before, and now found that he smelled rather stale, like unwashed socks. His grey hair was long and straggly, draped like curtains either side of his leathery face.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, when he continued to stare out of the window. ‘Mr Fingerty?
For a moment he gazed ahead silently as though he hadn’t heard. Betty’s excitement fizzled out a little. Perhaps she should have sent Fliss over instead. A salty old grouch like Fingerty would need sweetening up, and Betty wasn’t sure she had the charm or patience. He lifted his beer, supping slowly, then banged it down on the table, startling her.
‘Huh!’ The sound was half-chuckle, half-sneer. ‘Long time since anyone’s called me Mister.’
‘Oh,’ said Betty. ‘What shall I call you, then?’
Fingerty turned to look at her. He had dark eyes like grey shards of flint. The way they raked over her made her feel as though she was a pile of soggy leaves being poked with a stick, unearthing all the bugs and beetles hidden underneath. She gritted her teeth and stood her ground. If persevering with Fingerty meant she might avoid breaking Colton out of jail, then persevere she would.
‘You’re blunt, for one so young,’ he remarked.
Betty shrugged.
‘Well, so am I,’ he said. ‘And my feeling is that yer want something. So yer can save your niceties and clear off.’
‘What?’ Betty said in surprise. ‘I haven’t even told you what I want!’ The thought of having to help Colton escape nudged a little closer to becoming a reality, deepening her desperation. If Fingerty didn’t talk, she had few options left.
Fingerty’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. ‘I don’t do favours for no one.’
‘What if there’s something in it for you?’
Fingerty drained his beer, then drew his cuff across his wet upper lip. ‘Go on, then. What?’
Emboldened, Betty took a seat opposite and pushed the fresh pint of Speckled Pig towards him. ‘Two drinks on the house in exchange for a little chat.’
‘Huh,’ he said again, less nastily this time. ‘Sitting with a known felon? Won’t do yerself no favours.’
‘My dad’s a felon. I’m used to it.’
He chuckled. ‘What d’yer want, then?’
‘I want to hear what you know about Crowstone Tower.’
Fingerty frowned deeply, carving lines into his already wrinkled forehead. ‘The prison tower? Common knowledge, most of it.’
‘I know some of it,’ Betty said. ‘That it was part of the old fortress, and that they held a witch there, Sorsha Spellthorn. It’s anything else you might know that I’m interested in.’
Fingerty raked her over again with his eyes. ‘Why yer asking?’
Betty returned his gaze as boldly as she dared. ‘If I tell you that then it’ll have to be one drink, not two.’
‘Fair enough.’ Fingerty scratched his bristly chin with a too-long fingernail. ‘Sorsha Spellthorn. Some called her a witch, but a better word would be “sorceress”.’
Something jolted through Betty’s bones. Sorceress. It sounded grander than witch, and certainly capable of a curse. Anything Fingerty knew about how – and why – might lead her to the breaking of it.
‘See, rumours of witchcraft tend to be small,’ Fingerty continued. ‘Petty. Lotions for warts, potions for love or revenge. But Sorsha, she was different, or so I heard.’
‘Is that what got her locked up?’
‘Depends who yer listen to. See, some say she was using her sorcery to make trouble. Others . . . well, they think she was imprisoned under false charges.’ He stared into the fire, and his sullen expression softened to something that became almost haunted. ‘And yer talking about something that happened a long time ago: well over a century. Think folks are superstitious now? It’s nothing compared to back then.’
‘What do you think?’ Betty asked.
‘Don’t matter what I think.’ Fingerty huffed out a long breath, his cheeks puffing out like a stuffed goose. ‘But I’ll tell yer what I know, or at least what I’ve pieced together, if yer can stop interrupting for one pecking minute. I’m the one telli
ng this story, and I’ll tell it my way. And the best way is to start at the beginning, got it?’
Betty nodded, not daring to say any more.
‘No one knew where she came from,’ said Fingerty, settling back in his chair. ‘Which is strange, considering that almost everyone knows where she ended up.’ He supped his beer. ‘Sorsha Spellthorn was born on the Misty Marshes on a stormy winter night, in a little rowing boat. There’s no official record of her birth, but it’s believed it was midwinter. The shortest day, the longest night. For three people, it was their last night.’
A chill breeze blew round Betty’s ankles as someone entered the Poacher’s Pocket. She leaned closer to the fire.
‘It appeared on the marshes out of nowhere,’ Fingerty went on. ‘The little boat, savaged by the storm and washed on to the mudflats, broken and leaking water. It got stuck, began sinking. Torment was the closest, but the boat was still far out, and the weather too wild to risk. When the islanders on Torment looked through their spyglasses, they saw a woman stranded.
‘Three people took a boat out to save her: two men and a woman. Little is known about them, except that they happened to be a spy, and two smugglers. When they reached the woman they discovered that she had just given birth to a tiny baby girl. Somehow, they got them both into the boat with them, just moments before the damaged vessel was sucked into the marshes. Then came the gruelling journey back to Torment. Along the way, one of the smugglers and the spy were lost to the marshes, and the next morning, after bringing mother and child safely back to land, the other smuggler died too, his lungs having taken on too much water during the rescue.’ Fingerty paused, shaking his head. Betty took a breath, feeling a sting of tears pricking her eyelids; partly for the tale she was hearing and partly because somehow, she couldn’t help think of the drowning of her own mother.
‘They lived their lives on Torment in disgrace,’ she mumbled tearfully. ‘And yet they gave their lives to save two strangers.’
‘Yerp. And that’s not all they gave. When people die like that – sacrificing themselves – the baby . . .’ Fingerty glowered into his beer. ‘Even now, they’re known simply by their crimes. Not by name . . . but for their mistakes. No one is wholly good, or wholly bad. Sometimes the best people are capable of doing the worst things, and the worst people can be capable of doing the best. The most honourable, and heroic. Despite whatever they’ve done in the past.’
‘The baby,’ Betty asked. ‘That was Sorsha?’
Fingerty nodded. ‘They stayed on Torment, out of gratitude for their lives. Sorsha grew, from a baby to a girl to a young woman. And people began to notice things about her, see? Odd things, that made no sense.’
‘Like what?’ Betty asked, sensing that Fingerty’s pause, this time, invited an interruption.
He nodded at his glass. Somehow it had been drained without her noticing. She snatched it and hurried to the counter, tapping impatiently as she waited for Fliss to finish serving someone else. In her rush to get to Betty, Fliss slopped beer all over the side of the glass she was carrying and practically threw the customer’s change at them.
Betty watched as the young man Fliss had served scrabbled to collect the coins rolling over the counter. ‘You’re lucky Granny didn’t see you do that. And that he’s sweet on you.’
Fliss waved a dismissive hand. Apparently, she’d forgotten that not so long ago she’d been sweet on him, too. Typical Fliss the Flit, thought Betty.
‘What’s Fingerty have to say?’ Fliss asked.
‘I’m still finding out. He knows things, about that girl in the Tower,’ Betty said, experiencing a surge of adrenaline at what she was about to hear. She hoped she’d be able to carry the drink back without spilling it. ‘And he’s not finished yet. Hurry up!’
Fliss held a fresh glass under the Speckled Pig and heaved at the pump. Frothy beer gushed out. ‘Is he as awful as folk say?’
‘Yes and no,’ Betty answered. ‘He’s a rotten old stick, but he took less coaxing than I expected.’ She said this with a measure of pride, glad that she, too, could be persuasive . . . even if it boiled down to bribery rather than charm.
Fliss set the full glass on the counter. ‘Maybe all he needs is a bit of kindness. Perhaps he’s glad of someone listening to him, for once.’
Betty snorted. ‘Or maybe you’re drunk on beer fumes. Soon as the free drinks dry up, so will the stories. Just you watch.’
Betty returned to Fingerty’s table, putting the beer in front of him. She sat down, aware that Fliss was lurking close by to eavesdrop. Fingerty took a slow mouthful of beer, leaving a creamy moustache of froth on his upper lip.
‘Right,’ he said, settling back once more. ‘Now, listen.’
And so began the story of Sorsha Spellthorn.
Chapter Eleven
Sorsha’s Tale
SPLAT! THE EGG WHIZZED PAST Sorsha and Hit Prue right in her middle. Somehow, it bounced off her and cracked as it landed on her feet, splattering the slimy white and golden yolk all over her shoes.
‘Hey!’ Sorsha yelled in fury, but the culprits had already dodged away into an alley at the back of the marketplace, their laughter ringing in the air. Sorsha considered chasing them, but her little sister’s sobs kept her where she was.
‘It’s all right, Prue,’ she muttered, kneeling at her sister’s feet with her handkerchief. She wiped the mess away as best she could, shaking fragments of white shell on to the dusty road. She sensed people were staring, but in the busy marketplace they didn’t linger. Sorsha was used to stares. ‘There. Most of it’s off. Did you see who it was?’
Prue hesitated. ‘The pig-keeper’s lad, and a few others. They were shouting things, about us . . . about Ma.’ She sniffled, blinking away more tears.
‘Don’t cry,’ Sorsha said, more gently now. ‘I’ll bet they weren’t even aiming at you. They probably meant it for me.’ Instantly, Prue stopped crying, looking brighter, and Sorsha was the one feeling unsettled, though she couldn’t quite explain why.
‘What were they saying?’ Sorsha asked, even though she could already guess.
‘They said we weren’t proper sisters. That you and Ma are witches that came in off the marshes. That you sacrificed people with your bad magic so that you both survived. And that she witched my pa, and then—’
‘Hush,’ Sorsha said softly, aware that Prue’s shrill voice was attracting curious glances.
Prue stared at her, her strange eyes unblinking. They didn’t look a bit alike. While Sorsha had their mother’s dark and unusual looks: tawny hair, brown skin and green eyes, Prudence mirrored the pale-skinned, mud-brown-haired islanders. And her eyes . . . they were so unusually pale it was hard to say whether they were grey, green, blue, or had any colour at all. A word often used to described them was ‘fishy’ and, although Sorsha felt it was unkind, she couldn’t help but privately agree.
Sorsha sighed, collecting the basket and tucking the soggy handkerchief into her pinny. ‘Come on.’ She took Prue’s hand and tugged her away from the marketplace in the direction of home. When she tried to release Prue’s smaller, clammy hand a few minutes later, Prue held on stubbornly. At eight, she was only two years younger than Sorsha, but at times the age gap felt larger.
‘We are sisters,’ Sorsha said, once they were in the quiet lanes. ‘Doesn’t matter what anyone else says.’
They fell into silence, walking briskly. Finally Prue released Sorsha’s hand to wrap her shawl more tightly around herself. It was a chilly spring morning, and on the surrounding meadows patches of frost still sparkled. Cottages were dotted like breadcrumbs along the road. Their own was further away than all the rest, an outsider just as they were. As the meadow opened out, a brisk wind blew up, reminding them that the cliff top was not far away.
‘I wonder what it’s like over there?’ Prue said, as she always did, nodding to the hazy land across the water.
‘Better,’ Sorsha replied. Sometimes when they went walking with Ma, they’d gaze acr
oss to mainland Crowstone from a high point on the cliffs. On a clear day you could see the rooftops and church spire, and the little boats on the water. ‘People are free to come and go as they please. Not like here.’
‘My father’s family is over there,’ Prue said, with a degree of pride. ‘Ma said so.’
‘Could well be true,’ Sorsha replied. ‘But you’ve never met them, and you probably never will.’
Prue’s chin jutted obstinately. ‘Sometimes people can get there.’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
Ma had heard that in the past, people on Torment had ‘earned’ their way across to mainland Crowstone with some good deed for the better of all. But in the ten years Sorsha had been on the island, the only ones who had left were those in boxes sailing over to their final resting places on Lament.
Their mother never spoke about Sorsha’s father, or where they had come from before they’d arrived on Torment. Prue’s father hadn’t been around for long, either. Newly released from the prison and banished to Torment, he had been besotted with Sorsha’s mother from the moment he arrived, despite warnings from other islanders. Sorsha had a hazy memory of bright, blue eyes and a weathered face, but Prue did not recall her father at all. She had been just a year old when he’d gone fishing out by Lament, and never returned after his boat was swept on to the treacherous rocks known as the Devil’s Teeth.
The gossip hinted that this was their mother’s witchcraft, too. But as the years had passed, the focus shifted to Sorsha – and things about her that couldn’t be explained.
She hadn’t realised she was different, at first. How was she to know that other children couldn’t hide as well as she could? Or weren’t able to see a person just by thinking about them? Or the . . . other thing, that couldn’t be put down to slyness or imagination. Before she knew it, she was the one the villagers tugged their own children away from. The one no one wanted to play with.
Over time she grew skilled at hiding these gifts, but not before they had been noticed . . . and suspicion lurked in every pointed finger.
A Pinch of Magic Page 9
