A Pinch of Magic

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘So it’s just left, the way it was when Sorsha Spellthorn was there?’ Betty asked. ‘That’s more than a century!’

  Colton nodded. ‘They can do nothing with it. Can’t empty the place, can’t knock it down. It’s like her death left a stain on it.’

  Betty’s dread deepened. A stain . . . or a curse? Sorsha Spellthorn wasn’t just some story. She’d been a real person: desperate and angry enough to fling herself from the tower. Whatever her powers, they hadn’t saved her. ‘There’s something I don’t understand. If Sorsha was a sorceress, why didn’t she use magic to escape?’

  ‘That’s one of the mysteries of the place,’ Colton said. ‘There had to be something about that tower that rendered her powerless.’

  ‘Did you tell my father?’ Betty asked. ‘About the name being carved into the wall?’

  ‘No. It all happened after he’d been moved. But by then, I knew about the travelling bag and what it could do, so—’

  Betty pounced. ‘How? How did you know about the bag? You never did explain that.’

  ‘The first time I saw it, it was being used by your granny to hit your father round the head,’ he admitted.

  ‘Nothing strange about that,’ Betty replied. She’d seen Granny do that more than once.

  ‘She was in his cell at the time.’

  ‘But visitors aren’t allowed . . .’ Betty stopped. Of course. The only way Granny could have visited their father’s cell was in the same way she and her sisters had reached Colton’s. ‘She was using the bag to visit him in secret?’

  ‘Only once, that I knew of,’ said Colton. ‘In the middle of the night. And she made it pretty clear it wouldn’t be happening again.’

  ‘Why would she risk that?’

  ‘It was just after he found out he was getting moved. They were whispering, arguing.’

  Betty nodded. Granny and Father always bickered, about everything. She felt a tiny thrill laced with longing at the thought of Granny visiting in secret. How daring she was, how like Betty in more than their bluntness!

  ‘He was asking her to get him out,’ said Colton. ‘To visit his girls one last time before he moved. At first I didn’t pay much attention. I thought he was being dramatic, that he could just as easily be visited wherever he was getting moved to. I was more interested in how an old woman had got into the cells in the middle of the night, so I crept out of bed and watched through the bars. That’s when she walloped him with the bag and told him he couldn’t risk coming home.

  ‘They quietened down after that and I struggled to hear, but two words that kept rising up were ‘bag’ and ‘curse’. They argued some more, getting louder. Other prisoners started to wake. And that’s when I saw her put her hand in the bag. The next moment, she’d gone. Disappeared completely. I couldn’t sleep after that, not till sunrise. After waking, I almost convinced myself it was a dream, but something in me knew what I’d seen was real. A week later your father was transferred out. And so . . .’

  ‘So from that, you plotted the whole thing,’ Betty finished. There was something sickening about knowing he had used her family’s misfortune for his own gain. But then, she reminded herself, she had done shameful things to get what she wanted, too. She had lied and stolen, not from strangers but her own family. Perhaps that made her a bigger wretch than he was.

  He nodded. ‘I wrote to your granny at the Poacher’s Pocket and said I had information for her. It was enough to bring her to the prison.’

  ‘For you to start weaving your lies.’

  ‘Yes.’ Colton spoke quietly, his words threaded with shame. ‘I knew it was wrong. But I told myself I was surviving.’ Abruptly he stopped rowing and sat up straighter. The boat continued to slide through the water in silence.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Betty.

  Colton stared past her, his eyes narrowed. ‘I thought I saw something.’

  Betty turned to look over her shoulder. She met with a chilling sight: thick, grey fog was slowly creeping towards them over the water.

  ‘Jumping jackdaws,’ she breathed in horror. ‘We’ll never find our way out of that!’

  ‘We may not have to,’ Colton said grimly.

  Betty frowned. ‘What?’

  Then she saw it: a light straining through the hazy, foggy darkness. Growing bigger, getting closer. ‘Is that . . . ?’

  ‘A boat,’ Colton finished. He drew in the oars and stowed them, then crouched down next to her. ‘It must be the warders. Quickly, get down!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hostage

  BETTY DUCKED INTO THE BELLY of the boat. Her nostrils filled with the smell of stale fish and old nets. ‘You really think it’s the warders?’ she whispered. ‘Could it be someone else? A fishing boat, perhaps?’

  ‘We’d have to be lucky. Very lucky. The warders are probably checking every boat in case Jarrod or me are on it.’ Colton’s words were rushed, tumbling over each other. ‘Perhaps we could capsize the boat and hide under it . . . but even then, the water would only finish us off. Unless . . .’ His dark brows furrowed in concentration. ‘They’re only looking for me, not you. If you were caught you wouldn’t be in any trouble—’

  ‘Except the Widdershins’ name is linked to yours in the visiting book, and has been for months,’ Betty said at once. ‘And I’m thirteen years old! They’d take me straight home.’ She rolled on to her knees, keeping her head low. ‘We’ve come too far now. I’m not giving up and going back to Crowstone. I’m finding my sisters, with or without you.’ She reached into her pockets and took out the nesting dolls. Up till now there had been no need for Colton to know about them – but now she had no choice. They needed to hide. Using her fingernails she prised the first one apart, then removed the next.

  Colton’s eyes widened. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Something that’s going to save our skin.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’re going to vanish.’

  ‘Vanish? You mean, disappear?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Colton’s eyes raked over the dolls. ‘They’re magical, just like the bag, aren’t they?’

  Betty nodded. ‘And they’re our only chance now. If the warders can’t see us then they can’t catch us, right?’ She looked at him desperately, willing him to agree. ‘If they think it’s just a drifting boat, they might pass us by?’

  Colton’s face was stacked with doubt. ‘They could just as easily tow the boat back to shore.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Betty admitted. ‘But it would still buy us some time, to figure out another idea. We’ve a better chance this way, surely?’

  ‘Better chance of what?’ Colton hissed. ‘Ending up back where we started?’ He glanced back, shaking his head violently, and Betty glimpsed the resolve in his face. Colton had as much to lose as she did, and he wasn’t quitting. It lent her strength. He peered over the side of the boat, eyes glinting with reflective light, before dropping back down, breathing hard. ‘They’re close, now. Two of them rowing, I think.’

  ‘Did they see you?’ Betty asked. She fumbled with the smaller dolls, panic making her clumsy.

  ‘Don’t think so.’ He nodded at the dolls. ‘Just do it. Make us disappear.’

  Betty finally managed to open the second and third dolls, her frozen fingers trembling. ‘I need something of yours, quickly. A strand of hair, piece of jewellery . . . something like that.’

  ‘I don’t have anything like that!’ Colton gave her a fierce look. Her eyes swept over him: his closely shorn hair, the rags he wore that barely classed as clothing. No jewellery, of course. She glanced at his hands, seeing only fingernails so chewed they were bleeding in places.

  ‘For crow’s sake,’ she muttered, then spied a corner of his tunic collar that was coming unstitched. With no time to think about it, she rolled closer and tore at it with her teeth. The taste of old sweat filled her mouth.

  ‘Ugh.’ She spat the scrap into the lower half of the third doll, then clamped the top half of the doll in pla
ce, carefully lining up the intricate painted patterns on the outside.

  ‘You’re all savages, you Widdershins girls,’ Colton muttered in bemusement.

  ‘Don’t let Fliss hear you say that. Anyway, we got all our bad habits from Granny.’ She placed the doll inside the second one, biting off her thumbnail and flicking that in, too, once again taking care to line up the two halves exactly. Finally, she placed them into the largest one.

  He waited. ‘Now what?’

  Betty held the nesting dolls tightly to her chest, wishing she could hide the thundering of her heartbeat. ‘Now nothing,’ she whispered. ‘We can’t be seen.’

  ‘You sure?’ Already Colton was leaning over the side of the boat. ‘Hey . . . my reflection is gone!’ He turned to her in confusion. ‘But I can still see you . . . ?’

  She nodded. ‘And we can still be heard . . . and felt—’

  She stopped speaking at the sound of oars splashing through the water. Lifting a warning finger to her lips, she curled herself into the boat’s seat. Colton was too tall for this, so instead lay back silently along the opposite side of the boat, mirroring the curve of the wood. They waited.

  It was the fog that found them first, thick and fish-belly grey, reaching over their heads like a shroud. The slap of oars on water grew louder, then stopped as the approaching boat cut through the water. It bumped into them without warning, causing Betty to bite her tongue. Something cold rattled under her elbow. Lifting her arm she found a fish hook, pointed and sharp. If they were caught, perhaps it could act as a weapon. She tucked it into her sleeve, alarmed at her own ferocity. She had never hurt anyone before . . . but no one was going to prevent her from reaching her sisters. She would do whatever it took.

  Light flooded from above as a lantern was held aloft, blurring everything beyond it into grey. A man’s voice cut through the mist.

  ‘Empty, save for a load of old rags.’

  Betty tensed. She knew that voice, she was sure of it! But from where? Before she could place it, a second man spoke.

  ‘The oars are still in it. I could’ve sworn I saw movement . . . a figure.’

  This voice was younger, sharper, and not one Betty recognised. There was something confident about the way he spoke. This was someone who didn’t scare easily.

  ‘The boat’s solid. No signs of a struggle or an accident. Looks like it’s been abandoned.’ Without warning, a hand reached past Betty’s face to rummage through the supplies Colton had thrown in. Carefully, she lifted her shawl to cover her mouth, afraid the warmth of her breath might be detected in the cold air.

  The lantern shifted, and light played over two faces. The younger fellow had a hard, waxy face. He was dressed in a warder’s uniform, and beneath a sparse moustache was an equally thin mouth that was spiteful in appearance.

  The other man, to Betty’s great astonishment, was Fingerty.

  What was he doing out here?

  ‘Well?’ The warder’s voice was impatient. ‘Could the felons have been using this boat?’

  Fingerty frowned at the oars and scratched his chin with long, thick fingernails. ‘Yerp. I mean, it’s possible. But . . .’ he hesitated, glancing through the mist as though trying to decipher something. ‘From the path we’ve jest taken, I’d say this boat’s come from Lament.’

  The warder spat. Betty heard it hit the water. Phlat. Her lip curled in revulsion.

  ‘How could they have got to Lament? Makes no sense! No boats were seen, none were taken from Repent!’

  At this Betty grinned to herself, both with glee and relief. The only people being searched for appeared to be Colton and Jarrod. There was no mention of the girls and the bag’s magic had created a baffling mystery that had thrown the warders off the scent. Her smile vanished at the thought of the bag, now in Jarrod’s possession. It was the most valuable item they’d had, and now it was out of reach, in the grasp of someone infinitely dangerous – along with something even more precious, her sisters.

  ‘Well, they got off the island somehow,’ Fingerty remarked drily. ‘Either that or they’re still there, which means the warders are crooked or useless.’

  ‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ the warder growled. ‘You were the most crooked one of the lot.’

  ‘Heh.’ Fingerty snickered. ‘Lucky for you I was.’

  ‘You’re the lucky one.’ The warder’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘As lucky as a weasel like you can be, anyway. You could be slammed away again like that—’ He snapped his fingers, ‘—if we thought you were up to your old tricks, or if anyone on the mainland finds out you’re our eyes and ears there.’ He chuckled unpleasantly. ‘And you’re never too old for a beating. We own you, Fingerty, and that’s the way it’ll stay . . . unless you get yourself a good catch. A very good catch.’

  All traces of humour left Fingerty then. His face creased back into its usual scowl like a chicken settling to roost.

  ‘Bring her back with us,’ the warder ordered. ‘Can’t have her floating around by herself, never know who might come across her.’

  Betty silently bit into her shawl. This was all going so very wrong. Being taken back to any of the islands was going to cost precious time – time they didn’t have, and wherever they ended up, Colton would be in danger of being discovered.

  Fingerty leaned over the boat. ‘Can’t see no towing rope.’

  ‘Then get in and row,’ the warder snapped. ‘And the lantern stays with me, so you’d better keep up.’

  Fingerty stepped into the boat. It rocked a little under his weight but he stayed steady, surefooted as if he were on dry land. He remained standing, scanning the boat with a perplexed expression.

  ‘Boat don’t feel right,’ he muttered, more to himself than to the warder. Using his toe he nudged aside the blankets, as though searching for something.

  ‘What are you bleating about now?’

  ‘This boat,’ Fingerty repeated. ‘S’not sitting quite right. Feels heavier than it should.’

  Betty glanced at Colton in alarm. Fingerty was an experienced boat man; he’d know exactly how an empty boat should feel when he stepped into it. Only this boat now carried the weight of three people. She wanted to scream. Why, why, why, did it have to be Fingerty? If he discovered her, took her back, there would be questions, delays, and absolutely no chance of finding Charlie and Fliss before sunset. The hook trembled in her fingers. She couldn’t hurt someone she knew, who had helped her, could she?

  ‘Probably just the timber.’ The warder yawned, setting the lantern down. Betty heard the scrape of wood as he picked up the oars.

  ‘Nah.’ Fingerty stood rigid, like a dog whose hackles were up. ‘Nowt to do with the timber. I’m telling yer, somethin’ ain’t right.’ He shifted his weight from side to side, and Betty clutched the nesting dolls even tighter to her, afraid they would roll away or rattle.

  The warder gave a low, mocking chuckle. ‘I suppose the next thing you’re going to say is that it could be the weight of dead souls aboard it. That we’ve come across a ghost vessel, drifting out and looking for fresh souls to claim.’

  ‘Shouldn’t make jokes like that,’ Fingerty snapped. ‘Strange things have happened out on this water. Terrible things.’

  ‘Just row.’ The warder sounded bored now. ‘It’ll take more than your stories to scare me. And keep your eyes peeled. Those two cretins are out here somewhere, and I want to be the one to return them.’

  The sound of rippling water reached Betty’s ears: the warder had begun to row.

  Fingerty sat down finally, breathing heavily. He grabbed the oars, then peered into the mist up ahead. As quickly as she dared, Betty slid out from under the seat behind Fingerty, taking care not to sway the boat. She raised herself up on to her knees. Already, the warder’s boat had vanished from sight, swallowed by the soupy fog.

  ‘Slow down!’ Fingerty called. Then, ‘Is there a spare lantern?’

  ‘No,’ came the abrupt reply. ‘So keep up!’


  Fingerty began to row, cursing under his breath. Betty’s hand skimmed his grizzled hair as the action propelled him back, and he gave a slight shudder. With each drag of the oars, desperation surged within her. She glanced at Colton, willing him to act, to push Fingerty overboard, to do anything that would change their course away from Crowstone, but he had folded himself up so impossibly near to Fingerty’s foot that he couldn’t move without being discovered. All Betty could think of was her sisters getting further and further away from her. The only way she could change things and give them a chance would be to take a risk.

  Shoving fear aside, she leaned close to Fingerty’s ear and spoke in a low, cold voice:

  ‘Listen up, Fingerty, and don’t make a sound—’

  Fingerty let out a loud yelp and turned, dropping an oar. The boat lurched as he lashed out with his hand. Betty tried to move backwards but wasn’t fast enough, and his fist caught her in the chest. She lost her balance and toppled, landing on the fishing nets with a heavy bump.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Fingerty yelled. His head whipped from side to side, terror in his eyes as he searched for this unseen enemy.

  ‘Fingerty?’ the warder called. His voice was irritable, but faint, indicating that he had put some distance between himself and them. ‘What’s rattled you? Keep up, you old goat!’

  Betty rolled on to her side, a groan escaping her. Fingerty flinched at the sound, his breath quickening in quick puffs on the misty air, and she realised how eerie her groan must have sounded to someone spooked, who couldn’t see her. And then, she saw, as Fingerty raised the oar he still held, how fear could make someone dangerous. He swung the oar blindly, and Betty trembled as it cut through the air above her head.

  ‘Fingerty!’ the warder bellowed. ‘What’re you doing back there?’

  ‘Here!’ he yelled. ‘Get me off this boat . . . there’s something on it!’

  Betty cowered below the oar. She had hoped that Fingerty might have frozen with fear when she had spoken to him, but he had reacted far more quickly – and differently – than she had expected.