With a gasp, Fingerty was pulled backwards as strong arms wrapped around him and pulled . . . hard. His legs went from under him as he tripped over the bench. He landed in the bottom of the boat. By the time Betty had hauled herself up, Fingerty was on his back like a beetle and Colton had Fingerty’s arms pinned beneath his knees, with one hand holding the oar and the other clamped over Fingerty’s mouth. Fingerty, of course, saw nothing except the oar hovering above his nose. Over the sound of his panicked breathing the only thing that could be heard was the warder’s oars cutting through the water, drawing ever nearer.
Betty darted across and knelt by Fingerty, scarcely believing her own actions. She pressed the fish hook to his neck.
‘As I was saying,’ she whispered fiercely, ‘don’t make a sound. Do everything we say, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?’
Wide-eyed with fright, Fingerty nodded vigorously. Warily, Colton took his hand away from the man’s mouth.
‘We?’ Fingerty managed. ‘Are you sp-spirits of the marshes? What magic is this?’
‘Not spirits. And all you need to know is this is powerful magic.’ Betty leaned close to Fingerty’s face, so close she could smell the greasiness of his hair. ‘Magic that could make you disappear for good.’
She felt mildly ashamed as Fingerty gulped, but she squashed it down. She had to get him onside in any way she could. By hook or by crook, she thought grimly, removing the sharp crescent from his neck. In a single motion, she sliced a brass button from Fingerty’s overcoat. ‘Now here’s what’s going to happen, so listen carefully.’ She thrust the hook at Colton, then pulled out the nesting dolls and wrested them apart. ‘In a moment, you’re going to vanish from sight, just like us. When the warder gets here, you say and do nothing to draw his attention, do you hear?’
Again, Fingerty nodded. He licked his lips, and croaked, ‘Who . . . who are you? I’m sure . . . your voice seems familiar . . .’
‘You’re about to find out,’ Betty said grimly. ‘Now, what’s that warder’s name?’
‘Pike,’ Fingerty replied. ‘Tobias Pike.’
‘Good. Now quiet, not one word.’ She searched through the mist. The sound of Pike’s boat was louder, but thanks to the thickening mist there was no sight of it yet. They still had time, just.
Betty opened the nesting dolls, and Fingerty jumped with surprise as she and Colton reappeared.
‘You!’ he whispered, his face contorting with shock and rage. ‘But yer jest a child—! And you . . . yer one of the ones we’re looking for! Jest what is going on here?’
‘Shut up,’ Colton hissed. He brandished the fish hook above Fingerty’s nose. ‘You’ll give us away!’
Fingerty clamped his lips together, watching as Betty added the severed button from his coat to the hollow space inside the dolls.
‘That’s it?’ Fingerty whispered.
Betty nodded. ‘None of us can be seen. Now, quiet.’
Colton lowered the oar next to the one Fingerty had dropped, before crouching next to the old man, keeping the hook by his throat as a dangerous reminder. Betty positioned herself at the rear of the boat. Her heartbeat quickened as a dark shape loomed through the fog, and a pale orb of light floated nearer as the lantern was lifted.
‘Fingerty!’ Pike growled. ‘Where are you, you snivelling coward? I thought you knew these marshes! That you didn’t scare easily!’ He leaned over the boat. His face creased into confusion as his eyes swept over the oars, then blindly over Fingerty and Colton, and vaguely in Betty’s direction.
‘Fingerty?’ he yelled, wide-eyed. ‘Fingerty!’
Betty’s insides churned. The temptation to call out was etched on Fingerty’s face, but with Colton glowering over him, his fear was stronger.
Pike’s own eyes narrowed. ‘Where is the old fool?’ he muttered. ‘Can’t have vanished into thin air . . .’ He swung the lantern about him, then back to the seemingly empty boat, making no effort to leave.
Betty hesitated, then drew in a breath. When she released it, it was to speak in a hissing, high-pitched whisper. ‘Tobiasssss Pike!’
The warder jerked back at the sound of his name.
‘Wh-who’s there?’ he asked in a voice that was suddenly shaky. He clutched the oar like it was a sword, but it shook like a reed in the wind.
‘Leave thissss place, Tobiassss Pike!’ Betty whispered. ‘Leave and never return . . . or elsssse you will ssssuffer a terrible fate!’
Pike’s face drained, becoming haggard. ‘Fingerty . . . ?’ he croaked, all pretence at bravery forgotten. ‘Is this a trick?’
‘Gone . . . gone . . . gone . . .’ Betty chanted. She was almost beginning to enjoy herself now. Pike was a bully who deserved a taste of what he dished up to others. ‘Claimed by the sssspirit of the marshes . . .’ She paused dramatically. ‘Yet, sssstill, I hunger for another ssssoul . . .’
Pike let out a strangled half-sob. He fell back and began dragging the oars through the water as though he were pulling himself out of his own grave. Within seconds he was surrounded by the fog once more, and all that could be heard was the frantic splashing of the oars as he made his getaway. And Betty couldn’t help it; she began to laugh in relief which only made Pike row faster. She cackled until her sides ached, an eerie, echoing noise that sounded strange even to her. She only stopped when Pike’s thrashing oars could no longer be heard.
When it was clear they were alone on the water, Fingerty spoke.
‘Yer going to t-tell me what yer want from me now?’
‘Yes,’ Betty replied. ‘It’s simple. You know these marshes better than us – you’re more useful than any map. So we want you get us through this fog and take us to Windy Bottom.’
Fingerty looked aghast. ‘Yer know what happens to people who help prisoners escape? Prison! Banishment! And if they’ve done it before, like me, their necks get stretched!’
‘Only if they’re caught,’ said Betty. She almost laughed bitterly, for what did prison or banishment matter to her? She wouldn’t be alive long enough to suffer.
‘No one ever plans on getting caught,’ Fingerty muttered. ‘That’s usually when they become unstuck.’
‘All you have to do is get us there,’ said Betty. ‘After that you can forget you ever saw us, unless . . .’ She paused, thinking. Perhaps there were other ways Fingerty could be useful, if he could be persuaded. ‘Unless you want to go back a hero.’ What was it Pike had said? ‘With a good catch.’
There was a moment of silence. Then Fingerty asked, ‘How?’
‘By bringing Jarrod back with you.’
Fingerty laughed a long, wheezing laugh. ‘Yer think that’s possible? The man’s an ogre from what I’ve heard!’
‘Just as possible as being invisible.’
Fingerty watched her, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness. His eyes shifted to the dolls. ‘Yer granny’ll have summat to say about all this.’
‘Yes,’ Betty agreed. ‘I expect she will.’
She glanced at Colton, who had remained silent since the warder’s departure. She wondered if he was angry, or worried, or both. ‘Let’s get moving.’
Colton handed Fingerty an oar. ‘Don’t try anything, old man,’ he warned.
Fingerty took the oar, scowling. ‘So not only are yer kidnapping me, yer expect me to do the donkey work?’
‘Think of it as a favour,’ said Betty. ‘Like the ones you used to do for people on Torment.’
‘Favours? Weren’t favours! Got paid for those, and handsomely, too! Gah!’ He struck the oar into the water bad-temperedly.
The boat moved off and Betty settled on the rags. At least they were heading towards her sisters now, tackling part of her problem. The other part reared in her mind again. Widdershins . . . etched into the tower wall. Had someone wronged Sorsha? Could the curse have stemmed from jealousy, or even lies?
‘What happened next?’ she asked, shivering. The tips of her ears and nose stung from the freezing fog. ‘To Sorsha Spellthor
n?’
Fingerty’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘And now she wants a history lesson!’ he said shrilly. ‘You’ve got a cheek, girl. Yer know that? Shouldn’t even say that name out here on the marshes!’
‘I need to know.’ Betty’s voice was firm.
‘That what all this is about?’ Fingerty said hoarsely. ‘Seems like you know plenty about Sorsha Spellthorn already, without my help!’
‘What do you mean? I wouldn’t be asking if I did!’
‘Hah!’ Fingerty lowered his oar, jabbing at Betty with a crooked finger. ‘Yer don’t fool me, girly. Seen it with me own eyes, so I have.’
‘What is he babbling about?’ Colton asked.
‘The dolls!’ Fingerty spluttered. ‘What else? Yer must know they were hers!’
Betty stared back at him, then down at the nesting dolls cradled in her hand. Finally, she understood what the old man meant, and the significance of the tale he had told her in the Poacher’s Pocket.
A tale in which smugglers and a spy had sacrificed their lives for a newborn child. And in which Sorsha had used mysterious powers to observe people in an impossible way . . . and hide herself and her sister from danger. Spying . . . hiding. Whipping from one place to another in seconds.
‘They belonged to her,’ Betty whispered, stunned. The Widdershins heirlooms – as well as their terrible legacy . . . they had all come from her. ‘All these years, passed down through my family . . . Sorsha’s powers survived.’
She grabbed Fingerty’s bony knee and shook it urgently.
‘Please, Fingerty. You have to tell me, now, everything you know about Sorsha Spellthorn. My life, and my sisters’ lives depend on it. How did Sorsha end up in Crowstone Tower?’
Fingerty yanked on his oar, propelling the boat through the water.
‘She trusted the wrong person.’
Chapter Nineteen
Sorsha’s Tale
THE PRISON BELL ECHOED IN Sorsha’s head from across the marshes. It had been going all morning, and the island was rife with gossip. Within hours, warders had arrived, scanning the beaches, knocking on doors. The prisoner – a conman – was young, they said. Strong, but not enough to swim the currents and survive. Yet no body had been found.
After they’d left, Sorsha had gone down to one of Torment’s sandy coves. There were often cockles and mussels to be found in the rock pools, along with other treasures from the deep. Once, she had found a pearl which she had given to Prue on her sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago.
She heard him before she saw him. The long, pained groan rolled out over the mudflats. Sorsha shielded her eyes from the sun, expecting to see a sea lion. When the groan came again it was followed by movement, and Sorsha discovered that what she had taken for a mud-covered rock up ahead was a near lifeless body.
Checking she was alone, she picked her way across the shingle and knelt by him. To her surprise he was not much older than her, and she wondered how he could have done the things they said in such a short life. Any concerns for her safety were dismissed; the young man was weak as a kitten. He gazed up at her with sand-crusted, but beautiful grey eyes. The dried mud around his mouth cracked as he spoke.
‘Help me . . . please . . .’
She could have left him or called for the warders, but pity tugged at her heart. Any life left in him would surely be snuffed out if he was thrown into a damp cell. Gently, she used her skirt hem to wipe the mud from his face. It was the way he looked at her then, with such gratitude and trust which won her over. No one here had ever looked at her that way. She’d known then that she would help him, hiding him away in a secluded cave.
His name was Winter Bates. He grew stronger with each passing day and every meal she smuggled to him, sharing his past with her as well as his hopes for the future. Sorsha had never known anyone who made her laugh the way he did, for Ma and Prue never joked, and smiles were wry or did not reach the eyes. And though she told herself not to, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him and imagining a future where they would not have to say goodbye.
As Winter gained strength, so did Sorsha’s feelings.
So too, did the danger.
There had been whispers on Torment all week, but Sorsha was used to that.
At first she’d dismissed the stares, and the conversations that stopped as soon as she entered a shop, or the chapel, or passed an open door on the street. During her eighteen years on the island, there had always been some fly in the ointment, some gossip or rumour involving her doing the rounds. It always blew over eventually, if she ignored it long enough.
This time, though . . . something felt off. Different. But then, she reminded herself, things were different. She had taken a huge risk. One that put her life, and those of her family’s, at stake. Her underarms prickled with sweat in the muggy early evening. She swiped her fingers across her upper lip, blotting away the moisture there. It was nearing the end of August and the long, dry summer showed no signs of letting up.
She hurried down the lane to the ramshackle cottage that she, her mother and Prue called home. Dozy bees bumbled around the lavender, exhausted by the heat. When she reached the cottage she saw every window was thrown wide open, along with the door.
Her mother was outside, peeling potatoes over a basin of muddy water.
‘Late this evening,’ she remarked. ‘Again.’
‘It’s this heat,’ Sorsha said, barely pausing as she passed her mother and went into the dark, stuffy cottage. Inside, a wall of hot air hit her. She placed her basket of reeds on the table and returned outside, wiping a fresh layer of sweat from her forehead.
‘T’ain’t the heat.’ The warning in her mother’s voice cooled the air a little. She spoke quietly. ‘I know where you’ve been, my girl.’
Silently, Sorsha sat on the ground by the door. A plume of dust rose as she flopped down. Next to her, a young ginger cat snoozed in the grass. Her mother had given up her efforts to shoo it away after it had appeared a week ago, flea-bitten and yowling an announcement that this was its new home. Sorsha extended a fingertip to stroke the tip of its tail.
‘Shouldn’t welcome things in when you don’t know where they’ve come from.’ A potato plopped into the water, sending brown droplets on to the cat’s coat. It didn’t flinch.
‘Could say the same for us,’ Sorsha said. The resentment in her voice failed to reach its usual level, smothered by the heat. ‘Although, no one ever really welcomed us here, did they?’
‘They tolerate us. We should be grateful enough for that.’
‘Why?’ It was a question Sorsha had asked many times. ‘Why should we be grateful? Why can’t we just leave and go somewhere where no one knows us, and no one blames us?’
‘And how would that look?’ her mother snapped. ‘Leaving the community that took us in?’
‘Barely,’ Sorsha muttered.
‘The community that sacrificed three of its own for strangers? For us?’
‘And don’t we know it!’ Sorsha slapped the dirt, sending another dust cloud up in the air. The cat sneezed. ‘Aren’t you tired of feeling guilty, Ma? Of never being allowed to forget?’ There was a whole world out there. Why did Ma insist on keeping theirs so sheltered?
‘You get used to it.’ Her mother’s voice was brisk. ‘It’s a small price to pay in return for our lives. They can’t forget, so neither should we.’
‘But that’s just it, Ma,’ Sorsha said sadly. ‘Our being here on Torment keeps all that bad feeling fresh. We may as well be locked up on Repent!’
‘Like I say. Small price to pay.’ Her mother scraped at another potato. ‘Besides, I don’t know if we’re even allowed to leave. No one else can, that’s the whole point of this place.’
‘They’re here because they were banished,’ Sorsha protested. ‘We aren’t!’
‘Doesn’t matter. We live like everyone else here, not picking and choosing the parts which suit us.’ Her mother’s hair gleamed copper in the sunlight, glowing around her head like a sunflo
wer. Though Sorsha’s was the same shade, she’d inherited none of its frizziness. Her own hair hung like fine silk, the type of hair that would never take on a curl.
‘People are talking,’ Ma added.
‘Don’t they always?’
Her mother looked at her sharply, lowering her voice. ‘You give them good reason!’ Her fingernails were brown with grit as she scrape-scrape-scraped, and with each scrape of the knife, Sorsha felt like she herself were under its blade; being stripped back and exposed. ‘Some things aren’t so easy to hide, or to blame on lies or superstition. Hiding a person isn’t the same as—’
‘I didn’t choose to be able to do these things.’
‘No. But you choose to do them. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.’
‘I’m not hurting anyone,’ Sorsha whispered. Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped at them stubbornly. ‘I just wanted to help.’
‘I know that.’ Her mother dropped the knife and turned to her, cupping her chin with damp, earth-scented fingers. ‘But that’s not how others will see it. They know the man survived the escape. The marshes would have given him up by now. They know he’s being hidden. There’s been warders on the island again today. Searching. If you’re caught, they’ll take you to Repent and you’ll be locked up in that cursed place, and . . . and . . .’ she trailed off, releasing Sorsha’s face to dab at her own. Nearby a bird chirruped in the hazy silence as she composed herself.
‘They couldn’t lock me up in there,’ Sorsha said. ‘They could try, but I’d get out, somehow . . . hide until their backs were turned . . .’
‘Not if they locked you in the Tower,’ her mother whispered. ‘That’s where they’d put you. It’s where they always put anyone suspected of sorcery.’
Something in her mother’s voice turned Sorsha’s stomach. ‘Why?’
‘Because it can’t be done in the Tower. You remember, don’t you, the stories of how it was built? What it was made from?’
Sorsha frowned. ‘The cairns?’
Her mother nodded. ‘Resting places should never be disturbed, but that’s what they did to those poor souls. Robbed their graves of the stones – the only markers they had. That tower is steeped in death. It’s why magic can’t be done there. You know the penalty for treason, don’t you?’
A Pinch of Magic Page 17
