A Pinch of Magic

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘You said you were innocent,’ Betty blurted out. ‘Is that true?’ Suddenly she found herself hoping that it was. That breaking him out had served some noble cause if her own failed.

  A sullen note crept into Colton’s voice. ‘Absolutely.’

  Betty stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘After my father died, my mother became a servant,’ he said eventually. ‘For a wealthy household. She worked hard for poor pay, though we were at least fed and clothed. But she wanted more for me, and saved as much money as she could so that one day I might have enough to start a new life for myself. We were treated like nothings by those we worked for. Oh, they didn’t hate us, but it was like . . . like we weren’t really people, with hopes and feelings.

  ‘The only one who was different was the youngest of the house, a little girl. Her name was Mina, and she was seven years old. Perhaps it was because as the youngest she knew what it felt like to be ignored. She’d often come to us for a kind word or a bit of comfort, always happy to listen to my mother’s stories or sneak off to climb trees with me. She taught me how to read. She was a wild little thing – a bit like your Charlie.’ He smiled faintly at the memory, and Betty was reminded of Colton’s concern for her younger sister: in the cell when he thought her tooth had been knocked out and, later, his distress when Jarrod had taken Charlie hostage.

  Colton rubbed his nose. ‘Mina was the only one who cared when my mother became ill and died.’ He blinked, but Betty could see the glassy sheen his eyes had taken on. ‘It was then I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t live that life any more, not when my mother had worked so hard to change things for me.

  ‘So I took out the money she had saved, and packed up what little I had. But when I told them I was leaving, they laughed at me.’ His lips pursed angrily. ‘Laughed! They told me not to be so stupid, that no one would take me as an apprentice or a scholar and that I’d end up begging on the streets. So I showed them the money.’ He grimaced.

  ‘That was a mistake. They wouldn’t believe my mother could have saved so much. They never noticed, you see. Never paid attention to what she went without, just to put by that little bit of her wages every week. Over a while, the money wasn’t such a little amount any more. They accused me of stealing it, and locked me in the cellar.’ He leaned his head back on the rattling wagon, closing his eyes. ‘It was thanks to Mina stealing the key that I escaped. She was the only one who believed me, but of course, no one listened to her. When I got out, it was with nothing but the clothes on my back. All my mother’s money had been taken from me.’

  ‘But . . . but that’s not fair!’ Betty said fiercely. Poor Colton. No wonder he’d been so desperate to escape! He had already been through so much before he’d ever set foot in prison. He knew loss, just as she did.

  ‘Needless to say, I didn’t get far,’ Colton continued. ‘I tried, but having no money meant I couldn’t. I was hiding in a cow shed when they caught up with me, and of course by then I had no chance of making anyone listen. Running had only made me look guiltier.’ He opened his eyes and met Betty’s. ‘And so I was thrown in Crowstone prison, where no one believed me, either.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Betty reached out and touched Colton’s hand. ‘And I understand why you lied to us to get out.’

  ‘Doesn’t change anything, though, does it? I’ve escaped, but you three girls are paying the price.’ His voice cracked with remorse.

  The ache of wanting to cry filled Betty’s throat. Colton had a conscience; he wasn’t a monster. She couldn’t say she forgave him completely, but she was now certain that he had never meant the girls harm, and would never have forced them to leave Crowstone. That had been Jarrod’s doing. But the person Betty blamed most of all was herself. ‘I’m glad you’re out,’ she said at last. ‘You didn’t deserve to be in there.’

  ‘It’s a bad enough place for those who are guilty,’ Fingerty added gruffly. ‘An’ for some, the nightmare ain’t over even when they’re let out.’

  ‘The ones sent to Torment?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Yerp.’

  ‘Is that why you helped people escape? You felt sorry for them? Or was it only for money?’

  For a moment it seemed Fingerty was struggling to answer. ‘Both,’ he admitted finally. ‘I saw the way people are treated in there. Life on Torment ain’t much better.’

  ‘People say you were nearly sent there,’ Betty said. She winced as the wagon went over a bump.

  ‘Wish I had been,’ Fingerty growled. ‘Better that than to be a spy for the warders fer the rest of me life. No one likes a crooked warder less than another warder, that’s a fact! Some of them . . . there’s no sense of justice or fairness. They’re there to be cruel, because that’s what they enjoy. But not all of them. Some care . . . especially for the prisoners who really could be innocent.’

  ‘Is that why you know so much about Sorsha Spellthorn?’ Betty asked. ‘Because you thought she was innocent?’

  Fingerty nodded. ‘Her tale fascinated many of the warders. My father, his father. Stories got passed down. Mostly of her being a witch, because those tales justified locking her up. The story I’m telling is the one they tried to stamp out. The one that’s frowned upon. Added to the strangeness of the Tower – how it still survives – and of course her leaping to her death, no wonder it’s still going strong after all these years.’ He paused, swaying with the cart. ‘And now you’ve heard most of it, there’s not much else to tell except the final part.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sorsha’s Tale

  IN THE END, SORSHA CHOSE the set of wooden nesting dolls that her mother had owned as a child, an old gilt-edged mirror that they had dug up while planting the herb garden, and the travelling bag that had carried her mother’s few possessions to Torment on the night Sorsha had come into the world.

  She’d selected the items carefully, both for their qualities and because to anyone else, they would appear to hold little value. If the worst should happen, and Sorsha was taken, it wouldn’t do to have the items stolen, which was why she’d stuck to the most humble things they owned. Not that this was difficult; they possessed nothing that could be considered valuable. Of the three of them, Prue would be the least likely to be accused of anything, for she had been born on Torment. The islanders might not be warm towards her, but she was considered more one of their own than Sorsha and her mother, the water witches from the unknown.

  Later that evening in the still muggy cottage, she poured all of her concentration and skill into hiding her three abilities in those objects; the hiding into the strange little wooden dolls which concealed each other; the spying into the looking glass; the transporting into the bag. She told herself it would work, willing it, imagining the abilities ebbing out of her while simultaneously using them for the very task in hand.

  When it was done she felt empty, vulnerable, ordinary.

  Ordinary. It was something she’d wanted her entire life, just to fit in and not draw unwanted attention. Now she didn’t even feel like herself any more.

  But it needn’t be for ever, she told herself. Just until it was safe.

  When will that be? a little voice chimed in her head. She pushed it away. When she returned the items to their places, they no longer felt like the same objects. They felt fragile, breakable. Like treasure. But no one knew, she reminded herself, except her and Ma, and Prue.

  Her mother finished stacking the dirty dishes and wiped her hands. ‘Perhaps . . .’ she hesitated. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’ Sorsha asked.

  ‘Leaving.’ Her mother’s voice was low, hesitant.

  ‘But, Ma,’ said Prue, looking up from her sewing. ‘You said disappearing would only make the islanders think they were right about us all along!’

  ‘Let them.’ Ma’s voice trembled. ‘We’ve never set a foot wrong in the eighteen years since we arrived, yet nothing’s changed. And it never will, not now. There will always be some finger pointin
g. We’ll never be truly safe.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sorsha stared around the cottage, the only home she had known. She had always longed to leave, but she hadn’t wanted it like this. She had wanted it to be an adventure, not an escape.

  ‘We’ll gather our things,’ her mother said. ‘We should leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘This evening?’ Sorsha asked. ‘After sunset?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Before. It’ll be more suspicious if we’re seen moving around in darkness.’

  ‘I can move us quickly,’ Sorsha said. ‘No one will see a thing. We just need to decide where to go.’ She paused guiltily, staring around their home. ‘And we’ll only be able to take whatever we can carry. The rest will have to be left behind.’

  Prue set down her sewing. ‘But where will we go? We don’t know anywhere, haven’t been anywhere . . .’

  Sorsha walked to the door. ‘Then decide by the time I’m back. I won’t be long.’

  Her mother stared at her, exasperated. ‘You can’t be serious? You need to save yourself, not take further risks!’

  ‘I can’t just leave him,’ said Sorsha. ‘Now my powers are in those objects he’s not hidden any more! I need to warn him – that’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Sorsha, please . . .’ her mother began. ‘Don’t be a fool for someone who will probably get caught anyway!’

  ‘That may be so.’ Sorsha bowed her head. ‘But if he’s caught, I don’t want it to be because of me.’ She glanced at the travelling bag, hesitating.

  ‘Don’t.’ Her mother’s voice was firm. ‘It will only take the wrong person to see something . . .’

  So Sorsha snatched the water pail and hurried out into the balmy evening before her mother could protest further. It was still light, just, and the drone of bees had given way to the hum of gnats. Later, she would remember the scent of wildflowers and sounds of wild creatures rustling in the hedges, and she would wish she had taken time to look around the cottage and kiss her mother. She headed for the well, drawing water from it, then went to the cliff’s edge.

  Before starting down the rocky cliff path she checked in every direction, but saw no one. She descended the steps, welcoming the light breeze off the water. About halfway down, she stopped by an area of rock covered in moss. The little beach below could be seen from here, brown sludgy mud and boulders that had broken off from the cliffs. It was deserted. She glanced back the way she had come. The path was clear.

  She turned to the mossy rock. Part of it jutted out, and in between was a narrow space that wasn’t first noticeable from above. It was an easily overlooked spot which Sorsha had discovered when she was small. She had been following a lame gull, trying to scoop it up to bring it back to the cottage, but the creature had led her a dance on the cliff’s edge, before vanishing into the gap. Only when Sorsha had followed had she discovered what lay beyond it: a crawl space, which burrowed into the cliff like a vole.

  It was a good hiding place – especially when combined with her power to render someone invisible. If the warders came searching, the echoes of them entering the caves would be heard in plenty of time . . . enough time to cover tracks and press into some nook of the wall so that grasping hands couldn’t discover them, for as she had explained, what couldn’t be seen could still be heard – and touched.

  She crawled into the dank space. It smelled fishy and salty, a smell which took her back to her first discovery of this place, and a smell she associated with adventure and secrets. Soon, the light filtering through from the entrance vanished, and she was blind, using only her hands to explore familiar bumps and twists to the tunnel. Moss caught under her fingernails and scraped her knees.

  She remembered the first time she had ventured into the crawl space all those years ago. Back then it had felt like the tunnel went on for ever, but in reality it was short, and already she could see a yellow glow ahead, where the tunnel opened out into a cavern. She shuffled closer, trying not to breathe the musty air, then paused as she heard a low voice. Sorsha gave a three-note whistle, then waited.

  There was silence, broken by a scrambling sort of sound . . . and then the yellow glow vanished, leaving the tunnel pitch black. Though she was in the dark, Sorsha instinctively willed herself to be hidden . . . then remembered that she was unable to. Her powers were no longer with her, instead hidden within trinkets half a mile away at the cottage. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was afraid. Something wasn’t right. Slowly, she backed away, trying not to make a sound. Then came a whistle being returned; the signal that all was well.

  She hesitated. A voice whispered out of the depths of the cavern.

  ‘Sorsha? Is that you?’

  Her fear and suspicion lessened. ‘Winter?’

  ‘Of course. Who else?’

  She stayed where she was. ‘I just thought . . . when you didn’t answer straight away, and then the lantern went out . . . who were you talking to?’

  ‘Myself! I stubbed my toe.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I worried for a moment that it might not be you, so I shut the lantern out. Is all well?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sorsha replied. ‘Well, no . . .’ She nudged toward the wider part of the cavern. It smelled of smoke and burning oil. She edged further in, blindly feeling for the drop she knew was ahead. There. Her legs dangled over the precipice, feeling air. She wrinkled her nose, sniffing in the blackness. There was something different about the cave tonight, something she couldn’t place . . .

  ‘Did you bring food?’ he asked. His voice was flat, not hopeful as it usually was at the thought of getting fed. Perhaps he knew as well as she did that this was the end. Why had she ever let herself hope they had a future? After tonight she’d be left with nothing of him except memories of dark caves and devastation. ‘No, sorry. It was too risky. I came to tell you that I can’t help you any more, it’s too dangerous. And I can’t . . . hide you any more.’ She broke off, distracted. Uneasiness thickened. ‘It sounds different in here,’ she blurted, as the thought came into her head. ‘Less echoing.’

  ‘Does it?’

  This time, she recognised the difference in his voice. So small that perhaps it was only noticeable in the dark, because her hearing was the only sense she could rely on.

  ‘Winter,’ she croaked. ‘Why haven’t you lit the lantern again?’

  ‘Oh . . . I was just about to . . .’

  She wasn’t imagining it, his strained, strange voice. Something was wrong. Suddenly, Sorsha realised that the darkness wasn’t her enemy here, it was her friend. She also knew that it was probably too late, but she had to try. She’d said too much, but there was still a chance. They hadn’t seen her face.

  With a cry she turned, treading air, her fingers scrabbling for the tunnel as the hiss of a match flared behind her. An unfamiliar voice roared, ‘Seize her!’

  Hot fingers wrapped around her ankle. Sorsha gasped, kicking free. There was a thud as her boot struck flesh, and a roar erupted below her, filling the cave. From some air pocket, nesting crows shrieked and flapped at the noise. Sorsha had one moment of hope before her other ankle was grabbed, and this time she was pulled back, grazing her palms. She landed awkwardly, twisting her leg under her, skirt tangling.

  She blinked away tears of pain and terror as the cave swam into focus. No wonder their voices hadn’t echoed: the cavern was much fuller tonight. Full with eight people crammed in, six of them warders. Someone had seen her, given her away . . . Prue? Could they have made her talk, somehow? The thought stung like a slap and she hated herself for it. Moments ago she had been sure her heart was breaking, but now it was crashing in her chest like the waves against rocks. Clinging to survival.

  She looked at the warders. Fat, thin, old, young, stern, mean. Their differences meant nothing. They were all in the same uniform, all here for the same reason: her. And him.

  Winter stood motionless, shackled between two warders. There were no signs he had put up a fight. His eyes met hers, and they wer
e dull and blank. Empty of hope.

  ‘That’s her,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The one who brought me here, and hid me.’

  ‘We know that,’ a warder sneered. ‘We all heard what she said.’ He leaned into Sorsha’s face, so close she could see the pores in his skin. ‘Her guilt is clear . . . and we have six witnesses to testify what they heard.’ He shook his head, tut-tutting in mock sympathy. ‘Such a shame. One so young with her life ahead of her.’

  ‘Careful,’ another warder interrupted. The flickering lamplight picked out a squashed nose and oily skin. It was then Sorsha recognised him: Pig-boy. The bully from her childhood. ‘Don’t provoke her. She has . . . powers.’

  She held back a sob, desperation and fear threatening to overwhelm her. Any hopes of mercy faded. Pig-boy had waited a long time for this. He would do his best to seal her fate.

  The first warder looked unconcerned. ‘She just looks like a scared girl to me. Besides, wouldn’t she be working her spells on us right now?’

  ‘She might be thinking of it,’ said a third. ‘And you know what they say: there’s no smoke without fire. From everything we’ve heard, this girl has roused suspicions for years. Perhaps she’s just biding her time, or . . .’ He studied Sorsha curiously, like she was an object in a museum. ‘Or perhaps she’s realising that right at this moment, her home is surrounded . . . and that any mischief she makes for us won’t end well for her mother—’

  Sorsha’s head snapped up. ‘You leave my ma and sister alone!’

  A couple of the warders flinched at her outburst, but quickly recovered themselves when nothing more followed. Whatever they believed about her, Sorsha was aware that they knew exactly the same as she did: she was helpless, and at their mercy.

  ‘That true?’ The warder shook Winter. ‘Did anyone else help you? Her family?’

  ‘No.’ Winter stared at his feet. ‘Just her.’

  Sorsha held in a scream. Why had Winter allowed this to happen? Why hadn’t he warned her, or at least tried to? Even if he was afraid, or if the warders had a dagger to his throat, he could have done something. Whistled the wrong whistle, just to give her a chance. The betrayal crippled her, hurting more than a thousand nasty looks ever could.