by Angie Sage
Slowly Linda lowered her pointing fingers and, as she did so, two thin beams of brilliant blue light streamed from her eyes and rested on Marissa’s face. Then the witch began to chant:
“Heart and brain
Flame and pain
Blood and bone
Rattle and moan
Lung and liver
Shriek and shiver . . .”
Marissa let out a terrified wail. She knew that this was the beginning of the dreaded Exit spell, the spell that takes away human form and replaces it with another—forever. It was, like most of Linda’s nastiest spells, Permanent.
“No!” yelled Marissa. “Please, nooooooooo!”
Linda’s yellow incisors slipped over her bottom lip as they always did when she was concentrating. The Exit was long and complicated. It required a great concentration of energy, but it was already off to a good start. Linda was very pleased with the way the Princess was helping; it was so much easier with an assistant. Excited, Linda now moved into the main body of the spell, where all Human parts of Marissa were one by one reassigned to Toad. Her voice descended to a low monotone so that the words became blurred into one long, singsong chant.
From Marissa’s terror, Jenna was beginning to realize that if she kept Marissa in her headlock she would be party to something truly awful. She had to do something—but what?
Linda’s menacing chant continued, the witch’s voice rising ever higher. The gloom in the scullery deepened and the thin beams of light from Linda’s blue-black eyes cut through the dark like needles, joining the witch with her victim.
“Princess Jenna. Please. Let me go,” Marissa whispered desperately. “I’ll do anything, anything you want. I promise.”
Jenna didn’t believe Marissa’s promises. She had to get what she wanted while she still had the witch in her grasp—but how could she? She was Silenced. Very slightly she loosened the headlock. Marissa looked up, tears welling in her eyes.
“Princess Jenna. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please help me. Please, oh please.”
Jenna pointed to her mouth and Marissa understood. She muttered a few words and whispered, “Okay. It’s gone.”
Linda’s voice suddenly regained its normal pitch, the chant slowed down and once more the words became gruesomely clear:
“Pinprick bones and
Poison glands,
Warty skin
And creeping hands . . .”
Marissa screamed. She knew the end was coming very, very soon. “Please let me go,” she gasped.
Jenna tested her voice. “Fix the feet thing,” she hissed.
Marissa gabbled something under her breath and hissed, “It’s gone, it’s gone. Now, please, please, please.”
Jenna cautiously tried a small step back, taking Marissa with her—she was free. She released the headlock.
Chaos ensued.
Marissa sprang up and Jenna raced off past Linda, heading for the door. Mouth open, Linda stopped mid chant. Marissa hurled herself at Linda, biting, kicking and screaming, Linda fell backward under the onslaught and hit her head with a craaack on the stone flagged floor.
Jenna had just got out of the door and was running down the corridor when, through the gloom, she saw the large bulk of the Witch Mother teetering on her tall, spiked shoes, blocking the far end of it.
“Marissa, is that you?” the Witch Mother’s suspicious voice called out of the dark. “What’s going on down there?”
Trapped, Jenna hurtled back to the scullery, slammed the door and leaned against it, holding it shut. Marissa was sitting on Linda and, as far as Jenna could make out, trying to strangle her. At Jenna’s return she looked up in surprise.
“She’s coming,” gasped Jenna.
Marissa stared at her, uncomprehending. “Who’s coming?”
“Her. The Witch Mother.”
Marissa went pale. She had assumed that when Linda had tried to Exit her, she had been acting on the Witch Mother’s instructions. She leaped up from Linda—who gave a small moan, but did not move—and pointed at the door that Jenna was leaning against. Jenna squared up for a fight, but a fight was the last thing on Marissa’s mind. “Lock, Stop and Bar!” she shouted. A small but definite click came from the door.
“It won’t last long,” said Marissa, “not against her. We’ve got to get out of here.” She headed for the only window in the dingy scullery, which was set high above a table heaped with a pile of black cloth. Marissa leaped up onto the table and pushed the window open. “It’s the only way out. There’s a bit of a drop but it’s a soft landing. Here, put this on.” Marissa picked up the pile of black cloth and threw it at Jenna, who ducked. It landed on the floor beside her.
Marissa looked annoyed. “Do you want to get out or not?” she demanded.
“Of course I do.”
“Well, those are your witch robes. You’ve got to put them on.”
“Why?”
Marissa sighed impatiently. “Because you won’t get out if you don’t. The window’s Barred to all Cowan.”
“Cowan?”
“Yeah. Cowan. Non-witches. Like you, dumbo.”
The door handle rattled. “Marissa?” came the Witch Mother’s voice. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing, Witch Mother. It’s fine. Nearly done,” Marissa called out. “Put them on—quick,” she hissed to Jenna. “There’s enough witch stuff in them to fool a stupid window. Hurry!”
Jenna picked up the robes as though she were picking up a shovel of cat poo.
The door handle rattled again, louder. “Marissa, why is the door Locked?” The Witch Mother sounded suspicious.
“She got out, Witch Mother. But it’s okay. I’ve got her. Nearly done!” Marissa trilled out cheerfully. To Jenna she whispered, “Are you going to put them on or not? Because I’m going right now.”
“All right, all right,” whispered Jenna. They were only clothes, she reasoned. Wearing witches’ robes didn’t actually mean anything. She threw the musty black cloak over her head, pulled it down over her own red robe and quickly did up the buttons.
“Suits you,” said Marissa with a grin. “Come on,” she beckoned Jenna up onto the table, and Jenna scrambled up. Marissa opened the window and the cold, sleety night air blew in. “Put your arm out,” she said.
Jenna went to put her arm out but her hand came up against something solid, which felt like congealed slime. “Yuck!” she gasped, and snatched it back.
The Witch Mother had surprisingly good hearing. “Marissa?” came her voice suspiciously through the door. “Is there someone else in there with you?”
“Just the Princess, Witch Mother,” Marissa called out and then whispered to Jenna, “Rats—the robes aren’t enough.”
Jenna looked down at her black witch cloak, which enveloped her like the night and made her feel very peculiar. It seemed quite enough to her. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“If you want to get out, I’m going to have to do something else.”
Jenna didn’t like the sound of that. “Like what exactly?”
The door handle rattled once again. “Marissa, I can hear voices,” the Witch Mother shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, Witch Mother! She’s got her robes on. We’ll be out soon,” Marissa called. And then to Jenna, “Like I’m going to have to make you a witch.”
“No way!”
“Marissa!” The door handle rattled angrily. “I heard the Princess. She’s not Silent anymore. What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing. Honestly. It was me, Witch Mother.”
“Don’t lie to me, Marissa. Let me in!” The Witch Mother rattled the door handle so violently that it fell off, bounced its way across the floor and hit Linda on the head.
“Aargh . . .” Linda groaned.
“What was that? If you don’t let me in right now, I shall Smash the door and then there’ll be trouble,” the Witch Mother yelled.
Marissa looked panic-stricken. “I’m going,” s
he told Jenna. “You can stay here and good luck to you. Don’t say I didn’t try. See ya!” And with that she pulled herself up to the window. She was halfway through when a loud craaaaaack came from the door and a long split ran through the wood from top to bottom.
“Marissa. Wait!” yelled Jenna. “Do the something else—whatever it is.”
Marissa’s head appeared at the window. “Okay. This is a bit yucky,” she said, “but it’s got to be done.” She poked her head back through the window and kissed Jenna. Jenna leaped back in surprise. “Told you it was yucky.” Marissa grinned. “But you’re a witch now. You don’t belong to the Coven yet, you’d have to kiss them all for that.”
“No thanks.” Jenna grimaced.
The sound of splintering wood heralded the metal tip of the Witch Mother’s boot appearing through the door.
“Time to go, Witch,” said Marissa.
Jenna scrambled through the window and leaped into the dark. She landed on an old compost heap.
“Run!” hissed Marissa.
With brambles tearing at them, Jenna and Marissa raced through the overgrown garden, scrambled over the wall and dropped down into the back alley. Behind them the Witch Mother—her large bulk stuck in the tiny window—screamed in fury and Sent curses after them. The curses skittered around the garden, bounced off the walls and ReBounded on the Witch Mother.
The two witches tore up the dark back alley, heading toward the welcoming lights of Gothyk Grotto. As Jenna slammed the door shut behind her to the accompaniment of the door monster, she grinned. Suddenly Gothyk Grotto looked so normal.
Marcus approached, unfazed by the sight of two witches in the shop. It was not unusual for people to dress up on the Longest Night festivities—he had just sold all their remaining skeleton suits to the staff of Wizard Sandwiches.
“Need any help?” he asked.
Jenna threw back her voluminous witch’s hood.
Marcus gasped. “Princess Jenna, you’re safe. Your friend, wotsisname . . . Earwig—he was looking for you.”
The mention of earwigs made Jenna feel sick. “Beetle! Is he here?”
“Nah. He’ll be pleased you’re safe; he was going nuts. But there’s someone here from the Wizard Tower for you.” Marcus winked at Jenna. “Good luck.”
The door monster roared again and Hildegarde rushed in. She skidded to a halt and stared at Jenna and Marissa.
“It is you!” she gasped. The Searching Glass had told her that the fleeing witch was Jenna, but she had not believed it. Catching her breath, Hildegarde said, “Princess Jenna, you do know those robes are the real thing, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” said Jenna stonily.
Hildegarde looked disapprovingly at Jenna and the company she was keeping.
“Madam Marcia has asked me to take you straight to the Palace at once. She will be meeting you there. Witches’ robes are not appropriate attire and I suggest you take them off right away.”
Hildegarde’s attitude annoyed Jenna. “No,” she said. “These robes are mine and I’m wearing them.”
Marissa grinned. She could get to like Jenna.
Chapter 18
The Emissary
The tide of Ordinary Wizards flowed to a halt outside a small, dimly lit storefront about a hundred yards down Wizard Way, on the right-hand side. A sign above the shop announced it to be NUMBER THIRTEEN, MAGYKAL MANUSCRIPTO-RIUM AND SPELL CHECKERS INCORPORATED.
Beetle stepped out of the protective pool of Wizards and looked up at his old, once loved, workplace. The windows were misted with the breath of twenty-one scribes toiling away inside, and through the strip of cloudy glass above the teetering piles of books and manuscripts he could see a yellow glow of light. But it was a gloomy window for the Longest Night—no wasteful candle displays were allowed under Jillie Djinn’s regime.
Beetle felt sorry for the scribes working while Wizard Way was abuzz, but he was pleased they were still there. He had been worried that they might have left early that night, as they always had done in his time as Front Office Clerk and General Dogsbody. But Jillie Djinn’s grip on the Manuscriptorium had tightened since Beetle left. She did not believe in leaving early—especially to have fun.
Two Wizards, sisters Pascalle and Thomasinn Thyme, stepped forward. “We are happy to be your escort, Mr. Beetle, if you need one.”
Beetle thought he could use all the help he could get. “Thank you,” he said. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. There was a loud ping and the door counter clicked over to the next number. The Front Office was a shambles and it made Beetle feel sad. The large desk, which he had kept so neat and organized, was a disgusting mess of papers and half-eaten sweets, the floor was unswept and sticky underfoot and there was a distinct smell of something small and furry having died under one of the many untended stacks of papers.
Beetle’s gaze traveled around the dingy room, taking in the flimsy half-wood, half-glass panel that separated the Front Office from the Manuscriptorium itself, the ancient grayish paint peeling off the walls and the festoons of cobwebs looping down from the ceiling. He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t noticed how run down it all was when he had worked there. But one thing he knew he would have noticed was the state of the small, reinforced door behind the desk that led to the Wild Book and Charm Store—it was nailed shut, with two thick planks across it. Beetle wondered how anyone managed to get in to clean. He presumed they didn’t. The state of the Wild Book and Charm Store did not bear thinking about.
Suddenly the half-glass door that led into the Manuscrip-torium flew open and the Chief Hermetic Scribe bustled out. She carried a large handkerchief on which, Beetle noticed, in addition to the letters CHS, her collection of qualifications were carefully embroidered around the edge in different colors. So that’s what Jillie Djinn did in her long evenings alone in her rooms at the top of the Manuscriptorium, thought Beetle.
Jillie Djinn blinked in surprise at the sight of Beetle flanked by two Wizards.
“Yes?” she snapped.
Beetle had been clutching the Emissary scroll tightly, waiting for this very moment. Quickly he twice-tapped the scroll and held it at arm’s length. With a faint buzz a flicker of purple ran around the edges of the scroll, a waft of heat hit him, and suddenly he was holding the full-size version. It felt surprisingly thin and delicate (because in Magyk matter can neither be created nor destroyed), but Beetle thought that only added to its air of mystery and importance. He caught Jillie Djinn’s gaze and saw she was, for a moment, impressed—then her default expression of mild irritation quickly reasserted itself.
Beetle was determined to be scrupulously polite. “Good evening, Chief Hermetic Scribe,” he said. “I am here as Emissary of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard.”
“So I see,” Jillie Djinn replied coolly. “And what does she want now?”
Getting into his official role with some relish, Beetle began to read from the words busily arranging themselves on the scroll.
“Please be informed that a Castle Call Out is in progress. The presence of all Indentured Scribes is Called for with immediate effect,” he proclaimed.
Jillie Djinn went straight to major annoyance.
“You can tell the ExtraOrdinary Wizard that important work is in progress here,” she snapped. “Manuscriptorium scribes will not drop everything and rush off on the whim of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard.” From one of her many pockets she took out a small timepiece and squinted at it. “They will be available when the Manuscriptorium closes in two hours, forty-two minutes and thirty-five seconds precisely.”
Marcia Overstrand’s Emissary was having none of it. He tried—not entirely successfully—to suppress a smile as the exact words he needed scrolled up before him. Savoring the moment, Beetle slowly read them out.
“Please be advised that Call Out Conditions state that Manuscriptorium scribes will be available as and when required. Failure to provide them on demand will invalidate your Terms of Office.”
Jillie Djinn
sneezed into her overqualified handkerchief. “Why are they required?” she demanded in an indignant splutter.
The words on the Emissary scroll continued to roll up, all gaining Beetle’s approval—he could not have put it better himself.
“Please be informed that I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Any questions or complaints relating to this matter may be addressed in writing to the Wizard Tower once the Call Out is stood down. You will receive an answer within seven days. I now require you to make your scribes available immediately. So be it.”
Jillie Djinn spun on her heel and flounced off into the Manuscriptorium, slamming the flimsy door behind her. Beetle glanced at his two escorts, who looked taken aback.
“We’d heard she was difficult,” whispered Pascalle.
“But we didn’t know she was that bad,” finished Thomasinn.
“She’s gotten worse,” said Beetle. “Much worse.”
From behind the partition Beetle heard a sudden burst of excited chatter, followed by the thudding of twenty-one pairs of boots as the scribes jumped down from their desks.
Above the hubbub came Jillie Djinn’s squawk, “No, Mr. Fox, this is not time off. You will all stay two hours, thirty-nine minutes and seven seconds later tomorrow.”
The door to the front office burst open and Foxy emerged at the head of the scribes. At the sight of Beetle he looked startled.
“Hey, Beet. I’d make yourself scarce. We’re on a Call Out practice and you-know-who is in a foul temper.”
“I know.” Beetle grinned, waving his scroll at Foxy. “I’ve just told her.”
Foxy gave a low whistle. He grinned too. “Wish I’d thought of that. So we’ve got the Longest Night off after all. Thanks, Beet!”
