The House at the Edge of Magic

by Amy Sparkes

  The old gang-master glared down at her, his white-whiskered jaw jutting to one side. “You better have something pretty-shiny for Pockets’ Nest,” he said.

  Nine thought of the scarlet lady and the failed pounce and said nothing. She knew she was falling from favour faster than a stone-stunned sparrow.

  “Course she ain’t,” said Annie.

  “She’s losin’ her touch,” Mary added. She sucked her dirty hair and shot an evil look at Nine, who gladly returned it.

  “You’s useless! Pockets is kind enough to share his Nest with you!” hissed Pockets, gesturing at the cold, gloomy cellar.

  “And it’s such a charming place,” said Nine. She closed her ears to Pockets’ disgruntled rantings and looked around. Every nook and cranny of the room was filled with Pockets’ beloved curios. Dangling from bent nails in a ceiling beam were rabbits’ feet tied with string, broken lockets, once-shiny chains and a cracked – but working – pocket watch. The flickering candlelight half-revealed ugly toby jugs grinning from nooks like gargoyles.

  And there, on the shelf, surrounded by old tankards, was her little, shining music box. The only possession she had when Pockets found her…

  Her oldest memory. She had been only three years old, alone and cold in a doorway. She didn’t remember who left her there, or why, but she remembered the beautiful shining music box she held in her little hand. It had seemed much bigger back then.

  She was sure the music box was the only reason he had taken her in. “Nine” he had called her as he’d taken her hand and dragged her away. She didn’t even know her real name: she was just the ninth broken foundling to come to the Nest. And instantly her treasure – the only thing in this world that was special to her – had become his. Nine blinked away the memory and gazed at the music box longingly, her fingers aching to hold it.

  The old man’s voice grumbled on. “All Pockets asks is that his children bring him a gift or a bit of coin! Because, you miserable thieflings, we is on our own here!” Nine rolled her eyes and sat down on the damp floor. This could take a while.

  He raised his arms, then slammed them down to his sides in defeat. “What does Pockets always say?”

  “Life don’t bring you strawberries,” Nine droned along with the other thieflings.

  “Life’s turned its back on you!” Pockets said, pointing at them and clambering onto a tea chest.

  Oh, good grief. Not the tea chest.

  “If Pockets hadn’t…” muttered Nine to herself.

  “If Pockets hadn’t took you in,” said Pockets.

  “All of you’d…”

  “All of you’d be on the streets by now!”

  “No freedom…”

  “No freedom, no life,” Pockets ranted.

  “Nothing,” said Nine, scanning the cellar with empty eyes.

  “Nothing!” Pockets finished triumphantly with an arm flourish so forceful he lost his balance and toppled off the tea chest.

  Tom snorted a repressed laugh but Nine only scowled at the old man. She hated Pockets. But if he hadn’t taken her in… She didn’t even like to think about where she’d be now. Annoying as it was, she owed him.

  Nine stomped away to her corner, hidden by a couple of rickety crates. Just as well she liked to be alone. It was better, safer, alone.

  As she went, her hand lightly brushed the shelf and she snatched her little music box. It would be back before he missed it. She eased down on her thinning, frayed sackcloth bed and felt the familiar cold seep through from the stone floor. She stared at the box and felt a deep urge to turn the tiny handle. To hear that beautiful, tinkling song. That song that said once – just maybe – she was loved.

  But she couldn’t, not without being caught. She glared at Pockets. The only time she could hear it now was when he touched it. Anger prickled up and down her spine. “My life is perfectly fine,” she hissed to herself, willing the words to make everything different.

  She knew the words couldn’t change a single thing. Yet there was something that could … the House. The curse. That glowing red ball with the jewel inside…

  NO. She was never going back to that ridiculous place.

  Tiredness seeped into every bone, every muscle. She pulled The Mystery of Wolven Moor out of her satchel, but she was in no mood for reading. She turned over on her side and pulled a thinning, grey blanket over herself, curling tight into a ball around the music box.

  The heavy dullness of sleep crept over her before she could fight it. Her dreams were wild and bright. She was edging down a dark corridor towards the floating red ball, her hand outstretched. Getting closer … closer … daring to touch it, but as she stretched out her fingers, the ball exploded into red smoke and a distant, female voice began to laugh—

  Nine jolted awake, the faraway voice still ringing in her head. She looked down and saw the music box still in her hand, and a shock of panic exploded in her chest. If Pockets found out it was gone… Suddenly wide awake, she pushed back the blanket and stumbled to her feet.

  Nine crept silently across the cellar to the trinket shelf. She curled her hand around her treasure for just a moment before placing it back.

  “Don’t you never touch that again,” growled Pockets.

  Nine froze for a second, then looked over to where Pockets lay sprawled on his pathetic excuse for a bed made of sheets stuffed with wool and rag and fleas. “You always was a miserable thiefling. That’s the only thing worth having I ever got from you. Bring it to Pockets.”

  Nine clenched her jaw and snatched up the box. She took it to the old man and pushed it forcefully into his outstretched palm.

  In a sudden rush of movement, he grabbed the front of her jacket and pulled her down towards him.

  “It’s mine now. Keep yer hands off.”

  Every muscle in Nine’s body tensed. She stared at him fiercely, willing her eyelids not to blink, glad he couldn’t hear her heart racing. Never show him weakness. Never.

  She’d done that once when she was small – cried as Pockets’ filthy fingers turned her little music box handle. Pockets had given her some bruises to stop her crying, to toughen her up. It had worked. She hadn’t cried since.

  “Pockets got plenty other thieflings to keep him happy!” hissed Pockets through blackened teeth.

  “Plenty,” muttered Mary from the shadows.

  “He can live without a Nine. But you’ll be starving on the streets in a week without a Pockets.”

  The old man released Nine roughly, pushing her backwards. He examined the precious box in his hand. The silvery metal gleamed. He spat on it and polished it with his grubby sleeve.

  “I hate you,” whispered Nine. Her hands balled into fists.

  “But you stay. ‘Cos you need Pockets. You all need Pockets!” He glanced around the Nest, a cold smile spreading over his life-stained face. He stared back at Nine. “Don’t you?”

  He slowly turned the handle of the music box and a stuttered, melancholy tinkling filled the quiet cellar. Nine swallowed hard, fists still clenched. She was powerless. The voice of a ridiculous wizard pleaded in her head. “Immeasurable weeeeeealth!”

  She could not bear the thought of returning to that strange, strange House. But … immeasurable wealth?

  No freedom, no life, nothing…

  A volcano of frustration erupted inside her. Her life wasn’t perfectly fine. And there was only one way to change that.

  Throwing her satchel over her shoulder, Nine stormed over to another dark corner. A long piece of rope dangled from a ceiling beam. Up she scrambled, ignoring the harsh rope burning her palms, and the glares of the other thieflings. She squeezed herself through the dark hole at the top and pulled herself onto gritty floorboards.

  Nine got to her feet in the darkened upstairs lobby and straightened her satchel. A hand shot out of the shadows. In a blurry rush, she was grabbed by her jacket, whirled around to face the front door, then thrown out into the street. She growled as the door slammed behind her.


  It was the early morning light, Nine was certain, which made her eyes burn and prickle and threaten to water. She swallowed hard and pushed the horrible feeling away.

  She hated the old man who had saved her. She hated this life. And she hated that her only way out was to return to the ridiculous House at the end of the alley.

  She sighed loudly and began to walk.

  Nine marched back down the twisting lanes and back down the alley where the House stood. She passed a couple of people who seemed blissfully unaware of this strange House that had appeared from nowhere. Couldn’t they see it? More magic. More ridiculous, unreasonable magic.

  But Nine could see it. And she glared at the absurd, squashed-up building with its annoying turreted towers either side of the utterly stupid front door, its slightly wonky chimneypot, its pathetic windows that weren’t even on the inside because they were that pathetic.

  Chest heaving, jaw clenched, she thought of Pockets holding her beautiful music box and pummelled furiously on the front door – then gave it a kick for good measure. There was something cream and papery poking out of the black letterbox mounted on the wall next to the door. She plucked it out – a blank envelope – and stuffed it into her satchel.

  As Eric opened the door, wearing that pointless feather duster tucked into his pointless white apron, a look of delight bloomed in his completely ridiculous, yellow eyes and his stupid, wonky-tusky grin. Nine had only one word for him.

  “MOVE!”

  She stormed inside and slammed the door behind her. She stood on the doormat in the entrance hall, every muscle tense. The troll lolloped over to the safe distance of the staircase and stood on the bottom stair. He grabbed his long, thin tail and brought it in front of his stomach. He fiddled with the tufty fur at the end of the tail, wringing it and eyeing Nine nervously.

  “WHAT?” said Nine, daring the troll to so much as breathe in her direction.

  “Lady sad,” said Eric quietly.

  For a split-second, Nine faltered and caught her breath. She shuffled uncomfortably on the doormat.

  “No.”

  “Lady sad.”

  “NO!” shouted Nine as the horrible prickling feeling built up behind her eyes. She thought again of what happened last time she had cried and the anger swelled. “And stop wearing that ridiculous apron. You look … ridiculous!”

  A door clicked open on the right. “Ah, Madam,” came a smooth, well-spoken voice from inside the room.

  Flabberghast appeared, wearing the same hat, indigo pyjamas and fluffy purple slippers. Nine closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath, wondering what the chances were of getting through this without breaking someone’s nose.

  “I thought I heard your euphonious voice.”

  The chances grew smaller.

  “Of course, Madam, I knew you would see sense. Realise the error of your—”

  “I need your floaty red ball … thing. I need the money, the immeasurable wealth. That’s the only reason I’m here. Not for you.” Nine swallowed. “For me. Let’s break this curse, get that jewel and then I never want to set eyes on any of you again.”

  Flabberghast raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. “As you wish, Madam. After you.” He gave an awkward bow and gestured with his arm towards the kitchen.

  Nine looked around for any sign of the spoon, and was relieved that there were no spindly limbs, kilts or pointy swords in sight. She had marched about halfway down the long hallway when a small explosion came from somewhere upstairs, rattling the candelabra and the trophy cabinet. Nine paused for a moment – tense, listening – then turned round to look at Flabberghast and the troll, who appeared entirely unbothered by the explosion or the smell of rotten turnip now wafting down the stairs.

  Flabberghast gave a wide, unconvincing smile. “Do proceed, Madam.”

  Nine raised an eyebrow at him, but continued into the kitchen. She pulled out one of the carved wooden chairs at the kitchen table and flopped into it. She folded her arms and glared at the bucket collecting the orange ceiling slime, drop by drop. But slowly, very slowly, her rage began to calm.

  “Perhaps some tea before we begin?” suggested Flabberghast, giving the troll a sideways glance. The troll looked doubtful and wrung his tail again. “Tea,” Flabberghast repeated, more sternly.

  Eric lolloped over to the dresser and began rattling some crockery. Flabberghast walked over to a shoulder-height cupboard and stroked it thoughtfully. Eric clattered a tea tray down onto the table and began unloading three delicate cups and saucers decorated with golden stars, a matching milk jug and a sugar bowl. Nine was looking back towards Flabberghast and the cupboard when she saw a small movement out of the corner of her eye.

  “That sugar bowl’s lid just moved,” she said, snapping her attention back to the table. Slowly Nine leaned forward and lifted the slightly chipped lid open a crack. There was a little muffled explosion and a cloud of green smoke puffed over Nine’s face. She froze for a moment and then slowly replaced the lid. The sooner she got out of here, the better.

  Eric hung a black iron kettle over the fire. He and Flabberghast looked at each other nervously across the kitchen, then looked at Nine.

  “Madam, if you’d be so kind?” Flabberghast beckoned Nine with his finger.

  She hesitated, then reluctantly walked towards him. Flabberghast smiled, nodded enthusiastically and clasped his hands together. “The tea’s in there. Open the cupboard.” He leaned forwards and whispered. “With the handle.”

  Nine glared at him suspiciously and looked at the handle of the cupboard. It was made of green crystal, with many tiny, different sides. She slowly reached her hand out … then paused. She sensed something odd behind her.

  She turned around to look. Flabberghast and Eric were leaning forward eagerly, though Eric was nervously twisting his tail in his hands. Nine frowned and turned back to the cupboard, touched the crystal handle and—

  ZAP! A strange, tickling buzz crackled up her hand. She snatched her hand away from the handle and screamed. Her hand – in fact all of her – had suddenly sprouted brown fur.

  “What the—!”

  “Don’t worry,” sighed Flabberghast behind her. “It will go back to normal in a few seconds.”

  “But what just—?” she began, turning around. “Oh.”

  Eric was wearing a beautiful pink tutu and clutching a sparkly wand. Flabberghast had sprouted a dragon’s tail and a fluffy white beard. Both of them looked bitterly disappointed. A mouse poked its head out of Flabberghast’s beard, changed its mind and dashed back inside.

  The wizard looked on the verge of tears. “We thought now you were here, there was the smallest chance we could open the tea cupboard again. It’s been three years since the curse. Three years since I’ve had a cup of tea! I love tea.”

  The magic faded and all three of them returned to normal. Nine examined her hands in relief.

  Then she frowned. “You mean – so, you can never open the cupboard and if you try…”

  She touched the handle.

  ZAP! Nine’s skin had turned blue and she had the trunk of an elephant. Her satchel grew a stripy tail. She turned around. Eric was magically suspended upside-down by one of his huge feet, his apron flapping over his face and trailing on the brick floor. Flabberghast had become an oversized yellow spotty teapot wearing his wizard’s hat.

  The magic faded and they returned to normal.

  “You mean every time I—”

  ZAP! Eric was a chicken with sapphire eyes. Flabberghast was gift-wrapped in turquoise ribbon. Nine had three heads.

  “Something incredible—”

  ZAP! Eric became a beanpole version of himself. Nine’s legs turned to springs. Flabberghast was sprawled against the ceiling, facing the ground.

  “Madam!” he barked. “Kindly desist!”

  The magic wore off and he plummeted to the ground with a grunt. He picked himself up and Eric gave him a quick brushing-down with his feather duster. Flabberghast glared at Ni
ne, who couldn’t quite keep the smile from her lips, then went over to the table.

  “Just a nice cup of tea.” He slumped into a chair.

  “Fine, you don’t get your tea,” said Nine, back to business. “That’s heart-breaking, but I need that jewel. So, let’s get on with it. How do I break this wretched curse?”

  “Now that, Madam,” declared Flabberghast, steepling his fingers together in a way that was now quite ominous, “is the really interesting part.”

  Oh no,” said Nine. A terrible sinking feeling hit her stomach. “You don’t know, do you?” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t know!”

  “Madam, I have no clue. No clue … and no tea.” Flabberghast slumped forwards into a heap on the table.

  Nine marched over, grabbed a handful of the boy’s curly hair and lifted his head.

  “Right. Tell me about this curse.” She dropped his head back down then, throwing herself in the chair opposite him, she folded her arms and glared.

  Flabberghast sat up and fell backwards in his chair. “There was,” he sighed, “a witch—”

  “Witch clever,” interrupted Eric as he reached over and sadly reloaded the cups and saucers onto the tray.

  “And, with good reason, mind, I had a slight disagreement with this witch.”

  Eric noisily stacked the crockery back into the dresser.

  “As a result of this slight disagreement, she most maliciously shrank our House to a tiny size, so easily overlooked, and placed it under a terrible, terrible curse, only to be broken by one who knocks on the door.”

  Nine looked at the back door. “So you can’t get out the back door, or the front door, open your tea cupboard—”

  “The socks!” Flabberghast hissed, making Nine jump. He pushed back his chair and slammed his purple-fluffy-slipper-wearing foot onto the table. He hitched up his indigo pyjama leg to reveal a pink sock with unicorns on. He slammed his other foot onto the table and revealed a sky-blue sock with silver triangles. “The laundry basket is cursed, so regardless of how carefully you pair your socks –” his voice became strangely high-pitched – “you can never find the one that matches! Pure evil.”