The Daring of Della Dupree

by Natasha Lowe

  “Is Mary here?” Della asked, following behind. The dark narrow staircase spiraled round and round, eventually opening up into a room full of flickering candles. And there, sitting on colorful rugs spread across the floor, were Mary, Gwyneth, and three other girls.

  “Della!” Mary squealed, leaping up to give her a hug. “I’ve been showing Dame Bessie how you helped me stop changing color,” she said, showing off her breathing.

  “That’s excellent, Mary. Well done!” And taking Mary by the hand, Della settled them both on the rug.

  “This is Della Dupree,” Dame Bessie said. “She will be joining us.”

  “Just until I go home. Which will hopefully be tomorrow,” Della added softly.

  “That may be, but as long as you are here, you need to learn to survive.” Dame Bessie gestured at the group. “All these girls come from neighboring villages. You know Mary and Gwyneth already, of course, and this is Willow”—she pointed at a girl with dark, water-straight hair—“and that’s Faye with the braids, and over there with the cat on her knee and the mess of curls is Isolda. They are witches just like you.”

  “Yes, we’re all so evil,” Faye said, making a menacing face. The other girls laughed, but not Dame Bessie.

  “This is something we don’t joke about, Faye. It’s remarks like that which give witchcraft a bad name.”

  “Sorry,” Faye apologized, looking down.

  “You are here to learn how to protect yourselves,” Dame Bessie said. “To keep your magic locked away and out of sight. But sometimes it will leak out,” she added soberly. “And you may find yourselves in grave danger.…”

  Gwyneth started to cry. “I don’t want to be a witch.”

  “None of us do,” Faye muttered.

  “That’s why we have to listen to Dame Bessie, Gwyneth,” Willow said. “She can help us stay safe.”

  “Don’t worry,” Della whispered, patting her lap. “You can sit here if you like.” And after hesitating a moment, Gwyneth climbed onto Della’s knee, settling against her just like Lion always did.

  “So today we will practice shape-shifting,” Dame Bessie continued, “turning ourselves into animals for a quick and easy escape.”

  “No, we can’t!” Della burst out, looking around to see if anyone else was as shocked as she was. More softly, so as not to scare Gwyneth, she said, “That’s illegal. That’s so illegal.” Ms. Cray would have had a stroke if she’d heard this.

  “It may be illegal, but if it saves you from being thrown in the dungeons, then you have no other choice.”

  “What about the witches’ code of honor?” Della said, something all Ruthersfield girls had drummed into them from the first day of school. “Where I come from, we’re supposed to use our magic for the good, to help people. And never, under any circumstances, to practice shape-shifting.” Judging from the girls’ puzzled expressions, Della realized none of them had heard of the witches’ code of honor, and she couldn’t help thinking Witch Dupree was going to have her work cut out when she finally showed up. Because right now it was impossible to imagine there would ever be a Ruthersfield Academy.

  “There’s a knights’ code of honor,” Willow said. “My brother has to learn it because he’s in training with Lord Hepworth. Be chivalrous, be brave, face down all dragons, and rescue any and all damsels in distress.”

  “Well, the only code of honor you need to worry about is keeping yourselves safe,” Dame Bessie said. “Now take out your wands, girls, and let’s begin.”

  “We get wands?” Della asked in excitement.

  “To make lasagna!” Mary whispered, licking her lips.

  Willow held up a smooth, slender stick. “Mine is apple wood.”

  “And mine is hawthorn,” Faye said. “My spells are much stronger when I use hawthorn. I can turn into a really tiny animal and suck all the water out of a river if I need to cross it quickly.”

  “Woods have different properties,” Dame Bessie explained, carrying a basket of sticks over to Della and Mary. “Some work better than others, depending on the time of your birth.”

  “I’m a snow baby,” Isolda told them. “Born in a blizzard, so my wood is oak.”

  “So is Gwyneth’s,” Dame Bessie said, handing the little girl a wand.

  “Isn’t she a bit young?” Della worried as Gwyneth got up and started to dance about, waving the stick.

  “No. All witches must learn to protect themselves,” Dame Bessie replied sharply. “And when were you born?” she asked Mary.

  “During lambing,” Mary said.

  “Cherry might work well,” Dame Bessie mused, offering Mary a stick. The second Mary held it, a stream of violets puffed out of the end. “Oh, far too strong. Try pear,” Dame Bessie said, exchanging the stick for another. This time the tip glowed a soft purple, and she gave a satisfied nod. “Much better. Now, how about you?”

  “June twenty-first,” Della said. “Midsummer Eve, the shortest night of the year.”

  “Ahh.” Dame Bessie nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Since you are a child of the solstice then, I think you should try this.” She plucked up a smooth, silvery-colored stick stripped of its bark and handed it to Della. “Beech is an ancient wood. I have a feeling this will be a good fit.” And as soon as Della touched it, her fingers started to tingle in the same way they had when she’d held the little carved moon the boy had given her. This was not like a Ruthersfield wand, the one all the girls got, blended with different types of wood, weighted down with unicorn horn to keep their spells grounded and contained, and highly polished to protect it from scratches. This felt more like a lightning rod, as if there was nothing between Della and her magic, and she sensed she would have to be extremely careful when she used it.

  “Now think of the animal you would like to change into. Something fast is good, that can get away quickly. A deer, or a hare, and field mice are excellent, because they can disappear easily. So are spiders and beetles, but you want to avoid being stepped on.”

  “I’ll be a field mouse,” Faye said.

  “What about a swallow?” Willow asked. “So we could fly.”

  “Or a snail,” Mary suggested. “I could hide in my shell.”

  “A wabbit.” Gwyneth giggled. “I love wabbits.”

  “I’m going to be a cat,” Isolda said, stroking the animal in her lap. “Like Tiger Balm.”

  “Go with what feels right to you,” Dame Bessie said. “When the first high priestess of magic wrote down the spell, she often changed into a griffin, but that is far too obvious for our purposes. We need to blend in, not stand out.”

  “A hare,” Della murmured, trying not to think of how much trouble she’d be in if anyone knew what she was doing. Well, “trouble” was an understatement. She’d be locked up in Scrubs, the high-security prison just for witches, for the rest of her life.

  “Now tap your stick against your leg and whisper ‘mutatiarno’ very softly, so as not to draw attention to yourself.” Dame Bessie demonstrated, turning into a mouse. The girls watched her scuttle across the floor. There was a smell of burning toffee, and then Dame Bessie appeared again.

  “How do you change back without your wand?” Della asked nervously.

  “The reversal spell is woven right into the magic, so you just have to chant ‘mutatiarno’ again to release it. Of course, you may not be able to go back for your wand,” Dame Bessie added somberly. “But at least you will be safe.” She gestured at the girls. “Now you try.”

  One by one, Della watched them turn into a field mouse, a cat, a snail, and a baby rabbit. Willow flew around the room as a swallow.

  “What are you waiting for, Della?” Dame Bessie inquired.

  “I’m not sure I can. It feels so wrong.”

  “If someone finds out you’re a witch and sends an army of knights after you brandishing swords, are you just going to stand there?”

  “Mutatiarno,” Della said, tapping the beech stick against her thigh. Immediately she felt a powerful
surge of energy rush through her body. This was probably what getting an electric shock felt like. The blood in her head pulsed, and her arms and legs tingled as if she were being squeezed out of her body. Then the next thing Della knew, she was hopping across the room, leaping about on a set of strong back legs. It was a deeply unsettling feeling, being yourself but not yourself, performing this sort of raw, ancient magic that could transform you into something else. There was a part of Della that wanted to hop outside, to smell the grass and feel the wind and see what it was like to race across the fields. And she suddenly understood why this kind of magic had been banned. It was intoxicating and addictive and (considering she almost stepped on Mary’s snail shell when she turned back) extremely dangerous.

  Chapter Eleven

  Della Meets Lord Hepworth

  DAME BESSIE LED THE GIRLS back upstairs and threw another log on the fire. “We meet again in five nights’ time, when I’ll show you how to wipe clean a memory. So if anyone discovers you’re a witch, you can take that knowledge right out of their heads. Help them forget.”

  “But that’s mind magic,” Della whispered to Faye. Messing about with someone’s thoughts was just as much a crime as shape-shifting. “We cannot be learning how to do that.”

  “If you have something to say, Della, there’s no need to whisper,” Dame Bessie remarked, leading Gwyneth over to her pallet in the corner. “Besides, I can hear you quite clearly.” She tucked a blanket around the little girl. “This is strong, dangerous magic, and should, of course, not be used unless absolutely necessary.”

  “I think I’m going to need such a spell,” Faye sighed. “My mother already suspects. I used magic to start the fire two days ago because the wood was so damp, and I know she had a suspicion.”

  “But she wouldn’t say anything, would she?” Della said. “I mean, she’s your mother.”

  Faye didn’t answer, although the look on her face told Della all she needed to know. Della tried to imagine what it would be like, having your own parents turn against you. But she couldn’t. A pang of longing hit her in the gut, and she shut her eyes for a moment, thinking about how much she missed her family.

  Dame Bessie clapped her hands for attention. “We’re about to go outside, girls, so hoods over your heads and no noise. Take your branch from behind the woodpile and leave as quietly as you can.”

  “Why do we need a branch?” Mary said, slipping her hand into Della’s.

  “To fly home on,” Faye told them. “Mine is hawthorn, because that’s my special wood.”

  “I didn’t even know witches had special woods until tonight,” Della said, thinking how much witchcraft had changed. This strong bond between magic and nature had somehow been lost over time. Magic in the twenty-first century felt all polished and tidy and controlled. Wands in cellophane-wrapped boxes and broomsticks that were so highly varnished you couldn’t even feel a connection to the wood. Not like the branch Dame Bessie handed her.

  “It’s beech, dear, like your wand. And yours is pear, Mary. Don’t take the leaves off the back end, because they help with balance.”

  “But I don’t know how to fly,” Mary said.

  “Don’t worry—I’m sure we’ll get a lesson,” Della reassured her. At Ruthersfield the girls weren’t even allowed near a broomstick until they had done two weeks of flying theory in the classroom.

  “I’m afraid there will be no lessons,” Dame Bessie said. “If I were caught offering instruction…” There was no need for Dame Bessie to finish this sentence, because by now Della had a pretty good idea what would happen.

  “Just remember to fly as high as you can, and only at night,” Willow told them, stepping one leg over her apple branch. “That way if anyone does see, we usually get mistaken for a bat.”

  “Are you serious?” Della said in a panic.

  “And don’t let go,” Dame Bessie advised.

  “I’m frightened,” Mary whispered.

  Della was about to tell her they could fly together, but Dame Bessie said, “I’ll send Bralin with you, Mary. Follow him, and if you fall, he will catch you.” She looked at Della. “You, I imagine, have some experience?”

  “A bit,” Della admitted, thinking that a tree branch was very different from her training broom with cruise control and an altitude beeper that stopped you from going too high. And, she quickly found out, not only more uncomfortable but much harder to control.

  “Remember, five nights hence at the witching hour,” Dame Bessie said as Della took off with a sharp jerk. She gave a muffled scream as the branch juddered and shook, climbing into the air. Trying to remain calm, Della flew past the treetops, gripping the branch so tight she could feel rough bark pressing into her palms. The cold stung her cheeks, and she was terrified to go any higher, but at least dawn hadn’t broken yet, so there was still enough darkness to offer protection.

  When she finally saw Clackton Ridge looming up ahead, and the great gray outline of the castle, Della heaved a sigh of relief. Keeping her height, she decided to land behind the stables, in case there were knights on watch. Not that they’d be looking upward, expecting an attack from the air, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Della swooped down far faster than she was used to, biting her lip to stop herself from screaming again, which she very much wanted to do. Trying to keep control of the branch, she aimed at a pile of hay. It wasn’t the smoothest of landings, but at least the hay was soft, and she rolled right off, lying still for a moment while her head stopped spinning. Getting up slowly, Della decided to leave the branch behind the stables. She didn’t want to bring it closer to the castle in case somebody chopped it up for firewood, which, from the way her luck had been going so far, seemed very likely to happen. Suddenly feeling exhausted, Della leaned against the stable wall, tiredness and worry flooding through her. What if she never got out of this place? Her legs started to shake, and she pressed her hands against her stomach, giving a frightened whimper. But she couldn’t think like that. She had to believe everything was going to be okay and by Wednesday, in five nights’ time, she’d be safely back home again.

  Slipping inside, Della lay down on her mat, managing a short burst of sleep before being woken right up again. Cold morning air blew on her face as the kitchen stirred to life. Cooks were already chopping and mixing, and a pan of spicy stew bubbled away over the fire, covering up the stench of unwashed bodies with cinnamon and cloves.

  A cart rumbled into the courtyard, dropping off a massive amount of bread, still warm from the baker’s ovens. Della was put to work slicing the tops off each loaf.

  “Make haste,” Mrs. Chambers ordered. “His lordship and guests are going hunting again, so let’s not keep them waiting.” She hustled over and dipped a spoon in the stew, taking a taste and spitting it right back out. “Myrtle, did you make this swill?” she screamed. “It’s disgusting. Not fit to feed the pigs.”

  A woman who had to be Myrtle blushed deep scarlet. “Sorry, mam, I dropped the bag of salt in.”

  “What’s his lordship going to say when there’s no pheasant in the pot? This is a catastrophe. You can pack your bags and head right back to Deckle Mead.”

  Myrtle started to sob, and there was so much commotion going on that no one noticed Della dart over to the fireplace and wave her beech stick over the pot, pretending to use it to take a taste. She murmured a quick transformation spell, which the girls often performed at school lunch to change extremely dry meatloaf into fabulously juicy steak.

  “And what on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Chambers screeched as the pot belched out a cloud of orange smoke, turning the nasty-tasting pheasant into a delicious chicken curry. “What went in there?”

  Della froze, suddenly realizing what she had done. This wasn’t a potions class at Ruthersfield. And it wasn’t the twenty-first century. She’d used magic in Castle Hepworth, which wasn’t just stupid, but unbelievably dangerous.

  “I was trying to help,” Della said, tossing in a carrot to look as if she knew what sh
e was doing. “My mum—I mean my mother—taught me how to save a heavily salted stew.”

  “Ummph.” Mrs. Chambers trotted over to the pot. She took a tiny sip and then another and another, each spoonful getting bigger. “This will do nicely, Della.” She gave a brisk nod. “As for you, Myrtle, one more mistake and it will be back to Deckle Mead, I can promise you that.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Chambers,” Myrtle said, throwing Della a grateful look.

  “Right, then. Let’s see what his lord and ladyship think.” And, unhooking the pot of pheasant stew (which was actually chicken curry), Mrs. Chambers led a procession of maids hefting platters of cold meats, jugs of ale, and a great many baskets of bread down the corridor to the great hall. It wasn’t long before she returned, beckoning for Della to follow her. “Lord Hepworth wants to see you.”

  “He does?” Della said, worried they could taste the magic. “Why?”

  “The stew, of course. Now come along.”

  “Do I have to?” Della said, but Mrs. Chambers was already marching off, and Della hurried after her, trying to remember how to turn herself into a hare in case she needed a quick getaway.

  The tables in the great hall were crowded with people drinking ale and eating off the crusts of bread Della had cut, which appeared to take the place of plates. In the middle of the shorter, raised table sat a bearded man in a wine-colored robe with a green tunic underneath, who Della guessed (correctly) had to be Lord Hepworth. A well-padded woman wearing a purple satin gown and an elaborate beaded headpiece sat on one side of him, and on his other, much to Della’s surprise, was the boy she had met by the river, the one who had given her the carved moon. Although judging from his place at the table, Della suspected he was more than an acquaintance of Lord Hepworth’s.

  “This is Della Dupree,” Mrs. Chambers announced, and Della could feel herself blushing as everyone turned to stare.

  “You made this?” Lord Hepworth gestured at his wooden bowl. His face was red and a little puffy, and Della couldn’t tell if he was angry or overexcited. She nodded, gripping the beech wand in her pocket. “It’s excellent.” He smiled. “I’ve never had pheasant taste so good. Not too salty at all.”