by B G Denvil
Alice supposed Rosie had never dared try again, and surely whatever capability had then remained to her would have been blocked by the fear of such a threat.
Rosie decided that if Alice was ever turned into a bug, she would stamp on it.
Quickly finding the passage beneath the thatch into the small separate rood cavity, Rosie clambered and peered through the gloom to where Cabbage and Dodger were snuggled together in a flying fluff of lost feathers. They both awoke at her arrival, but neither seemed displeased.
“Oh, my dear Rosie,” Dodger said, ruffling his neck feathers.
Cabbage, who was sitting looking in the opposite direction, simply turned her head right around. “Mistress Rosie,” she said. “How sweet of you to visit.”
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Rosie said, although this wasn’t true as she had fully intended to, “but I have a few extremely important questions.” She sat cross-legged on the fluff and grinned at the two owls who now seemed about the same height as herself. “Could you please tell me,” Rosie began very politely, since it was well known that being polite to owls was imperative, “where you actually found the silver cup you so kindly brought me when I shared your nest. Was it the last trunk under my mother’s bed?”
“Indeed it was,” Dodger told her.
“Thank you,” said Rosie. “And would it please be possible, if not too boring for you, to explain what else was in that same chest?”
“Ah,” Dodger said with a flick of one long ear, “I cannot promise that I noticed everything, mistress. The silver cup was on top, you see, and so I did not need to rummage. Certainly there were papers, being old parchment, for they lay beneath the cup. I am also quite positive I saw two other cups, one being red metal with a peculiar smell, and the other being copper, much larger, with impressions of flowers and letters engraved both out and in. The copper cup was truly beautiful, and I considered it surely made by a very talented engraver. However, the red cup, which sat in one corner within the chest, seemed somehow unpleasant. The smell was rancid, and I did not want it anywhere near my beak, so I was extremely glad you wanted the silver cup and not the red one. I am sorry I cannot remember any other item, for I doubt I saw any others.”
A little bemused by the two other odd cups which had been described but she had certainly never seen, Rosie then asked, “And please, do you have any idea where Alfred Scaramouch is, who was always called my father, and used to live in the tree house out there? He was the one who brought me to your nest that night.”
“Indeed I do,” Dodger whooped owl-like. “That gentleman has been my friend for many years. Now being somewhat fearful of what may happen, he has taken up residence in the roof just next door. He frequently comes here for a bedtime discussion, and then sleeps the night here while we fly off to hunt. But when we return and wish to sleep, he goes next door and stays with the bats.”
“Oh dear.” Rosie wondered where she could hide him in a more comfortable and cleaner manner. “I’ll go and see him,” she said. “And thank you so very much for the information. You’ve been so helpful.”
Returning to Edna’s rooms, Rosie found both Peg and Edna dozing in their chairs, and so quietly tiptoed off downstairs to her own room, now so magnificently improved. Here, she wondered if she might doze too, but there was something else she wanted to do first.
Bending over her glorious new rug, she cupped her hands together and made up her own brand-new spell.
Chapter Twenty-Three
With her precious new creation cradled between her hands, Rosie flew quickly up to the roof cavity within the attic where the colony of small black bats were sleeping. They looked very peaceful, row upon row of little furry upside-down black objects hanging from the rafters. But beneath them was an extremely smelly carpet of guano, which covered the entire floor in various lumps of various sizes. Not quite as attractive as a Turkey rug
Alfred was cuddled in a corner with a slight slit of view through the thatch right beside him. He was entirely covered in guano and smelled no better than the rest of the space. He also appeared to be dozing.
Rosie crept to his side, tried not to breathe in the stink, and whispered, “Daddykins, it’s me, Rosie. I’m quite sure the danger is past. Would you like to wake up?”
He woke gently with a flick of his eyes and a sweet smile. “I’d like to think the danger finished, my dear,” he told her, voice little more than a grunt. “But sadly, not so, my dear.”
“Well, Alice is still around,” Rosie admitted. “But she can’t do much, because there’s the new resident Edna who is extremely powerful, and Peg too, who isn’t exactly weak as you certainly know. And I’ve accused Alice of murder. She’s denied it, of course, but she keeps very much out of the way, hoping it’ll all blow over I expect. Boris is dead. He did the first two killings, didn’t he?”
Her adopted father went red and looked very ashamed, saying only, “Umm.”
“I know you know,” Rosie explained. “But I honestly don’t blame you. I bet you’re frightened of Alice, just like the rest of us. Well – me, anyway. And you only knew because you couldn’t help hearing it while she was plotting and planning. And you tried to save me – and it worked. I’m safe, and so are you. She thought she should kill me too, didn’t she?”
Alfred nodded, still bright red amongst the shadows. “Umm,” he managed.
“But she isn’t my mother,” Rosie continued. “And you’re not my real father, though I’ve always loved you. So where did I come from, and why did Alice want to adopt me?”
“Oh dear,” Alfred murmured. “I never understood half of it, you know. I knew it was Alice who wanted certain things and made them happen. I know a little about why. But we were only together for a very short time, you see. It was a love-spell, and I begged her to marry me. Silly old twit, I was. I should have guessed it was a trick. But she liked having a husband. I soon learned not to like her, but I liked being liked. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of. So when was I actually adopted? How old was I?”
“Such a sweet little baby,” Alfred said with a smile that made his crimson flush disappear. “Tiny and quite adorable. A few weeks, perhaps. I’m not sure. Very young indeed.”
With her own soppy smile, Rosie drank this in. Then she took a large breath to avoid the smell and asked, “Do you know anything about a large cup engraved with beautiful flowers and stuff? And maybe a small red cup that smells disgusting?”
This time Alfred shrank back. “I know nothing about the red cup,” he said with an unconvincing shiver. “But the decorated cup is yours, my dear. Most beautiful, probably even valuable. Whistle Hobb presented it to you on the day of your adoption.” His smile also seemed to be engraved. “You stretched out one tiny little plump hand, and touched the cup as he gave it to you. And he said, ‘There you are – she accepts.’”
“You liked Whistle? So what was he to me?”
Rosie had asked her ultimate question, but Alfred went suddenly quiet, The red flush reappeared. He muttered, “I don’t know,” and looked guilty. Rosie had already discovered that her adopted father was a very bad liar.
But she accepted his lie. As she now had other ways of finding out everything. So Rosie patted her father’s arm. “I was hoping you’d come back down and take over Boris’s room,” she said. “I’ve made it clean itself up and those black splashes have gone. It’s got a big hanging basket of lilac and bluebells and different sorts of blue flowers that don’t exist here yet, but they won’t ever die, and they all smell wonderful. I’ve put in new bed coverings and pillows, so none of them have anything to do with Boris, and they’re all much nicer than his anyway, and there’s certainly no blood left. His memory is completely gone from every tiny little scrap.” Rosie watched his face for signs of dislike or worry, but Alfred appeared quite excited. “Of course, I’ll clean up your tree house too,” she promised him, “but since you can’t fly or get your own nice food, I think you should use our nice big room downstairs most o
f the time. Perhaps you can go back to the tree for holidays.”
“What a happy idea,’ he said, scrambling to stand. “I thank you so much, my dear. You’re very kind, even though now you know I’m not your real father.”
“You’ve been my real father for twenty-four years,” she smiled. “And that feels good enough.” Rosie didn’t add that since he had spent most of the time in the tree house, she hadn’t seen him anyway.
But as she pulled something out of her apron pocket and held it out to him. He stared in wonder. He reached out, wiping one trembling finger over its surface. Rosie handed him her gift. It was a large ball of glass, and in its centre, imbedded but shining through, was a small glitter of silver stars.
“Is it what I think it is?” he breathed.
“Yes indeed. It’s a Luck Glass,” Rosie said. “You can ask lots of questions, and the answers show up in pictures. Sometimes it will even bring what you want. Ask for something important, and within three days you may get it. And just sit it by your bed, and it will bring a gentle mist of luck into your life, chasing away some of the bad luck that everyone gets. It won’t do miracles, but it will do quite a lot. With the telling and the giving and the protecting, it will bring new feelings of safety and happiness into your life.”
“That surely is a miracle.” Alfred gazed lovingly both at the glass ball and at Rosie. “What a remarkable young woman you are, my dearest. And you are nearly of age now. Luck may come to you too.”
But Rosie shook her head. “I’m only twenty-four, Daddykins,” she reminded him. “It’s almost another year before I turn twenty-five.” And this time it was Alfred who shook his head.
“No, no, my dear. Has your mother told you wrong days and years for your birthdate all this time? Yes, I can guess she had a reason for that. But I have to tell you this, Rosie dearest, though I beg you not to tell your mother that it was me who told you. But your real birthday is at midnight, the sweet starlit witching hour, on the eighteenth of June. And this year, at midnight on that day this year, you will turn twenty-five, the moment when you become an adult wiccan and receive the blessing of the Great Lord of the Law.”
The confusion fogged around Rosie once again. “Why on earth didn’t Alice want me to know my real age? But for so many years she hid my powers too, and had me blocked. Suffocated. She wanted me as her daughter, but she wanted me weak and pathetic. It seems so daft. But then again, now I know she’s such a terrible person, I suppose I’m not surprised at anything. And receiving my coming of age will be so wonderfully exciting.”
“I am sure it will be glorious,” Alfred said. “We are mostly hundreds of years old, so very few of us remember turning twenty-five. Your celebration will be a rare and delightful experience for all of us.”
‘Twenty-five. Ninety-eight. Twenty-five. Ninety-eight.” Rosie repeated these important numbers to herself with pride. She held out her hand, grinning, since previously she had needed someone else’s hand in order to fly herself. Now Alfred took her hand, and together they few down to Boris Barnacle’s room, and Alfred stood gazing with enormous pleasure. It was now a grand room, and totally changed. So he rested his new Luck Ball on the little table beside his bed and flung his arms around his adopted daughter.
From Boris’s room, Rosie walked directly to her adopted mother’s. Few had seen Alice since the accusations, Boris’s death and the day’s interviews by Dickon Wald. Her scowl had occasionally been noticed in the kitchen, walking outside and even stalking the corridors. But she had produced neither breakfast nor dinner, neither supper nor any drinks and snacks. Indeed, she had almost disappeared. Rosie was sure the woman was planning something unpleasant, but still had no understanding of why.
Rosie saw no one as she entered Alice’s grand bedchamber overlooking the garden at the back of the house. The ground floor, of course, since Alice was unable to fly. The room was empty, and immediately Rosie pulled out the last wooden chest hidden beneath the bed.
Having been already opened by Dodger, the lid sat a little ajar, and inside Rosie was able to see exactly what Dodger had described to her. She brought out the large decorated cup which she could not remember ever being given. As a valuable object, she assumed Alice had taken it for herself as soon as Whistle was out of view.
Rosie took the cup and put it into her apron pocket, where it hung heavy. She reached out to take the red cup, but pulled back her fingers, before touching, for a sudden spike of scarlet fire sprang from its centre, and the smoke was black and fierce. Even without touching, her fingers felt burned, and the stench curled upwards, crawling into her face, her mouth and her nose.
At once, Rosie ran to the well outside, leaving the bedchamber door open. Pulling up one bucket of water, she ducked in her entire head, clearing her sight and taste.
Slowly emerging, her hair dripping and water rolling from her face, she turned, and stopped.
“Frightened, my dear daughter?” said Alice.
Rosie wasn’t sure what to do. Against a fifty, she now knew she could protect herself, but there was some dark power resident in that cup, and it had befriended Alice. Whether that brought their power to an even force, Rosie didn’t know. The other power might be still greater than her own. Raising her chin, Rosie faced the other woman and laughed.
“Do you expect me to kill you? I’ve no desire to do that. But I shall take you to court for fraternising with the shadow side, and for the murder of three wiccan folk, including the great wizard Whistle.”
“Take me to court? I’d like to see you try.” Alice was fiddling in her own apron pocket.
There was no overpowering stink, therefore Rosie guessed she had a knife and not the red cup, so continued to smile. “They’ll come for you, once I denounce you formally, you know. The court officials will come to fly you off for trial.”
“They can’t touch me,” Alice growled. “I have protection of another sort. You can’t imagine my strength. I’ll not be dying any time soon, wretched girl. It’s you in danger. I should have killed you long ago, but I needed Whistle dead first. Now you’ll be joining him.”
Alice grabbed the long carving knife from her dirty apron pocket and rushed at Rosie. She raised and then swung the blade, but Rosie simply raised one finger and called, “Be still.”
Alice seemed paralysed, her arm high, her hand clutching the knife handle, and her face contorted in hatred and anger. But nothing quivered, nothing changed. She remained unmoving. And as they stood there facing each other, there was a swoop of black feathers, and a large crow hurtled down and grabbed the knife from Alice’s hand.
“Shall I drop it down the well?” cackled Wolfy.
“You’re the best crow in the world,” Rosie laughed. “Throw it back through the kitchen window. And my love to Wobbles and Cuddles and all the babies.”
“They’re growing up a bit now,” Wolfy said. “But feeding them is so exhausting. I’m looking forward to the day when they finally learn to feed themselves.”
“Well, here’s a thank you,” Rosie called – and clicked her fingers. A short distance from Rosie’s feet, a pile of food suddenly appeared, scattering itself across the grass. Make-believe worms and beetles, small buzzing flies obligingly sitting there waiting to be eaten, pieces of bread torn into long crusts, gulps of cheese, and a few other small wriggling things that didn’t actually exist.
“Quick,” Rosie pointed. “All the other crows will be grabbing this as soon as they see it. There must be at least a hundred funny little baby crows around here, all squawking with hunger.”
As Wolfy grabbed a huge beak full, Rosie turned back to Alice, releasing her from the spell. But as Alice jerked once more into action, Rosie again pointed a finger at her and shouted, “You will obey me. Listen carefully and obey. You will enter your bedroom where you will find one of your hidden chests pulled out from under the bed, and its lid wide open. Beneath the red cup of some evil power which you keep there, is a document signed by Whistle Hobb. You will bring it to me. Yo
u will not bring the red cup.”
It was only after giving the order that Rosie wondered if she had done something remarkably stupid. She wanted the document, and she hadn’t wanted to touch the vile thing lying on top. Her solution had seemed perfect. But she had known her own power for an extremely limited time and had not yet learned every way to use it. Alice had walked off in a daze, rigid and obedient. But once she herself touched the red cup, Rosie wondered if Alice would change.
She moved away, ready to fly back to Edna if it became necessary. Then she saw the truth of it.
From Alice’s bedroom, a great black flame exploded outwards. For one brief blink, Rosie wondered if this was the high court’s form of execution. Perhaps they had telepathically heard the truth of Alice Scaramouch and immediately passed sentence. But within one more blink Rosie realised the opposite. The black flame grew vast and swept across the garden towards Rosie.
The flame halted, flickering as though frightened. Its tip curled in upon itself as though licking its own wounds. Then Rosie turned and understood.
Every single resident of The Rookery stood grouped behind her. Legs apart, expressions determined, some with wands pointing at the flame and at Alice, others with their hands up and facing outwards to block whatever came next. In front and directly behind Rosie, Edna stood tall, and Peg stood short, and both of them pointed to Alice, small golden flames rushing from their fingertips.
“We’ve called the High Lord,” Edna yelled at Rosie. “The power will be with us just long enough for them to find her guilty.”
The black flame had hurt her, and Rosie knew herself injured, but her power remained, and she flung out one arm, and with the tingle of the immense power all around, the black flame disappeared in a sprinkle of dark ash, and Alice fell. She tumbled to the grass, first screaming threats and then screaming for mercy. Every part of her head and body began to vibrate, and clearly she was in pain. The croaks and yelps were at first piteous, and having thought of Alice as her mother for twenty-four years, Rosie had a moment’s sympathy. But she did not move and said nothing. She simply watched.
