A Bitter Magic

by Roderick Townley

  —

  Today’s a different adventure. Cole and I have been clamming, of all things. Something it would never occur to me to do. If I wanted clams, I’d reach for the bellpull and order some, missing all the sunburn and backache of crouching down and digging in wet sand.

  It’s warmer than usual today as we tramp barefoot along the tidal flats with buckets, trowels, and clamming rake. What a relief to pull off those awful shoes and the itchy stockings beneath. Miss Porlock would have a fit if she saw me, but how else are you supposed to kneel in sand or run through waves?

  By early afternoon, Cole and I have filled two buckets. Strolling along, he lugs the pails while I carry the trowels, swinging my shoes. I don’t know when I’ve felt such easy contentment—a warming sun on my face, my new friend beside me.

  “Thought I’d drop in on Underwood,” he says. “Want to come? He’s been having a hard time lately.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You know. He’s that painter.”

  My breath suddenly catches.

  “What’s the matter?” Cole says.

  Click-click. Click-click.

  He gives me a closer look. “What is it, Cis?”

  “I’ve seen that man before.”

  “Of course you have. He’s out here every morning with his paints.”

  “No, I mean somewhere else.”

  Cole nods toward the bluff. “Well, he lives in that little place up there.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Underwood? He’s not doing so well these days. Can’t find buyers for his work. Who has money for paintings?”

  We continue scuffing along.

  “My dad’s trying to find him a job, anything. Maybe at the glass factory. Of course, he needs a job himself.” He gives the buckets a shake, and the shells softly clatter. “I’d like to drop off some of these clams. Some for you, too, of course.”

  We climb the bluff to the painter’s cabin. A board’s missing on the weather side, and the shingles look rotted.

  Cole knocks.

  We wait. He knocks again. “Mr. Underwood?”

  He looks at me. “Maybe we should go in. He’s got an ice chest where I can put these.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, if he’s not home—”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been here lots of times.”

  “He won’t get mad?”

  Cole is already inside.

  It feels silly to stand out here, so I follow, watching as Cole throws open the shutters. Sunlight streams in, revealing, well, I’d call it squalor, but then, I live in a castle, with gleaming corridors and space everywhere. Here, there is space nowhere. Just a paint-spattered counter, a small coal stove, clothes and paint-smeared rags piled on the only chair, a rumpled bed in semi-darkness against the back wall. What strikes me most are the paintings, a dozen canvases, landscapes mostly, covering the narrow walls.

  “They’re good,” I murmur, leaning over to look. I hadn’t expected them to be good.

  Cole opens the ice chest and empties half a bucket of clams into it, then a little more. “He used to be pretty well-known around here.”

  “He was?”

  “He did that painting of your mom that’s in her bedroom.”

  “He did that?”

  “I saw the signature.”

  I flip through some canvases leaning against the wall. I hold one up to see it better: the portrait of a man, pensive, staring out a window. A self-portrait, I realize, an Underwood by Underwood. Am I sure I’ve seen that face before? I stare at it, trying to think.

  After a minute or so, I notice several bright gnats circling the left side of the canvas. It takes a few seconds for me to realize, and then believe, that they’re not gnats at all, but points of light—elementals! I thump the canvas down, but too late. There’s a small, perfectly round hole in the painting.

  Cole catches the look on my face. “What is it?”

  “My thumb!”

  “Your what?” He comes over.

  “I keep forgetting. I’ve put holes in my towels, in my dresses….”

  “I don’t un—”

  “The glass on my thumb!” I cry. “It’s the same as the mirror!” Even I can hear the despair in my voice. “Look, I’ve put a hole in his painting!”

  “You’re right.”

  “He’s going to hate me.”

  “I don’t know about that. But we’ve got to be more careful.”

  Inwardly I thank him for that we, like he’s part of whatever happens. But I’m the one who has to be careful. I’ve got to learn to do everything with my other fingers. “It’s just lucky,” I say, “I haven’t caused more damage.”

  “Well, now we know.”

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  He gives me a one-armed hug. “So. I’m ready if you are.”

  “Okay.” I’m turning to go when a different painting catches my eye. It shows the seawall below the castle, sunlight buttering the edges of rocks and gilding the hair of a distant figure facing out over the firth.

  “Hey! That’s me!”

  Cole looks over my shoulder. “Think so?”

  The figure is too far away to make out the features, but the painting next to it leaves no doubt. It shows me much closer, standing on the wall, shading my eyes with one hand and holding a golden chain in the other—a chain attached to a lobster!

  “My God! All these mornings I was watching him, he was watching me!”

  “I suppose I was watching you, too.”

  “That’s different.” I stare hard at the painting. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  We climb down to the beach. By the water, Cole turns to me. “You don’t have to worry about Underwood. He’s all right.”

  “How do you know he’s all right?”

  “Well…,” Cole considers.

  “And what’s he doing here? When did he get to Ravensbirk?”

  “A few months ago. Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  The idea shakes me. But sooner or later, I’m going to have to talk to him about the painting I ruined. “Will you go with me?”

  “Sure.” His hand reaches up and touches my hair, as if stroking a nervous cat. Then, slowly, he leans forward—What is he doing?—and kisses the top of my head! “See you tomorrow?”

  I nod dumbly and watch him go.

  My brain’s in a tumult as I turn toward home. Underwood’s paintings. Cole’s kiss. All right, it was on the top of my head, but still…

  Up ahead, the dark rocks rise, and above them, glittering in afternoon light, the castle of glass. The top is almost blinding, as if on fire, flinging brilliant colors in all directions.

  As I approach, a cloud slides over the sun, dropping the temperature and extinguishing the light show. For that moment, I see the parapet clearly and a distant figure looking out from it.

  I have to shield my eyes to be sure. It’s Asa! He’s staring at me through field glasses. A shudder runs through me. First, the painter is spying on me. Now it’s my uncle. Who else is out there?

  I’m being watched. I’m being watched all the time!

  Chapter Nineteen

  I don’t want to go where I’m going, but there it stands, towering above me. The sun’s back out, scattering rainbows and turning the castle into a prism.

  A prison.

  I’m grateful for this stretch of beach before the climb to the seawall. A few more minutes of freedom, sand warm between my toes. I wonder if Asa is still up there spying on me. Of course he is. I’m not going to look.

  I’d rather look at the mirage the sun is making on the wet sand up ahead. The beach is a blinding shimmer. In the midst of it stands a tiny point of darkness.

  Curious.

  The trembling light recedes as I walk, but the object remains.

  A shell! A beautiful conch shell. Turning it in my hand, I’m sure I’ve never seen one so perfect: off-w
hite at its widest, threaded round with delicate brown lines, then turning coral as it spirals to a point. I’ve got to take this home with me!

  You’re supposed to hear the ocean, aren’t you? Up to my ear. Nothing. I give it a shake and try again. What’s wrong with this thing?

  I speak into it. “Hello?”

  Immediately there’s an echo: “Hello…hello…”

  “Hello!” I say louder.

  “Hello!…Hello!…lo!…lo…”

  This is kind of fun.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Get here…ere…ere…”

  “Who’s in there?” I demand, smiling.

  Silence.

  Silence? Where’s the echo? “Is anybody there?” I give the shell a shake.

  Again, no echo. What happened?

  “Of course I’m here,” a quiet voice replies.

  I yank the shell away from me. I didn’t hear that!

  Glance around. Not a soul. With a trembling hand, I lift the shell again. “Did you say something?”

  “Smart girl.”

  I almost drop it.

  “Wh-who are you?”

  “Not important.”

  “Not important?”

  “Just wind in an empty shell.”

  The voice is like my own, a bit lower, with a ragged undertone, as if it came from a cavern. Is it my imagination? This reminds me of Elwyn, my little lobster friend. Everyone thought I was imagining him speaking to me.

  But he was speaking. Wasn’t he?

  I turn the shell around. Examine all angles. This has got to be a trick. I’m used to magic tricks and good at figuring them out.

  “Do you know who I am?” I say finally.

  No answer.

  “I said, do you know—?”

  “You’re a lonely girl who can use someone to talk to.”

  I forget to breathe.

  “You don’t suppose I talk to every beachcomber who comes along,” it continues.

  I don’t know what to suppose. Instead, I jump to my biggest question: “Do you know Elwyn?”

  No reply.

  “Elwyn?” I ask again. “He’s a lobster.”

  “Different family entirely.”

  “Well, I know that, but I just thought—”

  There’s a brief gusty sound, suspiciously like a sigh. “You’d better take me with you. I have a feeling you’re going to need me.”

  “One more question?”

  “What?”

  “Are you, you know, empty?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Isn’t there generally a mollusk or something…?”

  “You really need to know this?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “I asked her to leave.”

  “Oh.”

  “You can’t get a decent echo with some fat old mollusk crawling about.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Now,” the voice goes on, “you should hurry. Your uncle is not the most patient of men.”

  “Right.” Stomach rumbling—nerves again—I tuck the shell under my arm and climb the rocks to the seawall. Not the most patient of men. No, I wouldn’t say he was.

  Well, who cares? What can he do?

  Today, for the first time in weeks, I can enter through the labyrinth. The renovation is finished, or so the pantry maid told me. Let’s see what this fancy new maze looks like.

  Asa has been secretive about it, not only fixing the machinery, but (I see now) rearranging the whole place—new walls, blind alleys I didn’t know about, even a pit filled with what looks like quicksand. He also added several large topiary animals—a hedge in the shape of a wolf, another in the shape of a bear rearing up on hind legs.

  I stop, uncertain. I’m not used to feeling lost.

  Ah, two hedges away, the gardener stands on a high ladder, clipping one of the taller plantings into a giraffe. He’ll know the way.

  But I can’t ask. Miss Thummel wants me to show her how to get into her own house.

  “Need help?”

  The voice is close by.

  I peer around a hedge. Nothing but a thornbush with needlelike spines. “Who’s there?”

  “Who do you think?” says the voice.

  I stare at the conch.

  “Stay to the left,” it says. “Take the second turning.”

  “How do you—?” I stop myself and do what I’m told.

  The path leads to a blind alley.

  Before I can say anything: “See that pointed stone? Be a dear and give it a half turn to the right.”

  Again, I obey. With a loud creak, the hedge opens outward.

  “He’ll have to put some oil on that,” says the voice in the shell. “Now just go ahead, turn right, and you’re home.”

  “Wait!” I say, stopping where I am. “How do you know these things?”

  “Not important.”

  “I’m not taking another step until you tell me.”

  “Oh my. You’re scaring me.”

  My eyes narrow. “Listen. The labyrinth was just finished today. You weren’t anywhere near it.”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  I look around. The gardener on his ladder is looking at me oddly.

  I lower my voice. “You couldn’t be.”

  “Don’t confuse me with the house I live in. I don’t confuse you with yours.”

  I turn the shell around in my hand. It is a house, isn’t it?

  “Do you know where the wind is?” the shell continues.

  I shake my head.

  “Think of me as a breath inside the wind inside the sky. Can you do that?”

  “A breath inside the wind…I like that.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Soon I’m stepping into the castle’s atrium, where I’m met, not by a furious uncle or an officious Strunk, but by a very cross-looking Edna Porlock. She shakes her large head at me. “Cisley Thummel.”

  Taking hold of my shoulder, she steers me toward the staircase. “No time to clean you up. Your uncle wants to see you right away!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Windblown as I am, Miss P. presents me to Uncle Asa in his study. It is one of the few darkly furnished rooms in the whole glass palace, with its large captain’s desk, leather chairs, and mahogany bookcases.

  Asa’s a spot of darkness himself. Something’s different about him. He looks older, his coat noticeably soiled and his hair disheveled. His hair is never disheveled.

  How long has it been—a week?—since I’ve seen him? Either he’s been out in the labyrinth or up in the laboratory. He even takes his meals up there. Maybe he sleeps there.

  Janko, his henchman, has positioned himself by the door, hands clasped behind his back, at ease, but ready. Does he think I’m going to make a break for it?

  Click-click.

  “Hello, Uncle.”

  Click-click, click-click.

  He leans back in his chair. “I hope,” he says quietly, eyes half closed, fingers interlaced on his stomach, “you enjoyed your little jaunt today.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Because it’s your last.”

  “You mean you’re going to kill me?”

  “I mean you’re confined to the castle.”

  “What?”

  “Mezzanine floor only. Your meals will be brought to you.”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “You are restricted for the foreseeable future. The servants are instructed to make sure you stay put.”

  Janko screws his face into a sort of smile.

  “What have I done?”

  “What have you done?” Asa murmurs, rubbing his forehead. “Where do I start?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “I was mistaken about you,” he says, ignoring my outburst. “I thought you were old enough to understand appropriate behavior. How old are you, anyway? Twelve?”

  “I’m thirteen!”

  “Thirteen. And yet you continue to gang about with the l
owest elements. Just look at you.” He twirls a dismissive hand. “You look like the wreck of the Hesperus.”

  “The what?”

  “And what are you holding there? Not another verminous pet, I hope.”

  “It’s a seashell!”

  He sighs.

  I take a slow breath. Arguing will only get me in deeper. “How long,” I say quietly, “do you plan to keep me cooped up?”

  “Until you learn to behave like a Thummel. There are certain obligations for people like us. Certain proprieties.” He sees my expression. “They are not to be mocked.”

  I’m silent. He sits silently as well. I suspect I’m one detail in a long, irritating day. By the doorway, Janko folds his arms. I can’t see Porlock without turning around, but I hear her muttering, the way she does.

  Be calm, I tell myself. Plot your escape later. “Is there any way I can shorten my sentence?”

  “Your sentence. You would think of it that way. Well, as it happens,” he says, “there may be.” His eyes show a bit of their old spark, like he’s been just waiting for this: “There’s a project I can use some help on in the laboratory.”

  “Uncle, if you think for one minute—”

  “You’d be glad to,” a soft voice whispers. Not my voice. Not Miss P.’s.

  “If I think for one minute what?” says Asa. “Speak up!”

  “You need to help him.” Same quiet voice. My God, it’s the shell!

  “Why should I?” I demand.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Are you being impertinent?”

  “Don’t you ever want to walk on the beach again?”

  “Of course!”

  Asa looks incredulous.

  “Then do what he asks.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh. Now you don’t know if you’re being impertinent!”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. Did you say something?”

  “Get out! You can rot in your room for all I care!”

  “No, Asa!” It’s Miss Porlock’s voice now. She steps beside me and lays an arm around my shoulder. “Can’t you see? She isn’t making sense. She’s obviously not well.”