by Jenny Nimmo
“I am not a stalker,” Miss Ingledew muttered under her breath. “And I will not be regarded as a stalker.”
She went on her way, a little slower now, and slightly subdued, quite unaware that the large bat was still stalking her. Cloaked in darkness it fluttered behind her, down Cathedral Close, and then it clung to a drainpipe and watched Miss Ingledew go into her shop and lock the door.
The bat flew on, down to Greybank Crescent and into Darkly Wynd. It hovered and flapped over the rooftops and popped into an open window at the top of the third number thirteen.
A few moments later Yolanda Yewbeam, a bat no longer, walked into her great-niece Venetia’s basement workshop. “Wonderful,” she murmured as she feasted her eyes on the garments spread across Venetia’s long table. There were blue capes and green capes, silk dresses, velvet coats and breeches, colored tights, necklaces, vests, frilled shirts, woolen shawls, and all manner of fancy belts and shoes.
Venetia was busily sewing sequins around the hem of a long black skirt. Within her reach, at the edge of the table, there was a cluster of tins, jars, and boxes. Now and again Venetia would dip her fingers into one of these containers and draw out a few grains of colored powder, a sprinkling of herbs, or a dab of liquid. These she would smear beneath the sequins before she sewed them on.
“Have you done the cape?” asked Yolanda.
“Not yet.” Venetia looked up and gave a little start.
“I suppose you’d prefer me to be that pretty little girl,” said Yolanda, whose age and nasty disposition showed all too clearly tonight.
“Not at all, Auntie. You surprised me, that’s all.”
“I’m tired,” said Yolanda. “I’ve been watching that interfering woman for hours. She had the boy, I’m sure of it. She’s cooked our goose. Grizelda’s right, she’ll have to go. And so will her wretched little flying niece.”
“Have you fixed the belt?”
“Our little friend, Dorcas, is taking care of it.”
“Good. Now sit down, Auntie. Take the weight off your feet.” Venetia drew out a chair.
“I want to do the cape,” snapped Yolanda. She sat behind the sewing machine and pulled the green cape toward her. “That blasted kid, that little beast — thinks he’s so-o-o-o clever. Well, he’s got another think coming.”
“Who, Auntie?”
“The Torsson boy. Called me a hag. A HAG!” screamed Yolanda.
The girl called Belle Donner had vanished from Bloor’s Academy. For most children this was a great relief.
But Charlie knew he hadn’t seen the last of Yolanda Yewbeam. He’d discovered from Cook that Ollie’s meeting with the blue boa had been entirely successful. This was great news, but Ollie had been asking for his brother. And no one knew what had happened to Samuel Sparks.
Charlie discussed his problem with Fidelio, who was feeling rather left out of things since the night of wind and spirits.
“We can’t do much about it till the weekend,” said Fidelio. “And then Dad has booked me to play the violin at my cousin’s wedding. But I’ll give it up to help you, Charlie. The others seem a bit preoccupied.”
This was true. When Tancred and Lysander heard the good news about Ollie, they felt they had accomplished all that was required of them.
Gabriel had a lot of piano practice to catch up with, and Billy couldn’t really be expected to help. He wandered around, dazed from his encounter with the boa and longing to be reunited with Rembrandt.
But it was Emma who had come off worse. Dorcas had bound her hands with unusually powerful cord, and ever since that night, the fingers that had briefly turned to feathers ached continuously. The pain was so bad Emma could barely hold her pen. But she had promised to make a very special belt for Olivia, and nothing would persuade her to abandon the task.
Mrs. Marlowe, the drama teacher, had been so impressed by Olivia’s acting in rehearsals that she had decided to give her the role of leading princess. And Emma, excited by Olivia’s good news, promised to make her friend the most beautiful costume ever.
The long dress was finished and hung on a rail at the back of the dressmaking class. It was made of red silk with panels of shiny black. The sleeves were long and tight with cuffs of sparkling black net, and the hem was encrusted with tiny black sequins. Everyone admired the dress, and Olivia made frequent visits to Emma’s class just to stand and gaze at her beautiful costume. All it needed was a belt.
Emma was working on this now, but she was afraid that the belt would never be completed. Today she had stitched only two black beads in place, and already every joint in her fingers was aching.
“Shall I do a bit for you?” asked Dorcas, who was sitting opposite Emma at one of the large worktables.
“No thanks, I’ll manage,” said Emma. She put another shining circle of jet in place. A small wire hook was fixed to every piece and the hook was sewn onto the belt, so that each bead moved independently, flashing and sparkling as it caught the light. The effect was stunning: a belt of black jewels.
Emma put up her hand. “Please, can I get a glass of water?” she asked Miss Singerlee, the dressmaking teacher.
“Of course. Are you all right, Emma?” Miss Singerlee was concerned. Emma looked even paler than usual, and her work was progressing so slowly.
“I’m OK. Just thirsty,” said Emma. She left the classroom and began the long walk to the coatrooms. When she’d had her drink, she leaned against the basins and massaged her aching fingers. Would she ever fly again? she wondered.
Emma wasn’t sure how long she was away from the class, but when she got back, she found that someone had sewn a whole row of beads onto the belt.
“Thought you needed some help,” said Dorcas.
“Thanks.” Emma didn’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious. Dorcas had been unusually friendly since Belle’s departure.
The bell rang, and Emma carefully folded the belt and put it in her bag. She would have to work on it over the weekend, so she rolled a handful of beads in her handkerchief and dropped them into her bag with the belt.
It was Friday and Emma was looking forward to a nice long sleep in her own comfortable room above the bookshop.
Charlie couldn’t wait to see Ollie. In fact, everyone who had been involved in his rescue wanted to meet him. Even Tancred and Lysander were willing to risk bats and spiders (should they appear) in order to get a glimpse of an invisible boy made visible.
“The old bat’s probably flown off to Transylvania anyway,” said Gabriel as they ran out to the school buses.
“Don’t bet on it,” muttered Charlie.
There was a surprise waiting for Charlie at home. Maisie was back. She was having tea with Uncle Paton when Charlie walked in.
After a lot of hugging and tears (on Maisie’s part) Charlie’s favorite grandmother made him sit down and eat a plate of fish and chips while she told him something very interesting.
“Listen to this, Charlie,” said his uncle solemnly. “It might explain a few things.”
“OK. Fire away, Maisie,” said Charlie.
Maisie pulled her chair closer to his. “Well, Charlie, as you know, I’ve been with my sister, Doris.”
“Is she better?” asked Charlie.
“Much better, thank you, Charlie. She’s quite a bit older than me and knows more about the family. I’m not sure why she waited until she was at death’s door to tell me this, but …”
At that point Charlie’s mother walked in and another long hugging session took place.
“Patience, Charlie,” said Uncle Paton. “It’s worth the wait.”
It wasn’t until Amy Bone had her own plate of fish and chips that Maisie saw fit to continue with her story.
“Where was I?” she asked.
“Your sister was at death’s door,” said Charlie.
“So she was. Well, all of a sudden she says, ‘Maisie,’ she says, ‘If I die, rescue my papers from the desk. Don’t let them burn them.’ ‘Of course I won’t,’ I s
aid, patting her poor white hand. And then she insists I get the papers and start sorting them right there and then. What a mess! She’d been hoarding useless stuff for years. I’d got most of it spread out on the floor by her bed, when I picked up an old paper bag and out came this old roll of paper.” Maisie stopped and gazed at Charlie. “It was a family tree, Charlie, and guess what it says?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Charlie.
“Well, at the top of the tree there’s this person with a strange, unpronounceable name. When I asked my sister about it, she said, ‘Oh, him. He was a wizard, by all accounts. A Welsh wizard. That’s why he’s got an unusual name.’”
“A wizard?” said Charlie, sitting up. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said Maisie, beaming. “So the Joneses aren’t nonentities after all. We’re as special as the Yewbeams. So there!”
Mrs. Bone thoughtfully stirred her tea. “But that means Charlie has got it on both sides,” she said. “Power — or magic — or whatever it is.”
“Exactly,” said Uncle Paton, excitedly banging the table. “You see, Charlie. The wand does belong to you, that’s why it works for you and no one else. That wily old sorcerer must have stolen it from your ancestor. I’ve had a look at the dates. Skarpo was a lot younger — he could have been the wizard’s apprentice — maybe he stole it when the old man died.”
“Maybe that’s why Skarpo didn’t try to trick me this time. Because of the wand and my connection to the wizard.”
“He could have been a little anxious about what you would do with that wand,” said Paton.
Charlie scratched his thatch of hair. “Wow!” he murmured. “Wow! I’ve got a double dose.” He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, but he was certainly flabbergasted. “Do you think Grandma Bone knows about this?”
“She might have guessed,” said Uncle Paton. “Eustacia’s clairvoyant, don’t forget. Perhaps she had an inkling.”
Charlie stared at his fish and chips. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about this for a while?” he murmured. “I want to think about it.”
“Of course you do, love,” said Maisie. “It’s probably a bit of a shock, isn’t it? But I’ll give you the family tree to look at. After all, you are the last of our branch of Joneses.”
Charlie took the wrinkled roll of parchment up to bed with him. For a long time he stared at the strange names, the dates, the births, and marriages, wondering if any of those other ancestors had the power. Had they used the wand, and if so, what for?
It had been a busy week to say the least. And now this. Charlie lay back and closed his eyes. Right now it was all too much to take in.
On Saturday morning, Julia Ingledew was about to open the bookshop when her eye fell on a beautiful jeweled belt. It was lying on her desk where Emma had left it the night before.
Julia Ingledew was not a vain woman, but she had an exceptionally small waist, and who could blame her for being proud of it? She picked up the belt, and the black jewels glittered in the early light. It had been made for a child, but how would it look on her? Surely it would fit her to perfection.
Julia wrapped the belt around her waist. It was tight but … she drew in her breath … yes, it fit. She closed the clasp and went to the mirror. The belt looked wonderful against the emerald green of her dress. Julia gave a little twirl and the dazzling jewels jingled mysteriously. “Oo!” she sighed. She had never felt more beautiful.
She took another deep breath — for the belt was very tight — but she couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. She coughed rather violently. Her head felt as though it were being squeezed in a vise. The feeling traveled down her spine and Julia staggered from the pain. She attempted to loosen the belt, but the clasp wouldn’t open. Julia’s heart began to beat wildly. “Emma,” she moaned. “Emma, help me!”
Charlie was having breakfast when the doorbell rang. On and on and on. Someone had their fist on the bell or it was stuck.
“Hold on!” called Charlie, still chewing toast. “I’m coming.”
“Help! Help!” cried a voice.
Charlie opened the front door and Emma almost fell into the hall. “Oh, Charlie,” she cried. “Something awful’s happened to my auntie.”
“What sort of awful?” said Charlie, wiping his mouth.
The landing above him was, all at once, crowded with grandmothers, both shouting, “Has something happened?” “Who is it?” “What’s the fuss?”
“Do you want a glass of water?” Charlie asked Emma. The urgency of the situation hadn’t quite sunk in.
“No,” moaned Emma. “I want someone to come. Now. I want someone to help. I’ve run to the doctor’s office, but I didn’t know what to say, and I don’t think they took me seriously.”
“What’s going on?” said Uncle Paton’s voice.
“Oh, Mr. Yewbeam. It’s my auntie,” cried Emma. “I think she’s dying.”
“What?” In four bounds, Uncle Paton had cleared the staircase. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Oh, thank you!” Emma shot out of the door. By the time she reached the pavement, Uncle Paton was already several strides ahead.
Charlie stood and shook his head. Things were moving too fast for him. But he was not too dazed to notice the nasty smile on Grandma Bone’s face just before she went back into her room.
“I’m going to the bookshop,” Charlie told Maisie.
“Good boy,” said Maisie.
Charlie leaped upstairs and got the wand from under his bed. He wasn’t sure why it suddenly seemed so important, but since he’d learned its history, he felt that perhaps it had a part to play in desperate situations.
By the time he was on the front step, Emma and his uncle had disappeared. Charlie raced up Filbert Street and along the main road until he collided with three dachshunds, whose master angrily told him to, “Watch that stick!”
The bookshop door was still open, banging ominously in the breeze. Charlie latched it carefully behind him and made sure the CLOSED sign was showing.
He found Uncle Paton in Miss Ingledew’s back room, giving her the kiss of life. Embarrassed to see his uncle doing — what he was doing, Charlie looked at the ceiling.
“Please, don’t let her die!” cried Emma. “Oh, please.”
Charlie moved closer. Miss Ingledew was lying on her sofa. Her face was a pale blue, her eyes open and staring, her mouth gaping like a fish.
Uncle Paton’s kiss of life clearly hadn’t worked and now he resorted to pressing his hands hard on Miss Ingledew’s chest. “Loosen that belt, Emma!” he said.
“I can’t,” wailed Emma. “I’ve tried.”
“What?” Paton pulled at the clasp, and a blue spark shot across his fingers. “Ouch! What the heck?” He pulled again, with the same result. He seized the belt with both hands and tried to tear it apart. “It’s impossible,” he muttered. “What’s this thing made of? We need a knife — a wire-cutter — something that can cut through steel.”
“It won’t be any use,” said Emma in a small, scared voice. “I think it’s been bewitched. I left it, you see, to get some water. It’s all my fault.”
Paton stared at her, aghast. “This is how they punish people,” he said in a low voice. “If Julia …” He choked on his next words, and then, falling on his knees, he took Miss Ingledew’s pale hand and pressed it to his lips. “Oh, my dear,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry.”
Charlie looked on in horror. He was shocked to see his uncle in such a state. Was he going to give up, just like that? Was Miss Ingledew already dead? He couldn’t believe it.
He felt something move in his right hand and his fingers tingled with warmth. Charlie looked at the wand. Why had he brought it here, if not to use it? “I think I can help,” he said.
Paton looked at him. “Can you, Charlie?”
“Yes,” said Charlie confidently. He walked up to Miss Ingledew’s prostrate body and touched the jeweled belt with the tip of his wand. There was a bright flash and, for a second,
the whole belt sparkled like a firework.
“It’s burning!” cried Emma.
“No it’s not,” said Charlie firmly. “Torri!” he commanded.
The wand’s silver tip glowed like fire, and the belt flew apart, sending showers of shining jet across the room.
“Good Lord, Charlie,” said Paton in an awed voice. “How did you know what to say?”
Charlie couldn’t tell him. Perhaps the strange word had been waiting in his head for years, never giving itself away until now.
The next minute, Miss Ingledew gave a huge sigh and sat up. “Goodness,” she said, “Did I faint or something?”
“Oh, Auntie, I thought you were dead!” cried Emma, flinging her arms around Miss Ingledew’s neck.
“Dead!” said Miss Ingledew, looking bemused.
“Oh, my dear, dear Julia. I can’t tell you …” Unable to say what he wanted to say, Paton blew his nose very loudly.
“Paton, did you save my life?” asked Miss Ingledew.
“I’m afraid not. Charlie did that.”
Miss Ingledew looked at the wand resting in her lap. “Really? Was it that bad then? Thank you, Charlie.”
“That’s OK,” said Charlie, withdrawing the wand. “It wasn’t just me, it was — us. Me and the wand.”
“I see. Well, thank you both.” Miss Ingledew gave Charlie one of her wonderful smiles.
“Are you feeling quite better, Julia?” said Paton, getting to his feet.
“Quite,” said Julia brightly. “I’m sorry to have been such trouble.”
“Never, Julia,” said Paton fiercely. “Never trouble. But if you’re feeling quite better, there’s something I’ve got to do.” He strode to the door, saying, “Look after your aunt, Emma. I’ll be back later.”
Charlie bounded after his uncle, who was already halfway down Cathedral Close. “Where are you going, Uncle?” he called.
“You know very well!” shouted Paton.
Charlie did know. It was broad daylight, but Paton had thrown caution to the winds. Careless of shop windows and taillights, his long legs carried him through the town like a dark whirlwind. There was a small accident at the traffic lights, but luckily only the amber light shattered, and before anyone could think what had caused it, Paton was on his way again.
