by Angie Sage
To the accompaniment of DomDaniel’s snores, Alther surveyed the room. It looked remarkably unchanged, as though Marcia was likely to walk in at any moment, sit down and tell him about her day, as she always did. But then Alther noticed the large scorch mark where the Thunderflash had struck down the Assassin. A charred black Assassin-shaped hole was burned into Marcia’s treasured silk carpet.
So it really had happened, thought Alther.
The ghost wafted over to the hatch on the rubbish chute, which was still gaping open, and peered into the chill blackness. He shivered and reflected on the terrifying journey they all must have had. And then, because Alther wanted to do something, however small it might be, he stepped over the boundary between the ghostly and the living world. He Caused something to happen.
He slammed the hatch closed.
Bang!
DomDaniel woke up with a start. He sat bolt upright and stared around him, momentarily wondering where he was. Soon, with a little sigh of satisfaction, he remembered. He was back where he belonged. Back in the rooms of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard. Back at the top of the Tower. Back with a vengeance. DomDaniel looked about him, expecting to see his Apprentice, who should have returned hours ago with the news at last of the end of the Princess and that awful woman, Marcia Overstrand, not to mention a couple of the Heaps thrown into the bargain. The fewer of them remaining the better, thought DomDaniel. He shivered in the chill air of the night and clicked his fingers impatiently to rekindle the fire in the grate. It flared up and, pouf! Alther blew it out. Then he wafted the smoke out from the chimney and set DomDaniel coughing.
The old Necromancer may be here, thought Alther grimly, and there may be nothing I can do about that, but he’s not going to enjoy it. Not if I can help it.
It was well into the early hours of the morning, after DomDaniel had gone upstairs to bed and had had considerable trouble sleeping due to the fact that the sheets seemed to be intent on strangling him, when the Apprentice returned. The boy was white with tiredness and cold, his green robes were caked in snow and he trembled as the Guardsman who had escorted him to the door made a quick exit and left him alone to face his Master.
DomDaniel was in a foul temper as the door let the Apprentice in.
“I hope,” DomDaniel told the trembling boy, “that you have some interesting news for me.”
Alther hovered around the boy, who was almost unable to speak from exhaustion. He felt sorry for the boy—it was not his fault that he was Apprenticed to DomDaniel. Alther blew on the fire and got it going again. The boy saw the flames jump in the grate and made to move over to the warmth.
“Where are you going?” thundered DomDaniel.
“I—I’m cold, sir.”
“You’re not going near that fire until you tell me what happened. Are they dispatched?”
The boy looked puzzled. “I—I told him it was a Projection,” he mumbled.
“What are you on about, boy? What was a Projection?”
“Their boat.”
“Well, you managed that I suppose. Simple enough. But are they dispatched? Dead? Yes or no?” DomDaniel’s voice rose in exasperation. He had already guessed the answer, but he had to hear it.
“No,” whispered the boy, looking terrified, his sodden robes dripping on the floor as the snow began to melt in the faint heat that Alther’s fire was giving off.
DomDaniel cast a withering look toward the boy.
“You are nothing but a disappointment. I go to endless trouble to rescue you from a disgrace of a family. I give you an education most boys can only dream of. And what do you do? Act like a complete fool! I just do not understand it. A boy like you should have found that rabble in no time. And all you do is come back with some story about Projections and—and drip all over the floor!”
DomDaniel decided that if he was awake, he didn’t see why the Supreme Custodian should not be awake too. And as for the Hunter, he’d be very interested in what he had to say for himself. DomDaniel strode out, slamming the door behind him, and set off down the static silver stairs, clattering past endless dark floors left empty and echoing by the exodus of all the Ordinary Wizards earlier that evening.
The Wizard Tower was chill and gloomy with the absence of Magyk. A cold wind moaned as it was drawn up as if through a huge chimney, and doors banged mournfully in the empty rooms. As DomDaniel descended, becoming quite dizzy from the never-ending spirals of the stairs, he noted all the changes with approval. This was how the Tower was going to be from now on. A place for serious Darke Magyk. None of those irritating Ordinary Wizards prancing around with their pathetic little spells. No more namby-pamby incense and plinky-plonky happy sounds floating in the air, and certainly no more frivolous colors and lights. His Magyk would be used for greater things. Except he might fix the stairs.
DomDaniel eventually emerged into the dark and silent hall. The silver doors to the Tower hung forlornly open. Snow had blown in and covered the motionless floor which was now a dull gray stone. He swept through the doors and strode across the courtyard.
As DomDaniel stamped angrily through the snow and made his way along Wizard Way to the Palace, he began to wish he had thought to change out of his sleeping robes and slippers before he had stormed out. He arrived at the Palace Gate a somewhat soggy and unprepossessing figure, and the lone Palace Guard refused to let him in.
DomDaniel struck the Guard down with a Thunderflash and strode in. Very soon the Supreme Custodian was roused from his bed for the second night running.
Back at the Tower, the Apprentice had stumbled to the sofa and fallen into a cold and unhappy sleep. Alther took pity on him and kept the fire going. While the boy slept, the ghost also took the opportunity of Causing a few more changes. He loosened the heavy canopy above the bed so that it was hanging only by a thread. He took the wicks out of all the candles. He added a murky green color to the water tanks and installed a large, aggressive family of cockroaches in the kitchen. He put an irritable rat under the floorboards and loosened all the joints of the most comfortable chairs. And then, as an afterthought, he exchanged DomDaniel’s stiff black cylindrical hat, which lay abandoned on the bed, for one just a little bigger.
As dawn broke, Alther left the Apprentice sleeping and made his way out to the Forest, where he followed the path he had once taken with Silas on a visit to Sarah and Galen many years ago.
18
KEEPER’S COTTAGE
It was the silence that woke Jenna in Keeper’s Cottage the next morning. After ten years of waking every day to the busy sounds of The Ramblings, not to mention the riot and hubbub of the six Heap boys, the silence was deafening. Jenna opened her eyes, and for a moment thought that she was still dreaming. Where was she? Why wasn’t she at home in her cupboard? Why were just Jo-Jo and Nicko here? Where were all her other brothers?
And then she remembered.
Jenna sat up quietly so as not to wake the boys who were lying beside her by the glowing embers of the fire downstairs in Aunt Zelda’s cottage. She wrapped her quilt around her as, despite the fire, the air in the cottage had a damp chill to it. And then, hesitantly, she raised a hand to her head.
So it was true. The gold circlet was still there. She was still a Princess. It hadn’t been just for her birthday.
All through the previous day, Jenna had had that feeling of unreality that she always got on her birthday. A feeling that the day was somehow part of another world, another time, and that anything that happened on her birthday was not real. And it was that feeling that had carried Jenna through the amazing events of her tenth birthday, a feeling that, whatever happened, it would all be back to normal the next day, so it didn’t really matter.
But it wasn’t. And it did.
Jenna hugged herself to keep warm and considered the matter. She was a Princess.
Jenna and her best friend, Bo, had often discussed together the fact that they were in fact long-lost Princess sisters, separated at birth, whom fate had thrown together in the form o
f a shared desk in Class 6 of East Side Third School. Jenna had almost believed this; it had seemed so right somehow. Although, when she went around to Bo’s rooms to play, Jenna didn’t see how Bo could really belong to another family. Bo looked so much like her mother, thought Jenna, with her bright red hair and masses of freckles, that she had to be her daughter. But Bo had been scathing about this when Jenna had pointed it out, so she didn’t mention it again.
Even so, it hadn’t stopped Jenna wondering why she looked so unlike her own mother. And father. And brothers. Why was she the only one with dark hair? Why didn’t she have green eyes? Jenna had desperately wanted her eyes to turn green. In fact, up until the previous day, she had still hoped that they might.
She had longed for the excitement of Sarah saying to her, as she watched her do with all the boys, “You know, I do think your eyes are beginning to turn. I can definitely see a bit of green in them today.” And then: “You are growing up fast. Your eyes are nearly as green as your father’s.”
But when Jenna demanded to be told about her eyes, and why they weren’t green yet like her brothers’, Sarah would only say, “But you’re our little girl, Jenna. You’re special. You have beautiful eyes.”
But that didn’t fool Jenna. She knew that girls could have green Wizard eyes too. Just look at Miranda Bott down the corridor, whose grandfather ran the Wizard secondhand cloak shop. Miranda had green eyes, and it was only her grandfather who was a Wizard. So why didn’t she?
Jenna felt upset thinking about Sarah. She wondered when she would see her again. She even wondered if Sarah would still want to be her mother, now that everything had changed.
Jenna shook herself and told herself not to be silly. She stood up, keeping her quilt around her, and picked her way over the two sleeping boys. She paused to glance at Boy 412 and wondered why she had thought he was Jo-Jo. It must have been a trick of the light, she decided.
The inside of the cottage was still dark apart from the dull glow cast by the fire, but Jenna had become accustomed to the gloom, and she began to wander around, trailing her quilt along the floor and slowly taking in her new surroundings.
The cottage was not big. There was one room downstairs; at one end was a huge open fireplace with a pile of gently smoldering logs still glowing on the hot stone hearth. Nicko and Boy 412 were fast asleep on the rug in front of the fire, each wrapped warmly in one of Aunt Zelda’s patchwork quilts. In the middle of the room was a flight of narrow stairs with a cupboard underneath, with the words UNSTABLE POTIONS AND PARTIKULAR POISONS written in flowing golden letters on the firmly closed door. She peered up the narrow stairs that led up to a large darkened room where Aunt Zelda, Marcia and Silas were still sleeping. And of course Maxie, whose snores and snuffles drifted down to Jenna. Or were they Silas’s snores and Maxie’s snuffles? When they were asleep, master and wolfhound sounded remarkably similar.
Downstairs the ceilings were low and showed the roughhewn beams that the cottage was built from. All manner of things were hung from these beams: boat paddles, hats, bags of shells, spades, hoes, sacks of potatoes, shoes, ribbons, brooms, bundles of reeds, willow knots and of course hundreds of bunches of the herbs that Aunt Zelda either grew herself or bought at the Magyk Market, which was held every year and a day down at the Port. As a White Witch, Aunt Zelda used herbs for charms and potions as well as medicine, and you’d be lucky to be able to tell Aunt Zelda anything about a herb that she did not know already.
Jenna gazed around her, loving the feeling of being the only one awake, free to wander undisturbed for a while. As she walked about, she thought how strange it was to be in a cottage with four walls all of its very own that were not joined to anyone else’s walls. It was so different from the hurly-burly of The Ramblings, but she already felt at home. Jenna carried on with her exploration, noticing the old but comfortable chairs, the well-scrubbed table that did not look as though it was about to roll over and die at any minute and, most strikingly, the newly swept stone floor that was empty. There was nothing on it apart from some worn rugs and, by the door, a pair of Aunt Zelda’s boots.
She peeked into the little built-on kitchen, with its large sink, some neat and tidy pots and pans and a small table, but it was far too cold to linger in. Then she wandered over to the end of the room where shelves of potion bottles and jars lined the walls, reminding her of home. There were some that she recognized and remembered Sarah using. Frog Fusions, Marvel Mixture and Basic Brew were all familiar names to Jenna. And then, just like home, surrounding a small desk covered with neat piles of pens, papers and notebooks, there were teetering piles of Magyk books reaching up to the ceiling. There were so many that they covered almost an entire wall, but unlike home, they did not cover the floor as well.
The dawn light was beginning to creep through the frost-covered windows, and Jenna decided to take a look outside. She tiptoed over to the big wooden door and very slowly drew back the huge, well-oiled bolt. Then she carefully pulled the door open, hoping that it wouldn’t creak. It didn’t, because Aunt Zelda, like all witches, was very particular about doors. A creaking door in the house of a White Witch was a bad sign, a sign of misplaced Magyk and ill-founded spells.
Jenna slipped quietly outside and sat on the doorstep with her quilt wrapped around her and her warm breath turning to white clouds in the chill dawn air. The marsh mist was heavy and low. It hugged the ground and swirled over the surface of the water and around a small wooden bridge that crossed a broad channel to the marsh on the other side. The water was brimming up over the banks of the channel, which was known as the Mott, and ran all the way around Aunt Zelda’s island like a moat. The water was dark and so flat that it looked as though a thin skin was stretched over its surface, and yet, as Jenna gazed at it she could see that the water was slowly creeping over the edges of the banks and wandering onto the island.
For years Jenna had watched the tides come and go, and she knew the tide that morning was a high spring tide after the full moon the night before, and she also knew that soon it would start to creep out again, just as it did in the river outside her little window at home, until it was as low as it had been high, leaving the mud and sand for the waterbirds to dip into with their long, curved beaks.
The pale white disk of the winter sun rose slowly through the thick blanket of mist, and around Jenna the silence began to change into the dawn sounds of stirring animals. A fussy clucking noise made Jenna jump in surprise and glance over to where the sound was coming from. To her amazement, Jenna could see the shape of a fishing boat looming through the mist.
For Jenna, who had seen more new and strange things in the last twenty-four hours than she had ever dreamed possible, a fishing boat crewed by chickens was not as much a surprise as it might have been. She just sat on the doorstep and waited for the boat to pass by. After a few minutes the boat appeared not to have moved, and she wondered if it had run aground on the island. A few minutes after that, when the mist had cleared a little more, she realized what it was: the fishing boat was a chicken house. Stepping delicately down the gangplank were a dozen hens, busily beginning the work of the day. Pecking and scratching, scratching and pecking.
Things, thought Jenna, are not always what they seem.
A thin, reedy birdcall drifted through the mist, and some muffled splashes were coming from the water, which sounded as though they belonged to small and, Jenna hoped, furry animals. It crossed her mind that they might be made by water snakes or eels, but she decided not to think about that. Jenna leaned back against the door post and breathed in the fresh, slightly salty marsh air. It was perfect. Peace and quiet.
“Boo!” said Nicko. “Got you, Jen!”
“Nicko,” protested Jenna. “You’re so noisy. Shhh.”
Nicko settled himself down on the doorstep next to Jenna and grabbed some of her quilt to wrap himself in.
“Please,” Jenna told him.
“What?”
“Please, Jenna, may I share your quilt? Yes, you m
ay, Nicko. Oh, thank you very much, Jenna, that’s very kind of you. Don’t mention it, Nicko.”
“All right, then, I won’t.” Nicko grinned. “And I suppose I have to curtsy to you now you’re Miss High and Mighty.”
“Boys don’t curtsy.” Jenna laughed. “You have to bow.”
Nicko leaped to his feet and, doffing an imaginary hat with a sweep of his arm, bowed an exaggerated bow. Jenna clapped.
“Very good. You can do that every morning.” She laughed again.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Nicko gravely, stuffing his imaginary hat back on his head.
“I wonder where the Boggart is?” said Jenna a little sleepily.
Nicko yawned. “Probably at the bottom of some mud pool somewhere. I don’t suppose he’s tucked up in bed.”
“He’d hate it, wouldn’t he? Too dry and clean.”
“Well,” said Nicko, “I’m going back to bed. I need more than two hours sleep, even if you don’t.” He extricated himself from Jenna’s quilt and wandered back inside to his own, which lay in a crumpled heap by the fire. Jenna realized that she still felt tired too. Her eyelids were beginning to get that prickly feeling that told her she had not slept long enough, and she was getting cold. She stood up, gathered her quilt around her, slipped back into the half-light of the cottage and very quietly closed the door behind her.
19
AUNT ZELDA
Good morning, everyone!” Aunt Zelda’s cheery voice called out to the pile of quilts and their inhabitants by the fire. Boy 412 woke up in a panic, expecting to have to tumble out of his Young Army bed and line up outside in thirty seconds flat for roll call. He stared uncomprehendingly at Aunt Zelda, who looked nothing like his usual morning tormenter, the shaven-headed Chief Cadet, who took great pleasure in chucking buckets of icy water over anyone who didn’t jump out of bed immediately. The last time that had happened to Boy 412, he had had to sleep in a cold, wet bed for days before it dried out. Boy 412 leaped to his feet with a terrified look on his face but relaxed a little when he noticed that Aunt Zelda did not actually have a bucket of icy water in her hand. Rather, she was carrying a tray laden with mugs of hot milk and a huge pile of hot buttered toast.
