by Max Candee
André glared at him for a minute; then he grunted. “Perhaps you’re right. Caution is always called for when dealing with witches.” He grinned at me. “You thought we didn’t know? In fact, we know a great deal about you, Anna Sophia. Thanks to our friend Victor, we probably know more about your exalted family history than you do.”
I looked out the car window, saying nothing.
André leered at me. “But don’t worry. We know exactly how to take care of witches at Irvigne Manor.”
Magic surged in me again. This time, it wasn’t cool blue or warm purple, but a red-hot fire. I spat it at André’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. It bounced off the mirror’s surface, and his handkerchief lit up like a torch.
André bellowed. I laughed while he swatted at his chest to put out the fire. His suit was a smoldering ruin. A dark, mischievous glee settled over me like a shadow.
I folded my arms and sat back. Let them mull that one over for a while, I thought.
* * *
I expected André to take me to the dungeon with the other prisoners. Instead, he marched me into the house and up a spiral staircase in one of the towers. Ouellette – I refused to call him Constable anymore – unlocked my handcuffs and shoved me inside a dimly lit room. The door shut with a clang behind me, and I heard a key lock the door.
The room wasn’t much better than the dungeon cells: A bare stone floor, bare stone walls, a dirty mattress in one corner. The rest of the room was littered with broken furniture, crumpled papers, and piles of books as if someone had once used it as a library.
At least I had light. It leaked through cracks in the shutters that covered one big window. When I opened the shutters, they hung at broken angles and were missing several wooden slats.
The window overlooked the front lawn. I pressed my head against the glass and peered out. It was a long drop to the ground. My faithful moon shone in the blue sky. At least I had one friend there.
I wondered why they had put me in there. Maybe they were worried that I would use magic to free the other prisoners? Then I understood: Escaping from the tower would be much harder than breaking out of the dungeon. The only ways out were the stairs, now guarded by Ouellette, and the window. Unless I could fly, I was stuck.
But didn’t witches fly? I had never flown except in a balloon, but wasn’t flying a witchy thing to do? My eyes caught on a bucket and mop, half hidden behind a pile of books. A mop should be as good as a broom.
Could I actually fly?
The strings of the mop were a tangled mess, and they smelled moldy. I grimaced and sat astride the handle as if it were a hobbyhorse.
“Um… giddyup?” I said cautiously. Nothing. “Abracadabra?” Still nothing. I ran around the cluttered room, feeling foolish and getting nowhere off the ground.
After five minutes of this, I dumped the old mop back in the bucket.
I guess it only works with brooms, I thought.
The mattress didn’t look too clean – in fact, it was crawling with little bugs – so I turned over one of the broken chairs and sat down.
There had to be some magic I could use to escape. I was from an exalted family of witches, after all. Isn’t that what André had said? I wished I could make him tell me more. Just the thought of his smug face made my fists clench in rage. I should have burned more than just his handkerchief. I wished the flames had set his hair and eyebrows on fire too! That would have shown him what an exalted witch I really was…
The only great power is kindness.
Uncle Misha’s voice sounded in my head as if he were standing right next to me. That had always been his favorite saying. Before he left me in Luyons, he had held me tight and spoken in his gruff voice.
“Anna Sophia, you are smart and brave and beautiful,” he had said. “All these traits are wonderful. But what I’m most proud of is your kind spirit. Don’t ever lose that, or else shadows will live in your heart.”
At the time, I hadn’t understood. I never forgot his words, though, and now they were beginning to make sense to me.
When I’d set André on fire, I’d felt darkness inside me. Like a shadow that was laughing with glee at the destruction that I’d caused.
I was suddenly scared. Did that mean my magic was dangerous and, well, bad? Was I a black witch? I rubbed my chest, wishing that I could rub away the empty feeling of that evil shadow, wishing that I had someone to guide me in such things.
Squire! He was still in my pocket. I fished him out, lifeless and cold. Now I just needed fire to bring him to life. I searched the drawers of the broken desk for a candle or matches, but found none. The room had no fireplace, and a quick glance at the piles of books told me that I would find no help there.
But I could make fire. I’d done it once already that day.
No. I couldn’t let any more of that shadow inside me. Except I couldn’t think of another way. With a heavy heart, I rolled a stack of papers into a torch and concentrated my red-hot magic into a fiery ball. Not wanting to set the whole room on fire, I let the magic out in a gentle breath. The paper torch lit up like a candle. Quickly, I held Squire just above it before the papers burned out.
Had the shadow come again? I searched my heart but couldn’t find any trace of it. Maybe I hadn’t used enough magic to bring on the darkness this time… It was all confusing and more than a little terrifying. I had no idea what I was doing.
Squire exploded into his animated self and immediately started to tickle me. I laughed and swatted at him playfully, relieved at having him beside me.
“I missed you too,” I said. “But this is no time for playing. We’re in real trouble here.”
Squire floated in front of me. Now I had his undivided attention. I told him about the children in the basement, the fake police officer, and my being held prisoner by André. Together, we looked out the window at the long drop.
“I tried to fly like a real witch, but it didn’t work, and now I’m afraid to use my magic because of the darkness it brings.”
Squire made a motion like writing, and I understood that he wanted paper and pen. Paper was easy; the room was littered with it. And after a bit of searching, I found an old pencil stub. Squire grabbed it and wrote along the margin of some old form.
“You are a real witch.”
“I guess so. But why can’t I fly?”
“When you really want to fly, you will.”
Humph. That was weird. I’d really wanted to fly before, but I couldn’t. I decided to ask him about something more important.
“I can make fire now.”
Squire bobbed up and down, as if nodding.
“This morning, I set André’s handkerchief on fire and nearly burned him up in his suit. But afterward I felt… wrong, somehow. Like a heavy shadow was choking me. Now I’m afraid to use my magic.”
Squire wrote for a long time. I tried to read his writing but couldn’t see past his knobby knuckles. Finally, he turned the paper towards me.
“Using magic in anger or for vengeance will bring the darkness. This is black magic, and it will consume you until there is nothing left but the shadow. As a witch, you’re open to all sorts of influences from the worlds we can’t see. We float between darkness below and light above. Our thoughts and actions pull us up… or down.”
“How do I stop it?” A hard knot tightened in my stomach. I didn’t want to be consumed by a shadow; I liked myself just the way I was.
Squire scribbled again.
“Use magic only to help others. Cause no harm, and the shadow cannot take you. It only sees you when you tune to its wavelength, understand?”
I thought about that for a minute. It wasn’t easy to cause no harm. What if I hurt someone by accident or in self-defense? I remembered the dangerous roughness in my voice after I’d blasted the guard dogs at Irvigne Manor. I was only trying to escape, but I had hurt the poor dogs who were doing their job. On the other hand, had I not done it, they’d have hurt Jean-Sébastien and me.
The line between good and bad wasn’t always clear.
“What if I hurt someone while helping someone else?” I asked. “Can the darkness still find me then?”
Squire spread his fingers in a shrug and wrote, “I don’t know.”
Hmm. Well, that made things tricky. If I wanted to get out of this mess and save the other kids, I’d have to do it in a way that didn’t hurt anyone else.
I decided to put that aside for now and learn more about my so-called exalted family. I needed more time to sort out my thoughts.
“You said that you knew my mother. Did you know any more of my family? Do I have aunts or uncles?”
Squire shook himself, telling me no.
“Grandparents?”
He nodded and shook himself.
“What does that mean – do I have a grandmother?”
Nod.
“A grandfather?”
Shake.
Okay, now we were getting somewhere. Then I remembered something from our earlier conversation.
“You said that my grandmother is a witch too. Is she still alive?”
Nod.
“What’s her name?”
Squire hesitated before writing down his answer. Did he not know her name, or did he not want to tell me?
“The Iron Queen.”
“That’s an odd name. Is she really a queen?”
Nod.
“Does that make me a princess?”
Nod.
Wow. I guessed that explained the trust fund. But why would a princess have to be hidden in a bear den in the wilds of Siberia? My mother was trying to save me from something, but what? Then a terrible thought seeped into my mind.
“Does my grandmother use dark magic? Has the shadow taken her over?”
Squire nodded solemnly.
That was a lot to think about, but none of it helped me get out of Irvigne Manor or free the other kids.
Or did it? I thought back to my mother’s secretive letter and the picture she had included with it. That strange house on legs with the old woman riding in a bowl. No, not riding – she was flying!
“Squire, that picture with my mother’s letter, was that the Iron Queen? Was that my grandmother?”
Nod.
“And how did she fly in that bowl? I thought witches use brooms.”
“Iron Queen rides in her enchanted mortar, carrying her pestle like a club.”
“Why would she use a mortar and pestle?” Weren’t those things used to grind nuts and herbs in the kitchen?
“Because that is what she had on hand the first time she needed to fly.”
Oh. Well, that made sense: She had made do with what she had. I wondered what emergency had caused my grandmother to suddenly need to fly with nothing but a mortar and pestle. It sounded much like my present problem.
I looked around the room with new interest. There had to be something here that I could use to escape. I just had to use a little bit of ingenuity. And magic, of course.
Chapter 12
Dear Diary,
I’m writing this on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub because I am far away from my comfy room at the Collège. Far away in body and spirit. By now, my friends must think I’m dead, and what is even worse, they may believe that I murdered Mei.
No, I can’t think that. Some may believe it, but my real friends won’t. I have to take heart. For now, I need to put aside my own problems and find a way to save those poor children in the dungeon. I’m sure that Gaëlle must be locked in the cell next to Mei by now. André and Marie won’t be taking any chances, not when they are so close to completing their evil scheme.
As the sun sets, filling my prison with shadows, a deep sadness overwhelms me. Why do people have to be bad? Why can’t the world be filled with happiness? I remember the darkness that took hold of me when I blasted André’s handkerchief. It was too easy. Darkness and evil are easy. Happiness takes work. Perhaps most people don’t have the will or the energy to keep the shadows away. I’m starting to hope that I’ll fight them with every fiber of my being until my last breath… if I have enough strength.
That’s always a huge “if.”
Isn’t it, Diary?
* * *
The day went by too quickly. I had expected that being trapped in a tower would be boring, but I knew I had only a few hours before Victor arrived and took his Nine away to some horrible fate.
I spent the time going through everything in my small prison, looking for any weapon, tool, or bit of information that could help me escape. I searched every nook and cranny and flipped through every moldy book.
Around noon, Ouellette opened the door, put a tray of food on the floor, and shoved it with his toe.
“Bon appétit,” he said with a smirk.
The tray held a small bowl of porridge, a pitcher of water – no cup or glass – and a withered apple. Quite different from the extravagant buffet that Marie had laid out for the party last week.
Last week? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I sighed and forced myself to eat the cold porridge. I wasn’t hungry, but I would need the energy later on.
By sunset, I had laid out an assortment of things on the crooked desk: A needle, a spool of red thread, a letter opener, three twist ties, a handful of thumbtacks, a zippered plastic bag, a fork, two pencils, and a stack of paper.
Not much to work with.
I stared at this collection of random objects, and a plan started to come together in my head. It wasn’t a great plan. In fact, some might call it crazy. Too many things could go wrong. But my other choice was to wait for Victor – the Black Horseman – and see where he would take us all. That seemed like the crazier choice.
I scribbled a note to Jean-Sébastien on a scrap of paper, hoping he would be able to convince others of the truth. Ouellette didn’t know that Jean had been with me in the dungeon. I had managed to keep him out of my story at the police station. Hopefully, the former constable hadn’t thought to question anyone else at the Collège or orphanage.
I gave the paper to Squire.
“You need to bring this to my friend, Jean-Sébastien. Do you remember him?”
Nod.
“Good. Let’s get this window open. Then take it to him as fast as you can.”
The window was nailed shut, but we used the letter opener to pry out the rusted nails. The poor opener got pretty much shredded in the process. Grinning, I watched Squire fly away into the night. Wouldn’t Jean-Sébastien be surprised when he opened his door to find a flying hand! I wished I could be there to see his face.
Next, I gathered my other tools in the plastic bag and put them in the pocket of my robe. I could have used sturdier shoes than my slippers, but nothing could be done about that now.
I turned to the bedraggled mop in the bucket. If my grandmother, the Iron Queen, could use a mortar to fly, then I could use a bucket. I brought it over to the window. It was an old metal bucket, just wide enough for my two feet to fit snugly. I leaned on the mop and closed my eyes.
There was no need for magic words. From my limited experience, I already knew that the real magic came from within. The familiar ball of energy grew inside me, and just as before, I was able to see it as something real – although I couldn’t explain how I could see it. It was as if my perspective shifted a little, allowing me to perceive the forces of magic.
I took a moment to examine that ball. Was it evil, this energy? I turned it over in my mind as if examining a beautiful jewel. Streaks of silver, purple, and gold sparkled around a glowing blue center, humming quietly. I couldn’t feel darkness within it – in fact, it didn’t appear to be either good or bad. It seemed to be… just energy. A tool. Just as a knife could be used to prepare a meal for family and friends or to cut out the heart of a living thing. A new kind of confidence grew within me: the understanding that what I did with the tool was what mattered.
I let the blue light seep out of my chest and circle my head, my shoulders… all the way down to my t
oes and around the bucket, which started to shake. I imagined that I was hovering in the air like Squire. Almost immediately, the bucket lifted off the ground an inch. The sudden movement scared me, and I gasped.
The bucket slammed down with a thud. I took a deep breath and concentrated.
The bucket rose.
“I hope I know what I’m doing,” I muttered. I grabbed the mop and pushed open the window.
The night wind ruffled my hair, and the chill made me shudder. I closed my eyes tight, suddenly afraid to look down. Squire had slipped out into the open air as if it were nothing unusual, but all I could think about was whether I’d die if I plummeted all the way to the ground from this height. As soon as I thought about falling, imagining it in all its gory details, my bucket plunged to the floor with a bang and overturned, sending me sprawling across the room. I dropped a chair along the way, but the bug-infested mattress softened my fall.
“Interesting,” I whispered, and stood up, leaning on the mop. “So as soon as I think of something… it happens!”
I stood quietly for a short while, waiting to see if the noise I had made would alert someone outside. But all seemed quiet. I stepped into the basket again, trying to block all thoughts of falling from my mind.
The energy ball was still there inside me, sparkling with its threads of silver, gold, and purple. I willed the basket to rise into the air and flew a circle around the room. It was difficult not to think about the terror of a fall, but I managed it this time. Hovering near the window, I congratulated myself; then I zipped across the room this way and that, to better remember how it felt to stay in the air.
Then I took a deep breath, opened my eyes wide, and in one decisive lurch, flew out the window. I floated through the night sky. A billion stars winked at me, and my old friend, the moon, smiled. There was an odd pull on my stomach – as if the effort of flying was somehow linked to my belly. The longer I stayed in the air, the heavier that pull became.
