“And she’d dot the I’s with hearts too,” muttered Molly. “And use pink paper.”
The ground stirred again. The mole came up practically between her feet.
“Gotta question,” he said.
“Sure,” said Molly.
“Treasure,” said the mole. “Not sure. Don’t know you’d call it treasure. But bits of things, eh? Not like rocks.”
He dumped something at her feet.
It was a coin. It was so crusted in dirt and mud that she couldn’t read the face on it. Molly picked it up with growing excitement and scrubbed it on her tights until she could make out the design.
She’d never seen anything like it before. It looked like an octopus wearing a crown.
“This too,” said the mole. “Have to dig around them. Annoying, eh?”
Another molehill erupted a few feet away. A second mole backed out of it, dragging an ancient bottle. It glittered red in the sunlight.
“Maybe,” said Molly, who was more excited by the coin. Still, sometimes antiques stores had displays of fancy glass bottles in the window, and charged lots of money for them. “Yes! Can you bring me more?”
The moles went back underground and consulted. Molly could hear them talking, although she couldn’t make out the worlds, a snuffly, muttery kind of talk.
Finally one of them put his head back up and said, “Witch, eh?”
“Yes!”
“Need magic,” said the mole. “For Wormrise. We make you a deal, eh? Give you things. Give us magic. Eh?”
“You’ll bring me things like this . . . but you want me to give you magic? For . . . um . . . Wormrise?”
The mole nodded.
“I’d love to,” said Molly cautiously, “but I don’t know any spells about worms.”
The other mole came up. “Not a spell,” he assured her. “Not like that. You Witch, you know—give other Witch some magic, eh?”
Molly thought about it. Witches often did spells together, and when that happened, one Witch would do the spells and the others would give them power. She’d done it with Eudaimonia lots of times—“Fine, Molly dear, if you can’t do it yourself, let me do it right”—but she wasn’t sure how much of that was her and how much had been the older Sorceress.
Honesty seemed to be the best policy. She’d seen where lying got her. “I’ll try,” she said. “I’m not sure if I know how, but I’ll do my best, and I’ll keep trying until we get it right.”
The mole crossed his claws over his chest. “Good! Not asking more than that!” he said. “Tomorrow night. Mole bargain!”
Molly hesitantly crossed her arms over her own chest and said, “Mole bargain?”
“Right!”
The mole dove back into the earth, and Molly wondered what had just happened.
Chapter 20
There appears to be a small army of moles digging up the south lawn,” said Majordomo at breakfast the next morning.
“It hasn’t been the south lawn for years,” said Pins. “You couldn’t play croquet on that if your life depended on it. It’s the donkey pasture right now.”
Majordomo shrugged. When the plumbing’s broken and your Master is leaving and the Board of Magic is in imminent danger of repossessing your castle, the state of the south lawn is not high on anyone’s list of concerns.
Cook absentmindedly turned on one of the faucets. There was a clunk and a rattle and several chunks of ice fell out into the sink, followed by sputtering noises. She said something in a language Molly didn’t understand.
“Mother!” said Angus, quite shocked.
“Is getting tired of broken plumbing! Is being no way to run a household!”
Molly, who had been avoiding meeting Majordomo’s eyes, took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “The moles are with me,” she said.
The old servant raised one eyebrow. “Really,” he said.
He didn’t sound angry, just curious, so Molly plowed on. “They found some coins and some old bottles. I thought those might be worth money. They agreed to help.”
The silence around the table was thoughtful. Finally Pins said, “You know, people have lived here a long time. Sometimes you find odd things buried. Mostly it’s garbage, but not always.”
“At my school, when they were putting in a new parking lot, they turned up all kinds of things,” Molly said. “Old pill bottles and arrowheads and rusted cans and even a cat skeleton.” (She’d wanted to keep the cat skeleton, but Sarah had thrown a fit and told her it was stinky and disgusting, even though the bones were so old, they didn’t smell like anything but dirt.)
“Ah, yes,” said Majordomo, “your . . . school.”
Molly slid down a little in her chair.
“Is good plan,” said Cook, setting down the omelets. “Is being good thinking.” She waved a spatula at Molly. “But is keeping moles out of my garden! Is not sharing food with them!”
“I’ll be sure to tell them,” said Molly. “I’m supposed to go out tonight and help them with some kind of magic called Wormrise.”
She looked around the table, but none of the others had heard of it either. Everyone shook their heads.
“Whatever it is,” said Pins, “it’ll be interesting.”
“Interesting perhaps,” said Majordomo, “but whether there is anything worthwhile in the ground hereabouts . . .” He shrugged.
“Is being a little far inland for pirate treasure,” admitted Cook, “but one is never knowing.”
“They brought me this,” Molly said, setting the octopus coin on the table.
She’d rubbed as much dirt off as she could. It needed silver polish, but she had a vague notion that you weren’t supposed to polish really old things, that they had a valuable “patina” (which she thought meant the sort of blackish silver film over it, but “pa” was too close to Q in the dictionary, and Cook’s removal of the Q section had also claimed most of P and some of R on the other side.)
Majordomo picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. “I’ve never seen this design before.”
Edward, who didn’t eat but who liked to take part in the conversations, said, “Bring it over here, old chap, will you?”
Majordomo held it up for him. The enchanted armor squinted his eyeslits at the coin. “That’s an Imperial Squid!” He let out a low whistle. “I haven’t seen one of those in . . . well, centuries, come to think of it!”
“Is it valuable?” asked Molly hopefully.
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Edward shrugged his shoulders with a clatter. “Used to be worth quite a lot, but I don’t know about now. Not a numismatist, you understand.” (Molly forgave him for using the word numismatist, which simply means “coin-collector,” on the grounds that it was a very good word and opportunities to slip it into conversation are rare.)
“There’s an antiques shop in the village,” volunteered Pins. “Two doors down from the sewing shop. Mr. Davenport runs it. He might be able to tell you how much it’s worth.”
“I’ll see what else the moles come up with, and take them all in at once,” said Molly firmly. She wanted very much to run to the village right now and see if the coin was valuable, but she’d promised the moles she’d lend them magic, and she wanted to get into the library and see if she could figure out how it worked.
“An Imperial Squid . . .” said Edward nostalgically. “Ah, that takes me back. Mad King Harold it was who printed those.”
“Why was he mad?” asked Molly.
“Well, he thought he was a cuttlefish. Declared himself the Emperor of All Oceans and tried to declare war on the clouds for failure to pay tribute.”
Despite several history classes in school, Molly had never heard of Mad King Harold. This struck her as a dreadful oversight.
“You don’t get that sort of thing today,” said Edward sadly. “All thes
e Presidents and Prime Ministers and Parliamentarians . . . If any of them think they’re a cuttlefish, they have to keep it quiet. Politics used to be so much better.”
“Messier too,” said Majordomo. “Didn’t Mad King Harold cut your head off?”
“Well, yes, but he didn’t mean anything by it.”
Molly reluctantly slipped away from the conversation and went to go read about moles.
• • •
By that evening, she was no closer to learning about Wormrise. If any of the magicians had known about it, they hadn’t left notes in the library. Apparently none of the earlier Masters had much contact with the moles.
On the subject of giving magic to someone else, however, there were lots and lots of notes.
Most of them said NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER DO THIS, in big capital letters with underlines and exclamation points. (Except for the book that said it backward and in Latin, which read !!!coh tnuicaf non.)
A few had extra notes underneath that said: “But if you absolutely have to, this is what you do . . . But don’t do it. Ever.”
This was because most Wicked magicians are much too paranoid to work together. That is why the world is ruled instead by Presidents and Prime Ministers and Parliamentarians, who may or may not believe that they are cuttlefish.
The Little Gray Book had a page about it, near the back. It said: “This can be dangerous, but sometimes it’s necessary. You have to trust the other person won’t take all your magic and leave you empty. If you absolutely must lend your power to another, look to the place under your breastbone where magic lives, and picture a silver cord running from it to the other person. And think, as firmly as you can, Yes.”
The book went on to explain that once you were done giving your power away, you pictured the cord again and thought No. And if at any time you thought that the person on the other end was taking too much power, you should think No! immediately, because taking too much magic away could burn a Witch out until she was nothing but an ordinary person who used to be a magician.
Molly frowned over the book. It seemed easy . . . but she couldn’t remember ever doing that with Eudaimonia. The older girl would just grab her wrist and then the magic would flow out of Molly and the spell would work. And she usually felt tired afterward.
Maybe she was doing it wrong.
This thought was so shocking that Molly hardly knew what to do with it. Eudaimonia knew dozens of spells. She’d been born an Evil Sorceress, and Molly had thought she knew everything. She’d even been born with a caul. (A caul is a piece of membrane over the top of your head when you’re born. It’s rather nasty, but it usually means that magic—or at least second sight—will follow.)
All Molly had at birth was a twin, who grew up to be the kind of girl who sings while she cleans and says “Hello, Mr. Bluebird!” or “Hello, Missus Rabbit! You’re looking very fluffy today!” (It could be argued that this sort of behavior was bound to turn Molly to Wickedness in sheer self-defense.)
I won’t know if she was doing it wrong until I try it myself. The moles must know something about it, since they suggested it. She nodded to herself and closed the Little Gray Book.
“Come on, Bugbane,” she said to the bat, who was already yawning. “It’s time for Wormrise.”
Chapter 21
Molly went out onto the south lawn (aka the donkey pasture) with Angus following her. “In case something goes wrong,” he rumbled, taking up a position by the fence.
Molly, her mind still humming with the warnings in the books about giving your magic away, nodded. She couldn’t think of any reason why the moles would want to hurt her, but it was nice to have Angus around just in case.
Dragon the donkey had been put in the old stable, where he seemed quite happy and showed no signs of wanting to breathe fire. The sun had almost gone down behind the hills, and the sky was darkening into the shivery blue of twilight. Bugbane snored gently in Molly’s ear.
Dozens of little piles of dirt gave testimony to the activity of the moles. There was a small pile of muck-encrusted objects off to one side. Molly had to restrain herself from running to look at it.
There’s probably nothing, she told herself, trying to stave off a future disappointment. Or it won’t be worth much. Or we’ll find out that an Imperial Squid is only worth about a dollar now.
A mole popped his dark head out of a mound. “Witch!” he said.
“Witch?”
“Witch!”
“Eh?”
“Witch?”
The pasture was suddenly full of moles, their twitchy pink noses sticking out of the molehills. One—she thought it was the one from yesterday morning—waved his claws at her.
Molly picked her way toward that one, trying to avoid stepping on any molehills.
“Eh!” he said. “Witch! Come for Wormrise!”
A thin, snorfly cheer went up from the other moles. Her mole waved his claws over his head like a prizefighter.
“Do we do this now?” Molly asked. “Only I’m not sure how . . .”
“Waiting,” the mole assured her. “Waiting for Stonebreaker.”
“Stonebreaker!”
“The Stonebreaker!”
“Eh! Eh! Eh!”
The moles were clearly in a good mood.
They didn’t have to wait long. Molly’s mole tapped her boot with one claw and pointed.
A few yards away, dirt was being thrown into the air like a fountain. Two burly moles climbed out and stepped away, and then even more dirt flew into the air and the biggest mole Molly had ever seen erupted out of the ground.
His fur was jet-black, but there were pale patterns on it—loops and swoops and spirals and swirls so that he looked almost white. His claws were long and sharp and gleamed in the last light. He was easily twice the size of any mole in the field . . . which made him slightly larger than Molly’s foot.
“Stonebreaker!” cried the excited moles. “Stonebreaker! Eh!”
Molly fought back the urge to giggle and composed her face into an expression of solemn dignity. This was clearly the moles’ magician, and it wouldn’t do to laugh at another magician, even if he was fuzzy and serious and adorable.
Stonebreaker crossed his claws over his chest and bowed to the moles. “My moles,” he said, which set off another round of cheering.
Molly’s mole tugged at her boots and urged her forward.
Molly took a deep breath and walked forward. When she was a few feet away from Stonebreaker’s hill, she thought for a moment, then crossed her arms over her chest and bowed.
“Witch! Witch!”
“Stonebreaker and Witch!”
“Eh! Eh! Eh!”
Apparently this was the right thing to do.
Stonebreaker’s muzzle wrinkled in a smile. “Witch,” he said, bowing back to her. “Come for Wormrise?”
“As we agreed,” said Molly. Honesty compelled her to add, “Although I’m not sure what it is you want me to do.”
“Painless,” said Stonebreaker. He climbed out of his burrow and waddled toward her. Molly crouched down to be on his level, and noticed that the spiral patterns appeared to have been shaved into his fur, revealing the pale skin underneath. “You give magic. Done before?”
“Sort of . . .” said Molly. “But she—the other person did all the work.”
“Will do my work,” Stonebreaker assured her. He reared up and patted her knee with his claws. “Painless,” he said again, kindly.
“What is Wormrise?” she asked.
He smiled. “Luck for moles. Thankful moles. Witch sees, eh?”
“I guess I will . . .”
“Moles!” cried Stonebreaker. “Moles, in position!”
“Eh!” cried the moles as one, and they all dove into the earth.
Molly waited, her hands folded together in h
er sleeves. She was a little afraid that Wormrise was going to involve millions of earthworms. Molly, like any gardener, was quite fond of earthworms, but she preferred them one or two at a time. A million writhing earthworms would be a bit much, even for a Wicked Witch with a very large garden.
As it turned out, the reality was . . . somewhat different.
Sprays of dirt showed where the moles were digging. The last light was fading, but she saw the lines forming a spiral, with Stonebreaker and Molly at the center.
Moonrise was early. The moles finished the spiral as the first moonlight washed over the field.
Molly looked up and saw the moon was a fat, grinning crescent. She shivered inside her jacket.
Dark gray heads popped out of the dirt, lining the spiral. Molly’s mole came up beside her and sat, his tiny eyes bright in the starlight.
Stonebreaker nodded. “Good,” he said. “Good work, moles.” He turned to Molly. “Now, Witch work?”
Molly steeled herself.
I’m supposed to picture a silver cord . . . a silver cord . . . like that . . .
Picturing the cord was easy. It was thinking Yes after all those dire warnings that scared her.
Stonebreaker set his claw on her knee again. “Witch,” he said, his voice formal, “you consent? Stonebreaker borrows magic for moles?”
And suddenly it was easy. He’d asked. He’d asked, and she could say No, and that meant that she could also say—
Yes.
She was never sure afterward if she spoke out loud. The silver cord in her mind’s eye pulsed, and then she felt power flowing out of her.
The pale patterns in Stonebreaker’s fur began to glow like foxfire. As Molly watched, the light grew out of him, running along the line of mole hills, until the spiral burned as if it had caught fire.
“Wormrise!” cried the mole magician.
“WORMRISE!” thundered the assembled moles.
The ground began to shake.
Molly was already crouching, but she sat down, hard. Her mole laughed happily and patted her boot. “Good!” he told her, in a small, exultant voice. “Witch work! Wormrise!”
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