by Natasha Lowe
“Wow!” Peter said, moving to stand beside her. His face was flushed red.
“So you believe me now?” Cat giggled nervously as she shut the window.
“You’re going to have to tell your mum.”
“But I’m scared, Peter. You know how she feels about magic. What if she doesn’t let me apply to Ruthersfield?”
“You’ve got to tell her, Cat. That is not normal magic.”
“Well, I haven’t had any practice. That’s why I need to go to the academy. So they can teach me how to do spells.”
“Crikey!” Peter shook his head. “Crikey,” he said again. “I’m not sure I could eat any gingerbread after that. I’ve completely lost my appetite.”
“I wish my dad were here,” Cat sighed. “He would understand how exciting this is. He’d help me tell my mum.”
“When’s he coming back?” Peter asked.
Cat gave a small shrug. “I don’t know, Peter. I hope soon. He’s searching for a rare species of plant and he won’t come back until he finds it. That’s how my dad is. He doesn’t give up easily.” It was always hard when her father went away on one of his trips, and although Cat tried not to worry, it was impossible to stop the scared feelings from building up inside her.
Chapter Five
* * *
Flipping Fish Cakes!
CAT WAS RELIEVED WHEN THE Parkers finally left that evening. She needed to be alone, to think about what had just happened. Peter had made her promise to tell her mother, and Cat wanted to—she really did—just not tonight. She couldn’t face the conversation she knew they would have when her mother found out Cat was a Late Bloomer. I’ll tell her tomorrow, Cat promised herself, right after school. That way she could figure out exactly what to say. Besides, she still had her homework to do, which, in all the excitement of the afternoon, Cat had completely forgotten about.
Tristram Campbell had built Cat a little desk in the corner of her room. It was the perfect place to do her homework; her books always got covered in flour whenever she sat at the kitchen table. But Cat found it impossible to concentrate on Antonia Bigglesmith with her jacket moving about in the cupboard. Every time it gave a muffled thud, a nervous thrill shot through her and Cat glanced at the door, anxious that her mother might hear. It was slightly unnerving, having an uncontrollable coat in her cupboard. She obviously needed more practice with her spells, but at least some magic had happened.
Cat impulsively reached for the airplane note cards Marie Claire had given her last Christmas, opening up one with a vintage stunt plane on the front. Cat wrote in purple ink:
Dear Dad,
I hope you are well. I miss you soooooo much. Guess what? You are not going to believe this, but (and you will know how happy I am!) I’ve inherited the magic gene. I’m a Late Bloomer. I’ve got the gift!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! There’s going to be another witch in the family. Are you surprised? I wish you were here to help me tell Mum because I want to try out for Ruthersfield. I’m so excited. When are you coming home?
Love, Cat
xoxoxox
Slipping the card into an envelope, Cat gave a satisfied sigh. She would post the letter tomorrow. It would take ages to get to Zangezur—Cat knew that—but she had a strong feeling that when her father read it, he would understand how important this was and come right home.
Cat yawned and tapped her pen against her teeth. Her eyes felt heavy and tired even though her mind was still racing. The magic books seemed to be calling out to her. “Just a little peek,” they were saying. “One little peek and then you can go back to your homework.” Bending over her journal, Cat scribbled, “Antonia Bigglesmith was born in 1927 in Clacton-by-the-Sea.” She yawned again and pushed back her chair. One little peek wouldn’t hurt, surely? She’d just read through a couple of spells and then finish drafting her essay on Antonia Bigglesmith.
Kneeling on the floor, Cat opened Practical Magic. Some of the pages were stuck together, which made Cat smile, because when she put her tongue against the paper she could taste something sweet. Obviously her mother used to do her homework while she baked! Very carefully Cat peeled the pages apart, taking in the dusty book smell mingled with the faint fizz of old magic that tickled her nostrils and made her want to sneeze.
“Moving a simple object,” Cat read. That looked like a fun spell. All you did was wave your wand at something and say . . . Cat peered at the word and mouthed it slowly. “Aloftdisimo.” She said it over and over again, letting the strange sounds roll off her tongue. “Aloftdisimo, Aloftdisimo, Aloftdisimo.” Then you pointed your wand to wherever you wanted the object to go. “Oh, but look at this spell!” Cat murmured, turning over the page. “Magic Dictation” it was called. She studied the instructions. “Have a pen ready beside a piece of paper. Wave your wand and say the command, Squiggleypaparady, then begin to dictate in a loud, clear voice.” Cat giggled. How did witches ever manage to learn all these complicated words? “Swiggly, I mean squiggley, squiggleypaparady,” Cat whispered, struggling to get the sounds right.
“Oh, I just have to try this!” She was gripping the wand in her pocket so hard there were marks dug into her left hand, and an idea occurred to Cat. Why couldn’t she do her homework and practice a little spell at the same time? It made perfect sense, didn’t it? “And I have so many things I want to write down,” Cat said out loud. “It will be much faster this way.”
Opening her journal at a clean page, Cat positioned her purple pen beside it. She loved being allowed to write in purple ink, just like the girls at Ruthersfield did. Her teacher didn’t mind, just as long as her handwriting was neat and her spelling correct. Cat strained her ears, making sure she could still hear opera music coming from the kitchen, which her mother and Marie Claire always listened to while they got the bread doughs started for the next day. It would not be good if Poppy chose this moment to come in and say good night. “Okay,” Cat whispered, feeling her excitement start to build. She flexed her fingers and picked up her wand, making sure she was holding it the right way. Then, waving the wand in the air, Cat carefully pronounced the word, “Squiggleypaparady!”
The pen stood up, twitched, and flopped down again, knocking its lid on the desk a few times. “Oh, I left the top on!” Cat giggled. “Silly me.” Leaning over the desk, she pulled the lid off and repeated the spell. This time she watched in amazement as the pen twitched and stood up. Cat squealed, covering her mouth with her hand. This was unbelievable. The pen hovered over the page, and Cat realized it was waiting for her to speak.
“Ahh . . . Antonia Bigglesmith got a toy airplane for her fourth birthday and told her parents right then that she was going to fly one herself one day.” The pen scrawled away across the page, and Cat felt a great wave of pride sweep over her. She had done it! The spell was working correctly.
“When she was six,” Cat continued, “she went for a—Hey, stop!” Cat yelled as the pen lurched off the page and started scribbling on the desk. She launched forward and tried to grab it, but the pen darted away and drew a squiggly line on the wall. “Stop that!” Cat shouted, and the pen wrote “Stop that.”
“Get back on my journal! Flipping fish cakes!” Cat gasped, chasing after the pen. “Get back on my journal! Flipping fish cakes!” the pen scribbled in large, loopy purple script.
“Mamma is going to have a fit,” Cat groaned, and the pen scrawled her words right across the ceiling. Trying not to say another word, Cat watched her pen hover in the air for a few moments, as if it was waiting for her to speak. Then, looking for something new to draw on, it dived to the floor, where it stared to draw circles.
“Got you,” Cat panted, stomping on it quickly with her foot. She stamped as hard as she could, crushing purple ink all over the wooden boards. Cat cleaned up the mess with a handful of tissues and then moved her rug with the ducks on it, the one Auntie Charlie had made her, over the purple stain. Looking around at the walls and ceiling, Cat gave a soft groan. She would have to scrub the rest of the pen off tomorrow, whe
n she didn’t feel quite so tired. At least it was meant to be washable.
But Cat couldn’t help smiling as she picked up her journal, because there, at the top of the page, was one perfect line of magic writing. Cat admired it for a while before slipping the journal into her backpack. Her eyes were sore, and she couldn’t stay awake any longer. She would just have to finish her homework on the bus.
As Cat lay in bed with the lights out she could hear her jacket occasionally knocking against the inside of the cupboard. Soft, muffled thuds as it waved the sleeves about. But it wasn’t a sound that she minded. In fact, it made Cat smile because it reminded her, as she drifted off to sleep, that she had finally got her most cherished wish. She had inherited the gift of magic.
Chapter Six
* * *
Maxine Gibbons and Her Big Mouth
YOU LOOK TIRED,” POPPY REMARKED as Cat padded into the kitchen the next morning. Marie Claire’s favorite opera station was playing on the radio, and a fire crackled in the hearth. There was a sweet smell of caramelized fruit in the air.
“I got to sleep a bit late,” Cat admitted, smiling at her mother. Cat loved the coziness of the bakery, the warmth and the happiness that surrounded her, and she had a sudden hopeful feeling that everything would be all right. There wasn’t time now, but she would tell her mother as soon as the bakery closed this afternoon.
“I made raspberry muffins,” Poppy said, offering the plate to Cat. Her long braid dangled over her shoulder, the ends streaked with flour.
“No thanks, Mamma.” Cat opened the freezer. She dug about for the box of toaster tarts and took out two cardboard-looking squares. “I know, but I like them,” Cat said, before Poppy had even commented.
“Fake, artificial, and disgusting.” Poppy shuddered, although she didn’t really look mad. “I don’t know why I even allow them in the house.”
“Because I’m your daughter and you love me,” Cat said, popping them into the toaster.
“It is funny the way life works,” Marie Claire mused, arranging croissants on a tray. “Your mother loves to bake, Cat, and you, who grew up in a bakery, have no interest whatsoever and would rather eat these toaster tart things!”
“Cat doesn’t have to be like me,” Poppy said. “She’ll probably end up flying airplanes like Antonia Bigglesmith!” She smiled at Cat. “Honestly, I don’t mind what you do as long as you’re happy.”
“Oh, Mamma, thank you for saying that.” Cat wrapped her toaster tarts in a napkin. Perhaps telling her mother wasn’t going to be so hard after all. “Sorry to rush, but I’ll miss the bus if I don’t hurry.”
“Don’t forget your jacket,” Poppy said, which Cat had every intention of doing. It was still twitching about in her cupboard, although the magic seemed to be wearing off. Luckily she had an extra pair of gloves and an old scarf she could put on since her others had escaped through the window.
“I’m really not cold, Mamma.”
“You shouldn’t run and eat at the same time,” Marie Claire called after her. “It is not good for the digestion.”
But Cat didn’t hear. She was already out the back door, leaving the warm, muffin-scented kitchen behind. Sprinting up the canal path, Cat arrived at the bus stop at exactly the same time as the bus. She clambered on, out of breath, and was about to sit down next to her friend Anika Kamal, when she saw Peter waving at her, pointing to the seat beside him. Cat hesitated a moment. She looked at Anika and shrugged, then moved down the aisle toward him.
“What is it?” Cat said. “Why aren’t you back there with your brainy friends?”
“Have you told your mum yet?” Peter asked, launching right in. “Because I’ve been thinking about it, Cat, and I don’t trust you. You’re going to get yourself into trouble.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Cat replied. “Anyway, I’m going to tell her after school. I promise.”
“So you haven’t tried any more spells?”
“Not really.” Cat scratched her nose, staring past Peter out the window.
“You’re completely fibbing, Cat. I can always tell because you scratch your nose and won’t look at me.”
“And you are so annoying!” Cat snapped. “Thinking you know everything.”
As the bus turned down Glover Lane, Cat said, “Oh, Peter, please shift over. Can I sit by the window?” Not giving him time to answer, Cat clambered across Peter’s long legs, squishing herself into his seat and forcing him to change places. She pressed her face against the glass just as the bus rumbled past the large gray stone building of Ruthersfield Academy. “They look so graceful, don’t they?” She sighed, watching flocks of girls swoop down on their broomsticks. “Just like big, purple swans. Oh, there’s Clara Bell!” Cat shrieked, banging on the glass as the magical history teacher landed outside the school gates. Cat yanked open the window and stuck her head out, waving madly. “Hello, Ms. Bell!” Cat shouted, causing most of the girls to turn and look. She couldn’t wait to tell her she was a Late Bloomer too! Holding on to her hat, Ms. Bell waved back, her curls blowing about in the wind. “Oh, she sees me, she sees me,” Cat squealed, paying no attention to the snickering Ruthersfield students pointing in her direction.
Cat turned to Peter, her eyes all aglow, forgetting she meant to be mad at him. “Just think, Peter. I could be flying to school next year. Flying on an actual broomstick!”
Cat was so eager to get home that afternoon she ran the whole way, not bothering to wait for the bus. A waft of curry scent hit her as she jogged past the Indian restaurant Anika’s parents owned, and Mrs. Kamal waved to Cat through the window. As she raced down the canal path a light fog hung over the water, and the air was as cold as a glass of lemonade. She would tell her mother right away if there weren’t any customers in the bakery. But when Cat pushed open the door, the shop was crowded with people, which often happened when the weather turned cold. Throwing her backpack down behind the counter, Cat put on an apron and immediately started to help. The air was warm and spicy with the scent of gingerbread. Poppy only made it during the month of November, and even though Cat didn’t like to eat it, she loved the way it smelled.
“Yes, Maxine, what can I get you?” Cat said, smiling at Maxine Gibbons. Nothing could spoil her good mood today, and Cat held her secret close. She was filled with kindness toward everyone, even horrible, mean-mouthed Maxine.
“You’re in a good mood, Cat,” Maxine said, staring at her suspiciously. She patted a hand over her pink chiffon head scarf, which covered the rows of tight curlers Maxine never seemed to take out.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Cat replied, pulling her sweater down over the magic wand.
“Mmm, if you say so. I think it’s freezing cold and miserable.” Maxine sniffed. “I’ll have a white crusty loaf and an éclair. One of those nice big ones with lots of cream in them.” She turned away and immediately started talking to Mrs. Plunket, from the post office.
“Please,” Cat whispered under her breath, reaching for a paper bag and wondering if Maxine would ever learn some manners. Crouching down behind the counter because the éclairs were on the bottom shelf, Cat could feel the magic wand pressing against her leg. She glanced around, but no one could see her back here. The wand had been in her pocket all day and she hadn’t touched it once, although she’d been tempted during lunch and recess. Now, just meaning to hold it for a second, Cat slid the wand free. Then, before she could stop herself, she pointed it at an éclair and whispered the word, “Aloftdisimo!” Cat had been thinking about this spell since breakfast, wanting to try it out. It had looked so easy in the book, a tiny, little, move an object spell, and even though she had a strong feeling this probably wasn’t a good idea, Cat simply couldn’t resist. Her arm started to tingle, and the fizzy feeling shot through her body. She held up the paper bag and pointed the wand at it. “In there, please,” Cat whispered, watching the éclair rise. It flew into the bag, and Cat twisted the paper shut, giving a soft squeal of delight. She scrambled t
o her feet and handed the bag to Maxine, beaming with pride. “Here you go,” Cat said. “One éclair!”
“Better be a nice one,” Maxine snapped, as the bag crackled open and the éclair floated out. “What in heaven . . . ,” she shrieked, grabbing on to Mrs. Plunket’s arm. “Did you see that?” Maxine spluttered, watching the éclair fly around the bakery. “What on earth did that girl just do?”
A collective gasp rose up from the customers because the éclair was now hovering near the ceiling, as if it were a giant, cream-stuffed bee.
“I’ve got chills,” Maxine said, her head tilted upward and her mouth gaping open. “A flying cream cake is not normal! You know what this means, don’t you?”
Cat was frozen behind the counter. She couldn’t bear to watch, but it was impossible to look away as the éclair swooped down, plunging right into Maxine’s mouth. There was a long moment of absolute silence, and then everyone started talking at once. Everyone except for Maxine, who couldn’t speak, and her mother, Cat noticed, who was holding on to the counter so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
It was Marie Claire who took charge, walking over to Maxine and calmly handing her a tea towel. “Wipe yourself off with this,” she said, although Maxine seemed to be doing an excellent job gobbling up the éclair.
“If I hadn’t seen it myself I would not have believed it,” Maxine exclaimed, licking cream from around her mouth. She dabbed at her face with the tea towel, although there wasn’t much left to wipe up. Her small eyes sparkled with relish as she turned toward Poppy. “That daughter of yours has got the gift!”
