by Natasha Lowe
* * *
Don’t Let Fear Stand in Your Way
IT WAS BEGINNING TO GET dark as Cat walked back home to the bakery. At the bottom of Peter’s lane a small group of Ruthersfield girls flew past on their broomsticks, smells of beef stew wafting from the plastic shopping bags that dangled over each handle. Cat stopped for a moment, unable to drag her gaze away. She watched by the light of the street lamps as some of the girls swooped up and knocked on doors, delivering bags of stew to the occupants. They were like agile, graceful hummingbirds, and Cat gave a long shaky sigh, a lump forming in her throat. She was so caught up watching the girls that she didn’t see Clara Bell land beside her until a soft hand touched her on the arm.
“I’m so sorry, Cat,” Clara Bell said. “I did my best to convince Ms. Roach.” She paused and then added, “I know how much magic means to you.”
Cat nodded and tried to smile, but her mouth wouldn’t keep still, and the smile wobbled away. “Ms. Roach told me I’d never be good enough, that my magic is too out of control.” Cat stopped for a moment, trying to steady her voice. “That hurts. It really does, because I’m not ready to give up on being a witch.”
“Then perhaps you should trust your instincts,” Clara Bell said softly. She clapped her hands and raised her voice. “When you’ve finished your delivery, girls, you may go home.”
“What are they doing?” Cat asked, blinking back tears.
“Community service. All our girls are expected to do it. This is the meals-on-broomsticks program for the elderly.”
“It looks so fun,” Cat said longingly. “I’d love to do that.” She sniffed and wiped a hand across her nose. “But it’s never going to happen now.” The sound of the girls’ laughter drifted toward them on the still air. Turning to Clara Bell, Cat said suddenly, “What did you mean? About trusting my instincts?”
“Well, if this feels like the right path for you, Cat, then maybe you shouldn’t give up just yet. You could always reapply next year. There are no rules to say that you can’t.”
“But Ms. Roach wouldn’t take me,” Cat said, staring at Clara Bell through the gloom. “She’s already turned me down.”
“Being a Late Bloomer is difficult. I should know. You have to work ten times harder than any other witch. It took me twice as long as most witches to get my magical degree, and later on I had to sit my teaching exam twice. I almost didn’t take it after failing so badly the first time,” Clara Bell confessed.
“Why did you?” Cat asked.
“Because I realized I could live with the failure of doing badly, but I couldn’t live with the regret of not trying. And I’m so pleased I did, because even though I’ll never be much of a potion mixer or crystal ball gazer, I love teaching magical history.”
“Do you think I could really do it?” Cat said, a flutter of possibility in her stomach. “My magic is so hard to control.”
“There are things you can do to practice,” Clara Bell said, pulling a slim book out of her pocket. “This little volume, The Late Bloomer’s Guide to Magic, was written many years ago by a wonderful witch, Francesca Fenwick, a Late Bloomer herself. There isn’t much out there on the subject, I’m afraid, but I have always found reading this most useful and comforting. I keep it with me at all times. It is full of excellent advice for Late Bloomers, and if you take good care of it, I would be delighted to lend it to you.” Clara Bell held the book out to Cat. It didn’t weigh much and the cover was worn, but Cat knew that what she held was a treasure.
“Oh, Ms. Bell, thank you so much,” Cat said, hardly noticing the Ruthersfield girls flying by on their way home. “I’ll look after it, I promise.”
“I know you will, Cat. And there are a few nice, simple spells at the back that you might want to try.”
“I’m not the best at spells,” Cat said, wincing at the memory of the pencil-rolling fiasco. “You’ve seen what happens, Ms. Bell.”
“These ones are very manageable. There’s a marvelous courage potion, but I’m afraid it calls for powdered griffin’s tooth, which is almost impossible to come by nowadays. The Raising Your Spirits Cake is wonderful though. I still make it whenever I find myself flagging and in need of a little encouragement. You say a lovely, gentle chanting spell, and it only requires one magical ingredient, a puff of condensed dragon’s breath. Most Late Bloomers can manage it. I know the recipe by heart. In fact,” Clara Bell said, rooting around in her bag, “I just picked up some dragon’s breath from the school supply store, so I’ll give you a bottle if you like.” She handed Cat a small purple glass vial. It didn’t weigh much, and a thrill ran through Cat as she slid the little bottle into her pocket.
“Are you sure you can spare it, Ms. Bell?”
Clara Bell smiled. “They’re running a two-for-one special on dragon’s breath this week, so I got plenty.” She touched Cat lightly on the arm. “Just remember,” she said, “if you’re not ready to give up on your magic, Cat, then maybe it’s not ready to give up on you.”
Cat held the book close. “I’m definitely not ready to give up on my magic. But I am scared,” she admitted.
“And what exactly are you scared of?” Clara Bell asked.
“I’m scared of disappointing my mum because I know she doesn’t want me to be a witch, and I’m scared of disappointing myself if I can’t do it. And what if Ms. Roach is right and I’m not good enough? What if I’m never able to control my magic? What if I fail again and everyone laughs at me? I’m so scared of that happening.”
“Cat,” Clara Bell said, lifting Cat’s chin up so she could look her directly in the eyes. “All these feelings are quite normal for the Late Bloomer. I’m not an expert on magic and I never will be, but there is one thing I’ve learned over the years that’s been helpful. It’s an excellent piece of advice, and you’ll find it on the first page of Francesca’s book.” Clara Bell paused a moment, and then said, “Nem zentar topello.”
“What does that mean?” Cat said. “Nem zentar topello.”
“It comes from the ancient language of witches, and it means ‘Don’t let fear stand in your way,’ Cat Campbell.”
“I’ll try,” Cat whispered, feeling braver than she had in a long time. Just standing beside Clara Bell gave her hope.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
The Late Bloomer’s Guide to Magic
WHEN CAT GOT HOME SHE found a pot of her favorite chicken noodle soup on the stove, the soup her mother always made when Cat had a cold or was in general need of comforting. A warm baguette, fresh from the oven, scented the kitchen with its fragrant aroma, and Cat knew that her mother was doing everything she could to cheer Cat up. She also knew from the way Poppy was humming that her mother probably felt enormously relieved that Cat hadn’t got a place at Ruthersfield. Not that she would ever say such a thing, of course, but Cat could almost feel the relief wafting off her, relief because Cat’s future as a witch had come to an abrupt end. Telling her mother she wanted to reapply was not going to be easy.
Every time Cat opened her mouth to say something, the words seemed to jam in her throat. But Marie Claire and her mother didn’t seem to notice. They were giving Cat her space, talking quietly to each other.
“I . . . ,” Cat began, trying to find her courage. “I . . .”
“Yes, Cat,” Poppy said, smiling across the table at her daughter. Cat knew how her mother’s face would look when she heard what Cat had to say. She hated upsetting her mother, but Clara Bell was right. She shouldn’t give up on her magic just yet. Not if it meant this much to her.
Touching the book in her pocket for good luck, Cat tried again. “Mamma, you and Dad have always encouraged me to follow my dreams, and I wanted this dream more than anything.”
“I know you did, sweetheart,” Poppy said.
Cat took a sip of water, trying to hold on to her confidence. “I still do, Mamma, and I’d like to reapply again next year.” Her voice shook slightly. “There’s nothing in the school manual to say I can�
�t.”
Poppy glanced at Marie Claire. “Well, let’s not think about that now,” she answered, sweeping bread crumbs into her hand. “Next year is a long way off.”
“Mamma, please,” Cat said, wishing her mother would sound more encouraging. “I saw my friend Clara Bell today. She teaches magical history, and she’s a Late Bloomer too. She says there are things I can do to practice getting my magic under control, exercises that can help. And she gave me a book to read, The Late Bloomer’s Guide to Magic.”
“Well, really.” Poppy sighed in irritation. “She shouldn’t be encouraging you, Cat. That’s not fair. Getting your hopes up.”
“Mamma.” To her distress, Cat felt her lip wobbling.
“Look, you gave it a go. That’s what matters.” Poppy looked at her daughter with compassion. “I’m proud of you for trying. Now, you have to accept Ms. Roach’s decision and move on. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have a choice.”
“Dad would want me to reapply.”
Poppy pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m going to have a little more soup. Cat, you’re tired and disappointed, and the supper table is not the place to have this discussion.”
“Then when can we have it?” Cat asked. “Because this is important to me.”
“I don’t know, Cat, sometime. Just not now, all right?” Poppy picked up her bowl and walked over to the stove, bringing the conversation to an end.
The rest of the meal took place in silence, and after helping with the dishes, Cat went straight upstairs to her room. She hid the bottle of dragon’s breath in her sock drawer and then lay down on her bed with The Late Bloomer’s Guide to Magic. The cover was a pale, faded green, and Cat traced her finger over the faint gold letters. With a feeling of anticipation, she opened the book up to the first page. At the top in purple ink it said, “A few words from Francesca Fenwick.” Cat snuggled under her comforter and started to read. “Congratulations on being a Late Bloomer! Inside this book I shall give you tips on controlling your magic, strengthening your core power, and becoming the witch you know you can be. But remember, it is important to spend time around other witches, to watch them perform, to take notes. A good witch can teach you more than any book can.”
Oh, if only her mother would help her, Cat thought wistfully, looking up from the page. She must know so much about magic. Cat stared into space for a few moments before focusing back on Francesca Fenwick. “It takes courage and perseverance to succeed as a Late Bloomer, but with the right practice and the right frame of mind, you can have a successful career in magic. Believe in yourself and remember what the great rebel witch, Annabelle Lewis, said when she took down the powers of darkness: Nem zentar topello!—Don’t let fear stand in your way!”
“I’ll try not to,” Cat whispered, cuddling the stuffed lion her dad had brought her back from Africa when she was little. She switched on her bedside lamp for more light and turned to chapter 2, “Adrenaline-Fueled Magic and How to Control It.” This was exactly what she needed to know, and Cat gave a little shiver of excitement. “Late bloomer magic can occasionally be triggered by an adrenaline rush,” she read. “Fear is the most common catalyst, and this sort of magic can be a challenge to get under control.” Yes it can, Cat agreed. Extremely challenging.
“There are mind exercises to practice in chapter six, but the best way to control fear-triggered magic is to overcome fear itself. Once magic has been activated this way, it will always be unpredictable until you are able to tame your fears. A good witch must stay calm in the face of adversity. She cannot let her fears spiral out of control, because her magic will always suffer. Instead, she must desensitize herself to what frightens her. Face those fears head on so they no longer have the power to scare. Only then will her magic behave.”
“So if I overcome my fear of spiders,” Cat said, speaking to her stuffed lion, “which is my biggest fear, then I can learn to control my magic. And when I apply to Ruthersfield next year, Ms. Roach will be completely amazed!”
Cat was so encouraged by her plan that she had to tell someone, but since her mother wouldn’t understand and she didn’t know how to reach Ms. Bell, Cat picked up the walkie-talkie to call Peter. When he didn’t respond, Cat decided to go downstairs for a cupcake and a glass of milk. As she passed by the bathroom, Cat could hear water running. Marie Claire took a bath every evening, and Cat wished she had some Amazing Dreams Bath Powder to give her so she could sprinkle a bit in. There were simple instructions on how to make up a batch at the back of The Late Bloomer’s Guide, but the ingredients called for moon dust, which, Cat knew, was not something they had hanging around the cottage.
Poppy never went to bed this early, and sure enough Cat found her mother in the kitchen, dipping shortbread cookies into melted chocolate. There were two racks of macaroons cooling and a mountain of cookies waiting to be dipped.
“You’ve been busy,” Cat said, taking in her mother’s messy braid and the splotches of chocolate and butter on her shirt. She always went into one of her baking marathons when she was feeling stressed.
“I’ve run out of butter!” Poppy said with a tired smile. “How am I ever going to sell all of these?”
“You will, Mamma. Everyone loves your baking.” Cat picked up a cookie and bit into it. “Oh, if I could only do magic like you bake, I’d be so happy,” she said impulsively. Her mother didn’t answer. “Mamma, please, will you help me?” Cat begged. “You could teach me so much, and I know if I practice, I’ll be good enough to reapply next year.”
Poppy thrust down the cookie she was dipping, breaking it in half. “Ms. Roach isn’t going to change her mind, Cat. Besides, I’m not allowed to help you with your magic.”
“But you could if you wanted. You could show me breathing techniques and simple spells and things.”
“Cat, the police could arrest me if they knew I was practicing magic. Look.” Poppy was breathing hard. “If you had been offered a place at Ruthersfield, I would have had to accept it, okay. And because I love you, I would have. But it’s over. Forget about being a witch.” Poppy shook back her braid in frustration. “I wish you had never inherited the stupid gene. All it does is make people miserable. It made me miserable, and now it’s doing it’s best to ruin your life. Gosh, I hate magic,” she fumed as her feet started lifting off the ground. Sometimes, when Poppy’s emotions were particularly strong, magic still happened to her. It was not anything Cat’s mother could control or liked, and she gripped the table hard, forcing herself to stay down.
“I thought we talked about things in this family,” Cat said. “I thought we had discussions and listened to each other, but you’re not listening to me at all.”
“Go to bed, Cat. It’s late.”
“You’re doing what you love, Mamma,” Cat said with feeling as she walked toward the door. “I just want to do what I love.”
Lying in the dark, Cat reached for the walkie-talkie. “Peter, come in,” she whispered. “Can you hear me, Peter?” There was no answer. “Peter Parker, are you there?”
“It’s ten o’clock,” Peter said, his voice sounding thick and slurred.
“I have something important to tell you.”
“And it couldn’t wait till the morning?”
“No,” Cat said firmly, “it couldn’t. I’ve decided to reapply to Ruthersfield next year.”
“What! Are you crazy?” There was a rustling of sheets, and for the next ten minutes Cat told him all about her meeting with Clara Bell and The Late Bloomer’s Guide to Magic, and learning to control her magic by overcoming her fears.
“So if you find any spiders, Peter, please bring them to school in a match box. That way I can start to get used to them. ‘Desensitizing myself,’ that’s what Francesca Fenwick calls it.”
“Can I go to sleep now, Cat? Because you have clearly lost your mind.”
“Yes, but please don’t forget the spiders.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
Disturbing News
CAT KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG before she even got downstairs. There was no smell of baking wafting through the cottage. Usually at this time her mother and Marie Claire were already bustling about, filling the bakery shelves with loaves of warm bread and buttery croissants. But this morning nothing was ready. Peeking into the shop, Cat saw that the blinds were still drawn and the glass cases sat empty. What on earth had happened? A nervous feeling gripped Cat’s stomach. Maybe Marie Claire had fallen in the night and her mother had taken her to the hospital. Or maybe something awful had happened to her mother? The bakery was never like this in the mornings, except on Sundays and holidays. The feeling in Cat’s stomach got worse. She raced through to the kitchen. “Mamma, where are you?”
Poppy and Marie Claire looked up from the table, a newspaper spread out between them. The radio was on, and the serious voice of a news announcer invaded the kitchen. Mamma and Marie Claire never listened to the news in the morning. There was always music playing.
“What’s happened?” Cat said, relieved to see that her mother and Marie Claire were all right.
“A witch has escaped from Scrubs Prison,” Poppy said, her voice soft and serious.
“What witch?” Cat asked. “You’re scaring me.” She sat down at the table, forgetting all about going to school, and pulled the newspaper toward her. “Madeline Reynolds!” Cat cried out, covering her mouth with her hands. “Oh, flipping fish cakes, it’s Madeline Reynolds!”
“Now, don’t go working yourself into a dither,” Poppy said. “Scrubs is a long way from here, Cat.” There were two grainy photographs on the front page of the paper. One was of a little girl about Cat’s age, dressed in the Ruthersfield uniform. She was smiling at the camera. Underneath was written, “Madeline Reynolds, age eleven.” The other picture showed a bald-headed old woman wearing a boilersuit with the number ten stamped on the front. Her eyes were wild and staring, and Cat glanced from one photo to the other, trying to connect the two. The large, bold headline read, MADELINE REYNOLDS, THE WORLD’S MOST EVIL WITCH, ESCAPES FROM SCRUBS PRISON.
