by Temre Beltz
Ralph kept his head low. He was quiet for a full minute before Cricket leaned forward and plunked Sprinkles into his lap. “There,” she said. “I don’t know why, but he helps with stuff.”
Right away, Ralph reached his good hand out to pet Sprinkles. He nodded and said, “That’s why I stayed awake all night breaking rattraps. I never did think I’d track them all down, but it worked, didn’t it?”
Birdie’s mouth dropped, and Cricket’s hands clasped tight against her chest. “That was you?” they both exclaimed in unison.
But Ralph’s cheeks flushed. “Before you think too well of me, I should tell you the other reason why I did it. I sort of owed you a favor.”
Birdie frowned. “For what?”
“Well, do you remember how Cricket’s picture was hanging on the wall?” Birdie and Cricket nodded, and then, all in one breath, Ralph continued, “I snuck it from beneath Cricket’s pillow, climbed one of Sir Ichabod’s ladders, took Griselda’s portrait off the wall, and stuck Cricket’s there instead.”
Cricket’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes glistened. “But I didn’t mean for anyone else to see that. I . . . It’s not any good.”
“But I didn’t hang it up because it’s good; I hung it up because it’s brilliant.” Ralph paused while Cricket’s jaw gaped and Birdie nodded in fierce agreement. “And I wanted everyone else to see, too. I just never imagined Griselda would, you know, show up at the manor. Do you . . . I mean . . .” Ralph took a deep breath. “I’m sorry?”
Cricket nodded and then echoed softly, “Brilliant?”
Birdie waited a moment and then asked Ralph the question that had been bubbling up ever since his dramatic leap from the window. “Ralph, how did you tame Mistress Octavia’s wolves? Did you use magic?”
Ralph’s eyes widened, but he shook his head. “If I had something like magic, I would have escaped from this place a long, long time ago.”
“Wait, you want to have magic?” Cricket said, leaning in closer. “But I always thought magic was supposed to hurt us? I always thought it could only make things worse?”
Birdie gulped. If only she’d been honest with Cricket from the beginning; if only she’d been brave enough to tell her about Ms. Crunch’s identity, then surely Cricket would be curious about magic too. Surely she’d be thinking Ms. Crunch and her magical plan to “do Mistress Octavia in” might even be the best thing that could ever happen to the Tragicals.
Should I say it now? Birdie wondered.
But Ralph piped up, “That’s what the Council wants us to think. They don’t want Tragicals anywhere near magic because they know magic could change things. Maybe even make us not Tragicals anymore, and then what would the Chancellor do? Who could he convince to take on our roles?”
“Nobody,” Cricket whispered.
Ralph nodded and continued, “Anyways, I didn’t tame Mistress Octavia’s wolves half as well as I thought I could. They’ve been under her influence so long they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be anything else.”
“And what were they before?” Birdie asked.
“Pups,” Ralph said with a grin. “Even dark creatures have a beginning. And most dark creatures end up the way they are because of the people who take them in. It’s just plain animal sense.”
“Animal sense,” Birdie repeated. “Is that something you learned when you were living in the . . . Beyond?”
Ralph was quiet for a moment. “Why are you asking?”
Remembering her conversation with Sir Ichabod, Birdie lowered her voice and said, “Because I never asked before. And I should have.”
Ralph’s eyes grew cloudy. His forehead crinkled. “It’s been . . . a really long time.”
“Will you try?” Birdie pressed. And then again, with Cricket nodding her head. “Please?”
Ralph took a deep breath. Slowly, he began to speak. “I used to live at Barnabus McNuttle’s Pets for the Dastardly. Barnabus wasn’t my . . . father, but he did find me. He found me curled under a bench at Pigglesticks Wharf. When he fished me out, he said I was so scruffy and coated in dirt, he thought I was some sort of creature. He took me back to his shop, planning to give me one meal and a decent night’s sleep, but when he found me the next morning playing with the snakes in the snake pit, he decided to keep me. So we worked out a deal: I took care of the animals, and he gave me a place to stay.”
“So why’d you end up here?” Cricket asked. “Did you get tired of taking care of the animals?”
“Of course not!” Ralph said. And then, with his head low, he continued, “Barnabus got tired of taking care of me. And now here I am.”
“And now here we all are,” Cricket said, shaking her head sadly. “And then one day soon we’ll die, and no one will ever miss us.”
Unless a witch saves us first, Birdie thought. And she knew she couldn’t waste another moment. She had to say something. Maybe not that exactly, but something.
Birdie cleared her throat. “If it’s possible that magic might help us instead of hurt us, maybe there’s a way we could find some of our own.”
“Even if we found magic, I doubt we’d know what to do with it,” Ralph said. “Take that rainstorm and those spiders. Whatever Mistress Octavia says, that was definitely magic. But how did it get here? Why? What good did it do us?”
Cricket’s hand flew against her mouth. Her eyes grew as wide as two full moons. “Birdie,” she said breathlessly. “Your magical letter! You’ve been waiting so long on a response, so many strange things have been happening, that I almost forgot. But your letter came right before the rainstorm—do you think the two are connected?”
Ralph’s head snapped up. “Magical letter? What magical letter? No offense, but who would write to you? To any of us?”
Birdie’s heart thumped. This was it. She absolutely had to reveal Ms. Crunch’s identity. If she didn’t do it now, how could her actions be described as anything else but lying? Lying, even, to friends. Birdie couldn’t imagine there was room for any such thing between friends.
With her head bowed low, Birdie finally laid her burden down. Her voice was soft. “I’ve been writing to a witch.”
The infirmary was dead silent.
Cricket and Ralph were speechless.
So speechless Birdie wondered if she had merely made the confession in her head, so she went on and said it again, although this time a wee bit louder. “I’ve been writing to a . . . a witch.”
It didn’t sound any better the second time.
Even Sprinkles buried his head in his little tiny paws.
Ralph’s voice was low. “Are you saying you got a letter from a witch, and the rain and spiders came from her? Those were . . . curses?”
Birdie’s words tumbled out at an extraordinary speed. “Well, yes, the first one was a curse. But the second one she sent entirely by accident. Really the good news is that—”
“There is no good news with witches!” Ralph interrupted. “Haven’t you read any of the storybooks? The witches in Wanderly are raised on those same stories. Those stories plant ideas in their heads. Wicked ideas they’re supposed to use on us! And if the witch you’re writing to seems different—if she seems like she might be good—then she’s probably even worse because she’s tricking you.”
Birdie shook her head vehemently. “But that’s just it. She’s not trying to act good at all. She told me from the start she was a wicked witch.”
Ralph raked his hands through his hair. “You knew she was a wicked witch when you wrote back to her?”
“Yes. I’ve written her, um, a few times now.” Birdie tried to ignore the flicker of surprise in Cricket’s eyes.
“But how? I mean, I get how she sends letters to you, but how do you send letters to her if you don’t have magic?” Ralph asked.
“The Winds of Wanderly have been delivering our letters. Not just mine, but hers, too. Ralph, I—I think the Winds want to help us.”
Ralph’s shoulders slumped. “By introducing you to a witch? Birdie,
what if this witch is your Tragic End?”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. She can’t be my Tragic End because she wants to do Mistress Octavia in! And if she does, we all might have a real chance.” With Ralph still shaking his head, and Cricket staring at her hands, Birdie’s voice rose. “Don’t you see? We’re Tragicals. I know this is risky, but we’re not going to have many options; in fact, this might be our only option forever. What happens if we miss it?”
Cricket finally broke her silence with a whisper. “Have you tried the friendship thing with her yet?”
“Friends? Friends with a witch?” Ralph shrieked.
But Birdie ignored him. “Yes,” she said.
“And, um, how’s it coming?” Cricket asked.
Birdie sighed. “Slow.”
“Then you must keep trying. It takes a while with people who’ve . . .” Cricket paused. She finally met Birdie’s eyes. “With people who’ve never had one before.”
“I’m not supporting this,” Ralph said, shaking his head. “I’m saying right here and right now this witch business is a terrible idea!”
Birdie reached into her pocket and pulled forth a few sheets of paper she had torn out of her book on her last trip to the dungeon. She had been saving them for Cricket, and pressed them now into her palm. It felt good not to have any more secrets, even if Ralph did look aghast.
“Paper? How did you . . . ? Where did you—” he began.
But Birdie interrupted him. “Maybe it would help if Cricket drew another picture?”
Cricket shook her head to and fro. “Oh, but I couldn’t. That book is yours. You already gave me more than I ever hoped for, and I think you should be the one to finish it.”
“No way,” Birdie said. “A book like that is meant to be finished together. Anyhow, Ralph likes your drawings, and he’s had a pretty rough day.”
Ralph crossed his arms against his chest. It began as a grandiose gesture, but ended much more gingerly considering his bandages. “Nice of someone to remember,” he muttered.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Birdie bit her lip. “Maybe it would be better if we let you rest. Or maybe just . . . me. I would understand if you just want me to leave.”
Ralph looked straight at Birdie. “You really tore those blank pages out of a book?” Birdie nodded, and he continued, “What’s your book about, exactly, and what business do you and Cricket have trying to finish it?”
“It’s about friendship,” Birdie said without hesitation. Lately, it was becoming easier to say out loud. Lately, it was becoming easier to believe in. “And we’re trying to finish it because we think it wants to come true.”
Ralph’s eyes flickered. Soft, warm. Like candlelight. And then he pulled the covers up beneath his chin and shut his eyes.
Birdie wondered if that was her cue to go, but the moment she set her feet on the ground, Ralph said, with his eyes still closed, “If Cricket’s going to draw, you might as well do something too. You know, like write a letter to your witch.”
Birdie plopped back onto the bed. “Wow, really? You wouldn’t mind? Because I do owe Ms. Crunch a letter!”
Ralph groaned. “Actually, I was trying to be funny, but now that you said her name, I don’t know how I can forget it, because Crunch? Her name is actually Crunch?”
Cricket poked her head up. “That just gave me an idea for my drawing!”
“Please don’t make a scary one,” Ralph said.
And Cricket giggled. Much the way she did on the day Ralph grew a blueberry mustache. But this time she didn’t look surprised by the sound. “Is this . . . fun?” she asked, looking eagerly back and forth between Birdie and Ralph.
“I don’t know,” Birdie said. “How would we know what fun is?”
Cricket leaned toward Ralph. “Ralph, you must know! Is this what fun was like in the Beyond?”
Ralph thought for a moment. And then he shook his head. “I didn’t experience anything quite like this in the Beyond. But I don’t think that means this isn’t fun. And maybe, in some ways, it’s even better.”
Whether due to the flood of spiders, the treacherous fall, the ravenous wolves, the threat of a witch, or the barrage of questions posed by Birdie and Cricket, that was it for Ralph. Within moments, the sound of his soft, wheezy snores mingled with the imaginative scritch-scratching of Cricket’s pencil. Birdie pressed all of it close and tried to still the anxious thump of her heart. She simply couldn’t be wrong about Ms. Crunch. For once in her life, with Cricket and now Ralph by her side, Birdie had something no Tragical ever had: something to lose.
Birdie bent her head and wrote:
Dear Ms. Crunch,
I’m real sorry all this laughter talk has caused so much trouble. What happened to you at that magic store where you tried to get the laughing potion really did sound awful. So awful, in fact, I couldn’t help noticing it sounded almost tragical.
Ms. Crunch, I’m going to ask you something I think you should think long and hard about. I’m asking you even though I don’t want to, because the more I think about Mistress Octavia being done in, the more excited I get. But here it is: Do you think my tragical is contagious? Do you think maybe my doom is rubbing off on you? If so, what if there’s not a single thing we can do to make this Mistress Octavia plan work?
If you haven’t crumpled up my letter into a ball, I have something else to say I think you’ll find equally surprising. You may even want to sit down in a chair for this one. You said witches can’t do good magic, but how do you know for sure? So far you’ve sent two curses to our manor and several wicked letters to me. But here’s the crazy thing: since knowing you, we’ve never felt less tragical.
So here’s my idea. Maybe you don’t have any reason to go looking for that Blue Dragon you mentioned. Maybe you’re capable of brewing the potion yourself. Maybe you just need a little practice being good.
Please stop cackling. Or launching banana peels all the way from the Dead Tree Forest. This isn’t as impossible as it sounds. I think it’s as easy as getting a pet. Something you can have around day and night, because it’s hard to be good if you don’t have anything to practice on. But just remember, above all else, pets are not for eating.
You’d be amazed what a pet rat has done for Cricket (who’s a girl and definitely not a bug). In fact, Sprinkles has grown on all of us. I think that’s why Tragicals aren’t supposed to have pets. Maybe pets bring about so much happy, it’s easy to forget the unhappy. Maybe a pet will make you forget about the wicked.
I guess that just leaves me with one last question to answer. My address. You keep on asking for it, and I keep on finding ways not to send it. But I’m not going to do that anymore. I don’t see how I can expect you to be my BFF if I’m not being one to you. At the heart of it, I think BFFs are all about trust.
If you happen to be tricking me, this is probably the moment you’ve been waiting for, but I hope not. Because I like you, Ms. Crunch. You maybe weren’t exactly what I wanted, but maybe you’re just what I need.
So if you want to address my next letter properly, here it is: 0000 Nothing Drive, Nowhere, Wanderly 00000.
Yours truly,
Bird-Girl (I like this name a lot better)
PS: If you are tricking me, and zooming off on your broomstick to come do me in right this instant, can you please not hurt any of the other Tragicals? Thanks.
Thirteen
A Bothersome Jar of Peanut Butter
Agnes Prunella Crunch bent down beside her bed and pressed her saggy cheek against the floor. Even she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The dust bunnies—or rather dust dinosaurs given their size—were staging a coup! They’d brandished every stray crumb, toenail clipping, and loose strand of purple hair Agnes thought she had shoved into oblivion. She had no idea she was feeding a pack of little monsters.
The dust dinosaurs tumbled closer to Agnes, and she snarled at them. This was, after all, her bed (even if she hadn’t bothered to look beneath it in years), and she was
sure it had to be there somewhere.
Of course, she hadn’t opened the thing since it was first plopped into her chubby little hands during Wickedry 101. At the time, she thought it worked much better as a boomerang than for something as quiet and obedient as reading. But ever since the Chancellor took command, the reading of forbidden books—those books written before his reign—had become the naughtiest act one could do.
At the time of the round-up nearly forty years ago, all the witches Agnes’s age had long since given up on reading and didn’t have any books to contribute to the Chancellor’s sky-high pile (let alone to hoard away for their own evil doing). And so, when the Chancellor’s doltish security force, known as the Quill, came knocking on Agnes’s door, all she had to do was toss her empty hands into the air and launch a spitball at them. No one batted an eye. They didn’t even bother to conduct a cursory search. And so, Agnes was perhaps the only citizen in all of Wanderly who hadn’t surrendered her unauthorized books.42
Or, rather, book.
She had only one.
Agnes pulled and pried and clawed after the book she was certain she’d kept. She tried not to think about how tired she was, considering the Bird-Girl’s latest letter had begun cooing into her ear earlier that morning before the sun even contemplated rising. By the time Agnes had wrestled herself awake, she was so fed up with the dove’s sweet little sounds, she determined to pluck its feathers out one by one before serving it up for dinner. But the thing had exploded into another glitter bomb before she could lay a finger on it.
Since knowing Birdie, Agnes had never been so sparkly in all her life.
It was disgusting.
But way worse had been the letter itself. The big-ticket items, of course, were a no-brainer. If Birdie thought she could scare Agnes away with a little threat like “contagious doom,” she had another think coming. Second, every time Agnes thought about wrangling some creature, dragging it into her haunted cabin, and calling it a “pet,” she burst into uncontrollable cackles.
But it was that one line that kept coming back to haunt Agnes.
