A Most Magical Girl

by Karen Foxlee

  It was dark suddenly. Terribly dark. Annabel felt such fear that she stopped still.

  She could not see before her or behind, but she heard the footsteps and laughter. Footsteps and laughter coming closer.

  “Here,” said Kitty, her hand appearing out of a dark cloud.

  They ran and stumbled, turned a corner, and found themselves in a clearing of fresh air. The young men appeared through the fog behind them. The broomstick shook violently in Annabel’s hands.

  “There’s no good running,” one of them said. “You’ve got your pretty selves into a dead end here.”

  It was true. They stood at the end of a tiny bricked lane.

  “We only want to stop and say hello,” said another.

  “We is only being polite,” said a third.

  Now! the broomstick said, not in words but in the way it bucked in Annabel’s hands and yanked her half off her feet. Annabel knew that now was what it meant.

  “Quick,” said Kitty, ripping the burlap bag from its head as the young men gathered in a circle around them.

  When the bag was off, the broomstick jolted in Annabel’s hands, lifting her feet clear off the ground.

  “Get on!” shouted Kitty. “You must.”

  The broomstick was already going up. It dragged Annabel and Kitty, and they clawed themselves onto its back as they plowed through the circle of young men. Annabel kicked out at one who was trying to grab her foot, but the men’s sneering faces soon turned to astonished. Annabel screamed as the broomstick shot straight up.

  The broomstick rose so fast Annabel was sure they were heading to the moon. It flew through the sky at such tremendous speed that her bonnet blew off. She felt Kitty’s arms around her waist, and they both looked down to catch one last glimpse of the men before the fog covered them over.

  The broomstick flew them up until they were over the rooftops, above the clouds, into clean air. They flew above London into a strange purplish afternoon light. Annabel thought she heard Kitty scream, not a terrified scream but a wild whoop of delight, but the wind took all noise and threw it far behind.

  Annabel clutched the broomstick hard, hoping she wouldn’t fall. They could see glimpses of London through the fog: tiny snatches of the great parks and giant trees, a sliver of the glassy Thames, the glimmer of lights on grand roads.

  “I need to deliver you to Finsbury!” shouted Annabel over the wind.

  She had no idea how to stop the broomstick. No idea how to make it go up or down. She tried to lean backward to see if that would help, but it almost performed a somersault. She pulled the letter from her sash and nearly lost it to the wind. She turned to the map that Miss Henrietta had drawn and read out the address neatly printed there, as though it might help.

  “Number Three Sun Street!” she cried to the broomstick, although she wasn’t sure it understood such things.

  She felt the broomstick slow. “I really have to take you there,” she said as gently as she could.

  The thing stopped in midair and began to plummet.

  “Help!” screamed Annabel.

  “Do something!” cried Kitty.

  They went straight down.

  They fell through the clouds.

  They fell through the fog.

  They fell past the chimney tops.

  Then the broomstick stopped. It stopped with a lurch so sudden that their bottoms lifted clean into the air. Then it shot forward at great speed. It sped down roads and streets and laneways until they disappeared in a blur. It hurtled through a church nave door and careered back out again. It skidded beneath a bridge. It fishtailed between factory smokestacks. It flew through parks and along avenues until it set its heart on a street and a lighted window at the very end.

  The broomstick raced toward the lighted window. There was no time to think. It raced toward the glass, not stopping or slowing. It hit the window, and the glass fell apart in great shards around them, and they scooted across the floor, rolling up rugs as they went, crying out in fright, right into the middle of a group of ancient men—all of them stooped and bowed—who were at that very moment taking biscuits and tea.

  It wasn’t how Annabel thought a wizard’s house might be, dark and gloomy and filled with cobwebs and cauldrons. She and Kitty lay in a tangle in an ordinary sitting room. All around, on chesterfields, were very old men with astonished expressions on their faces.

  The Finsbury Wizards didn’t wear cloaks or hats but, instead, dark morning coats. The coats were dusty on the shoulders, as though the wizards had sat in the same place for a very long time. Most of them held a biscuit halfway to their mouths, so that Annabel wasn’t sure at all about Miss Henrietta’s idea that they would know of her coming. They looked very surprised indeed.

  “Ouch,” said Annabel, and she began to cry.

  She couldn’t help it. It was the third time in one day. She couldn’t stop the tears. She couldn’t think about a flower or a pretty painting. She wept loudly and her nose ran. It was her mother gone, and her father not a sea captain after all, and flying on a broomstick with a wild girl. It was finding herself lying on the floor in a strange house with dusty-shouldered gentlemen gazing upon her with open mouths. It was how she was no longer Annabel Grey. Not the Annabel Grey she had been. She would never be that girl again.

  Be brave.

  Kitty sat up. She had a little gash on her head. Annabel looked at her own hand, which was throbbing, and saw that she, too, was bleeding. The sight of blood made her let out a long wail. The wail seemed to make the Finsbury Wizards spring into action.

  “Goodness gracious me,” said the tallest and the oldest, and he jumped up in a befuddled fashion. “Quickly, Mr. Crumb. Fetch the magic bag.”

  Mr. Crumb looked as if he had never done anything quickly in his life, but he shuffled as fast as he could out of the room and returned with a small black bag. The other two wizards put their biscuits down and stood up and sat down again and did not seem sure what to do.

  “Well, now,” said one of them, who had only a few tufts of hair on his head. He handed Annabel a very stiff handkerchief from his pocket, and she dried her eyes. “You mustn’t cry.”

  “Stay very still,” said the other, who had a decaying carnation pinned to his lapel. “It appears you’re both bleeding.”

  Confirmation of this fact made Annabel cry even more until the tallest and oldest offered her a withered hand and pulled her to her feet. Mr. Crumb extracted a small bottle from the magic bag and waved it under her nose. It had a horrible smell, but the room was suddenly clearer. There were the wizards smiling at her kindly. Their faces glowed in the firelight and through her tears. There was Kitty standing staring at the shattered window. She looked terribly uncomfortable in a sitting room, her hair all tangled by the wind and a little trail of blood disappearing down into her ear.

  “But you’re bleeding, too, Kitty,” said Annabel.

  “It’s just a little cut,” said Kitty, and she refused any help from the wizards. She crossed her arms, retreated closer to the window, and looked out at the fog, which at that very instant was winding dirty tendrils into the room.

  “Good evening, Kitty,” said the tallest wizard, who had cornflower-blue eyes.

  Kitty wouldn’t look at him.

  He took a plate of biscuits and placed them on a small table near her, the way one might give a cat some milk. “Thank you for delivering Annabel Grey to us safely,” he said very softly. “And thank you, Mr. Crumb, for kindly administering the smelling salts. Annabel, I am Mr. Bell.”

  “Mr. Crumb,” said the wizard with the magic bag.

  “Mr. Bourne,” said the wizard with the wilting carnation.

  “Mr. Keating,” said the wizard with very little hair.

  “And you are Annabel,” continued Mr. Bell very solemnly. “The magical world is very noisy tonight. There is much chatter and calling and confusion, but your name and young Kitty’s name above all ring clear.”

  Kitty had sat on her haunches to eat a
biscuit, even though there was a chair right near her. She ignored Mr. Bell, who made no mention of the shattered window or of the cold draft that blew through it now and lifted up strands of Kitty’s hair and ruffled the fuzz on top of Mr. Keating’s head.

  It made Annabel weep afresh into the old handkerchief she’d been given. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We didn’t mean to come in through the window. It’s just that I’ve never ridden on a broomstick before.”

  “Never mind that,” said Mr. Bell. “All that matters is that you have arrived, and with not a moment to spare.”

  “I have a letter,” said Annabel. “From the Miss Vines.”

  She gave the letter to Mr. Bell, who sat down and read in an ancient, quavering voice.

  “ ‘For the Finsbury Wizards. Regards, etc. We write as a matter of great urgency to inform you that Mr. Angel has returned. He has the Black Wand and a machine that can produce dark magic. He has raised shadowlings already, and at full moon Friday he will raise an army and take the city. He requests that all members of the Great & Benevolent Magical Society lay down their wands and pledge allegiance to him. We have sent you Annabel, the daughter of Vivienne. She is the youngest and most able member of the society. According to the handbook, she must retrieve the Morever Wand for the society. She has sight but no discipline. We implore you to teach her what you can and then send forth your pigeons to spread the word. Yours, etc., E. & H. Vine.’ ”

  “So it is true. The whispers are true,” said Mr. Crumb. “He wishes to raise an army and take the city!”

  “Our glass told us as much,” said Mr. Keating.

  “But before us is the girl,” said Mr. Bourne. “Do not forget it.”

  And then they all paused and gazed upon Annabel very solemnly.

  They gazed upon her for so long that Annabel felt embarrassed and her cheeks burned and she looked instead about the room, which was small and comfortable and cluttered. She noticed that some of the wallpaper had begun to peel and the pressed ceiling had flaked and dropped its paint like snowflakes on the floor. She noticed Kitty, but Kitty refused to notice her. Kitty ate her biscuits and stared out the window as if she would much rather still be flying on the broomstick through the sky.

  Everywhere, there was a thick layer of dust. Dust on the sideboards and on the mahogany table and chairs and even, she noticed with horror, a thin layer over the biscuits. Just looking at those biscuits made her stomach grumble.

  “Please,” said Mr. Bell, pointing to the biscuits, “while we think.”

  So Annabel chose a biscuit and shook the dust from it. She chewed thoughtfully. Mr. Bell and Mr. Bourne and Mr. Keating and Mr. Crumb…they really were very unwizardly names. And four was a very unwizardly number. There should be three or seven, she thought, and she took another bite and waited for them to finish their gazing.

  “You must choose a glass for us first,” said Mr. Bell finally, and he creaked up and to the bookshelf and retrieved an old wooden box. “Sit here, somewhat closer to the fire.”

  He took a large brown stick from where it was propped beside his chair. It was smooth and covered half over with strange symbols. He pointed it at the fire and closed his eyes and said the word Benignus.

  “Benignus,” he said again, and the flames grew up tall and the room grew warmer. There was that word again, thought Annabel. It sounded Latin.

  “This is the Adela,” he said. “The Finsbury Wizards’ wand.”

  “And my great-aunts have the Ondona,” she said.

  “And the Bloomsbury Witches have the Delilah, and the Kentish Town Wizards have the Kyle, although they are very old now indeed. Mr. Huxley—you may have heard of him—has the Little Bear, a very strange wand, made of driftwood, but very good for making fine weather. The Old Silver belongs to Mr. Hamble in Stepney, and it is a tree-healing wand. He can bring new buds to dying trees…but he can barely lift it anymore. All members of the Great & Benevolent Magical Society are very old, Annabel, and now Mr. Angel has returned, not aged at all and wanting us to lay down our wands and do bad with him. To practice terrible dark magic on the good people of London.”

  It did seem very wrong to Annabel, and she remembered Mr. Angel’s pale skin and the way he had looked at her when she told him her name. It made her shiver.

  “We have the lesser wands, Annabel, and above the lesser wands there are the two powerful wands, the Black and the White, although the White is sometimes known as the Morever. The Black Wand has long been prized by those wishing to do wrong. He has searched the earth for it, no doubt, and now it is his and he has a machine that can produce dark magic. Not just a small amount, Annabel, the way a wizard might make a drop, but the quantity produced by a machine like the great steam engines and the great looms. Why, he might do almost anything now.”

  “He has already succeeded in raising shadowlings,” whispered Mr. Keating.

  Annabel thought of them then, tried to picture them in her mind. Shadows given wicked little souls, Annabel—why, they might do almost anything.

  It made Annabel feel scared. She looked to Kitty, but Kitty looked to the window and refused to be involved.

  “You, dear child, must go into Under London to retrieve the Morever Wand,” said Mr. Bell. He said it calmly and quietly, as though he were saying she must go to the High Street and choose a new dress.

  “The White Wand, the good wand,” said Mr. Bourne. “A most magical girl is required. The Valiant Defender of Good Magic. Everything is threatened, Annabel. Everything. From the smallest babies to the most ancient witches. Only the Morever will defeat the Black Wand with dark magic in it.”

  That did not help her fear. Not one little bit.

  “Now for your glass,” he said. “Please open the box.”

  Annabel knelt beside the fire and opened the lid.

  “Anyone who has the talent of sight can usually find a seeing glass that will suit them,” said Mr. Bell, as though Annabel were trying on hats at Harrods.

  Annabel thought of the dark house and the dark wave, ready to wash over the city, and it was so violent in her mind that she flinched. Were they the shadowlings? It was such a terrible thought!

  “You do see things,” said Mr. Bell, “don’t you? In puddles?”

  The wizards looked at her so kindly and the fire was so warm and the taste of the biscuit still so sweet in her mouth that she nodded.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, then, you must find a glass and learn to see in it. Puddles are not always at hand,” said Mr. Bell. “Your sight will help you on your way….Both of you on your way.”

  He looked at Kitty then, and Kitty looked back from the window. “I’ve only got to take her back to the witches’ shop,” she said. “That’s all I said I’d do. For three times my ration.”

  Mr. Bell nodded kindly.

  Inside the box were many small parcels of fabric. Annabel unwrapped the first and found a palm-sized piece of green glass, quite jagged. She held it on her hand and then to her eye. The wizards nodded approvingly. It changed the room to a turquoise color and the fire to a dirty yellow. But did it suit her?

  She wrapped the green glass back in its cloth. Go on a journey to find a wand and defeat Mr. Angel with it, she thought. She didn’t know anything about wands. It was not the same as being asked to balance a book on her head and walk to the door and back. It was not the same as mapping the Danube. It was not at all the same as decorating a bonnet with yellow ribbon. But there was a faint tremor of excitement, deep down, within her. She looked up and saw Kitty watching her, and looked quickly down at the box again.

  There was brown glass and clear glass and yellow glass. There were pieces of pottery with glaze, which were only a little shiny. There was the brown bottom of a jug, which she held up with disdain. It wasn’t at all how she expected magical seeing glass to look. Finally she unwrapped an old rag and found a piece of ruby-red glass.

  It was thick, and it fitted snugly inside her palm. She turn
ed it and watched its light play on the ceiling. It caught the reflection of the flame in the fireplace. Annabel felt something inside her, a faint shimmer of recognition.

  “You sense something with this one?” asked Mr. Bell.

  “I feel it is mine,” whispered Annabel. “Although I don’t understand how.”

  “Is it the one you choose?” asked Mr. Bell.

  “Why, yes,” said Annabel, not admitting that it really felt much more as if the ruby-red glass had chosen her.

  “Now, some rules for looking in it,” said Mr. Bell. “Mr. Crumb, if you will?”

  Mr. Crumb took the seat closest to Annabel. It took some time on account of his not being able to stand at first and Mr. Bourne and Mr. Keating having to heave him up. Then Mr. Bourne and Mr. Keating had to sit down, which took some doing. A pair of glasses was lost and found again. Annabel wondered if anything much ever happened in the magical world, between the Vines and the Finsbury Wizards.

  “Well, now, the rules are simple, my dear,” said Mr. Crumb. “One, visions require a quiet mind. Two, in visions the future is never colored and there is often not any sound. Yes?”

  Annabel nodded.

  “Three, the past is often colored and often very loud,” he continued. “Do you agree?”

  “Well…,” began Annabel.

  “Four, something seen in the present in another place—why, that is often very murky.”

  “I see,” said Annabel.

  “And finally, if someone speaks to you directly from a vision, then that person is dead or very close to death, hovering between the two worlds. Yes?”

  “Oh,” said Annabel, and she felt glad that no one had ever spoken to her in one of her visions. Indeed everything was always dark or colorless and without any sound, which meant she saw into the future, she thought, and she felt quite pleased that she had remembered the rule. She smiled at Mr. Crumb. He blushed fiercely.

  “Perhaps Annabel should try to see in her glass,” suggested Mr. Bell.