by Deva Fagan
“Trying to do something useful,” I retorted. “You said I should cook the sausages!”
He snatched up the pack, his eyes flicking over the buckle. I hadn’t even worked the tongue out. “The sausages are right there,” he said, jabbing a finger at the tree.
Looking up, I saw several brown links dangling from another branch, beside Barnaby’s coat. “I didn’t see them,” I said. “I thought they were in your pack. It’s heavy enough one might think you were carrying all the sausages in the Uplands! And now you’re yelling at me when I was just trying to—to help.”
Barnaby stared at me. He seemed to be breathing too quickly. Then he thumped himself down beside the fire, setting aside his cap and running fingers back through his disheveled hair. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Prunella. I guess I’m…I keep thinking about the Sweetwater well. You said it wasn’t cursed. But what could make the charm stop working like that? Maybe it is because the chalice was stolen. There’s three more taken ill here, just like that tailor in Withywatch.” He let out a gusty sigh.
I scrambled for something to say. “There’s no point worrying about it now. You did everything you could. I was the one who wanted to leave.”
“You’re not the one calling himself a hero,” Barnaby said dourly.
“Still. We did help them. The Sweetwater people and Pogboggen, both. You remember Secrets of the Mistveil? It said something about breaking the curse. Maybe when we get to Blackthorn Manor we’ll also find out how to fix this mess.”
Barnaby grunted. “And how many more charms d’you reckon will fail before that? How many more folks’ll get sick with this blasted wasting?” He drummed his fingers against his pack, brooding. “Maybe I ought to…”
“What?” I prompted. I narrowed my eyes. “Does it have something to do with that man in the monocle?”
“No!” Barnaby replied. “Let’s eat and get some rest. We’ve got a long way to go yet.”
Chapter 5
We spent the next week making our way west across the Uplands. It should only have taken three days at the most, but Barnaby insisted on following several odd roundabout routes. I suspected he was attempting to evade the man with the enchanted monocle.
Avoiding pursuit was not the only thing that slowed us down. In every settlement we passed through, we found more tales of woe. Crops dying, illness, injury, and fire. They called it a curse; I didn’t know what to call it. I saw weathered carvings that had once held wards, wood that still hummed with the memory of old enchantments. In one village they thought they were cursed with baldness, when really it was just a very powerful hair-growing charm that had stopped working.
I had to do something. I knew Grandmother wouldn’t approve; I’d heard enough of her lectures on the evils of magical do-gooding. But she was still holed up in the Bottomlands, and I was out here, looking at the thin faces, staring into the desperate eyes. So I did what I could. We both did, Barnaby and I. Sometimes it wasn’t much. In the balding village, Barnaby’s only contribution was to give the barber some much-needed business. In other places, I made good use of my alligator-spoor curse, and we chased out several run-of-the-mill bog-varmints.
I never stayed for the cheering. But one time a little girl caught me ducking out the back gate and gave me a shy smile and a pumpkin tart. It was the tastiest thing I’d ever eaten. Even better than fried bread.
Some ills we could not cure. Everywhere we went, we found folk struck down with the wasting. Many were laid up in beds, like the Withywatch tailor. Others still managed a semblance of life, listlessly chopping carrots or watching with hollow eyes as I tried to charm away the mysterious ailment, to no avail. They were as dull as weathered winter grasses, when they should have been fresh and green with life. It was as if their will to live was sapping away. But where had it gone? And why?
The hardest part was when Barnaby talked about the Mirable Chalice. He asked me every day how much longer I thought it would be until we reached Blackthorn Manor. I supposed he was torn between stopping to help, and hurrying on to find the chalice and end the curse once and for all.
That was when I started thinking about what he would say if he broke through all the wards and locks and traps into Blackthorn’s treasury and discovered there was no chalice. Grandmother thought it was there, but did she know for certain? What if I’d led Barnaby on a fool’s errand? When I started out, my daydreams were all of the grimoire, of what it might look like, of the secrets it might contain. Of how it would feel to hold it in my hands. Like a proper bog-witch, I’d thought only of my own ends.
But I wasn’t a proper bog-witch anymore. I could feel it slipping away, with every smile I caught fleeting across my lips, with every feather and frond I pulled from my braids to help one of the beleaguered villages. I still missed the music of the frogs and the chatter of my aunts and the pulsing, buzzing life of the bog. Yet each day I shed more of my magic, and I was desperately afraid I was losing myself along with it.
I knew something had changed when Barnaby returned to our night’s camp to offer me a handful of cranberries and a jar of honey. “A taste of home,” he said, flashing me a smile.
A month ago, my heart would never have given that odd little leap at such a gift. I clamped down on the feeling. I had to get that grimoire and return to the bog, before something worse happened. I held up my hands, warding the gift away. Barnaby’s face fell. “I’m a horrible cook,” I protested. “Truly! You’ll never want to look at cranberries again. But thank you. For finding them.” He still looked as if I’d trampled on his prize mushroom patch. I relented. “Here, then, you stew them up, and I’ll go get corn to make fritters.”
“It’s a deal,” he said, grinning. “Only—”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“The Night of a Thousand Frights isn’t until tomorrow. And besides, I know how to deal with frights. I am from the Bottomlands, you know.”
He nodded, still looking uneasily into the woods around us. “I just feel like something’s watching.”
I double-checked the branches above, remembering the crows from Sweetwater. Nothing. I headed off for the corn.
It was while I was walking back with my scarf full of corncobs that I made my decision. Well, actually, it was while I was walking back that I discovered a nice lot of mushrooms growing down the side of a culvert, and while I was picking them I found the old stump full of water that was just right for a finding charm. Since I couldn’t banish my worries with force of will, I would just have to do something to find out for sure where the stinking chalice was. The stump was perfect, and even though I’d never actually done a finding spell, I was pretty sure I could replicate Aunt Flywell’s gestures. There was only one problem.
Twitching my braid forward, I fingered the tassels of flame grass I’d woven into it. The feathery grass was the last bit of the Bottomlands I had left. Even my chicken foot was several days gone, spent on an attempt to recharm an enchanted soup pot.
I untwisted the crackling reddish frond, trying not to notice how my fingers trembled. I forced myself not to slit my gaze. I knew well enough what I would see. A shimmering handful of dried grass, and a dull, dull world all around. I still had my talent, of course, but I was a scribe with one last drop of ink. Was I really about to spend that last drop on Barnaby? I clutched the flame grass in my hand. Once this was gone, who would I be? Could I even call myself a bog-witch?
I didn’t have to do this. The chalice didn’t matter to me. Only the grimoire, the key to my future as a bog-witch.
I thought of the girl who had given me that tart, of Mary Morland and her hungry eyes. I thought of Barnaby, how fierce and determined he’d looked, standing on the edge of the well in Sweetwater. I thought of Pogboggen. Wasn’t he still a pondswaggle? Even living in a well, or a spring? I opened my fingers, letting the flame grass fall into the water-filled stump. I let out my breath in a long whoosh.
I wove my hands through the air the way Aunt Flywell had.
For lack of any better incantation, I whispered, “Please, show me where the Mirable Chalice is. For Barnaby. For the Uplands. For me, and not just so I won’t feel guilty.”
The grass quivered. I stared at it, willing it to move, to point in the direction of the Mirable Chalice. Slowly, slowly, it started to drift, then to spin, the red tips shifting from south, to southeast, to east…It was working! Now north, now northwest. I held my breath. The Mistveil lay to the southwest. Perhaps I had been right all along!
The grass spun to the southwest and kept going. I stared as it continued to spin, like the spoke of a wheel, round and round. A curl of smoke rose from it. Then—with a hollow poof!—the entire frond sizzled, spat, and sputtered to a crisp.
Blast it! I snatched up the blackened flame grass and tossed it aside. I was no better at this than I was at cursing. I bowed my head, wanting to weep. I’d used my last bit of magic on a foolish, stupid attempt to help people, and of course it had backfired. I ran my fingers through my hair, missing the weight of the ornaments and trinkets.
The thud of running feet jerked me from my despair. I leapt up. Barnaby hurtled out of the undergrowth, his face flushed.
“Sweet hills,” he panted. “Finally.” Barnaby shoved his pack at me. My corncobs and mushrooms fell to the ground. “Hide it!” Barnaby whispered. “He’s here!”
“Who? What? Barnaby, I—”
“Barnaby Bagby!” called a voice. I whirled around, trying to tell which direction it had come from. Chills raced up and down my arms. I knew that voice. The man with the enchanted monocle.
“Who is he?” I demanded. “Why is he looking for you?”
“Please, Prunella. Just do it.”
There was no jaunty grin, no sure smile. Only fear and desperation. I nodded. He ran, crashing away through the bushes as if he were trying to get every hunter in the Uplands after him.
I stood there for a moment, until the cold voice called out again. Now it seemed to be coming from the direction Barnaby had run in. He was leading the man away from me. No, away from the pack. Realization began to work its way through my thoughts.
I unbuckled the flap and peered inside. Out of the pack came his spare green jacket, the flask, a single copper penny, and…
A gleaming golden chalice.
I’d never heard a description of the Mirable Chalice, but I had a strong suspicion that it was about the length of my forearm, delicately wrought and etched with vines and flowers. Exactly like the chalice I held in my hand. I squinted, then yelped at the blaze of magic that filled my vision. I had never seen an enchantment this strong.
My spell hadn’t flopped. It had shown me exactly where the chalice was, even as Barnaby ran through the woods like a crazed thing looking for me. But there my thoughts battered into a wall, unable to make sense of it. Why was Barnaby on a quest for the Mirable Chalice if he already had it?
“You can’t run forever, Barnaby,” called the man with the monocle. “I know you stole it, like the thief you are. You will pay for what you’ve done.”
A strangled cry echoed through the woods, breaking my daze into sharp-edged fear. Whoever the man with the monocle was, he had Barnaby, and meant to do him ill. I had to help him. But what good was I with all my trinkets and alchemy now gone?
I eyed the Mirable Chalice again thoughtfully. Perhaps there was something I could do. It was risky, but if I wanted to save Barnaby, it was my only choice.
I peered through the veil of underbrush. The campfire smoked sulkily in the faint drizzle. Across the glade, Barnaby stood backed up against the bole of an ancient oak.
“Where is it?” demanded the man with the monocle, pressing the tip of his saber to the boy’s throat.
“I don’t have it,” Barnaby protested. “You’re the one with the fancy eyewear, Rencevin. D’you see a stinking magical goblet?”
The man Rencevin snorted. “You’ve hidden it, then. But I will find it. I always find what I’m looking for, Bagby. Queen Serafine will have her treasure returned. And you will suffer for your crimes, as all thieves must.”
“I’m trying to make things right! There’s a curse on the Uplands, if you hadn’t noticed!”
“You may be able to fool a handful of credulous villagers, but do not expect such tales to work on me, boy. You’re no hero. When I’m finished with you, all the world will know what you truly are.”
I’d been hoping for the right moment to make my entrance, but as the thief-taker tightened his lips and Barnaby’s eyes went wide, I couldn’t help myself.
I burst out from the underbrush. “No!”
Rencevin whipped around, drawing a second, shorter blade as he pressed Barnaby back against the oak with his saber. “Who—? Ah. The bog-witch from Withywatch.” He flicked a look at Barnaby. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you consorting with Bottomland trash.” Rencevin’s lip curled. He looked at me as if I were a clod of mud stuck to the bottom of his boot. “But she won’t be able to help you this time.”
“Help him? Why should I help him? Whoever heard of a bog-witch helping someone? Especially him.” I jerked my chin at Barnaby. “He’s just an overdressed dandy running around doing good deeds, foiling all my evil plans. I’m here for revenge, same as you.”
“You are nothing like me, bog-spawn,” snapped Rencevin. “I am here to exact the Queen’s Justice.”
“You’ll have to wait, then,” I said, drawing myself up even as I ran a cautious hand over my midsection to confirm that the Mirable Chalice was still bound safely beneath my jacket. “Or suffer the wrath of Prunella Bogthistle!” I raised my arms menacingly, wishing I still had that flaming-eye charm.
Rencevin’s monocle gave a flash that was no mere reflection. The man grunted, stepping back a pace, though the saber remained at Barnaby’s throat. “You have considerable magics, that is true.” He continued to eye me cautiously.
Hah! A thread of relief worked free from my bundle of nerves. The first part of my plan had worked. The magic emanating from the chalice had fooled the thief-taker into believing me a powerful bog-witch. Now I just needed to pull off the rest of the ruse. “Leave the boy to me,” I said, “and I just might reconsider turning you into a toad as well.”
Rencevin tilted his head. “A nice story, witch girl, but I don’t believe you. I think you care for the boy. You’ve come to help him.”
“I have not!” I protested. “I don’t care one snit about the boy. Skewer him if you like. I hate him. Stinking heroes.”
“Prunella—” began Barnaby, then gasped as the tip of the saber pricked his throat.
I sucked in a gasp of my own, hoping the thief-taker hadn’t seen my discomfort. This wasn’t working. I needed something more than empty threats. I mustered my strongest glare against them both.
“If I cared about him, would I curse him with the doom of a thousand agonies?” Crooking my finger, I swept my arm out with a flourish, precisely as I’d seen Grandmother do it. I hoped Barnaby would understand.
The boy blinked. Then his eyes narrowed, just for a moment, before he let out a tortured cry.
Rencevin hesitated. “It’s not—”
“Would you care to share the same fate, thief-taker?” I demanded. Barnaby continued to writhe in pretended agony. Perhaps a bit too theatrically, to judge by Rencevin’s furrowed brow.
“I don’t fear you, bog-witch,” he said. “Bagby will face my justice.”
If only I could truly curse! I stabbed my crooked finger at Rencevin. “Leave. Now. Or by the bones of Esmeralda I will curse you!”
Searing light leapt from my finger, sizzling into Rencevin’s chest. I shrieked, startled. A hot pain surged through me, arcing from my torso to my hand. I staggered back, eyes watering, distantly aware of the thief-taker cursing and shouting.
Then Barnaby was beside me, seizing my hand, pulling me away. I ran hunched over against the heat that continued to blaze out of the Mirable Chalice. What had I done?
“Are you sure you’re all right?
” Barnaby asked for the fifth time. “You were yowling like a wet cat.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” I said. “Not even a mark. All the same, though, I’m glad that thing is on your back.” I glanced at the sack slung across Barnaby’s shoulders, where the Mirable Chalice rested safely once again. We were walking along a stretch of road that skirted a grassy marshland. The drizzle of rain had finally cleared, leaving the sky changeable and spangled with intermittent shafts of light. “And it wasn’t nearly as bad as your yowling,” I added.
“Hey, I was trying to help. Rencevin didn’t believe you.” Barnaby chortled. “He’ll think twice next time, after that curse.”
“I’m not sure it was a curse,” I admitted. “That chalice is filthy with magic. It just flared up when I was pretending to curse the thief-taker.” I crooked and uncrooked my fingers. Was that what a true curse felt like? A fire ripping through you—an angry, tormented thing?
“Whatever it was, it saved our hides. Well, mine at least. You didn’t have to come back for me. I figured you’d be halfway to the Bottomlands before I got out of that scrape, once you saw what was in the sack.”
I turned on him, stung. “I wouldn’t just leave you there!”
“Hey, don’t shout. I didn’t know you cared, that’s all,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself. “Thanks.”
“I care about getting my grimoire, and I’d just as soon not see you get skewered. So I suppose…you’re welcome. Now,” I said, to change the subject, “would you like to explain why you were on a quest for the Mirable Chalice when you had it in your pack all along?”
“I’d be happy to, if you’d like to explain why you insisted it was in Lord Blackthorn’s manor.”
“Grandmother said it was there,” I protested. “I mean, she was pretty sure.”
Barnaby raised his eyebrows.
“All right, fine,” I said. “It was mostly just an excuse.”
