The Magical Misadventures of Prunella Bogthistle

by Deva Fagan

  “Too many. A dozen, at least.”

  “We’ll have to go around,” said Barnaby. “Maybe there’s another way across.”

  “I hope so.”

  We crept along the edge of the moat for what felt like ages. “Prunella, look there,” Barnaby said suddenly. “Is that a boat? Let’s go.”

  I crept forward, still mindful of the jacks behind us. We were nearly halfway round the manor, well out of sight, but I still couldn’t help shooting backward glances.

  Which is probably why I didn’t see the pondswaggle.

  “Villains! Intruders! Thieves! Bog-witch!” she shrilled, bounding up from the edge of the moat as we approached the coracle. “Who dares enter the demesne of Lord Blackthorn?”

  Pale hair tufted above her greenish face. Her dress looked as if it had been patched together out of lily pads. A single pale-yellow lily was tucked behind one of her ears, in horrible contrast to the mouthful of vicious-looking teeth she bared at us. My breath caught.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Have you come to steal my lord’s treasures? To murder him most foully? To beg favors you don’t deserve?”

  “Actually,” Barnaby said, from his position near my feet, “we’re here with a message.”

  She scowled at us. “What message would a toad and a bog-witch have for the likes of Lord Blackthorn?”

  What message indeed? I tried to say something, but it came out as a gasp.

  Barnaby ignored me. “It’s not for Lord Blackthorn. It’s for you.”

  The pondswaggle blinked and pursed her lips. “For me? Who would send a message to me?”

  “Your brother, Pogwobben.”

  “Pogboggen,” I corrected, finally seeing where this was going.

  “Right. Him. He sent us to invite you to visit him. He’s got a new home, you see. Wants to show it off to his kinfolk.”

  The pondswaggle crossed her arms. “I’m not about to abandon my sworn duty to go visit some mud hole.”

  “Oh, it’s much better than a mud hole,” I said. “It’s a pond. There’s a spring, and rushes all around it. It’s lovely. You really ought to see it.”

  The pondswaggle glared at me.

  “Unless…” began Barnaby.

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, I mean, you’ve got a very nice moat here, but it’s not quite the same as a pond. You’re not a moatswaggle, after all. So a person would understand if you didn’t want to go and get your feelings hurt.”

  “My moat is better than a stinking pond any day,” said the pondswaggle, snorting. But she’d uncrossed her arms. “I suppose it might be nice to see Pog again. But I can’t leave the moat unguarded. Those jacks at the front aren’t worth a sack of beans.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on the moat,” said Barnaby. “I’d hate for you to miss a visit with your brother. I haven’t seen my own brothers in a long time, either.”

  “Really?” She beamed at Barnaby, rather a little too warmly, to judge by the way he suddenly croaked his throat clear.

  “Well, go on. Don’t worry. We’ll keep things safe.”

  The pondswaggle hurried off. She returned a few minutes later with a large satchel slung over one shoulder and a pair of red boots on her feet. We waved her off with our best wishes for a nice visit.

  “Not bad, if I do say so myself,” said Barnaby. “Even for a toad.”

  “Poor Pogboggen,” I said.

  “I’ll make it up to him someday. Let’s get across. I think I see a door on the other side.”

  It was a door. A large oak door; very sturdy, very locked.

  “You’ll have to pick it,” said Barnaby. “Unless you happen to know any lock-opening charms?”

  “I could try a fireball. But Lord Blackthorn would probably notice that.” I sighed. “I think we better do this your way.” I grabbed Barnaby’s purple jacket from the pack and found the picks hidden in the collar.

  Barnaby hopped onto my sleeve as I knelt beside the door. Under his direction, I fit two of the picks into the lock, pressing one down while I sorted around with the other, trying to find the tumblers. It all seemed rather mysterious to me. It also gave me a crick in my neck.

  “This isn’t working,” I said, fiddling with the stupid thing.

  “It’s your first time,” Barnaby said. “You’ll get it. Try again, lightly—don’t bash at it. You’re not killing a wasp.”

  “My hand is going to fall off. I say we just—”

  Something clicked. With a grinding of stone against metal, the door opened. Barnaby hopped up onto my shoulder. “See? You did it.”

  We stepped into an echoing entryway dominated by an enormous staircase that curved upward into darkness. Barnaby surveyed the hallway. “We should check down here first. Try that room on the right.”

  “It’s not exactly what I imagined,” I whispered as we stepped into what had once been a gracious sitting room. Dust and webs had turned the chairs and lacquered screens into ghosts. Bits of dry grass littered the fireplace, scattered across a thick layer of bird-droppings.

  “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s lived here for years,” said Barnaby.

  “ ‘Lived’ probably isn’t the right word.”

  “Do you think he’s a wraith?” Barnaby asked.

  “Hmm. Possibly. To have lasted two centuries, Lord Blackthorn certainly must have used some powerful spirit-enchantments. But people also say he’s got three eyes.” I shrugged, trying to ward off the fear fluttering along my spine.

  We went down a dismal hall, then through a music room with a promising-looking collection of what turned out to be pepper-grinders arrayed across the harpsichord.

  Barnaby spent several long minutes hopping across a pair of heavy wooden doors on the far side of the conservatory. He directed me to lift him up to examine every inch of the frame. He was heavy for a toad, and my arms trembled like an old woman’s by the time I lowered him to the moth-eaten carpet. It had been worth it, though.

  Barnaby spat out a mouthful of metal splinters. “Poison darts.”

  “At least we know there must be something valuable inside.” I pushed the doors open.

  Beneath the curtains of dust, gilded leather spines marched along the walls, shelf upon shelf. “The library,” said Barnaby, hopping ahead of me across the shaggy green carpet. “D’you think your grimoire is in here?”

  I raced along the walls, dipping down, standing on tiptoes, as I searched the titles. There were so many! The entire collection in the bookseller’s shop in Withywatch would not have filled even a corner of this room.

  A thousand and one books of power and mystery, but none was the one I sought. I was about to start a second search when an excited croak from Barnaby drew my attention to the collection of chairs ringing a low table at the center of the room. He was perched atop a large, colorful tome that lay open on a threadbare ottoman.

  “What did you find?” I asked, my heart galloping away from me. I leaned over Barnaby, examining the book.

  “Isn’t it brilliant?”

  I groaned. “We did not break into the manor of the most powerful wizard alive or undead to borrow his copy of Lady Ainsley’s Guide to Popular Fashion!”

  “But look at that jacket. That’s a thing of beauty. Fellow like me would look flaming smart in that.” He tapped his bulbous fingers against the page. “Come on, tear it out.”

  “Barnaby, you’re a toad!”

  “I won’t be one forever. Let me have a bit of hope, now. After we return the chalice and I get my reward, I’m taking this straight to the nearest tailor.”

  “Toadliness aside, do you really want to be wearing an antique?”

  “Antique? That’s no antique. I saw the duke of Slayfell wearing one just like it to court not four months ago.”

  “Look at the year on the cover,” I said, closing the book and turning it to face Barnaby.

  “That’s more than two centuries ago,” he said.

  “Like everything else in this manor, including the
owner. Whom we do not want to meet. So we’d better get going.”

  I set the book down again. It fell open. Barnaby stuck out his foreleg, riffling through the pages. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Every one of these is something you’d see on the streets of Orlanna.”

  I held out my hand. “Do you want to unravel the mystery of Lady Ainsley, or find the Mirable Chalice?”

  Barnaby grumbled something but hopped onto my palm. I set him on my shoulder, and we continued up the winding staircase. The velvety carpet muffled my footfalls. Distant creaks and groans kept my pulse racing. Every moment I expected to turn a corner and confront Lord Blackthorn himself, and probably a dozen jacks.

  The thin light from the dusty windows lit a long hallway. At the far end stood a wooden door carved with thorny vines. More vines, real ones, had torn through the walls and crisscrossed the checked black-and-white marble floor.

  “I think that’s it!” I said. “Come on!”

  I started forward, sure we didn’t have much time. Blackthorn might already know we were here.

  “Prunella!” shrilled Barnaby. Behind me, I heard a soft thoomp.

  I stopped, one foot planted on a black marble tile, the other lifted in mid-step. Trying to maintain my balance, I craned my neck to look for Barnaby.

  He lay splayed across the floor behind me, his bulbous fingertips jammed into the cracks between the tiles. I could just make out a distant, ominous hissing. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Poison gas,” croaked Barnaby. “Trapped floor. I think I’ve got them all plugged, but you better hurry.”

  “What should I do?”

  “You should let the thief go first,” he said. “But since you went ahead, we’ll play the hand we’re dealt. I’ll keep this plugged until you’re safe on the other side. Go on, step where you like. It’s already triggered.”

  “I’m not leaving you here to get poisoned!” I said. “Maybe we can hold our breath and wait for the gas to dissipate?”

  “That could take an hour. Unless you’ve got some flipping fantastic breath-holding charm, our best bet is for you to scram. Go on!”

  “That’s it! I can clear away the gas.”

  “I thought you said magic might get Lord Blackthorn’s attention?”

  “We’ll deal with Lord Blackthorn when we need to. Get ready to hold your breath as soon as you leap clear.”

  Barnaby nodded. His pale throat belled out. I filled my own lungs, but I did not hold the breath long. As Barnaby launched himself from the trapped stone, I whistled, high and sharp.

  A wraith of yellow mist spun up from the tiles, reaching toward us. The next moment, a gust of wind drove it back, tearing it apart. Somewhere in the distance, a door banged open. I hunched down as the gale whipped past. I pulled myself forward to shelter Barnaby as the tumult died to a gust, then to a breeze, and finally to utter stillness.

  “We made it!” said Barnaby. “Better hurry. If that little hurricane didn’t wake up Blackthorn, I don’t know what would. But let me go first this time.”

  I jittered at the end of the hall while Barnaby examined the carved door. What could I do to stop Lord Blackthorn? The wind charm was good for a distraction, but it wouldn’t hold off a host of jacks. If only I could curse properly…

  “It’s clear,” said Barnaby, pulling me from my fears. Together, we passed into the room.

  “It must be in here.” I spun around, sweeping my gaze over the enormous amount of rubbish heaped about.

  Barnaby goggled at the dozens of curio cabinets and armoires, each bursting with oddments. “What is this stuff?”

  “Some of it’s magical,” I said, peering at what appeared to be a stuffed two-headed snake resting beside a collection of glimmering red stones. “The rest…” I shrugged. What did a person do with an oil lamp shaped like an alligator head?

  “Over here,” croaked Barnaby. “I found it!”

  I rushed to join him in the relatively clear space near the center of the chamber. There, on a simple stone pedestal, stood the Mirable Chalice. I seized it, the gold cool against my hot fingers.

  “Right, let’s go!” said Barnaby. “Before Blackthorn finds us.”

  That was when I saw the dusty old lectern over in one corner. The aged wood was carved with thistles, and a single book lay upon it. It was only about the size of my two palms put together, yet it drew my gaze like the Northern Star on a cloudless night.

  Esmeralda’s grimoire. It must be.

  This was the goal I’d been seeking for weeks. This was the book that could teach me every dark and dire secret that had festered in the mind of my ancestress. With it, I could be the greatest bog-witch of all. With it, I could go home.

  Why wouldn’t my feet move? I should be racing forward to take it up. For a true bog-witch, that grimoire was the greatest treasure in the land, worth far more than any golden chalice.

  I swallowed the dryness from my throat. Barnaby was saying something, but the words fell distantly, like rain on a high stone roof. I took a single step toward the lectern.

  “Prunella!” Barnaby croaked loud enough to set my name echoing back from the walls of the treasure room. I shook off my daze, turning to see what had provoked him.

  A tall figure stood silhouetted by the torchlight. For one joyful moment I thought that it was Barnaby, that my curse had worn off. Then I saw the toad leaping toward me, fleeing before the newcomer.

  “It’s been a long time since any mortal has dared enter my domain,” rattled a papery voice. “But I see you’ve made yourself at home. Well, then, let us have some introductions. I am Lord Blackthorn.”

  Chapter 11

  Lord Blackthorn snapped his fingers. Two twiggy pumpkin-headed jacks stalked in and positioned themselves behind him, glowering at us.

  “You will tell me who you are and why you have ignored my warnings.” The man tilted back his head to reveal his face. Even the seeming spell on the mummers in Veil’s Edge had not prepared me for what I saw there. It was the same leathery vagueness, with only a hint of color to shape the nose, the mouth. But the eyes…they were not black pools, pitiless and endless. They were something more horrible than that.

  They were human. In fact, their hazel gleam reminded me of Barnaby’s eyes. But I had never looked into Barnaby’s face and seen such pain and despair.

  “I knew you didn’t really have three eyes,” I said, telling myself to be brave. Or at least to look brave.

  Lord Blackthorn gave a low, wheezy sigh. “I did. But I lost the third long ago. I have lost many things in my life.” He squinted at me. “You have the look of a Bogthistle, I think.”

  I raised my chin. “Prunella Bogthistle.” I raised the Mirable Chalice slightly. “And I’m here to end this thing’s curse on the Uplands. You can threaten all you like, but it won’t stop us—me, I mean.”

  “Us?”

  I winced. I’d meant to try to keep him from noticing Barnaby. But Blackthorn was already peering down at the toad by my feet. “Ah yes. The boy from the Uplands. My jacks tell me you are quite the hero. Barnaby, is it?”

  “I’m just doing what’s right,” he croaked.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” said Blackthorn. “It was you who brought the chalice back within my reach. What I don’t understand is how you came by it. It has been tucked away safe and snug in Serafine’s treasure house for two centuries.”

  Barnaby gulped and said nothing.

  “Hmm…” mused Blackthorn. “You are rather well versed in locks and traps. You made it into this chamber handily, even in your current state.” He laughed. “Somewhat mixed up, aren’t you? The bog-witch making valiant proclamations, and the hero a warty, green thief?”

  He looked back to me. “But why should one of Esmeralda’s kin be chasing after that chalice? I thought your clan had turned away from the Uplands long ago.” He glanced toward the lectern in the corner. “Are you certain you didn’t come here for some other reason?”

  I ignored his look. �
��I came here so we could return this stinking chalice to its rightful owner.”

  Blackthorn gave a rattling laugh. “Your grandmother hasn’t taught you very well, witchling. You do not understand the powers you are dealing with. But you will. And you will not like it.” He set his gloved fists on his hips. His ragged cloak swept wide, swishing gray tatters across the floor.

  Backing away, I searched the room for another way out. Barnaby hopped after me. Blast it! We were trapped. I raised my hand, my finger crooked. Lord Blackthorn was one of the greatest wizards of his time. I doubted I could do more than singe his eyelashes. But I would try, by the pits. I wasn’t going to die cowering and afraid.

  “I think you might be free of that curse in just a moment,” I whispered to Barnaby. “Go for the door. I’ll keep him distracted.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Barnaby, remaining by my feet. “You’ve got hands. You’ve got the chalice. You run. I’ll distract him.”

  “How? You’re a toad!”

  Lord Blackthorn’s painted mouth hinted at a smile. “You mistake my purpose,” he said. “You may both leave at any time, freely and unharmed. But that”—he jabbed one finger at the Mirable Chalice—“stays here, safe, where it can cause no more harm.”

  “No more harm?” Barnaby said, goggling up at Blackthorn. “What about the curse? Until we return the chalice to the queen, things are just going to get worse.”

  “Yes, I am afraid they will get worse. But far better that than for the chalice to fall into her hands again. Serafine betrayed me, she betrayed all of us. It is time for her to pay.”

  I frowned. Clearly Lord Blackthorn’s mind hadn’t aged any better than his face. “That was more than two centuries ago,” I said. “This is her great-great-great-and-so-on-granddaughter. She didn’t betray you.”

  “Yes, she did. I am not the only one who has called upon my magics to sustain me these long years. She may parade about with that pretty face, but tear away her mask and you’ll find a horror worse than mine.” He tapped the spot on his face where a nose might be.

  “You mean…” Barnaby said, haltingly. “You mean to say that’s Serafine the Adamant herself, sitting on the peacock throne of Orlanna?” He shook his head. “No, I remember there was a funeral for the old queen. Mam took us. There was a whole fleet of black-sailed boats. I threw a flower…”