by J M Sanford
Amelia glanced down at the conjuring rings she wore habitually, even now they were safe and home. Hard to deny, really, what she’d come to be. “A good witch,” she clarified. “Look at this:” and she knelt down to the girl’s level, conjuring a tiny ball of moonlight in the hollow of her palm.
The children stared, huge-eyed, and hypnotised like little wild things, before the enchantment broke and they scattered off into the safety of the crowd, shrieking and giggling. Amelia stood back up, not sure what to make of that reaction. It was for the best that she’d left Stupid behind at the snailcastletank, really.
She was still watching the children (who hadn’t gone far and were certainly still watching her) when a strong hand gripped her by the shoulder. “Mary Butcher, Madam,” the owner of the large hand introduced herself, although she needed no introduction: this was Harold's Ma, who had been worried sick for her poor baby all the months he'd been chasing around after Amelia; Harold’s Ma, who must by now have seen his war wounds… “Come with me a bit.” And when Mary Butcher pulled, Amelia had no choice but to follow, but the woman's round red face looked more nervous than pugnacious. “Sit,” she said, resting her own bulk on a low stone wall, and Amelia perched beside her. “Don't know how I feel about having a witch in the family,” said Ma Butcher, “but our Harold's got his heart set on you. He showed me the ring he's got for you, and a prettier ring I never seen.” They both looked down at Amelia's many rings and bracelets. “Witch or no, you'd best not break my boy's heart,” Ma Butcher warned.
Amelia shook her head: she had no intention of doing so.
“Good. Can you cook, then?”
“A… a bit,” Amelia managed to say, finding her voice even if it was small.
Ma Butcher gave her another sceptical look. “You’ll need lessons, then. We’ll get to that when the time comes.”
“She’s underselling herself,” put in Meg, who’d appeared apparently out of nowhere, a tankard of ale in her hand and foam on her lip. “She’s a good cook, and you won’t find a better seamstress, not unless you fancy a griffin for a daughter-in-law. Of course, what you have to remember is that when a witch gets married, it’s traditional for her new husband to give her a set of conjuring rings. So your boy had better start saving up, if he’s got matrimonial intent. Excellent sausages, by the way,” she added. “Your Harold might be a better catch than I thought.” And while Ma Butcher was still chewing over all of that, Meg rescued Amelia away from the revellers. “Come on, we’ve kept Jonathan waiting long enough, don’t you think?” She strong-armed a pair of young lads into rowing her, Amelia, Harold and Percival out to the tower. At the mooring stage, the youths loitered, torn between the festivities in the village and the mystery of the family who lived in the tower. Meg shooed them off. “Get back to your ale and your dance partners – what use have you for mysteries?” she scolded.
The huge studded door wasn’t locked, but it opened tentatively, and a scruffy-headed figure peered out, adjusting his smudged spectacles. “Amelia?”
“Father!” Amelia cried, throwing her arms around his neck.
“You took your time,” said Sincerity, “I’ve a salmon pie going cold on the table as we speak.”
Amelia ignored her, but Meg perked up at once. “Salmon pie? Well, can’t have that going to waste, can we?”
There was much to talk about over dinner. Percival had easily struck up the beginnings of a friendship with Professor Lamb over their shared love of books, and mused aloud on the possibilities of building a home here in peaceful Springhaven, with a good view of the sea and an extensive library. Meg, on the other hand, spoke of all the places she might visit next. Amelia couldn’t imagine Meg ever settling down nice and quiet – she’d get itchy feet and chase off after some adventure or other. And of course, Sincerity wanted to know absolutely everything that had happened since Amelia had first left Springhaven. By the time the pie was down to the last crumbs of pastry, Amelia had just taken the snow globe from her pocket to show to her father and stepmother.
For the first time since arriving back home, the smile dropped from Harold’s face. “I din’t know you’d kept that,” he said.
“I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
“Take a hammer to it, I’d say.”
“Oh, you horrible boy!” said Sincerity. “Must you destroy it? Such a pretty thing.”
Amelia gazed deep into the glass, at the endless flurry of snow around the ice palace, the few dim pinpricks of light flickering in a single tower. “Somebody’s still there.” She put it down on the table. She’d been checking on it in secret from time to time, just to see if the towers of the ice palace still stood, if the snow still whirled, if the artificial world’s sun had crashed to earth.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to keep that thing,” said Meg.
Looking round the table, Amelia saw that she was alone in her desire to keep the snow globe. “It won’t work without the Orb,” she reminded them all.
“All the same,” said Harold, taking up the snow globe as if he meant to dash it on the kitchen tiles there and then, “better to be rid of it.”
“I know,” said Sincerity loudly, clasping her hands together. “Let’s all go outside and watch the fireworks. We’ll have the best view from here, and it must be nearly time.”
The sun was just sinking into the sea. As the others made their way back out to the landing stage, Harold took the snow globe and went up to the roof garden, joining the wyvern who had spread his wings up there to catch the last of the sun’s rays.
“Steady up there!” Percival called.
But the tower’s roof garden didn’t seem anywhere near so high up as it had been the last time Harold had stood there. The sea air brushed like fingers through his hair, fond and familiar. Taking a deep breath, he hurled the snow globe with all his might, out towards the sea, where at the peak of its arc, it caught a last flash of amber sunlight and then dropped into the waves with a loud splosh.
“Good riddance,” said Harold aloud. Let the fishes puzzle over it.
~
Harold all but disappeared over the next few days. Amelia knew he'd been out learning how to ride his wyvern, the pair of them launching off from the heights of the tower, and once or twice she'd caught sight of the great winged figure high up in the hills. She knew Harold had a keen interest in the beasts, but she couldn't find out the reason for the sudden mad heights of his obsession. She’d worried at first that he was still upset about her wanting to keep the snow globe. When questioned directly on his daily flights, his face turned crimson. He had to take the gluttonous beast away from town for feeding, he explained. Amelia thought there were plenty of fish in the sea for the wyvern along with all the people of Springhaven, but said nothing more on the subject.
Hearing that he’d gone out again at dawn, Amelia took her new broomstick and went out herself. She’d sworn off broomsticks once before, but flying was easier work than rowing, even though she’d had to reacclimatise herself to the sparse magic in Springhaven, far from where the Flying Cities flew. The mild difficulty with it was nothing compared to what she’d experienced with the strange splintered magic of the artificial world, but she flew low and careful over the water nevertheless, with Stupid skimming the waves behind her. She’d been training him to behave himself better, and he’d make a good beacon. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the fire sprite attracted the attention of Harold and his wyvern, flying high overhead. Amelia waved to him before she slowed, kicking out her heels and half-running, half-staggering into a landing. Better than the time before, when she’d misjudged her speed coming in and ended up pitching herself into a bed of nettles.
Harold and his wyvern made a better show of their own landing, and he dismounted with a grin, a handful of beautiful dark purple flowers in his hand. In the spring sunshine, he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows, and she could see that his wounds were healing well, pink and shiny. “Here,” he said, thrusting t
he flowers towards her.
“Thank you,” she said. “They’re lovely.”
“They grow right up there,” he said, indicating the highest of the hills. Then he eyed the broomstick resting over her shoulder. “I’ll show you one day, if you like.”
As they walked the twisting chalky path back towards the village, with the wyvern spiralling lazily overhead, Amelia looked at Harold. He was good, kind, and handsome enough that a girl from Springhaven might be glad to have him.
“I'm sorry you din't get to be queen,” he said. “And I don't know where you'll go next…”
“Neither do I,” said Amelia, the realisation making her feel free as a bird. She might do anything.
“Well, wherever it is you're going to, I'd like to go along with you, if you'll have me.” He’d gone red again. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out something that sparkled in the spring sunshine: a beautiful gold ring set with a large stone the colour of a tomcat’s eye.
Amelia held her breath, remembering her conversation with Ma Butcher. Only when the silence had gone on a little too long did she manage to say: “Is that what I think it is?”
“I grabbed it while the dragons were distracted. I didn’t mean to keep it, only to keep it away from them. Then I felt bad for making you get rid of the snow globe when I’d still got this.”
“Can I…?” she reached for the ring. “Just to know for sure.”
“You won’t put it on, will you?”
She shook her head, and he let her take the wedding ring, but the stone’s colour didn’t change at her touch. What could that mean? “I shouldn’t try it on, should I? Just in case.”
“I’ll get you an even better one,” Harold promised, then added hastily, “if you want.”
Amelia just smiled. Walking through the green hills of home, with her family and her friends close by, she wondered if this was what it felt like to live happily ever after.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Sanford is a jack of all trades and an incurable tomboy. She lives with her partner on the edge of Dartmoor, where she enjoys exploring places other people seldom go, splashing in puddles, and occasionally poking dead things with a stick.
