The Untangled Cassie Black

by Tammie Painter

  "Thank you," I said sincerely.

  When we passed Lola’s, that magnetic tug again pulled on me to stop in and cuddle Pablo. But Lola’s curtains (dust- and wrinkle-free, thanks to yours truly) were drawn. Not surprising since at that hour on a Sunday morning, I would have still been tucked into my bed as well.

  After only a short wait, Fiona and I went through the portal. A heavy weight hung over me at the thought that I might not be coming back. The squeezing and jostling sensation of the portal was uncomfortable, but bearable relative to the pain of leaving MagicLand. Still, I did hope my scones weren’t getting mangled.

  The moment we re-entered the White Tower, I checked inside the bag and was relieved to see the pastries still intact.

  "So am I allowed to know about this information?"

  "We’ve gone over it a little. Remember when I had you read about the Light Capture Charm, how entanglement allows you to do it?"

  "Sure. The particles are tied together because they have a history together. What happens to one, happens to the other."

  "Very good," said Fiona, switching to teacher mode. "Even though there’s some debate about whether what happens is the opposite effect or the same effect, we do know that somehow those particles have a bond no matter how far apart they are. I just feel like we could use that somehow."

  "Like if something happens to me, the opposite happens to the Mauvais?"

  "Yes, but we can’t be certain. What we do to you, might also happen to him."

  I took a heavenly bite of one of my scones as we turned onto an unfamiliar corridor. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all made of stone and the route was lit by small lights at foot level and a few recessed lights overhead. Still, I didn’t need light to sense the pathway was gently sloping up as it zigzagged back and forth. I couldn’t believe it. Was I actually changing levels in the White Tower without climbing stairs? My thrill over this discovery was tempered as I grasped what Fiona was implying.

  "So, if you extract me, you might extract him," I said right after taking another bite of my treat. "Or you might make him all that more powerful."

  "Precisely," Fiona said after chastising me for speaking with my mouth full. "And that’s what I want to talk to the others about. Banna especially, she might recall something from her histories about just such a thing. And Rafi, he’s co-authored some papers on magical physics with Alastair. He might be a good one to bounce ideas off of."

  Speaking of bouncing, Fiona was practically bouncing in her excitement over this. Her speech was animated, and her hands were waving about so much as she spoke that I worried she might cast a spell by accident. But, being a little self-centered, I saw my own advantage in this news.

  "So if there’s a risk, then you’ll argue against extracting me?"

  Fiona’s hands dropped to her sides and her voice fell to a graver tone when she said, "We’ll see, Cassie. As with Chester, Olivia has made her decision about you. And she’s not one to go back on something once she’s made her mind up about it."

  "Chester?"

  "He’s been convicted. He’s scheduled to be extracted on the same day as you. It’s what she meant when—"

  "But that’s not right. Did he even get a trial?"

  "Busby is still pleading both your cases. I will argue the entanglement matter, and point out that extraction is a cruel thing to do no matter what the circumstances, but I can’t fight her decision. I’m sorry I can’t be more definite on that."

  "Thanks anyway." Suddenly losing all my hunger, I dropped my scone back in the bag. We’d reached the end of the hall down which Olivia’s office was situated. "And if you could maybe leave out telling them you saw me in MagicLand…"

  "Will I regret not telling them?"

  "No. I don’t think so."

  I left Fiona to explain her theory to Olivia. Not knowing what to do with myself, I was about to head outside when Tobey came jogging down the stairs. He only barely stopped from crashing into me. Once he’d stepped back a pace, he caught sight of the bag in my hand.

  "Spellbound?"

  "Want one?" I asked, removing my nibbled-on scone and handing him the bag. Tobey pulled out the other one and eyed the scone like a dog who’s just caught sight of a hunk of prime rib.

  "Dear Gandalf, I haven’t had one of these in years." He bit into the pastry and his eyes rolled up into his head. "Oh man, that is good. Did you want to practice or anything?"

  "I don’t know. Rafi’s not around and—"

  "Wait," he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs, "what did Morelli say?"

  "Shut up," I hissed. "Come on. My room."

  36 - THE GHOST KNOWS

  I KNOW. ME voluntarily going up stairs? Without complaint? Goes to show you how much my mind was occupied with matters other than my burning thighs.

  Inside my room, I told Tobey that Morelli had agreed to help. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but Tobey had been some help, or at least he had tried, and I was no longer in the mood to keep secrets from people who were on my side.

  "Can he do it?" he asked.

  "He seems to think so."

  "And you’ll let the others know about it? Grandad I’m sure could have a team together in under an hour. Maybe we should tell them now."

  Did I say I would no longer keep secrets? Okay, maybe I’d been a little hasty in that resolution because I had no intention of getting Mr. T and the others involved in this. Hey, don’t judge. I was just getting used to this playing-well-with-others thing and it was weird enough allying with Tobey. As they say, baby steps.

  "No, let’s wait to see if he can do it. We’ll both be in trouble if it doesn’t pan out. You for helping a convicted felon through an international portal; me for, well, everything. Besides, Busby’s pleading my case, and Fiona is down there right now trying to work out another idea. I don’t want to jeopardize their efforts if Morelli can’t get the portal to work."

  Tobey seemed to accept this, and soon after, a late lunch appeared for both of us on my table. There was no cake or cookies for Tobey the Sugar Junkie, just two six-inch tall portobello mushroom burgers and a mound of fries. Besides snagging a couple fries off his plate, Tobey ignored the food. He was too eager to play with different spells, including a Shoving Charm to make my bed. Can’t complain about that. I did complain, however, when he tried a Binding Spell on my pillow that sent feathers and fluff everywhere.

  "Too tight," I scolded. "If that had been a person, you’d have sent their head popping off."

  "I get the idea of binding, but I keep doing that. Grandad is starting to think I have anger issues and am taking it out on the pillows."

  "What are you picturing when you’re doing the spell?"

  "Ropes. What else would you bind someone with?"

  "Well, since I haven’t ventured into any kidnapping schemes—"

  "Except for being the victim of one," Tobey added helpfully, then took a large bite of his burger.

  A stab of worry for Alastair hit me right in the gut, followed by another stab of desperate hope that Morelli really could build this portal. If he did, I’d see Alastair soon. And if we survived, I’d drown Alastair Zeller in apologies for how I’d behaved toward him.

  "Except for that," I said. "And yes, you’d normally use ropes, but since you seem to be a bit overzealous with your binding, maybe try visualizing something that’s more stretchy instead. Bungie cords might do the trick. Go on," I pointed to the second bed pillow, "there’s another pillow in the closet if you kill that one."

  Tobey set down his now-half-eaten burger, then — again with the poopy face — concentrated on the pillow. It began to cinch in the middle, then the constriction stopped, giving the pillow an enviable hourglass figure.

  "I did it!"

  "Try bringing it to you." I wasn’t sure if this would work. If Tobey was picturing bungie cords to manage this spell, the cords might be too bouncy to reel
anything in. Tobey made a hand-over-hand motion just like someone pulling in a rope. The pillow slid across the bed toward him.

  "Look at that. I did it!"

  "Yes, the world of pillows will forever be under your power."

  "Very funny. What next?"

  "Next, we eat this food before it gets cold. Then we clean up these feathers."

  I’ll admit, I was a little worried about this chore. Since taking on the watch’s power, I hadn’t exactly been in reliable control of any of my magical abilities, especially when it came to delicate work. The feathers might seem harmless, but if one of my Shoving Charms got a little too much ‘Cassie’ behind it, the feathers could go flying out the window and right into the eyes of the tourists below.

  So it was with a tentative hand that I began, along with Tobey, to shift the feathers back into the pillow casing. Tobey struggled at first. Light objects can be tricky to move because it’s easy to apply too much force, but he was soon lifting feathers one by one and — without causing a single speck of downy fluff to explode — flicking them into the pillow casing that I’d propped up like a garbage can with a Rigidity Spell.

  As for me, one or two feathers missed their mark, but that might have just been Tobey’s cheers of his own triumph disturbing the air and pushing my feathers off their course. Still, no feathers went piercing through the walls, none burst into flames, and no tourist had his eye gouged out that day. Or at least not by me. I can’t verify what the ravens might have gotten up to.

  Once all the feathers had been collected, I tried something I’d never done before, by magic or by hand: sewing the pillow closed. It didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped. Threading a needle, by hand or by magic, is just something I’ll never have a talent for and I soon gave up on that tactic. But who needs needles when you’re a witch? I visualized the tattered edge of the pillow case and the small threads poking out. With little pinches of my fingers, those threads knotted themselves together in a way that looked as good as the finest couture stitchery.

  "Nice," said Tobey, and to hear him praising me was really, really weird. Even weirder? The sense of pride in what I’d just done allowing me to accept that praise.

  Bizarre, right?

  "I’m going to go grab a pint," Tobey said. "And maybe some ice cream. And have you seen those chocolate chip cookies at the cafe? Maybe one of those too."

  I’d created a sugar-craving monster.

  "I’ll go down with you, but I think I’d prefer to get some fresh air over getting sugared up."

  We left the White Tower, and Tobey made a bee line for the cafe, saying if I changed my mind to meet him at the pub in half an hour. I wasn’t sure exactly where I wanted to go, the walls were crowded at this time of day and the line to the crown jewels was jammed tighter than an L.A. freeway at rush hour. However, from what I’d seen with Rafi, there was one spot that would be quiet if no tour groups were being shown through it. I strolled up to the St. Peter in Chains chapel and peered in the window. Empty. Making sure no one was looking, I magicked open the lock on the door and ducked in before anyone noticed.

  Or at least I thought I’d gone unnoticed. I’d just started roaming around, looking at the decorations around the altar, when I sensed the breezy chill of Nigel’s presence.

  "Hey, Nigel," I said and he materialized beside me.

  "Thought that was you coming in here. I’ve just been to see your parents. They’re doing—" He paused, searching for a good word. "Well, they seem to have decent appetites. And you, how are you progressing with your missing person search?"

  "Like someone trying to wade through frozen molasses."

  Nigel’s eyes lit up and a hopeful smile beamed across his face. "Maybe he's hidden in one of the Tower’s many chambers," he said with complete conviction in the idea. You got to give the guy credit: self-doubt never plagued him. Still, I eyed him questioningly. "Well, you do know the White Tower was once a place of exile? That’s how it got its name. From the word banishment which shares the same root as the French word blanc."

  "In what language?"

  "William the Conqueror’s." Nigel twisted his face, pondering something. He then whispered, "He’s the one who founded the Tower, right?"

  "He is, and he did come from France, from Normandy. But I’m not sure if banishment is related to the word blanc, even in Norman French."

  "No? I could have sworn there was some sort of tie between the two words. Do you think I should cut that out of the speech?"

  "Probably for the best."

  "Good to note," Nigel said, not for a moment daunted by my constructive criticism.

  "How’s your other history coming along?" I asked as I strolled down the central aisle of the chapel with Nigel floating alongside me. "Who ruled after Charles I?"

  "Not Charles II." I gave no hint as to whether this was correct or not. "It was an angry guy. Liked killing." Nigel clicked his tongue as he struggled to find the information. "Cromwell!"

  "Very good, Nigel."

  I had no idea where this education was leading. Sure, Nigel would have a more robust knowledge about the place he’d chosen to haunt, but would they really let him lead tours even if he passed his exams without a single error? I mean, he was a ghost. Who would be able to see him besides a tour bus full of clairvoyants? Still, learning, being tested, and reciting his knowledge seemed to please him, and you can’t fault that.

  I stopped near the altar and Nigel began reciting the tour guide spiel about the chapel.

  "That’s where Anne Boleyn is buried. Or is assumed to be buried, we’re unsure if those are really her bones that were discovered in a small case at the base of the altar. See, although her husband, Henry VIII," he emphasized the name as if showing off his new historical prowess, "had planned every last detail of her execution, he hadn’t planned for her burial, so her headless remains were tucked into a box and tossed aside without ceremony."

  I watched Nigel, impressed with what was the longest string of accurate historical facts he’d ever recited. "But," he continued, "at least we have hope that Anne’s bones are here, unlike Catherine Howard, Henry’s other beheaded wife, whose remains are forever lost. When we move to the armory, we will see the block where young Catherine, ever the performer, practiced placing her neck the night before her demise."

  And cue giant cartoon light bulb over my head.

  "The execution block!"

  "Oh, did I get the wives wrong again?" asked a dejected Nigel.

  "No, Nigel, you were perfect. Surprisingly perfect. But the block in the armory. Chester was deathly afraid of that block. He would never go into the armory alone."

  "No, of course not. Our Chester might love the suits of armor, but he hates the room they’re in. Don’t know why they don’t move that bloody block to the torture exhibit anyway. Even I know it has nothing to do with knights and jousting and all that."

  "And if Chester doesn’t go into the armory alone, he couldn’t have been in there by himself when Tobey came back. Someone else found Tobey. Maybe that person gave Chester the note to bring to us, but it wasn’t Chester who found Tobey. Or brought him through," I said as an afterthought.

  "Brought him through?"

  "Tobey had no magic at the time, he couldn’t have gotten through any portal on his own. And I don’t think handing him an absorbing capsule would have done it," I said, mostly to myself since Nigel knew nothing about Alastair supposedly giving up the capsule’s power to get Tobey back to London. "Someone had to bring him. Whoever did is the person HQ is looking for."

  "But Chester did poison Runa."

  "I don’t know. Does Chester seem the type to poison someone? I mean, if he wanted someone dead, he’d just stomp on them or something," I said, thinking of the many rats bones I’d heard crushed under Chester’s heavy boots.

  "You have a point there."

  "Look, good job on the tour, but I’ve got to tell the oth
ers this," I said, taking long strides toward the door.

  Some other idea, something about Chester, was trying to rise in the waters of my memory, but my sense of urgency wouldn’t let it surface.

  37 - MESSAGE FROM BEYOND

  I RAN FROM the chapel and toward the White Tower, planning to go straight to Olivia’s office to tell her about Chester, about the rats, about Tobey going through the portal on his own, about a troll’s promise of loyalty, about— Arrghh! What was the other thing? But just as I reached the door, a dark shadow swooped overhead. Winston perched on me, his heavy claws gently gripping my shoulder. In his beak he held a scrap of paper.

  It wasn’t writing paper or newspaper or even a food wrapper pulled from one of the trash bins, but brown paper like the kind used to make lunch sacks or grocery bags.