Abby the Witch

by Odette C. Bell

  But as quickly as Pembrake's features had stiffened with recognition and anger, the look had passed. The Princess had bounded into his view again and blocked Franklin from Pembrake's death stare.

  'You simply have to come,' the Princess was pulling on his arm, 'you have to meet my father and brother!'

  Abby waited and, sure enough, Pembrake nodded.

  'Of course,' he said, voice hoarse.

  Can't say no to women, ha? Or rather, can't say no to a pretty face. Abby really needed to get Pembrake back to his own time before he did something simply awful to the past. A blush warmed her cheeks before Abby could completely finish her thought.

  'You can come too,' the Princess nodded towards Abby, though it was more of a repetitious bob than an actual nod. She seemed to blink quickly as she took in Abby's clothes and generally bedraggled appearance. 'You are travelling together, aren't you?' she quickly checked with Pembrake.

  Abby felt like crossing her arms defensively, to conserve what little dignity she had left. First she saves the Princess then loses her accomplishment to the more dashing Pembrake, then she is left on the wayside to recover while Pembrake is fawned over by half the Royal court, and now the Princess was double checking that her man was in fact travelling with such a bedraggled looking woman.

  Thankfully Pembrake nodded. Though Abby did note in her little black book of reasons to hate him – that he did not come out and say firmly, 'yes, of course I am travelling with this woman, how rude of you to imply that I am too good to be seen with her'.

  'Okay then, please make arrangements, Colonel,' the Princess didn't bother to look at him.

  Abby, terribly, shared another moment of similarity with the Colonel. Both of them, it seemed, were not worthy of the Princess' attention.

  And then it hit Abby. Colonel, Colonel. He couldn't be that Colonel, could he? He couldn't be the Colonel that was responsible for the Witch Ban – for all the terrible things that had happened to Abby since she'd come to Bridgestock? He couldn't be the Colonel that ruined the history of her city, made it into a lifeless, bigoted, war-mongering machine?

  She did not know what her Colonel – the future-ruining, witch-hating Colonel – what his name was. Could it be Franklin? Did that seem like the last name of a walking curse?

  Abby felt a strange itch start at her wrists and travel, snaking, up her arms. It couldn't be him.

  The Colonel rolled his eyes in a way that looked alarmingly like Pembrake and stormed off, muttering some orders to the Guards before disappearing behind a house and out of sight.

  It was the house that the witch had also disappeared behind, Abby noted with interest, forcing her mind off the subject of the Colonel. But this was hardly the place to confirm her suspicions; she could not go up to the man and simply ask if he had any intentions to start banning witches....

  Forcing herself to focus on anything but the Colonel made Abby notice something strange: none of the Guards, it seemed, had bothered to go out and look for the witch that had tried to kill the Princess. It was funny that the Guards were not out looking for her, scouring the city for the Princess' assailant. Indeed, when Abby ran over the memory in her mind, the whole thing was funny in a very suspicious way.

  This was something to fix her mind to, this was something concrete that she could focus all her attention on: what exactly was so wrong with this situation? Why had the Princess been allowed to fly on a broom in the first place? And why had that particular witch been allocated to fly it? She had looked, even to Abby from quite some distance away, to be suspicious, creepy, and unsavoury. Why weren't the Guards streaming through the city, locking down the slumps and whatnot, searching for their prey?

  As Ms Crowthy would say – when things smell of rotten fish there is either a pile of herring in the fridge or someone is trying hard to use ammonia to put you off the scent. Abby wasn't sure what ammonia was, but was certain Ms Crowthy didn't have a clue either. Still, it seemed like a good idea. And it seemed to her that this whole scenario smelt overpoweringly of fish.

  In a moment, she found herself being politely pulled to the side by the Gov and the Guard that had looked over her. Though she had just met them, she was already very comfortable in their company. Her witchly senses told her they were good people, even for Guards.

  'Looks like you'll be coming with us then, ma'am,' the Gov nodded.

  'Abby,' she supplied looking at Pembrake over her shoulder.

  'Abby, then, don't you worry about him – you'll see him soon enough.'

  'As soon as the Princess is done with him,' the other Guard laughed.

  The Gov shook his head, 'you grow up, Stan.'

  'Just saying what we're all thinking, sir. Sorry, ma'am,' Stan quickly nodded at her apologetically.

  Abby found herself smiling at their banter and had forgotten that they were Guards far before they'd delivered her to the back of the Palace.

  She had caught several glimpses of Charlie along the way, following behind them at a safe distance. She was quite embarrassed to realise that she had forgotten all about him what with one thing and another. In fact, since they'd been thrown back in time, she'd hardly had a chance to chat with him, something she was sure he would point out to her vociferously the first chance he got.

  It was a bad idea for a witch to ignore her cat – witch's cats are very smart, talkative, and cunning after all. If she went on ignoring Charlie, or busying herself with the strange happenings of the past, he'd conjure up some way to make her pay.

  Cats aren't used to being ignored.

  As they'd approached the Palace, Stan had stared up, whistling through his teeth. 'How the other half live,' he nodded at her, apparently sure that she would be able to appreciate the stark difference between poverty and wealth.

  The Gov had just sniffed. Ms Crowthy would really get along with him, Abby thought as she stared up at the huge red and white palace herself. It was named the Cherry on the Cake in her time. A play on the tessellated view of Bridgestock, mounting, as it did, up the hill like a layer cake.

  'The Princess said we was to hand you over to the kitchen maids – said they'd give you a good bath and a feed.'

  Abby was vaguely aware of the disapproving voice of Ms Crowthy playing in her head. Witches never needed charity. Gifts, presents, and kind donations were heartily accepted, but try and be charitable to a witch and you would receive a scornful look and an incomprehensible mutter.

  But Stan and Gov weren't offering charity, like the Princess. They were just pointing her in the direction of hot bath and a good feed.

  She smiled warmly when they left her at the door with a couple of sharp nods and sniffs.

  The kitchen ladies, as it turned out, weren't going to scrub her clean in the sink as Abby had feared. But took her to a bathroom in the servant's quarters were there was a steaming bath waiting for her.

  A large woman that reminded Abby of Martha, except with a permanent scowl that could have curdled milk, took over from the two maids that had led Abby in. She'd stripped Abby and dumped her in the bath then produced a huge scrubbing brush that looked as if it were more suitable for elephants and had set to work.

  By the end of the bath, Abby was sure there could not have been a particle of dirt left on her anywhere as it felt as if her skin had been rubbed clean off.

  The woman had then started on Abby's hair and her approach was similar to a farmer clearing his fields of blackberries. She dunked Abby's head under water and pulled and parted and brushed till Abby's hair, for the first time in her life, actually draped even and straight over her shoulders.

  But the woman did not leave it there. Apparently Abby's years of living in the slumps had offered the woman a challenge she could not back down from. She cleaned under Abby's fingernails, trimmed the split ends from her hair, and cut her toenails. Then she pulled Abby from the bath like a cook claiming a cray from the tank, and towelled her dry.

  'You're ready for your clothes now, youngin,' the woman nodded appreciat
ively at her handy work, 'I'll just get them.'

  There was a mirror in the room, and Abby found herself staring at her towel-clad self when the woman had left her. There was something very familiar about this scenario, something very story like – something very fairy tale. This would be were the ugly duckling would bloom into a swan, or the dowdy stepsister would transform into a beauty with the help of a well-engineered dress.

  Abby laughed at her reflection, her mirth only half-sarcastic. The kitchen lady would return with a beautiful sky-blue dress that would bring out Abby's eyes and dress her up, twisting her hair into a bun and fixing it with a pretty clip. Then she'd climb the stairs to the court and Pembrake would –

  Abby almost swore. What was she thinking? Pembrake was a terrible rogue, and if the Princess wanted him, then she deserved the devil.

  She turned from the mirror just as the kitchen lady returned.

  'Ha, I can see the Princess really wants you to stand out.'

  Abby looked down at the grey dress in the woman's hands and her heart dropped, not that she would like to admit that it had been racing.

  'You could blend in with the rooftops with this,' the woman lifted it up, 'you'll look just like a chimney.'

  It was true, there was never a straighter cut, more sack-like dress. And the colour wouldn't so much bring out her eyes as turn her skin to the pale gray of the newly dead.

  'Chin up, dear, at least it will fit better. And clothes are just clothes, after all.'

  'Yes.' Abby had to agree, she had no choice but to. Ms Crowthy would be worried indeed if she'd found out Abby had half-entertained the idea of a sky-blue dress that would bring out her eyes. If you wanted to match your eyes to the sky, Ms Crowthy would probably say, then go for a fly. Dresses are for girls and broomsticks are for witches.

  Abby would do well to remember that.

  But, at least they had made it into the Palace. It seemed, finally, their journey into the past was getting somewhere.

  Chapter 10

  Abby dressed in her chimney dress and did not even bother turning to glance in the mirror again, to do so would invite more pessimism. Whatever she looked like, the kitchen lady was right, at least it would be an improvement on her bedraggled, swimming-in-skirts look.

  Plus, as Ms Crowthy would be apt to remind Abby, a witch like her would do well to think less of her appearance and more of her demeanour. It is one's attitude and the way they hold themselves, after all, that is what people notice most. Whether your skirt was flame red or obsidian black did not matter a touch on what you got up to whilst wearing it. If you scale a building and jump through a window, sure a certain type of attire would be more suited, but beyond that it is the astounding bravado that people will remember, and of course to lock their windows in future.

  A witch, while she did have a regimented uniform in a way, should spend all the time regular women might spend applying blush to applying themselves to brooms, cats, and magic. Magic, like justice, is blind, and doesn't give a hoot what coloured tights you are wearing or even if they are run to tatters at the knees. As long as a witch has sleeves to roll up then she's ready to go.

  Abby sighed softly and smiled at the kitchen lady as she came into check on her.

  'Good and clean, me love,' the woman nodded firmly.

  'Apparently.'

  'Now you'd be wanting to see that meal you were promised, I'm sure.'

  Abby's stomach, at the mention of food, gave a terrifying rumble and she quickly put a hand over it to damp down its cry.

  The woman laughed. 'This way, me lass.'

  She led Abby into the huge kitchen and through several side doors until they came into a small room set with a plain table and a chair looking out through a small glass window onto the back gravel of the court.

  'It's not much, dear,' the woman pulled the lid off a plate to reveal a full plate of sandwiches with a side of nuts and dried fruit, 'but I don't think that'll bother you, pet.'

  Abby had thanked her earnestly and set about to eat her second proper meal in a very long time.

  It was such a peaceful room, sufficiently far off from the kitchens proper to be free from their clangs, bangs, and shouts. Abby found herself thoughtfully munching on a handful of nuts as she stared out the window. It gave her time to think. A nice lull to analyse the simply peculiar turn her life had taken.

  She was back in the past with a man she barely knew, but knew enough to hate, with only a vague hazy idea about how to return home again. If ever there was a need for second sight, she would very much have liked a heads up. And now she was in the Palace of all places, having saved the Princess from a very suspicious attempt on her life.

  Who knew what would happen now. She would probably dress up as a man and join the army at the rate this was going, and her current attire would probably help her fit right in.

  More importantly though, what was to happen next? Was she supposed to present herself to the King looking like the thin trunk of a birch tree? And what of Pembrake, how was she to find him again? Was he off gadding with the Princess, not to be seen till he had merrily ruined the timeline? What vagaries was he up to without Abby around to watch over him?

  Abby sat back in the simple wooden chair and frowned at the world, crossing her arms in the coarse dress till the rough fabric scratched against her skin. What a pickle this was. Stuck back in time with the world's greatest rouge and with the slimmest chance of returning home again. If only Charlie were here, he would have something very motivational to say about the situation. But he was probably out catching mice along the perimeter wall, making a list of things to tell Abby off about when they finally met up again.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Abby looked up from staring angrily at the wall.

  'Well hello, dear! Look at you all cleaned up.'

  Abby blinked with surprise. Martha, the woman that had rescued her off the cliff with her husband and who had leant Abby welcome but huge clothes, was standing in the doorway grinning from ear to ear.

  'What a surprise I had when I saws you walking through the kitchens like that. With you all brushed and your hair all clean I had a bit of a time recognising you.'

  'It's good to see you,' Abby interrupted quickly before Martha could squeeze in another barrage.

  'Then I heard from old Sue, what gave you a good scrub, that you'd been brought in on the Princess' request! She told me all about what that boy of yours did. Oh, what a hero,' Martha clutched a pink hand to her bosom and fluttered her eyelashes quickly, 'I hear the Princess is smitten!'

  Abby didn't respond to this, though Martha had paused to heave in a breath. Instead Abby found herself grinding her teeth though she couldn't think why.

  'And you should have heard the maids talking when they had to prepare a bath for him – I've never heard those girls giggle so much in me life.'

  Abby did not want to blush or even show the least bit of interest in Martha's tattle, so she shifted her eyes to the table and sniffed very properly.

  'Captain of the Guard is a bit jealous I hear, we all thought he fancied her – I mean she is such a belle!'

  Abby trod a fine line between pretending to be uninterested and appearing mutinously indifferent. She couldn't quite keep the scowl from her face as Martha continued. She just didn't care, she reminded herself firmly, she didn't care at all what Pembrake was doing, not one little bit.

  'The Colonel is up in a stink about the whole thing, can't think why. But it really was so brave of Pembrake and so lucky that he was there at the right time!'

  'Oh, very lucky,' Abby's voice was so sarcastic, she was sure Martha would pick up on it, but the woman’s enthusiastic grin never faded.

  'I reckon she's going to ask him to the ball, that's what all the girls have been saying. Show her brave hero to the whole kingdom, have him hanging off her arm looking fantastic in one of the Prince's suits...' Martha suddenly looked guilty and fixed Abby with a sympathetic look, 'not that he'll go straying, I'm sure. A good
boy like him wouldn't leave his girl-'

  'We aren't together, Martha,' Abby said dejectedly, sure the conversation was starting to wear on her already frazzled nerves. 'We barely know each other.'

  'Oh!' bomb fires were going off behind Martha's eyes. It was clear she was imagining the fairy tale wedding with white dresses and a giant layered cake with a big old cherry on top, 'well in that case, I think that Pembrake has met his match,' Martha paused and gave Abby an odd look.

  Abby stopped for a moment. Though witches were usually adept at reading people, she had no idea what Martha was thinking. 'I guess so.'

  'You really are a clever girl,' Martha said, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully.

  Abby was taken aback and blinked quickly. 'Thank you.' She couldn't see why; she hadn't done anything clever at all since getting here, quite the opposite – she seemed to not be her usual calm self in this time.

  'Well anyway, now that we've run into each other like this, it's a good opportunity for me to return your things.'

  'Oh yes, your clothes!'

  'No, no, don't you worry – I've sorted all that out myself. I saved what I could from your and Pembrake's clothes dear, but unfortunately they were mostly damaged.'

  Abby could believe that judging from what they'd been through. Though damaged seemed like a generous term – tatters was probably more accurate.

  Martha dove into one of the big pockets of her white apron and placed the contents on the table before Abby. One broken South Island charm bracelet and two brass buttons.

  'I think the rest of the buttons were eaten up by the ocean, dear.'

  Abby nodded in agreement.

  'So did you ever find that ship of yours?'

  Abby barely heard Martha, her eyes fixing completely on the broken bracelet.

  The Crones had said that it was vitally important that her and Pembrake find some way to tie their destinies down. That if they were just left to flap loosely in the wind, they would become hopelessly lost souls with no chance of ever returning home again. And they said that this bracelet was somehow important….