by Alane Adams
The rest of her classmates trailed behind, eager to see what punishment awaited her. Madame Vex nodded briskly at the pair of Balfin guards dressed in black uniforms standing outside. They quickly opened the doors and stepped aside.
Madame Vex dragged her inside and finally released Abigail’s ear. The doors swung shut behind them, locking out the disappointed gaggle of girls.
Abigail rubbed her ear to get the blood flowing again and looked around in awe.
Marble columns rose up to support high ceilings. Ornately woven tapestries hung on the stone walls. One of them showed a bearded man kneeling in front of a sun stitched with jagged streaks of red.
On the raised dais at the far end of the room, a gray-haired woman sat in a high-backed chair. Her black gown was buttoned to her neck. One hand rested on a cane, its knobby emerald tip just visible between her knuckles. A large black curtain hung behind the dais.
A pair of witches sat on either side of her, their superior air marking them as members of the High Witch Council. Abigail recognized Endera’s mother, Melistra, from her visits to the Creche.
Melistra scared Abigail. She had overheard her yelling at Old Nan once, shaking one of the nursery’s record books and reducing the poor woman to tears.
There was no sign of the spider, so maybe it was just a rumor.
Madame Vex stopped in front of the dais and bowed low. The headmistress elbowed Abigail, and she dropped into a clumsy curtsy.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Hestera demanded, pursing wrinkled lips.
“This witchling ran into the swamps even though she knew it was against the rules,” Madame Vex reported.
“She did, did she?” Hestera’s eyes narrowed as she studied the girl. “What’s your name, child?”
“Abigail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Her knees were shaking so badly she was afraid she was going to fall down.
“Who is your mother?” Hestera demanded.
“Her name was Penelope,” Abigail dutifully answered.
Hestera frowned. “Penelope? I don’t recall a witch by that name.”
Before Abigail could explain that she had passed away shortly after Abigail was born, a hairy black appendage poked out from behind the curtains.
Hestera caught her gaze and gave a sly smile, clapping her hands sharply.
The curtain fell away, revealing a giant web that held a spider the size of a carriage. It was nimbly spinning more webbing as it moved. Red and yellow bands encircled each leg. It had a set of jaws that could swallow Abigail whole.
“Did you know the Tarkanas were named after this lovely creature?” Madame Hestera said, waving a hand at her pet. “We call her the Great Mother. Would you like to see her up close?”
Abigail shook her head, shifting her feet to take a step back.
Madame Vex clamped a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “How should she be punished?”
“The child should be expelled,” Melistra cut in, her voice like chipped ice. “She broke the rules.”
Abigail fought back tears. Expelled? For running in the swamps?
Madame Vex cleared her throat. “It was her first infraction, Melistra. Surely not cause for her to be expelled.”
Melistra started to argue, but Madame Hestera rapped her cane sharply on the dais. “Enough interruptions. Detention after school every day for a week.”
Abigail’s spirits sank. Detention every day? She wouldn’t be able to meet Hugo, which meant she wouldn’t get any answers to her strange witchfire.
“And I’ll expect you to keep an eye about you, Madame Vex,” Hestera added in a low voice. “With that spy we caught snooping around, we can’t be sure what Odin is up to.”
Madame Vex bowed her head, backing away.
Abigail followed, looking over her shoulder one last time. Melistra’s disdainful gaze locked on her, sending a frisson of fear up her spine.
Outside, the girls scattered as the door opened.
Madame Vex clapped her hands. “Come, girls, hurry along. You’ll be late to Positively Potent Potions. You don’t want Madame Radisha to mark you tardy.”
The girls squealed, fleeing toward the classroom. Abigail started to follow when Madame Vex said, “Madame Arisa tells me you are failing Spectacular Spells—that your magic hasn’t come in yet.”
Abigail said nothing, afraid that if she lied, Madame Vex would know.
The headmistress sniffed. “Perhaps you will be expelled anyway.” With those words, she waved Abigail off to class.
Chapter 6
Black banners flapped in the parapets of the Balfin School for Boys, a cheerless building built out of weathered gray stone. From the inner courtyard came the staccato sounds of students marching in rhythm. They were always practicing drills to become soldiers.
There wasn’t much else for a boy to do when he came of age but join the Black Guard, the witches’ private army. It was that or become a blacksmith and make armor for the Black Guard. Or work in the stables and tend the horses for the Black Guard. Only a select few became part of the Balfin Council, eligible as consorts for the witches. Hugo had never understood why the witches needed such a big army. There hadn’t been a war in centuries.
He hurried around to the rear of the building and lifted the root cellar door. Emenor bragged he snuck in and out this way whenever he ditched school. The wooden steps creaked loudly as he climbed down. The cellar smelled earthy and slightly rotten. Bins of vegetables were stacked up on the dirt floor. As Hugo pulled the trapdoor shut, a voice spoke in the shadows.
“Give it back.”
Hugo turned.
Emenor pushed himself off the wall, stalking toward him. His brother was tall and lanky. Dark hair fell over his forehead, hiding his eyes.
Hugo tugged the medallion out of his pocket and dropped it into Emenor’s hand. The older boy rubbed it with his fingers, and his lip curled in anger.
“You used it, you little turnip.” He grabbed Hugo, slamming him back against the wall. “Who said you could use my magic?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I wanted to see how magic works, and there was this witch battle—”
“Witch battle? With who?”
“A witchling named Endera.”
Emenor stepped back, looking frightened. “You used magic against Endera Tarkana? Have you lost your mind?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Endera Tarkana is the daughter of a High Witch.”
“So?”
“Don’t you know anything about the witches? A High Witch is powerful—more powerful than you can imagine. We have to destroy this, or she’ll track it back to me.”
Emenor threw the medallion against the stone floor. There was a flash of green, and then it shattered into pieces.
He took Hugo by his collar and shook him. “You owe me another medallion, you hear me? Soon, or I’ll be giving you a beating every day until you make it right.” Shoving him aside, Emenor stomped up the set of stairs that led into the school.
Hugo leaned back against the cold bricks, trying to slow his heart down. He had never seen Emenor this mad before. His brother liked to boss him around, but deep down, he was usually an okay brother.
How was he going to get another magical medallion? Maybe Abigail would give him one if he explained why he needed it.
Hugo slowly followed Emenor up the stairs, ducking out the small door that opened into a corner of the busy kitchen and slipping out into the main hall. It was passing period, so the halls were crowded with boys. He hurried into his Ancient History class.
Professor Oakes was one of Hugo’s favorite teachers and came from a high-ranking family. Like many of the Balfin elite, he kept his head clean-shaven and wore long black robes.
As Oakes droned on about long-ago witches, Hugo doodled on his paper. He drew the muscled shoulders of the beast, its broad head and slanted eyes.
Hugo read a lot, so he knew just about everything there was to know about the animals on B
alfour Island, but he had never seen a creature like this before.
“Can anyone tell me why there are no he-witches left today? Mr. Suppermill?”
Hugo set his pencil down. “A he-witch named Rubicus tried to show Odin he was more powerful, so he cursed the sun to poison the land. It nearly destroyed Midgard, the realm of man. Odin had to cut off Rubicus’s head to stop the curse.”
Professor Oakes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve done your homework. But how did that lead to no more little he-witches?”
Hugo knew the answer well. “Odin was so angry at what Rubicus had done he cursed the witches to never have sons again.”
Oakes nodded in approval. “But do you know what the Rubicus Prophecy says?”
Hugo shook his head. There hadn’t been anything in the books about a prophecy.
“Allow me to tell the story.” Oakes opened a tattered old book and began to read from it. “As the red sun burned like a blazing torch, Odin raised his mighty sword, Tyrfing, over the head of Rubicus. ‘I take no pleasure in ending your life,’ said Odin. ‘But you went too far this time.’ Then Rubicus vowed, ‘You may take my head and end my life, but one day, I will be avenged. A son of mine will destroy all that you have built.’ Odin became so enraged he swore a curse, ‘Then never again shall a witch bear a male child.’”
“What did Rubicus do?” a boy up front asked.
“He laughed. Then he challenged Odin: ‘Mark my words, not even a god as powerful as you can control the fates. One day, a daughter of my daughter’s daughter will break the curse and bear a son to take my vengeance—” Oakes snapped the book shut. “And bring war to Orkney.”
The room was silent, and then Hugo raised his hand.
“So his fate is not his to choose?” he asked.
Oakes frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hugo shrugged. “It just doesn’t seem fair. I mean, what if this boy doesn’t want to take vengeance and start a war?”
Oakes smiled. “He’ll be a witch; of course, he’ll want to go to war. It’s in their blood.”
“How come us Balfins don’t have any magic?” a sullen boy named Gregor asked. A fringe of dark hair lined his brow. “Why do we have to serve the witches?”
“You think we are so powerless?” Oakes asked.
Gregor shrugged. “They’re always bossing my dad around. He sews dresses for them, but he’s not even allowed to speak when he’s fitting them.”
The professor paced in front of the class. “Think of the witches as a stallion—an animal powerful enough to stomp the life out of a small boy like you. Yet a trained stallion is easily controlled with just a touch of the reins.” He stopped in front of Gregor. “We Balfins know how to guide the witches without them even knowing it.”
Now Gregor looked confused. “How do we do that?”
“We train in their arts. We know their spells and their potions, and we are given tokens with their magic.” From inside his robes, he withdrew a heavy medallion twice as large as Emenor’s.
He twitched it side to side and muttered under his breath.
As the boys oohed, Gregor floated up out of his seat, waving his arms wildly.
“You think a witch is the only one who can learn to use magic?” Oakes whipped the medallion back under his robe, and Gregor dropped into his seat. “Never forget, young Gregor, the witches, though powerful, are few in number. The Balfin are many. Together, we are an unstoppable force.”
“What good is an army when there isn’t a war?” Hugo asked.
Oakes laughed. “My boy, the witches will never give up on their quest to rule Orkney. There is always a war in the works, this one just hasn’t started yet. Class dismissed. Hugo, a word, please.”
Hugo put his books into his bag. Was he about to get into trouble for missing morning classes?
But Oakes pointed at the drawing on his desk. “Where did you see a viken?”
“A viken?”
“Yes. Something the witches conjured up years ago. Created quite a stir. There was even rumor it killed one of their own before they destroyed it. How did you come to draw one?”
“Um, I’m not sure, I must have seen it in a book.”
Oakes leaned in. “Because if there was a viken loose on this island, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, Hugo?”
The professor’s eyes were suddenly keen, staring into Hugo’s.
Hugo nodded, crossing his fingers under the desk as he did.
Chapter 7
Positively Potent Potions was Abigail’s favorite class. Shelves crammed with crazily stacked jars—filled with oddities and ingredients for her famous potions—lined Madame Radisha’s classroom. The musty room smelled like moldering mushrooms.
There were nineteen firstlings enrolled at the Tarkana Witch Academy. During their potions practice, they would each pair up with a partner. Endera always picked Nelly because she was smarter than Glorian.
The other girls each had their favorites—best friends that they matched off with—which usually left Abigail odd girl out unless a girl was absent. As Madame Radisha went on about the potent properties of powdered sneevil tusks, Abigail’s thoughts drifted to her mother.
She hadn’t thought about her in a long time. Abigail tried to imagine what she looked like. Had she ever come to visit her in the Creche? She wondered if they were alike at all.
Madame Radisha clapped her hands, snapping Abigail out of her daydreams.
“Now that we’ve learned how to brew our shreek-beetle potion, let’s join partners.”
Abigail groaned. She hadn’t been paying attention at all and her Potions journal was blank.
She looked around, hoping some girl would take pity on her. Witchlings scurried by, but none of them even glanced at her. She caught Minxie’s eye, but Glorian bellowed her name, and the girl shrugged at Abigail and moved on.
Abigail sighed. Alone it was. She would probably fail Potions and get kicked out in record time. They would send her back to the Creche to watch over the baby witchlings.
Someone tapped her shoulder.
“Looks like you need a partner.”
Endera stood there with a fake smile so big it stretched her cheeks.
Abigail would rather fail Potions class than work with Endera, but before she could say anything, Madame Radisha cooed with joy.
“Endera, such a nice little witchling to partner with Abigail.”
Abigail fumed as Endera beamed. One thing she knew for certain: Endera Tarkana didn’t have a nice bone in her body.
“What are you up to?” Abigail whispered as Endera began opening jars on their table.
“Who, me? You heard ol’ radish head. I’m just being nice.” Endera smiled, but her eyes gleamed with spite.
Abigail sighed. She had no choice but to let Endera take the lead on making the potion since she didn’t have a clue what to do.
“First, we need plenty of these.” Endera picked up a jar with large black beetles crawling around and shook out several into the cauldron. “Next, we need a handful of shreeks’ eyes. Grab that jar there.” She pointed at a jar full of bulging eyeballs.
Abigail grimaced, then unscrewed the jar and dug her fingers into the slippery organs. Her stomach did a somersault. Witches weren’t supposed to be affected by potion making, but sometimes she wanted to throw up. She quickly dropped them into the cauldron, then wiped her hands on her skirt.
“Now add the sneevil tusk powder,” Endera said, nodding at a jar of white powder as she continued to stir the potion.
Abigail twisted the lid off. “How much should I add?”
Endera looked at her innocently. “Weren’t you paying attention, Abigail?”
Abigail flushed. “Yes . . . I just . . . that is . . . I don’t remember.”
Endera rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll tell you just this once. Madame Radisha said to dump the whole jar in.”
Abigail hesitated. Was sneevil tusk powder potent? Why couldn’t she remember anything? What kind of wi
tch didn’t know what sneevil tusk powder did?
One who didn’t pay attention in class.
Endera drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you going to do anything? Or do I have to do all the work?”
Abigail sprinkled some powder in. The potion in the cauldron began to steam.
Better not add too much.
She started to tip the jar back, but Endera bumped her elbow, and the contents emptied into the pot.
“Oops.” Endera grinned, taking a long step back.
Abigail didn’t have time to move. The cauldron let out a high-pitched hissing noise and then blew up in her face, spraying beetle guts and shreek eyes everywhere.
The class fell silent as Madame Radisha rushed over.
“Abigail Tarkana, what in Odin’s name were you thinking? Every witchling knows that sneevil tusk powder is too potent to use more than a teaspoon.”
“I tried to tell her,” Endera said innocently, “but she wouldn’t listen.”
Nelly slunk over, adding, “Yeah, I overheard her say Positively Potent Potions is a duuuumb class.”
Madame Radisha pursed her lips and pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Out of my classroom. And don’t come back until you’ve changed that attitude of yours. I have half a mind to fail you for the semester.”
Tears stung Abigail’s eyes.
She hated this school. She hated Endera. And she hated that everyone was staring at her, laughing. But it was just what Endera wanted, to see Abigail burst into tears.
She slowly pushed herself back from the table and stood up. Slimy trails of sneevil gook dripped from her hair. Beetle goo streaked her cheek.
Tucking her Potions journal into her book bag, she dipped her chin at Madame Radisha, spun on her heel, and walked out of the classroom.
Chapter 8
Abigail swept her mop side to side, cleaning the sticky floor of Madam Radisha’s classroom. She was going stir-crazy after three days of detention, doing endless chores after school and then locked in her room to study alone until supper.
