‘Why you hiding?’ Charlie persisted gently, as if to a frightened animal. And then she snatched back her hand with a gasp as a glowing orb emerged from behind the girl’s raggedy dress.
‘A wisp!’ Betty hissed. She grabbed at Charlie, pulling her away as the orb loomed in front of them. ‘A will-o’-the-wisp! She’s come in off the marshes!’
Charlie scrambled backwards, the trowel clattering at her feet. Her small face was pinched with dread. Quickly, she made the sign of the crow, just like Granny had taught them, to ward off evil.
Betty hesitated, then did the same, even though it went against her practical nature to believe in such superstitions. Better safe than sorry, she thought grimly. Granny had always warned them that the will-o’-the-wisps on the marshes were bad news. The people of Crowstone had grown up with stories of the glowing balls of light leading travellers astray in the fog, never to be seen again. Like Granny, many believed them to be ghostly echoes of lives lost crossing the marshes.
The wisp hovered in front of the girl, but didn’t come any closer. Its eerie silvery light cast strange shadows on her thin face, making her appear older suddenly.
‘Charlie,’ Betty whispered. ‘Go inside. And you . . .’ She turned to the girl. ‘You’d better go back to wherever you came from.’
‘I can’t.’
The whispered words were so faint that for a moment Betty wondered if she’d imagined them. But the desperation in the girl’s eyes was plain, and there was something else there, too. Determination.
‘I can’t,’ she repeated, louder this time. ‘And I won’t.’
‘Betty,’ said Charlie, her eyes fixed on the girl. ‘I think she needs our help.’
‘Charlie Widdershins!’ Betty hissed. ‘I told you to go inside! We don’t know anything about her, or what she wants, or why she has that . . . that thing with her!’
‘It won’t hurt you,’ the girl began, but stopped as scuffling footsteps sounded on the other side of the walled yard. She shrank back again, looking so young and afraid that Betty couldn’t help feeling a stirring of sympathy. Charlie was right. The girl was clearly in trouble. But why?
A gruff voice spoke. ‘I’m telling you, there was a light. A lantern or something . . .’
The gate rattled as someone shook it. Betty froze as torchlight shone through the gap in the rotten wood, sweeping over the glistening, damp cobbles. She grabbed Charlie and ducked behind a large, empty beer barrel – just in time. The torchlight flickered over the yard and Betty pressed her finger to her lips, motioning to the girl and Charlie to keep quiet. For once, her little sister did as she was told.
Betty bit back a gasp as something – a fist? – hit the gate, sending splinters of wood flying over the cobbles. One strong kick and the gate would crash down. No wonder Granny had been nagging their father to fix it for weeks.
Betty’s heart thumped wildly. What could they want with this scrap of a girl? Could she be one of the people who’d escaped? Surely not . . . The bell had stopped tolling hours ago . . . and, as far as anyone knew, the only prisoners on Crowstone were men. Betty prepared herself for the gate to shatter, but a second voice from the other side of it barked a steely command: ‘No.’
Silence, then a muddle of whispers too low for Betty to catch. Two pairs of heavy footsteps thudded away from the gate. She listened, straining her ears for sounds of movement until she could hear nothing more. Shakily, she beckoned to Charlie. After a moment’s hesitation, she then gestured to the mysterious girl and pointed to the back door, mouthing, ‘Inside, now!’
Chapter Three
The Black Feather
BETTY CLOSED THE BACK DOOR behind them as quietly as she could, and grappled with the stiff bolt. It shot into place with a loud snap that made all three of them jump. Betty cussed under her breath, her eyes and ears fixed on the stairs. There was no movement from above.
‘In there,’ Betty whispered, with an oof as Oi twisted past her ankles again, making her stumble. ‘Blinkin’ cat!’
She ushered Charlie and the girl into the bar area, where they immediately made a beeline for the nearest fireplace. ‘Keep the lights low,’ Betty warned. ‘And don’t add any more logs to the fire. Fresh smoke from the chimney at this time of night could look suspicious.’
But to whom? she wondered, as she hurriedly checked the windows, making sure all the curtains were drawn to shut out prying eyes. Who was out there – and had they really gone? She tested the front doors, ensuring they were locked. Outside, the FOR SALE sign creaked in the wind.
Once she was satisfied all was locked and bolted, Betty hurried back to the fire just in time to snatch the poker off Charlie, who had set about stirring the embers into life. The little girl had stretched her hands out towards the last of the glowing coals, trying to soak warmth into her frozen-looking fingers. Her skin was deathly white, and she was shivering.
‘Here,’ said Charlie, producing half a sandwich from her pocket. ‘I saved this from munch for my rat.’
‘Lunch,’ Betty muttered. ‘Not munch.’
‘Same thing.’ Charlie shrugged, generously holding out the sandwich towards the girl. ‘You look like you need it more.’
Betty watched the girl – and the wisp – closely. The girl was stuffing the sandwich into her mouth, not appearing to care that it was curled and dry. Thanks to Granny filling their heads with so much superstitious nonsense over the years, it was hard not to think of tales of malevolent imps and fairies turning up on the doorstep and tricking you into feeding them so you could never get rid of them. In the dead of night in the dimly lit room, the stranger’s arrival certainly felt like bad luck. The wisp hovered near the hem of her damp dress. A couple of times it drifted closer to the fire, as if hypnotised by something glowing other than itself, but then it quickly returned to the strange girl’s side.
Goose pimples dotted Betty’s skin. She’d seen wisps on the marshes before but never this close up. A faint flickering came from within it, like a heartbeat of white, glittering embers. It was eerily beautiful, almost bewitching, and easy to see why people followed them . . . With a stab of fear, she blinked, forcing her eyes away.
‘Five minutes,’ Betty said, a little more sharply than was necessary. ‘By the time you’ve eaten that up, the coast should be clear for you to go.’
The girl made no sign that she had heard and simply stared into the flames with lost, haunted eyes.
A pang of sympathy tugged at Betty’s heart. Had it not been for the wisp, she wouldn’t have been so suspicious, but the sight of it floating there was deeply unsettling. Granny would be furious, so furious, if she knew Betty had invited it in. The thought made the back of her neck itch. Part of her wanted to help the girl; the other part wished they had never set eyes on her. Blast Charlie and her creatures!
‘What’s your name?’ Charlie asked, hunkering down next to the fire. From another pocket, she produced a nibbled piece of burnt gingerbread and offered it to the girl.
She crunched on a mouthful, and glanced at the wisp, hesitating. ‘I . . . Willow. Perhaps you should just call me that.’ Her voice had dropped to barely above a whisper that Betty now struggled to catch, and she felt it best not to try. The less they knew the better.
‘How old are you?’ Charlie asked. ‘I’m six, but I’ll be seven next week.’
‘I’m nine,’ said Willow. ‘People say I’m small for my age.’
‘Like a runt?’ Charlie said helpfully.
‘No more questions, Charlie,’ said Betty, uneasy. ‘You need to get back to bed.’ And Willow needs to go before Granny wakes up, she thought silently, refusing to ask the girl any questions of her own, even though she had several. It was safer not to know, especially when there were strangers outside looking for her.
Charlie paid no attention, clearly enjoying having a guest close in age. ‘Want to stroke my rat?’ she asked. ‘He’s invisible.’
Willow looked up from her gingerbread. ‘You have an imaginary rat?�
�
Charlie grinned. ‘No, invisible – like I said. Here.’
‘Charlie!’ Betty warned, but it was too late. Charlie had delved into her pocket and after rooting around with a, ‘Come on, Hoppit!’ she withdrew her hand and held it cupped in her lap. Willow stared at it, then at Charlie.
‘Go on,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s right here!’
Willow reached out with a hand even grubbier than Charlie’s, clearly expecting a trick of some kind. Then she gave a small cry.
‘Oh! There is something in your hand! It’s all warm and . . . furry.’
‘Told you,’ said Charlie proudly. ‘I have to keep him invisible because Granny would make me get rid of him if she knew.’
‘But . . . how?’ Willow began to ask.
Betty shot Charlie another warning look, but she needn’t have worried.
‘Nope, I can’t tell you that,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s a secret. Only me and my sisters know.’ She nodded to the wisp, which was drifting closer to Charlie in little bobbing movements, as if uncertain. ‘What about that?’
Willow stared at the wisp thoughtfully. ‘What have you heard about them?’ she asked at last.
‘Lots of things,’ Betty heard herself saying, dimly aware that she was transfixed by the wisp once more. ‘That they’re evil spirits, or imps, or the souls of people who’ve died on the marshes. Some people even say they’re nothing, just marsh gases.’ She stared at the wisp, which was bobbing even closer – more bravely? she thought – to Charlie’s outstretched hand. ‘But, looking at that, I can see it’s not marsh gas. It’s too . . . alive. Too curious.’
‘Alive?’ Willow said hoarsely. ‘Not exactly, but it was once.’
‘Who . . . who was it?’ Charlie asked.
Willow said nothing. She stretched her hands towards the fire once more, wiggling her fingers. As she did so, her sleeve drew back, revealing a small dark mark inked on her wrist.
‘What’s that?’ Charlie asked, leaning closer.
But Betty already knew, and the sight of it filled her with as much fear and dread as the wisp.
‘A crow feather,’ Willow said softly.
‘So you are the one who escaped,’ Betty said, her heart quickening. ‘But . . . but not from the prison. From Torment! You’re one of the banished folk!’
Willow nodded, eyes wide. ‘Please don’t call the warders,’ she begged. ‘I’ll go soon. I just . . . just needed a place to hide, to think for a few minutes. Once I’m gone, you can pretend I was never here, that you never saw me.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ Betty said slowly. ‘Why stop ringing the bell if you hadn’t been found? She thought back to the warders’ words. Two runaways . . . one washed up, half drowned, not expected to survive the night.
‘Who . . . who were you with?’ she asked carefully.
‘My mother,’ Willow croaked. ‘I’m not sure if the warders even knew it was both of us, that I was with her . . . but then something went wrong . . .’ Confusion flashed across her face. ‘I . . . we got separated and everything happened so quickly after that, and then I . . . I couldn’t find her. And then the bell stopped, after what seemed like for ever. So I know now that she’s . . . that they’ve . . .’
‘They’ve catched her,’ Charlie finished, breathing hard.
Betty looked away, troubled. The washed-up body the warders had described had to be Willow’s mother – but Willow appeared to have no idea. Somehow Betty couldn’t bring herself to admit what she knew.
Willow swallowed noisily, nodding. Her eyes shimmered in the dull light. One hand went to her pocket, patting it as if to reassure herself of something inside. The wisp hovered around her, making Betty think of Fliss bobbing round Charlie with a handkerchief every time Charlie scraped her knees.
Charlie reached out and gently took Willow’s hand, studying the feather inked on her skin. ‘Did it hurt?’
Willow’s lip trembled. ‘Yes.’ She calmed a little now, staring into the fire, but not really seeing it. ‘Everyone on the island gets marked. I’m one of the lucky ones – mine’s only small—’
Charlie gawped. ‘You mean some people have to get bigger ones?’
‘Yes. I got a feather, because the crime wasn’t mine,’ Willow explained.
‘Then whose crime was it?’ Betty asked, unable to contain her curiosity. Much was said about life on Torment, but very little was known. What they did know was that there were dangerous people there. Ex-convicts, released from the prison, who had nowhere else to go, as well as others who’d been banished from Crowstone. It was a dumping ground for wrongdoers.
Before Willow could answer, they were interrupted by an indignant squeaking from Charlie’s hand. The wisp was buzzing round her palm, clearly intrigued by the rat it couldn’t see.
‘Calm down, Hoppit,’ Charlie said, tucking her hand into her pocket. Betty watched the fabric moving as the unseen creature burrowed into Charlie’s cosy warmth.
‘They sense life,’ Willow said quietly. ‘They’re drawn to it. That’s why, when people see them on the marshes, they come closer. Most of the time they’re harmless, but others—’
A loud rap on the door made them jump.
‘Open up!’ a voice barked. ‘By the order of Crowstone!’
‘Warders!’ Betty hissed, horrified. They stared at one another, frozen, not daring to move. Upstairs, bedsprings creaked as someone stirred. Then silence.
‘Perhaps if we stay quiet they’ll think we’re asleep and go?’ Charlie whispered, but she had barely finished the sentence when another loud bang shook the door. The latch lifted and rattled.
‘They’re not giving up,’ Betty said, her voice faint.
‘They mustn’t find me here,’ said Willow, trembling. ‘Please! I’ll go out the back, I—’
‘No.’ Betty thought quickly, springing into action. ‘They’ve seen the broken gate in the yard so they’ve probably worked out you’re here. For all we know, they could have someone waiting out back in case you make a run for it.’
‘Please don’t hand me over to them,’ Willow begged.
Betty hesitated. Anyone caught sheltering escaped prisoners was thrown in jail, or even banished. She suspected helping people from Torment carried similar punishments. But if they handed Willow over . . . the penalty for trying to escape was death.
The pounding at the door made her decision for her.
‘OPEN UP!’ a voice roared.
‘Quickly, this way!’ Betty grabbed Charlie’s hand and pushed Willow towards the stairs, her heart thumping as violently as the door.
‘Betty?’ Charlie gasped, half stumbling.
‘Shh,’ Betty whispered, urging her sister and Willow ahead of her. The wisp floated along beside them, darting past ankles as it tried to stay close to the strange girl. Betty bundled them into the bedroom. On the other side of the wall the bed creaked again, and then a heavy tread stamped across the floor.
‘Granny’s up,’ Charlie whispered.
‘Into bed, now!’ Betty instructed. Her eyes darted to the shelf, quickly searching a row of books, bottles of Fliss’s home-made rose-water perfume and Charlie’s latest ransom note to the tooth fairy. But what she wanted wasn’t there.
‘Betty?’ a voice whispered into the darkness. ‘What’s going on? Who’s at the door?’
Betty spun round, heart racing. Fliss was sitting up in bed, her dark hair still poking up in short tufts. She rubbed her eyes, peering at Willow. ‘Who is that?’
‘No time to explain – warders are here,’ Betty whispered, her eyes still raking over the room. ‘Fliss – the nesting dolls! Where are they?’
‘The nesting . . . what? Why?’
Sharp cracks rang through the air, wood on wood. Fliss’s eyes widened – she was now fully awake – and she stumbled out of bed, shivering.
At the same moment, Granny charged past their room.
‘ALL RIGHT!’ she bellowed. ‘I’M COMING!’
‘Fliss, the dolls, no
w!’ Betty hissed. ‘Charlie, BED!’
‘I hid them earlier, out of the way of Charlie’s mischief,’ Fliss burbled, digging the dolls out from the bottom drawer of the chest. Then she froze, clutching her hands to her chest. ‘B-Betty . . . is that a . . . a . . . ?’
‘A wisp? Yes.’ Betty rushed towards her sister, knocking a pile of laundry over. Grabbing the dolls, Betty quickly pulled the outer doll apart, then did the same with the second and third dolls. They were empty, save for Hoppit’s whisker inside the third.
‘Now listen,’ Betty said fiercely to the girl, ‘I’m going to help you stay hidden from the warders, but you can never reveal to anyone what’s about to happen. Anyone! Got it?’
‘But Betty,’ said Charlie in a small voice, ‘you said they were a secret.’
‘They are.’ Betty gave Willow another hard look, hoping that her misgivings were hidden. ‘And they’ll stay that way.’
‘What if they don’t?’ Fliss whispered, her eyes still fixed on the wisp. ‘Who is this girl, and why are you taking such a huge risk?’
‘Because she’s the runaway,’ Betty said breathlessly. ‘From Torment. And if she’s found here we’re all in big trouble.’
Turning towards Willow, she said, ‘I need something of yours. A bit of hair, or some clothing . . . something personal.’ Her eyes quickly skimmed Willow’s dress, realising it was so threadbare that to try to pull off a button or a loose thread would probably result in the garment falling to bits. Before she had time to think further, Willow stuck a finger up her nose and hooked something out.
‘Yuck!’ said Charlie.
‘Sorry,’ said Willow. ‘Good enough?’
‘I guess we’ll find out,’ said Betty. She turned Willow towards the looking glass above the drawers. ‘Now watch.’ She fixed the top half of the third doll in place, then replaced it inside the other two dolls, carefully lining up the tiny painted key on the two halves of the wooden surface.
Instantly, Willow let out a gasp: she had vanished from sight.
Betty reached for her and took her arm. ‘You can still be heard and felt.’ She guided Willow into the corner of the room next to the wardrobe. ‘Stay here. Keep quiet and don’t move.’
A Sprinkle of Sorcery Page 3
