A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Yes,’ Betty muttered, trying to ignore a sliver of fear. With Willow unseen and the swirling fog, it was easy for her mind to play tricks. For a moment, Betty had been convinced there had been no misting of Willow’s breath as she spoke into the cold air.

  ‘We should check there,’ said Fliss. ‘I need to know Granny’s all right. If she is there, then she must be in that stinking rat hole of a lock-up—’

  ‘But Charlie!’ Betty objected. ‘We don’t have time!’

  ‘Please, Betty. We’ve no way to tell which way they’ve gone – setting off in the fog like this is madness! We might even see something from the clifftop – a light from a boat. Or . . . or Granny might have heard the trappers say something about where they’re going. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Fine,’ Betty snapped. ‘I just hope this isn’t a mistake.’

  They set off, more swiftly than before, though the fog continued to hinder them. As the path rose up the cliff, the air grew colder still. In the lamp at Betty’s side, the wisp’s glow lit the way. Betty tried to be glad of its presence. After all, it was the only light they had, and without it there were a number of loose stones and roots they might have tripped on. But the unnatural eeriness of it was something she couldn’t shake off. There was something so unearthly and unsettling about it, and it felt decidedly out of place among them.

  They continued without speaking, saving their energy for the steep incline of the path. Betty was glad of it, for the effort finally warmed her limbs. How used to being cold she was! Finally, they reached the end of the path, muscles burning, and squinted through the mist, trying to decipher which way to go.

  The headland at Bootleg Beak was wide and almost empty: an open space with scrubby grass and not much else save for nesting gulls and crows. Years ago, another path had led down from the clifftops to several caves used by bootleggers and smugglers, but the caves had since been infilled and the path rendered unusable. There was only one reminder of Bootleg Beak’s murky past, only one thing there at all: the lock-up.

  It was a small stone cell with a single wooden door that held a tiny, barred window.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Fliss said in a low voice.

  Betty nodded, staring at the mossy walls. There had been a game they’d played with other Crowstone children when they were younger, to see who was brave enough – or silly enough – to get as close as they could to the lock-up. The rules were simple: everyone had to put something into the kitty (or the bootleg booty as they called it). This could be a coin, a sweet or some other small token such as an unusual pebble or a shell. Then they’d take it in turns to creep closer and closer to the lock-up while the others watched. The ultimate aim was to reach up, touch the bars on the door and shout, ‘Bootleg Booty!’, but more often than not the winner was the person who dared to get the closest, for few had the gumption to actually reach out and touch the bars. Especially after what had happened to Betty . . .

  She gulped, remembering how she had been grinning widely as her hand reached out for the door, and how she’d drawn breath to shout the words. But, instead of victory, filthy fingers had shot out from between the bars and clamped round her own. Then came a dry, wheezing cackle from the prisoner within, whose face she couldn’t see. That had only made it all the more terrifying. Betty had twisted, and yelled, and yelled . . . but the fingers didn’t loosen. It was Fliss who had seized her courage, and the bootleg booty, and flung the fistful of sweets and coins through the bars with a roar: ‘Let go of my sister!’

  And it had worked. The dirty hands released her as the prisoner scuffled round on the floor of the lock-up to collect the goodies that had been thrown through.

  Betty glanced down at her hand, remembering the feeling of those horrible fingers on hers.

  ‘That was the first time I ever saw you scared,’ Fliss said faintly.

  ‘First time I ever saw you brave,’ Betty replied, with a small smile. They stared at each other for a short moment, not needing to say anything else. They had both seen each other scared – and brave – many more times since that day.

  They approached the lock-up cautiously, creeping round in silence from the rear. Their footsteps made little sound in the damp, overgrown grass. Willow’s seemed to make no noise at all.

  When they reached the front, the door was shut, a heavy padlock holding it in place. Surely, then, it couldn’t be empty? The barred window was too high to look through without being obvious. Betty held a finger to her lips, straining to hear above the light rushing of the wind. For a moment, there was nothing. Then a slight movement came from within. Her heart seemed to leap from her chest into her throat. Someone was in there!

  She hit the door with her fist three times, pounding on the wood. ‘Hello? Who’s in there?’

  A scuffling movement sounded – someone getting up from the floor. Hands appeared on the bars: strong wrinkly ones that Betty knew, before their owner even spoke.

  ‘Betty, is that you?’

  ‘Granny!’ Fliss exclaimed, hugging Betty with relief. ‘Yes, it’s us!’

  Betty sagged against the cold stone wall, her knees suddenly weak. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’ Swirling mist nipped at her nose. Fliss had been wrong: there was no hope of seeing any lights on the water from the clifftop. They couldn’t even see where the land ended. Until the fog cleared, their only chance of picking up Charlie’s trail now was Granny.

  ‘Don’t thank anything that I’m here,’ Granny retorted. ‘Arrested, at my age! It’ll be the talk of Crowstone.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Betty cut in, the truth drying her mouth out. ‘Because it wasn’t a real arrest. Oh, Granny, you were tricked – we all were!’

  ‘Tricked?’ Granny was incredulous.

  ‘They were just pretending so they could take Charlie,’ said Fliss.

  ‘What?’ Granny said, enraged. ‘Take Charlie where? Who are these people? Get me out of here so I can get my hands on them!’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Betty, motioning for Willow to stay quiet. ‘All we know is we need to go after them – they’ve taken her on a boat. Maybe they haven’t got too far yet in the marsh mist.’ She glanced around, suddenly realising something. ‘Perhaps, for once, it’s our friend.’

  ‘Betty Widdershins,’ Granny said, in a voice as sharp as needles, ‘you’re not to go chasing after criminals, do you hear? You’re to fetch the real warders and get me released, then we’ll deal with this together.’

  ‘The real warders are already out looking,’ said Fliss. ‘They’ll have to bring a spare key to get you out. But Granny?’ She swallowed nervously. ‘We can’t just sit around, waiting for someone else to rescue Charlie. We . . . we’ve got things the warders haven’t. We’re going after her.’

  ‘Never mind what you’ve got,’ Granny replied. ‘How do you think you’re going to catch up with them – you just said they’ve taken a boat!’

  ‘They have,’ said Betty. ‘But so have we.’

  ‘What?’ Granny spluttered. ‘You’re thirteen! You can’t sail a boat!’

  ‘I can,’ Betty retorted. ‘I’ve been on the boat with Father every spare minute. I’ve watched and I’ve learned. I can do it, and I have to if we’re going to get Charlie back.’

  Granny’s hands loosened on the bars. ‘This is my fault. I should have fought harder. If your father had been there, none of this would have happened. They were never going to listen to a silly old woman.’

  ‘Don’t ever say that!’ Fliss said, shocked. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. They fooled us all. And honestly, Granny – you’re twice as scary as Father! The way you stood up to them—’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ Betty added fiercely. She reached up and took Granny’s hand, squeezing her papery fingers. ‘And you can’t blame us for going after Charlie, because that’s exactly what you’d do.’

  Granny squeezed back, sniffing. ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘We have to figure out where they’ve tak
en Charlie,’ said Betty. ‘Was there anything, anything at all those warders said that might give us a clue?’

  ‘No,’ Granny said dejectedly. ‘They didn’t mention anywhere except Torment. But, if they’re not really warders, they won’t be taking her there.’

  ‘So they kept up the lie,’ Fliss said, her voice cracking with disappointment. ‘Whoever they are, they’re good at what they do.’

  Granny took a sharp breath. ‘Wait. There was one thing I thought I heard them say, after they’d locked me in and were starting to walk away.’

  Betty pounced. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Not where,’ said Granny. ‘And, like I said, they were already leaving . . . it was faint. But I thought I heard the word “Swindles”.’

  ‘Swindles . . .’ Betty frowned. ‘There’s only one Swindles that’s ever talked about in Crowstone.’

  ‘Rusty Swindles,’ Fliss breathed. ‘The notorious smuggler?’

  ‘Dead smuggler, you mean,’ Granny interjected. ‘Anything linked to him and his crew can only be bad news.’

  ‘Why would they be talking about him?’ Betty puzzled, before a flicker of an idea sparked within. ‘Unless . . . Perhaps it did mean something! Or rather, somewhere . . .’

  ‘Betty?’ Granny said in a warning tone. ‘You can’t do this – it’s madness! Fliss, talk some sense into her.’

  ‘Sorry, Granny,’ Fliss said, ‘but Betty’s right. We’re Charlie’s best chance right now.’

  Granny gave a disbelieving splutter. They all knew that Fliss could usually be relied on to be the sensible one. But there was nothing usual about tonight, and Fliss wanted Charlie back every bit as much as Betty did.

  Hearing Granny shiver, Betty suddenly remembered the extra shawl she had brought. She pulled it out from the potato sack and pushed the edge of it through the bars in the door. ‘Here. Take this to keep warm.’ She hesitated, then poked through a tin of the tobacco, too.

  ‘Don’t suppose you brought any whiskey?’ Granny asked hopefully.

  ‘Er . . . no,’ said Betty, seeing Fliss grimace at the mention of it. ‘But we’ll be back as soon as we can.’

  ‘Betty, no . . . wait!’ Granny demanded, but Betty had already begun to stride away, back towards the cliff path to the harbour. Fliss followed wordlessly, and with every step Granny’s voice grew fainter – and more desperate.

  ‘Betty Widdershins, if you don’t get back here this minute, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

  But they never heard Granny’s threat, for her words were whipped away as they stepped on to the path. Betty was grateful for the wind whistling in her ears, drowning out all else. A cross Granny was something she was used to, something she could deal with. A frightened, desperate Granny . . . wasn’t. It made her angry. No, furious. That fury was something she needed, something which chased away the fears and doubts.

  ‘Betty,’ Fliss said, hurrying to keep up. ‘Wait!’

  Betty kept walking, big strides that sent her blood pumping and added to her anger. Making her brave.

  ‘Betty!’ Fliss pleaded again. ‘Say something. Why do you have that look on your face? What are you thinking?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Betty answered grimly, trying to put her clamouring thoughts in order. ‘But I’ll tell you something: whoever they are, those people who’ve taken Charlie? They’ve messed with the wrong family.’

  Chapter Eight

  Rusty Swindles

  WHEN THEY REACHED THE HARBOUR, Betty’s nose and fingers felt half frozen. She pushed her hands in her cardigan pockets to warm them, and was startled by the feeling of a little wet nose and tickling whiskers nuzzling her fingertips. She had forgotten about Charlie’s rat. She stroked his ears, glad of his furry warmth in her hand.

  ‘Which boat is it?’ Willow asked from beside her. Her voice, coming out of emptiness, startled Betty more than it should have. She moved so silently, like snow through air, that it was hard to tell she was there at all.

  Betty looked past the rows of boats, some flaking and shabby, others brightly coloured and well kept. ‘There,’ she said, pointing out a small fishing boat. ‘The green one.’

  ‘The Travelling Bag,’ Willow read from the decorative painted letters on the side, as they approached. ‘What’s a travelling bag?’

  ‘Something magical that could take you away to any place you wanted – or to anyone,’ Betty said wistfully. She grabbed the mooring rope and began to heave at it, tugging the boat closer to the wall.

  ‘Something magical . . . like the dolls?’ Willow asked. ‘You had something like that once?’

  ‘Once.’ Betty averted her eyes. How she wished they still had Granny’s scruffy old carpet bag! But it was long gone and no amount of wishing would ever return it. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘It’s still a funny name for a boat.’

  Betty shrugged. ‘No funnier than Knot Working,’ she said, wanting to change the subject. She nodded to a ramshackle thing floating next to them. ‘Or that pink monstrosity over there: Summer Love.’

  ‘I like that one!’ Fliss objected.

  Betty snorted, still hauling the rope. ‘You would.’

  The boat bobbed closer, half a step from the wall. ‘Go on Fliss, you first,’ Betty instructed.

  Fliss stepped on to the boat with a predictable nauseated gurgle. Betty felt cool air swirl past her as Willow boarded, as soundlessly as a cat, and then climbed on herself.

  Fliss plopped down on the bench, staring determinedly into the distance while taking deep breaths.

  ‘What’s the matter with your sister?’ Willow asked, as Betty unlocked the wheelhouse and dumped the potato sack inside. A faint odour of fish rose up, a smell no amount of paint could disguise.

  ‘She gets seasick, that’s what,’ said Betty. ‘She can barely look at a boat without turning green.’

  ‘But we aren’t even moving yet.’

  ‘I take it you’re at home on the water, then?’ Fliss asked snarkily.

  ‘My family are fishing people,’ said Willow. ‘I’ve probably spent more time on water than on land.’

  ‘Good,’ said Betty, feeling a droplet of water land on her hand that she felt sure had dripped off the little girl. ‘You’d better go into the wheelhouse and keep warm. Fliss, give me a hand with stoking up the engine.’

  Together, Betty and Fliss heaved coal from the hatch below deck and shook it into the furnace, sneezing as coal dust flew into their faces and blackened their fingers. Though the fog was clearing a little, there were still no signs of life at the harbour. Soon steam began to puff from the funnel. Betty wound in the mooring rope and lit the lamp at the front of the boat, even though it could not help them to see far through the mist yet.

  ‘Fliss,’ Betty called, heading for the wheelhouse, where she took the wheel. ‘Coming in?’

  Fliss gave a pained nod and followed, taking a spot on a cushion propped on the wooden seat. Its checked cover matched the thin curtains at the windows, which the girls had insisted on making to brighten up the little fishing boat after Father had painted and repaired it.

  Once inside, Betty twisted the dolls, allowing Willow to be seen. Though she hadn’t voiced it, the knowledge that Willow was there with them, unseen and so very silent, was spooking Betty more than she cared to admit. As the girl came into view, she felt slightly better. There was something about her quietness that made it easy to imagine she could be invisible, even without the magical dolls.

  Willow squeezed into the narrow space after them and sat opposite Fliss. Slowly, the little boat chugged across the harbour and into the night.

  ‘I wonder if Granny’s been found yet,’ Fliss murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Betty, peering through the mist, her fingers clamped tightly on the wooden wheel. She steered to the left, willing the fog to clear. ‘She would’ve been straight down to the harbour after us.’

  Fliss leaned back, closing her eyes and resting her head. ‘We’ll be in for it when we g
et back.’

  ‘At least you’re thinking positively,’ said Betty.

  Fliss opened one eye, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘That’s positive?’

  ‘You said “when”,’ Betty replied. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Great,’ Fliss muttered, closing her eye again, and giving a little oooh as the boat rode a small wave.

  With her feet, Betty nudged a tin bucket towards Fliss. ‘Lucky we left when we did,’ she said, noticing a nearby water marker. ‘The tide’s starting to go out. Much longer and we’d have been stranded.’

  ‘Always lucky, that’s us,’ said Fliss, sarcastic for once. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t said where we’ll be coming back from.’

  Betty reached into the potato sack and removed the map she’d brought along: a roll of thick parchment with slightly tatty edges. She opened it out below the window in front of her, pinning its curling edges down with two stones Father had brought aboard as paperweights. It was similar to Willow’s map in that it showed Crowstone and the Sorrow Isles: Torment, Lament and Repent on a small scale in the lower right corner. Above it was the mainland, starting with Marshfoot and leading to Horseshoe Bay and beyond. But it was the area to the left that was of interest to Betty, in the expanse of water that, on Willow’s map, held the location of the mysterious hidden island.

  On this map, the area below the secret island was where Betty’s finger trailed, where the first of two unusual landmarks lay. She tapped the parchment, eyeing Willow.

  ‘Know what this is?’

  Willow stared at the map. ‘A shipwreck.’

  ‘Not just any shipwreck,’ said Betty. ‘The most famous one of all.’

  Fliss’s eyes flew open again. ‘The Sorcerer’s Compass?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Betty. ‘Although infamous is probably a better word. And do you know who that ship belonged to?’

  ‘Rust . . .’ Willow frowned. ‘Rusty . . . ? The smuggler you mentioned earlier?’

  ‘Right,’ said Betty. ‘Rusty Swindles.’

  ‘We heard the tale a lot when we were younger,’ said Fliss. ‘Sometimes from Father, sometimes from Granny.’ She paused. ‘You never heard the story?’