A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Betty Widdershins,’ Fliss said disapprovingly. ‘Our family has never been rich, and probably never will be. That doesn’t make it all right to take what isn’t ours.’

  ‘I don’t mean for us, but once those warders arrive we’ll need something to trade for Charlie. They’re after Rusty’s treasure – but what if we got to it first?’

  ‘Us?’ Fliss spluttered. ‘Take the treasure? I’d quite like to keep all my fingers, thank you very much!’

  ‘We wouldn’t be the ones keeping it,’ Betty said. ‘Perhaps we could even leave something in its place, so we don’t make Rusty’s spirit angry.’

  ‘And what exactly do you think we have that Rusty Swindles would be interested in?’ Fliss shot back. ‘Hmm? Because the only thing I can think of is the nesting dolls, and I sure as eggs don’t think we should give those up.’

  ‘No,’ Betty agreed. ‘Neither do I. But what about Granny’s swag? I mean, pirates like tobacco, don’t they? And all the better if it’s stolen. What do you say, Rusty?’ she murmured. ‘Deal?’

  There was a beat of silence in which Betty imagined that the old ship would creak in reply. Nothing came, only the soft lapping of waves against wood. She turned to Fliss, who was looking less certain with every minute.

  ‘So who’s going in first, then? You or me?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saltwater and Spit!

  AFTER SOME DELIBERATION THEY RETURNED to the other side of The Sorcerer’s Compass, where the wreck was fully submerged.

  ‘There’s something down there,’ said Fliss, wide-eyed. ‘See that glow, through the porthole? What if it’s a wisp – or worse . . . a whole crew of them?’

  Betty stared down into the water. There was an eerie bluish glow filtering through it. ‘It could be plankton,’ she said, trying to put Fliss at ease.

  ‘Or Rusty Swindles,’ Fliss retorted, clearly unnerved.

  ‘Maybe – we’ll have to see if it’s wearing an eyepatch,’ Betty joked, then stopped smirking as Fliss gave her a stony look. ‘Whatever it is, we have to look. If there’s anything inside that can help us bargain for Charlie, we need it. It’s not like we have any other options.’

  The mention of Charlie made Fliss purse her lips determinedly.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I’m the oldest.’

  ‘But I’m the strongest swimmer,’ Betty argued. ‘I’ll go.’

  In truth, all three Widdershins girls were fine swimmers, even Charlie with her frenetic doggy-paddle. But Betty could see Fliss wasn’t convinced by her idea, and the thought of losing a nail was usually enough to make her sweat, let alone losing a finger.

  ‘What about me?’ Willow asked, in a small voice. ‘It’s all because of me that this is happening. I should be the one to go.’

  Fliss shook her head at once. ‘No way. We wouldn’t let Charlie dive down into something this dangerous, so you’re not going, either.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Betty added. Besides, she didn’t think Willow looked up to it – at all. In the bleak light of day, she looked more washed out than ever. Almost . . . faded, Betty thought, and she seemed to be swaying on her feet. The strain of lulling so many wisps must have weakened her.

  ‘Oh, this is such bad luck,’ said Fliss, starting to pace back and forth. ‘You do realise that, don’t you? How unlucky it is to rob a grave? That’s what we’re about to do, you know!’

  ‘Oh, for crow’s sake,’ Betty muttered. ‘You’re as superstitious as Granny!’

  ‘Not just Granny,’ Fliss shot back. ‘It’s something all sailors say.’

  ‘We’re not sailors,’ Betty pointed out. ‘We’re three people on a rescue mission—’

  ‘Yes, and we need all the luck we can get!’

  Betty ignored her. Talking about it wasn’t going to help – she needed to act. Scooping Hoppit out of her pocket, she passed him to Fliss wordlessly. For once, Fliss didn’t even complain.

  ‘Betty,’ she began, but Betty cut her off.

  ‘I’ll be careful.’ She whipped off her cardigan and dress and removed her boots and stockings, then perched on the edge of the boat. Slowly, she lowered her feet in, preparing herself for the drop in temperature. She took a deep breath, held her nose and plunged into the water.

  The shock of it! Like ice water, numbing her fingers and toes and seeping into her ears. Ooooh! She allowed herself a moment to adjust to the cold, focusing on not releasing the precious breath. Then she opened her eyes, lowered her head and began to swim.

  The salt water stung her eyes, but she kept them open, trying not to stir up any silt. Thankfully, the water was clearer than she had imagined it would be and she was able to make out the porthole a short way off to the right. Reaching for it, she felt the edge with careful fingers. Whatever glass had once been there was now gone, leaving only a few soft, rotting splinters. Squinting inside, she felt a surge of adrenaline. There was a glow, stronger now. And past that, a brighter flash of broken light from above – another porthole? Betty’s fingers gripped the flaking wooden frame.

  She squeezed her head and shoulders inside. Immediately, her heart beat faster. Despite the glow ahead, it was much darker in here, and even colder, for this was a place the sun hadn’t seen for decades. Already her lungs were feeling the tremendous pressure of holding her breath in and, combined with the energy it took to keep moving, Betty already knew her time was running out. She headed for the glow, reaching out in the murky underwater light.

  Something smooth and slimy brushed underneath her, making her recoil. She whirled in the darkness, catching sight of something long and tentacled slithering out of the rounded porthole. An octopus. She shuddered, turning back to the faint glow. Now she was closer, she saw, to her relief, that it wasn’t a wisp, after all. Her fingers found the cold, smooth surface of glass. It was a mirror, not much bigger than Betty’s hand, the kind that fixed to the wall and tilted. Something about it struck her as odd.

  But Betty had no time to ponder it further. She needed air. She turned and headed back to the porthole, chest burning with every kick. She squeezed through, collecting a splinter in her thumb, and kicked for the surface. She came up with stinging eyes, sucking in huge lungfuls of cold, salty air. Clinging to the side of The Travelling Bag, she barely regained her breath before spluttering out a jumble of words.

  ‘It’s not a wisp down there, it’s a mirror. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘Everything about this place is strange,’ Fliss replied, though she sounded heartily relieved that Betty had resurfaced safely.

  Betty stared up at the mast hanging over the water, getting her breath back. Every so often, a light creaking noise came from the wreck, like it was fidgeting in its resting place. ‘Right. I’m going back in for another look. Now I’ve a better idea of the space it should be easier. And there’s another porthole – above water. Maybe I can swim up and take another breath from there.’

  ‘Betty, please don’t take any risks,’ Fliss begged. ‘Charlie’s been kidnapped, Granny’s in the lock-up . . . the last thing we need is for something to happen to you.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Betty promised, gazing up at her sister’s worried face. Unexpectedly, the sun broke through the cloud above and warmed her shoulders. She readied herself, then took a deep breath and slid under the water once more. This time she was faster, navigating her way into the darkened space beyond the porthole more easily. Again, the drop in temperature was tangible, and the sensation of swimming alone in the darkness took hold of her senses. It was lighter this time, thanks to the sun’s rays filtering into the water and turning everything around her a murky green.

  It was then that Betty had an idea. She swam to the mirror, pulling it away from the side of the ship to angle it closer to the light streaming in from the porthole. The niggle she had felt earlier deepened: the feeling that, in this ancient wreck, a mirror seemed out of place. The silvery frame was smooth under her fingers, the glass unblemished. Surely something old would have
tarnished after all this time underwater? And what was a mirror doing in a pirate ship, anyway?

  It was new, she realised with an unsettling jolt as she tilted the glass. The mirror connected with the sun from above, sending a thin beam of light into the wreckage below.

  The murkiness of the green water lightened, enough for Betty’s straining eyes to make out several details. The salt water made her sore eyes smart, but she could see a few bits of furniture on their sides, slicked with swaying seaweed and half rotted away. An iron safe covered in barnacles, door open. And then a heavy-looking chest laced with chains and locks.

  A pounding began in Betty’s head, the only thing she could hear in the watery silence. The chest looked old . . . but it certainly hadn’t lain there undisturbed. It had been put there recently.

  The urge to breathe was building, the porthole temptingly close. But Betty had to know. To her horror, something came loose from the chains piled on the chest: a pale, skeletal hand which slid towards her. A stream of bubbles left her mouth and she darted back in fear, before realising that it was, simply, just bones. But whose? Someone like her, who’d been snooping where they shouldn’t? Betty swam back towards the chest, heart pounding. There must be something in there. Kicking closer to the chest, she wriggled her fingers under the lid and heaved. The locked chains held it tight, but the lid lifted the tiniest crack. It was enough for a glimpse within: silver stacked upon gold, glittering and priceless.

  She let the lid fall, reeling back. This isn’t just a shipwreck, Betty realised, fear mounting. The warning outside . . . it wasn’t only to deter would-be pillaging of Rusty Swindles’ loot. No, The Sorcerer’s Compass was more than that. It was a lair, a den for thieves who were using the wreck to hide their plundered goods – and Betty had blundered right into it.

  I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. Before whoever this all belongs to – or whoever had stolen it – comes back and finds us. Were these the same people who had taken Charlie? She whipped away, catching her elbow on a padlock. Bony fingers scraped her back, tangling in her vest – trapping her. Panicking, she tugged at her vest, black dots swimming at the edge of her vision: terror and the need to breathe combined. She wrenched herself away, kicking the chest, and felt the tear of fabric as she got free.

  Desperate for air now, she realised that the nearest porthole was the one on the opposite side to which she had entered. It lay above her at an angle, a bright disc of light above the water. To her right, the rest of the ship’s interior was inky black, and the tilt of the entire wreckage angling down was making her feel off balance. She tried to block it out, focusing on the circle of light, letting it guide her like a beacon.

  The mirror made sense now, Betty thought grimly. Whoever was stashing stuff here must be using it the same way she had, to direct light from above into the water below. She came up for air, just a short way below the porthole itself. She stayed there, breathing deeply, steadying herself. From the other side of the wreck, she caught drifts of words from Fliss, still going on about bad luck, and jittery about how long Betty was taking. The water lapped in Betty’s ears and her drenched hair lay heavy down her back. Reaching up, she pulled herself smoothly out of the water, resting her elbows either side of the porthole.

  Betty opened her mouth to call out and reassure her sister, but the words stuck in her throat when she saw what else she had missed – what they had all missed – from below.

  A damp white shirt and a pair of trousers were laid out a short way from the porthole. They were crinkled from being wrung out and lightly steaming in the sun. Her stomach lurched horribly. Who could they belong to?

  As if in answer, the mast gave a light creak. Betty’s gaze swung upward, to the crow’s-nest hanging over the water.

  Surely not . . .

  Anxiously, she edged out of the water, squeezing droplets from her hair and underclothes as quietly as she could, thankful that the lapping of water against the wreck was masking the sounds of her movements. Above, the gull was back, circling and squawking, but this time Betty was glad of its cries. She stared hard at the crow’s-nest, her eyes seeking out the gaps in the wooden barrel.

  There it was. A slight movement from inside. Bigger than a nesting bird. And, as Betty’s gaze suddenly rested on a larger gap near the base, she saw something that was unmistakably a toe.

  There was someone in there!

  Betty shrank back, afraid. All this time, the girls had been busy focusing on what they might find within the wreck. But someone had been here all along, watching them. Seeing everything they had done and no doubt hearing all they had said.

  She moved slowly to the porthole. Perhaps she could slip back through to the other side, quietly warn Fliss and Willow, and then they could leave before anything happened.

  But Charlie . . .

  If they left now, they could miss their chance and it would mess everything up even more. Betty felt a sudden flash of anger and resentment at whoever it was hiding up there. Hadn’t they been through enough for one night? Granny arrested, Charlie gone. And now this spying sneak could be about to scupper the only plan they had.

  Well, there are three of us. And only one of them.

  The thought popped into Betty’s head, hot and angry like a bun straight from the oven. Before she knew what she was doing, she was creeping towards the mast. The black wood was thick and sturdy, with plenty of footholds leading up to the crow’s-nest. Betty began climbing, her bare feet soundless as she advanced. She could see Fliss and Willow now. Both were leaning over the water, too absorbed in searching for her to think of looking up.

  The crow’s-nest was just an arm’s length away now, but Betty’s weight was bending the mast, bringing it closer to the water the further she got to the top. She brought herself up another rung, just a pounce away. Surely, any moment now, the person inside would feel the mast dipping.

  She held her breath, waiting. Who was it in there?

  A hand crept over the rim of the barrel, then was joined by another. They were large, grubby hands with short fingernails caked with dirt. Golden hairs sprouted from the knuckles, or at least the knuckles that weren’t grazed or scabbed over. Betty stared at them, a little bit of her courage fading. She’d seen enough punch-ups in the Poacher’s Pocket to know what trouble looked like. And it looked like that.

  A moment later, a head emerged from the barrel. A boy with tousled dark blond hair that was threaded with gold peeked out. Betty stayed as still as a cat as he leaned further out and looked down at Fliss and Willow. He hadn’t noticed Betty yet, but she could see his profile. He had a thin, straight nose, and amber, almost honey-coloured eyes. His chest and shoulders were bare and bronzed, but Betty could see the rippling of goose pimples every time the breeze lifted. He was bigger than her, but not that much older – fourteen perhaps – and somehow this restored her courage a bit. She also had the element of surprise on her side . . .

  Betty did the only thing she could. She leaped, reaching out for the boy’s arm and grabbing it with a yell as she plummeted down, taking him with her. Plunging into the water, his arm slipped out of her grasp and he wriggled away, his foot catching her in the chest as he kicked out and away from her.

  Betty rose to the surface, spluttering.

  ‘Betty!’ Fliss shrieked. ‘Who is that?’ She reached out, grabbing Betty’s hand, and began hauling her back on to the deck of The Travelling Bag. Betty flopped over the side, gasping. Water rolled off her and she could feel herself shaking, breath coming faster than ever. She scanned the water, its surface churned and rippling.

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Maybe he drowned?’ Willow said, in a small voice as she peered over the side.

  The boy came up a little way in front of them, coughing water. His face was a furious red, but whether it was from anger or lack of breath Betty couldn’t tell. When he went under a second time, it was clear.

  ‘He’s in trouble,’ Fliss said. ‘Betty,
throw him the lifebuoy!’

  ‘There isn’t a lifebuoy!’ Betty yelled. A sudden dread gripped her. What if the boy was in trouble, and she had caused it? She had meant to take him by surprise, but she hadn’t wanted to really hurt him.

  ‘Then a rope!’ Fliss searched the deck, flinging things aside. ‘We can’t just let him drown.’

  ‘There’s no rope, either,’ said Betty, silently cursing Father for leaving the boat so ill-prepared. She grabbed the only thing she could think of: the larger net they’d used on the wisps. Leaning over the side, she threw it at the boy. ‘Grab on! I’ll pull you in.’

  The boy managed to glare at her in refusal, before sinking again. He re-emerged, making a horrible gargling sound, and relented, grabbing hold of the net. Warily, Betty pulled him in until he was bobbing right below them.

  Up close, and now the grime had been washed off him, his skin was an even deeper shade of burnt gold and there was a thin sprinkle of hairs starting to sprout from his chest. He wore a thin brown leather strap round his neck, and dangling from it was a creamy, pointed seashell. What in crow’s name was he doing out here all alone?

  ‘Take my hand,’ she said, sounding as stern as she could manage. ‘You’ll be all right. You’ve just swallowed some water.’

  He grabbed Betty’s hand and she prepared to pull him in . . . then gasped in shock as he yanked her arm with surprising strength. Too late she saw the arrogant twist of his mouth and the determination in his startling golden eyes. Her balance gone, she tumbled overboard and hit the water head first.

  Salt water stung her eyes, flooded her mouth, which had opened in shock. She’d forgotten how much it hurt when water went properly up your nose. Her throat burned with pain and humiliation. Of course he could swim – he’d tricked her! Of all the sneaky, rotten things to do . . .