A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  She heard shouts from the rowing boat, and a scrambling noise – Ronia was coming back. Betty flailed about, trying to shake the cat off. Any moment now, Ronia would see the cat clinging to something – something unseen – and then the game would be up.

  A thought came to her. Cats don’t like water . . .

  She reached for her wet hair and squeezed it. A trickle of seawater hit the cat and, with a yowl, it sprang away from her. Encouraged, Betty shook herself like a dog, sending a cold shower of droplets all over the animal. Fur on end, it skulked away just as Ronia returned.

  She scooped Bandit up. ‘There, there,’ she crooned. ‘Mummy’s here . . .’

  Her face fell as she looked in Betty’s direction. Betty looked down at herself, and bit back a horrified gasp. Spit’s white shirt was spotted with blood.

  ‘Retreat!’ Ronia shouted hoarsely. She flung something in Betty’s direction, muttering, ‘Rest your seaworthy soul!’ before turning and leaping from the wreck into the waiting rowing boat.

  The object hit Betty in the chest, then landed in a wooden groove at her feet. With Ronia gone, she knelt to retrieve it.

  It was a silver coin flashing brightly in the sun. One side showed a horseshoe, the other a clover. Despite its shimmer, the weight and beauty of it suggested it was old, and valuable.

  Father had told her something once about coins buying safe passage for the dead to the afterlife. So Ronia had been fooled – and if she had been alarmed, then Betty felt sure she could strike fear into the rest of her crew, too. She slid the coin into her pocket and headed to the side of the wreck overlooking The Travelling Bag and the Rusty Scuttlers’ ship. Ronia drew up alongside it, with a fearful glance back at the ruined ship.

  A cry went up. One by one the pirates turned to stare at Betty (or rather Spit’s dripping shirt) hovering over The Sorcerer’s Compass. Some backed away, crossing themselves and murmuring in terror. Meanwhile, more pirates were swarming aboard The Travelling Bag and set about searching it. There were heavy clangs as the anchor was raised, creaks as the deck buckled under the weight of muscle and gold. Spit gazed up at his blood-spattered shirt, his face a mask of shock. But it was Fliss Betty sought. Her sister’s white, pinched face peered out from her hiding place, crumpling in relief. She knew now that Betty was alive.

  Betty wished she could call to her – one last message of strength or at least a goodbye – but of course she couldn’t. All she could do was lift her arms, as though reaching for her sister. Fliss’s eyes filled with tears.

  To the pirates, however, the sight must have looked like a threat, and they scrambled to get away. Betty watched helplessly as the anchor was pulled up and Ronia’s ship began to move off, followed by The Travelling Bag.

  Even though she had known Fliss would be taken, Betty couldn’t stop the ache in her throat or the burning sensation at the back of her eyes. What did it matter now if she cried? There was no one to see her. She lowered her outstretched arms and let the tears roll down her cheeks.

  Why, why did everything have to go so wrong for them all the time? All she’d tried to do was help someone in trouble. Instead, she’d made everything ten times worse. She’d failed Willow, whose father’s life was ticking away, and both her sisters were now gone. Her plan was flimsy and dangerously full of holes. This wasn’t one of Father’s bedtime stories. Fliss and Willow were with real, murderous pirates. The kind who kept human bones as trophies.

  Betty’s hand felt for the nesting dolls in her pocket. They were all she had now, a sprinkle of sorcery that was her only hope. She’d even lost the magical map, she realised with another wrench. It was in the wheelhouse . . . with the wisp. What would happen when Ronia discovered them?

  A loud splash jerked her from her misery. Someone had gone overboard from the Widdershins’ boat. Betty leaned forward, feeling panicked, to scan the rippling waves and Spit emerged, looking furious.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ he yelled at a weasel-faced pirate leering over the back of The Travelling Bag. ‘You pushed me in!’

  The pirate smirked. ‘Someone’s gotta stay with the booty.’

  Spit shook his fist. ‘I’ve been here all night!’

  The pirate laughed, tossing a small package into the water. It landed a short way from Spit and immediately began to sink. Growling, Spit dived down after it and managed to catch it, by which time the boat had moved some distance away. All he could do was watch, clutching the parcel and shouting obscenities, as his comrades sailed off without him.

  He swam back to the shipwreck, spitting and swearing as he hauled himself out of the water and began climbing up to where Betty sat trembling a short distance from the crow’s-nest. He scowled in her direction and spat overboard.

  ‘Look at the state of my shirt,’ he said. ‘Ruined! Bad luck, that’s what you are.’

  He huffed resentfully. ‘I was supposed to change shifts now. Get back on the ship while some other underling took over as lookout. But, because they all got the heebie-jeebies when they saw you, they scarpered.’ He sniffed, glaring at the crow’s-nest. ‘I hate being up there. Hate it! No wonder it’s used as a punishment. The seasickness hits something awful.’

  Betty was suddenly glad she wasn’t alone, though she could never admit this to Spit.

  ‘Well, you’re here now, and so am I.’ Her voice was steady, not betraying the tears drying on her cheeks. ‘I guess we’re stuck with each other.’

  He folded his arms, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘I guess we are,’ he said evenly. ‘But don’t mistake me for a friend. The only reason I didn’t dob you in to Ronia is because you threatened me. I won’t forget that. And I want you gone by sunrise, whether your sister makes it back here or not.’

  Betty gulped, hoping he hadn’t heard. Tears prickled her eyelids once more, and she allowed herself to cry silently as Spit angrily shook out his wet hair. Across the water, unseen on The Travelling Bag, Fliss and Willow sailed further away with every heartbeat. And all the while Betty could practically hear Granny’s voice in her head saying: ‘Betty Widdershins! What have you got yourself into this time?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Through the Spyglass

  BETTY DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG she watched for, but she waited until the little green boat was the size of her thumbnail before it followed Ronia’s ship behind the row of rocks from which it had first emerged. Would it stay there? she wondered. Or would Fliss and Willow be caught up in Ronia’s plundering plans?

  Betty sank down on to the wreck, hugging her knees to her chest. Everything ached: her legs from standing so stiffly for so long, her arms from the swim, her empty stomach and her pounding head. Her heart.

  She was sore, too. Criss-crossed with cat scratches. Wincing, she peeled off the bloodstained shirt.

  Spit snatched it, his scowl deepening. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ He wrung it out, his lip curling in distaste.

  ‘You might as well wear it,’ said Betty, her voice flat. ‘There’s no one out here but me to see you, anyway. It’ll keep you warm, at least . . .’ She trailed off weakly. ‘When it’s dry.’

  ‘Right.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I think I’ve forgotten what “dry” feels like.’ He spread the shirt out once more in the sun, eyeing it thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I could string it up next to the sign. A bit of blood works wonders at keeping people away.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Betty agreed, remembering Ronia’s reaction to the bloodied shirt. She prodded her scratches gingerly. ‘I thought our cat at home was a beast until I met Bandit.’

  Spit ignored her, clearly in no mood for small talk. He sat a little way apart, swinging his legs over the side to dangle towards the water. He took the package he’d been thrown and began to unwrap it, discarding a layer of waxed paper. Inside lay a golden cob of bread, two apples and a wedge of cheese. Betty’s tummy gurgled loudly, but she looked away. She wasn’t expecting Spit’s charity and she wasn’t about to ask for it. Even so, the crisp crunch as he bit into an ap
ple was torture.

  ‘You know,’ he began, ‘it’d probably help us both out if I could see you.’

  Betty turned back to him. To her surprise, he was offering the second apple in his outstretched hand, albeit not quite at her.

  ‘Oh,’ she muttered, wishing the dolls worked differently. If she tampered with the outer nesting doll containing the smaller ones, she would render not only herself visible, but Willow and Fliss, too. ‘I can’t let you. I mean, not without giving the others away, too.’ Besides, for all she knew, Spit might be about to trick her. Would he punish her, push her overboard for her part in his being left here? The apple gleamed rosily in the sun. She reached out and took it warily, then sank her teeth into it.

  ‘That really is creepy,’ Spit muttered, shuddering. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it,’ said Betty, between crunches. She wiped juice from her chin. ‘Why’d you give this to me, anyway? You just said we weren’t friends.’

  ‘We aren’t.’ He frowned, pulling a knife from his back pocket.

  Betty stiffened at the sight of it. For a moment, she forgot to chew, but then Spit cut off a piece of cheese and held it out. She took it, wolfing some down immediately.

  ‘I want you gone,’ he continued. ‘Out of my hair. If you keel over, or worse, die on me, you’ll be an even bigger pest than you already have been.’ He lowered his voice, muttering. ‘Besides, if Fliss comes back, I don’t want her thinking I let you starve. So you see my reasons for looking out for you are entirely selfish.’

  ‘I should’ve guessed.’ Betty rolled her eyes, munching the rest of the apple before beginning on what was left of the cheese. She saved a tiny bit for Hoppit – assuming she would see him again. Spit tore her off some bread and she scoffed that, too.

  ‘Drink?’ he said curtly.

  ‘Is there one?’ Betty asked longingly. The mere mention of something that wasn’t salt water made her parched throat feel even drier.

  Spit leaned back and dug his elbow into one of the wooden boards on the ship’s side. It flipped like a see-saw to reveal a hidey-hole underneath. He reached in and withdrew a jewel-encrusted bottle. ‘Here.’

  Betty took it in awe, transfixed by the gleaming red stones. It looked very old, and was probably worth more than the Poacher’s Pocket. ‘Jumping jackdaws,’ she whispered. ‘Are those real firestones?’ The image of the silver and gold below them in the wreck danced before her eyes once more. If Spit treated something this valuable so casually, then just how much treasure did the Rusty Scuttlers have?

  Spit nodded. ‘Yeah. So don’t drop it.’

  Betty uncorked the bottle and sniffed dubiously before taking a swig. Inside was cool, fresh spring water. She handed the bottle back, wiping her mouth.

  ‘So when can I expect you to be gone?’ Spit asked, using the knife to dig bits of cheese out of his teeth.

  A piece of apple stuck in Betty’s throat. ‘Soon. My other sister . . . she’s being brought here,’ she managed, swallowing forcibly. But was she? Betty fought down a wave of panic. Surely Charlie should have been here by now? What if Granny were mistaken, or some horrible accident had happened? What if . . . what if the wisps Betty, Fliss and Willow had encountered had got hold of Charlie, too . . . ?

  Stop! she thought furiously. Thinking like that wouldn’t help. But every hour that passed made it harder to believe that Charlie was heading here. An unpleasant little part of her wanted to blame Willow for all that had gone wrong. Yet, at the same time, Betty knew it wasn’t the little girl’s fault. It might have been bad luck that brought her to their door, but Betty had been the one to invite her in.

  A horrid sense of shame came over her. It wasn’t fair! She hadn’t even been looking for trouble this time. All she’d been trying to do was the right thing, and she’d messed it up and got it so badly wrong.

  Spit sighed, sounding slightly less cross. ‘Even if she does turn up here, how do you plan on getting away? I hate to break it to you, but your boat will be heavily guarded. Even if Fliss manages to steal it back, Ronia will come after it. She’s not one to give up easily.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Betty. Her attempt to sound fierce was annoyingly feeble.

  He hesitated. ‘You don’t understand. Ronia wasn’t born a pirate, any more than her father was. He’d been a wine merchant, sailing from place to place with Ronia and her mother. One night their ship was taken by pirates. Ronia’s mother was killed outright. Her father tried to fight back, but there were too many of them. He was overpowered, and well . . . you’ve seen what happened to him.’

  Betty listened in shock, thinking of the pirate’s stumps. She had never imagined they were the result of something so grisly. A boating accident, perhaps – or even a brush with sharks – but not this.

  ‘Ronia was just a child when it happened,’ Spit went on. ‘She was so young the pirates never considered her a threat. They decided to keep her as a kitchen skivvy. But gradually Ronia convinced them she had skills – skills they needed. And so they began to trust her. But what she was really doing was learning. Biding her time, plotting her revenge. As Ronia grew, so did the size of the crew. She made allies of the new members, ones taken against their will as she had been. Gradually winning them over, earning their trust. Making them her own. And, when there were enough on her side, she took the ship for herself.’

  ‘How?’ Betty whispered, horrified at this already grisly tale but unable to stop listening.

  ‘With poison,’ Spit said. ‘And anyone who survived it found themselves on the pointy end of her cutlass.’ His eyes were troubled. ‘So now you know what you’re dealing with. She’s clever and cunning and, most dangerous of all, she’s patient.’ He shook his head. ‘You made a big mistake when you came snooping around here. We can’t have people trespassing, or stealing from the wreck. Whenever that happens, Ronia has to set an example. That’s if Rusty doesn’t get there first.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Betty asked. Could Father’s stories of grisly curses be true?

  ‘See that bit?’ Spit pointed to the far end of the ship below the waves. ‘That’s dangerous territory. That’s Rusty Swindles’ part of the wreck, and we leave that for him out of respect. Whatever’s there is his. Even the Rusty Scuttlers don’t attempt to disturb it. Anyone who does . . .’ He lifted a finger and mimed slicing across his neck.

  ‘We weren’t stealing, though,’ Betty said through gritted teeth. ‘We aren’t interested in Rusty Swindles’ treasure – or yours. All we came for was my sister!’

  ‘You said she was kidnapped,’ said Spit. ‘What happened?’

  Betty pursed her lips. ‘What do you care? Like you said, we aren’t here to be friends.’

  ‘Nope,’ Spit agreed, stretching his lanky legs out next to Betty’s. ‘But it gets pretty dull up here with only the gulls for company. A bit of conversation will help pass the time.’

  ‘All right,’ Betty muttered. She straightened her damp clothes, and leaned back on to her elbows, her mind working furiously to spin a tale close enough to the truth, but which wouldn’t give Willow’s ability away. Willow’s own father had warned her that she’d be in danger if the wrong people learned of it – and Betty could safely assume that pirates were definitely the wrong people.

  ‘They’re not actually warders who have Charlie. We don’t know who they are – all we know is that they took her by mistake. It was Willow they were after. They want something from this wreck, and they think Willow can help them get it.’

  ‘What is it they’re looking for?’ asked Spit, and Betty could hear another question in his voice: Why would they need a child to help them?

  She squirmed, glad Spit wasn’t able to see her. For a pirate, he had awfully honest eyes that were difficult to lie to, and she was sure he knew she was holding something back. ‘They mentioned Rusty Swindles,’ she said finally. ‘So they must be looking for his treasure – or maybe even the actual sorcerer’s compass. We t
hought if we found it first, we could use it to bargain for Charlie.’

  ‘Instead of just handing Willow over to them?’

  Betty scowled. ‘Exactly.’

  Spit nodded slowly. ‘So how did they end up with your sister instead of Willow?’

  ‘It was a mix-up,’ Betty said. ‘And it’s sort of all my fault.’ She screwed her eyes up tightly, thinking back over the previous night. Before she could help it, the story came spilling out: about the prison bell tolling for the Torment escapee; Charlie’s discovery of Willow in the yard and Betty’s decision to hide her; and the supposed warders taking Charlie. The only things she kept back were the wisp and Willow’s mysterious map. The map that was probably now in the hands of the pirates. The thought of it made Betty feel sick.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Spit when she’d reached the end of her tale. He raked a hand through his blond hair and blew out a long breath. ‘You girls really have had rotten luck.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Betty agreed. ‘Bad luck seems to be our family inheritance.’

  Spit stared out into the distance. The wind had risen, and white crests were appearing on the waves. ‘Everyone’s dealt bad luck at some point.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘It’s how you cope with it that counts.’ He paused thoughtfully.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had your share,’ Betty said. She felt foolish now, for blurting out her story to a stranger – and a pirate at that. It had felt strangely good to unburden herself, but she wanted to change the subject now and shift attention away from her and her family. ‘How did you end up being part of Ronia’s crew?’

  The expression on Spit’s face closed down immediately. He frowned, and spat overboard. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Betty regarded him, curiosity roused. She’d lived in a pub for long enough to sniff out a good story. ‘You might as well tell me what happened. Like you said, we’re both stuck here for now.’