by Temre Beltz
Her words settled heavily on each of their shoulders. No one in all of Wanderly had ever dared to say such a thing.31
Prudence’s eyes narrowed. “If the magicians are so dangerous, what exactly are they planning to do on the night of the picnic?”
“I’m not sure,” Pippa said. “But isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?”
Prudence scoffed. “Safe? But you just said that we’re not real heroes. If that’s true, then why call all of us out here if we’re so helpless?”
“Because I don’t think we have to be. I know we only have three days. I know that’s not much time. But I still think there’s a reason why we’re here. And I think if we practice, and”—Pippa paused and looked right at Prudence—“if we work together, I think we can protect Triumph Mountain.”
Standing beside Prudence, Bernard wrinkled his nose. “Practice?” he said as if the word itself left a bad taste in his mouth. “Practice what?”
But Prudence had already linked her arm through his. She tugged Bernard backward in the direction of Castle Cressida. “We’re not going to practice anything. Pippa is a homesick commoner without an ounce of sense. Just because she wants to make a fool of herself at the Fall Picnic in front of our families and perhaps even the Chancellor himself, doesn’t mean we need to join the spectacle. Keep at it though, Pippa. You might find your way out of here after all—in the form of a Council detention!”
Several of the other Triumphants gasped. And as if Pippa already had a sentence hanging over her head, at least half of them hurried to catch up with Bernard and Prudence, some brushing by Pippa with wary glances and others not bothering to make eye contact at all.
Once they were gone, Pippa turned to those remaining. She forced a smile onto her face. Pippa wasn’t an overly smiley person, but she figured Ms. Bravo would smile at a moment like this, and that was the only real hero she had as an example. Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind, however, Pippa knew it wasn’t true. In fact, she had grown up surrounded by heroes.
For the past eleven years, hadn’t her mother swept her into the warm fortress of her arms and kissed away nearly every single one of her tears? Hadn’t her father rushed to her side when dark thoughts invaded her dreams at night and replaced them with words that burned bright like lanterns? Hadn’t the triplets’ antics chased away the sort of boredom that could leave every day feeling utterly the same? Hadn’t Louisa and Jane forced her to stop and muse over things as fanciful as fiery sunsets and roses in bloom only to walk away full of quiet wonder? Hadn’t industrious Charlie, with both pockets and plans full of cogs, fastenings, and springs, helped her appreciate order and the essential role of each very small thing in the workings of the very large things? And hadn’t baby Rose, who had little more to offer than her cries and the occasional coo, taught Pippa that sometimes it’s in the act of sacrifice that love flourishes the most?
And for the first time since arriving at Peabody’s Academy for the Triumphant, Pippa could almost imagine a place for herself. The Chancellor held heroes out to be the ones with the grandest and the most victories, but maybe it was possible to be a hero in the small things too. Maybe that even mattered just as much. And if that were true, perhaps the number of heroes and happy endings in Wanderly weren’t nearly so limited as the Chancellor claimed. Maybe a happy ending could be found by anyone who knew how to look for it. Wouldn’t that be something?
Pippa looked carefully at the six remaining Triumphants: curious Viola, cautious Anastasia, enthusiastic Simon, forthright Connor, contemplative Winnie, and Ernest. Always Ernest. He nodded at her encouragingly.
Though her hands were shaking a bit, Pippa bent toward the two trunks at her feet and flipped them open. One trunk was filled to the brim with umbrellas. The other was overflowing with tomatoes. “I suppose before we get started, I ought to pass out the materials I brought. Come and help yourself. There’s plenty.”
The Triumphants shuffled closer, a bit uncertainly. They reached into the trunks and gingerly began picking at the items. Simon grabbed hold of a tomato and brought it closer for inspection. He squeezed it so hard, however, that it popped out of his grasp and crashed onto the ground in a juicy explosion.
“Whoops!” he exclaimed, quickly stuffing his hands behind his back, because Mistress Peabody often impressed on the children the importance of keeping a pristine appearance.
But Pippa clapped her hands. “Great job, Simon! You’ve already discovered one of the tomato’s best features. They’re super messy.”
“Wait, we want messy?” Anastasia said with a raise of her eyebrow.
“Yes. One of the things the magicians hate most about where they live is how messy it is. So I figure if they experience the same mess, and maybe worse, here on Triumph Mountain, they won’t want anything to do with us. Also, and I speak from experience because I have triplet brothers back home, it’s really hard to see when someone lobs food at your face. So if you find yourself in a pinch and a magician’s coming right for you, aim for the eyes!”
The other Triumphants began to nod slowly, and Winnie, a quiet teenager who Pippa often saw reading stories to the younger Triumphants, cleared her throat. “You said earlier the magicians have magic they’re not afraid to use—”
Upon hearing Winnie’s words, Viola sprinted wide-eyed toward Pippa, and Pippa scooped her up and into her arms. The little girl wrapped her arms tightly around Pippa’s neck, and in a rush Pippa remembered what it felt like to take care of someone again. It was strange how much easier it was to be brave for someone else and not just for herself.
Winnie’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, Viola. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to be the most prepared that we can be. Is that okay with you?” When Viola nodded, Winnie met Pippa’s gaze and continued, “So what kind of magic is it, exactly?”
“Illusions,” Pippa said definitively. “Magicians can also make themselves and objects that fit within their hats vanish, but we don’t need to worry about either of those things. The illusions are pretty awful, though. In a blink of an eye, magicians can make the scariest creatures you can imagine appear. But that’s where these come in.” Pippa reached down and snatched up an umbrella. She twirled it in the air with a grin. “Magic umbrellas.”
Connor eyed the umbrella skeptically. “Wait, aren’t those the same umbrellas left out for us in the dining hall during the rainstorm?”
“Yes—and the very same umbrellas that Ernest and I used to destroy the illusions the magicians cast at us in the Triumphant Training Forest.”
“You saw magicians’ illusions and got chased by them, Pippa?” Anastasia said with her hand against her heart.
“That’s how I know this works. You simply position it like a shield.” Pippa pushed on the umbrella. It opened with a flourish while the other Triumphants took a few shuffling steps back. “Jab and . . . presto! Magic.”
“But I thought Triumphants weren’t supposed to have magic?” Simon said, tilting his head to the side. “I thought that stuff was just for witches, wizards, magicians, and fairy godmothers.”
“In Wanderly, when magic makes up its mind, I don’t suppose it’s something anyone can stop. Not even the Chancellor.” Pippa took a deep breath before continuing, “The tomatoes and umbrellas should help, but our best training will come from our loyal companions.”
Before the words were even out of Pippa’s mouth, Anastasia began wringing her hands, tears glistened in her eyes.
“What is it, Anastasia?” Pippa asked. “What’s wrong?”
Anastasia shook her head miserably. “I don’t want Whisper to hear me.”
Pippa looked around for Anastasia’s loyal companion marmoset but didn’t see him anywhere. “I think Whisper’s in the barn. Did something happen to him?”
“No, but surely something will!” she wailed. “Oh, Pippa, he’s not like your fire horse. He’s not designed for things like battles and magic and scary magicians. He-he’ll probably go and hide. I always worried o
ne day something like this might happen.”
Pippa thought back to the first day she met Ferdinand—at the time he certainly hadn’t looked like he was designed for any of the things Anastasia listed either. But that was because Pippa just hadn’t seen him yet for what he really was and what he was becoming.
“What if this is what Whisper’s been waiting for?” Pippa began. “What if Whisper wants you to see what he and you are both capable of? The Chancellor tries to make us all fit into the same mold of hero, but it’s the differences that make us stronger. Whisper doesn’t need to be like Ferdinand. He just needs to be like Whisper.”
“But Whisper’s so quiet,” Anastasia said, brow furrowed.
“That’s good for moving about undetected,” Pippa said with a nod. “Maybe he can help us pass along important messages.”
Anastasia looked right at Pippa. “But he gets scared and hides in the trees sometimes!”
“Perfect,” Pippa said. “He can spy on the magicians. He’ll have a top-level view of everything and can help us strategize.”
Anastasia’s expression was thoughtful. “That’s what you really think about Whisper?” she asked. “You’re not . . . disappointed in him?”
Pippa locked eyes with Anastasia. “Never.”
Beside Anastasia, Simon piped up, “My turn! My turn! Tell me what you think Rocky can do in the battle!” he said.
While Pippa set about thinking of the very many attributes of a loyal companion tortoise, the rest of the Triumphants gathered close to one another, for once thinking about and discovering not all that they were supposed to be but what they maybe already were. And a short distance behind them, perched on the tallest point of Triumph Mountain, Castle Cressida swelled with pride. The tops of its spires very nearly tickled the bellies of the marshmallow clouds, in the way they did once a long, long time ago.
Sixteen
The Most Wanted Magician in All of Wanderly
Merely a few broomstick sprints away from the place where the thick green forests of Wanderly gave way to the gravel roads leading into the kingdom’s Capital, Oliver froze at the shrill sound of a witch’s cackle.
He would have gladly pretended that he was just being paranoid, except the stolen broomstick beneath him skidded to a sudden halt. It flipped decidedly around. And before Oliver could sputter a word, it zipped away from the Capital and toward the witch’s cackle!
Oliver jabbed his feet wildly in the air. He leaned all the way to one side, hoping to throw the broomstick off balance so that it would be forced to turn around. But the broomstick forged ahead without batting a single bristle. The only moment it slowed even a smidge was when the cackling witch burst through a patch of dense foliage and soared into view.
Oliver nearly fell off the broomstick.
Even from a distance, he would recognize that witch anywhere.
Any wicked witch would have been bad news, but did it really have to be Helga Hookeye? The witch with the plethora of potions, namely, the Black Wreath? The witch who had mercilessly turned Oliver into a piglet and caused him to miss the auditions for Master Von Hollow’s showcase?
Out of all the broomsticks Oliver could have snatched from the Twisted Goblet, why did he have to choose hers?
Helga barreled closer. If she recognized Oliver as her erstwhile pork dinner, she didn’t let on. She only seemed to have eyes for her missing broomstick. “Oh, Creeeeep-er!” Helga shrieked. “Creeep-er!”
Beneath Oliver, the broomstick heaved a tiny sigh before continuing in Helga’s direction but with slightly less oomph.
Oliver’s pulse quickened. If there was one thing he knew how to recognize it was weary reluctance. How many times had he been ordered around with not one other choice except obedience? Perhaps here now was a chance for the both of them.
Oliver leaned down toward the broomstick. “Please,” he said urgently. “We can’t go that way! Do you know what will happen to me if we do? Not to mention, Creeper? Is that really what your witch calls you? Do you actually like that name?”
The broomstick halted. It almost seemed to be thinking.
Oliver barreled on while he had the chance. “Look, you don’t have to go back to Helga if you don’t want to. I know that’s what you’re used to, but if you’d like, you can stay with me instead.”
The broomstick recoiled as if it found that proposition the most offensive of all. And then it promptly resumed its forward progress.
“Wait!” Oliver cried. “You’re right. That would never work, would it? You like magic stuff. Well, wicked stuff, really, and I don’t think I’m great at either of those. But maybe if you help me get to the Capital, maybe after that I can . . . set you free?”
At the sound of the word “free,” the broomstick fluttered. Helga, meanwhile, zoomed closer. She cackled loud enough to rustle the leaves on the trees. To Oliver’s horror, she lifted her finger in the air and pointed right at him.
“She’s close enough to do magic now!” Oliver cried. “You have to decide! Do you want to stay with Helga or do you trust me to set you free?”
But the broomstick continued to hover in place. A spray of crackling sparks flew off Helga’s fingers, first to Oliver’s right and then to his left, and all Oliver could do was duck.
Panicked, Oliver resorted to knocking on the broomstick’s handle. “Hello? Hello, down there? Can you please move? Even a few feet would help because—AHHH!”
Helga nosed her broomstick mere inches from Oliver and grabbed him by the shoulder! Oliver still didn’t know how he survived his first encounter with Helga, and it seemed terribly unfair to have a second go-around with her. As if reading Oliver’s mind, a flash of recognition ignited in Helga’s eyes.
“My piglet!” she exclaimed. “You’re the little pip-squeak who caused me all that trouble and left me with a hankering for pork chops!” She rubbed her hands together like a giddy child. “Ooooh, looks like it’s my lucky day!”
With that, Helga sprang entirely free of the broomstick she was riding—and leaped onto Oliver’s.
But the weight was too much for the conflicted broomstick. It creaked and it groaned in agony. It began to spiral wildly downward. Oliver and Helga slid off, barely snatching the handle by their fingertips, swinging through the air below the broom. Helga made nasty faces at Oliver while Oliver tried, unsuccessfully, not to look down at the ground.
“The broomstick’s not strong enough for the both of us!” Oliver cried.
“That’s right! And that’s why you’re gettin’ off!” Helga thrust her witchy boot at Oliver with all her might. The impact of her kick broke Oliver’s grip on the broomstick. He tumbled wildly through the air, clawing at anything he could find, but the only thing he managed to grab ahold of was the strap on Helga’s witchy knapsack.
Helga hissed her displeasure. But, fortunately for Oliver, absent releasing her grip on the broom’s handle, there wasn’t a thing she could do except try to bump Oliver off with an awkward swinging motion of her hips. Oliver knew the strap wouldn’t hold for long. He reached up his free hand and blindly set to rummaging about inside the knapsack, hoping to find something useful. But with each potion Oliver pulled free, his hopes sank. Stench of Ogre Feet, Excessively Long Hair Growth, and Apple Redux weren’t what he had in mind.
Riiiiiiip! The knapsack handle hung from Helga’s shoulder by a single thread. It was ready to break at any moment, and Helga was trying to hurry it along by grating her pointy teeth against it. Oliver grabbed one last potion but didn’t have time to read the label before the strap snapped in two. With a celebratory cackle from Helga, Oliver plummeted helplessly toward the ground, arms swimming through the air.
Its load suddenly lightened, the broomstick bucked wildly about. Helga tried to whack it into submission, but the broomstick managed to toss her off into the sharp and pokey branches of a nearby tree.
The broomstick plunged toward a still falling Oliver. It swept beneath him. It rescued him with mere inches to spare, and with
an oof and a wild twirl, together the two of them soared past a cursing, spitting Helga.
“Come back here, you dumb piece of wood! Come back here, you little pork ball! Give me back my potion!”
But Oliver and the broomstick kept right on going. Oliver didn’t even pause to read the label of the potion he’d stuffed into his pocket but kept his eyes on the horizon, determined to put as much distance between him and Helga as possible. When the last shrill notes of her shrieking faded into the distance, Oliver bent toward the broomstick and said, “Thanks for what you did back there, Creep—”
Oliver paused. Despite their rather rocky start, it hardly seemed polite to call the broomstick Creeper. So, he instead cleared his throat and said brightly, “Say, did you ever think about getting a new name?”
Still gliding along, the broomstick perked up with mild interest.
“All right, then,” Oliver said. “How about Tom?”
The broomstick hacked its displeasure.
“Whoa. Okay, not Tom. Maybe you’re looking for something more . . . epic. How about Champion?”
But the broomstick didn’t seem to like that either, shaking its handle vigorously from side to side.
Oliver frowned. “I guess it is a bit braggy, but I didn’t think you’d mind that sort of thing. Um, well, you’re used to being around witches. Maybe you want something with teeth. How about Nightmare?”
The broomstick rolled to a stop, which Oliver had the distinct sense was akin to an eye roll. “You certainly are picky,” Oliver muttered. But when he looked around for inspiration, he thought about where the broomstick had come from and where it might want to go. “Forrest,” Oliver breathed out. “How about Forrest?”
And the broomstick shivered down to its very last bristle.
“Forrest, it is,” Oliver said. “And before you know it, that’s exactly where you’ll be. Or anywhere else you want to go, actually. But first we’ve got to make it in and out of the Capital. I’ll take you inside with me, but you have to promise no flying.”
