by Temre Beltz
The broomstick jerked his handle in indignation, but Oliver insisted, “I mean it. If a citizen spots a boy flying on a broomstick, the Quill will be questioning us in half a second. Once we get through those gates, you’ve got one job and one job only: do what your ordinary comrades do.”
Forrest tilted his handle questioningly in the air, and Oliver couldn’t suppress a grin. “Sweep, of course!”
Without missing a beat, Forrest promptly dove fifteen heart-pounding feet through the air.
“Hey!” Oliver cried. “You didn’t even give me any warning!”
Forrest gleefully did it again.
Oliver wondered why making a deal with a wicked witch’s broomstick had seemed like such a good idea in the first place. Maybe he ought to have given Helga her broomstick back when he had the chance.
Only a few minutes later, Oliver and Forrest swept into the steady stream of traffic pouring through the gated entry of the Capital.
It was busier and more bustling than anything Oliver had imagined. Citizens of all shapes, sizes, and roles could be found. Commoners plodded forward by foot and by cart. A few witches zoomed by on broomsticks; one wizard could be seen puttering about high in the sky, fully powered by boot;32 and a trio of rosy-cheeked fairy godmothers soared through the air with their wands lifted high. There were, of course, no magicians popping in or out while holding tight to the brims of their hats, because they had been boycotting the Chancellor’s offensive list of “suggested nuisance activities” for quite some time and refused to be coerced into completing even one of them. The Chancellor, of course, hadn’t yet seemed to notice the magicians’ absence.
Just inside the gates was a prominent sign with four golden arrows pointing in different directions. The first pointed toward the “Official Library.”33 The second pointed toward “Council Business.” The third pointed toward “The Hub.” And the final had been left, curiously, blank.
Oliver peered down the unmarked road. Unlike the rest of Wanderly Square, where everything was lovely and tidy, the unmarked road led down a path overgrown with thorny weeds and vines. An arch of trees grew across the top of it, making it look like a dark tunnel. Oliver spied a few ominous-looking iron fences in the distance. He pressed his lips grimly together, wondering if that’s where the Council detentions took place.
Oliver’s stomach let out a sudden and noisy growl. He realized for the first time how woefully little he’d had to eat since he first fled the Swinging Swamp. Though he wanted very much to follow the arrow pointing at “Council Business,” for surely that was where Ms. Bravo’s office could be found, he didn’t think it would help to faint from hunger along the way.
So he turned instead toward the Hub, where the bulk of the crowd was headed. Of all the very many reasons to visit Wanderly Square, the Hub was by far the most popular. If Pigglesticks set the standard for all marketplaces, the Hub was its ambitious little sister. Though the Hub was smaller in size, it wasn’t lacking in variety. With only the Creeping Corridor for reference, Oliver could hardly believe his eyes when he sailed past Fairy Dearest’s Powders, Perfumes, and Wishing Candles situated right beside Wickedly Humorous Jokes and Pranks, where a witch cackled to herself while laying out sticky tape along the store’s entrance to “delight” potential customers. Oliver moved farther down the street toward Wizard Dibbin’s Bootery—which, if he had time, he would have really liked to pop into—Common Patty’s Uncommon Stitchery, and a shop that sounded exactly like what Oliver needed: Witch Wendy’s Chocolate Brewery.
By this point you probably assumed Oliver had had it up to there with witches, which wouldn’t be wrong, but he was also starving. He doubted he would make it out to the Capital again soon and figured he oughtn’t to miss out on the one skill that a small percentage of witches in Wanderly were revered for: candy making. Indeed, some of these witches had even built entire houses out of such goodies, but those were strictly off-limits for eating.
The crowd pressed tight against Oliver’s back as he and Forrest veered toward the creaking wooden steps of Witch Wendy’s cabin. Forrest’s handle jerked, but Oliver bent close and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’m not going back on our deal. I know it looks like a witch’s cabin, but we’re nowhere near the Dead Tree Forest.”
Forrest must have deemed that explanation acceptable because he settled back into Oliver’s hand. When they climbed the steps to Witch Wendy’s, however, they drew up short. A line of customers twisted around and around the cobwebbed posts of the front porch. Judging by the customers’ dejected posture and the children’s pouting faces, Oliver had a feeling they’d been waiting for a long time.
Oliver sighed. As delicious as Witch Wendy’s drinking chocolate smelled, he didn’t really have the luxury of time. The Annual Fall Picnic was in less than three days. He’d told Pippa he was going to find Ms. Bravo, and he needed to figure out how to do so without revealing his own identity. He—
Oliver froze.
He took a step backward.
And then another.
He gripped Forrest so tightly, Forrest’s bristles made a wheezing sound.
Oliver couldn’t believe his eyes. Nailed to the post in front of him was a Wanted poster. The face staring back at him was his own, albeit with a fierce-looking set of eyebrows. Written above his portrait were the words:
Wanted by the Quill. Magician Oliver Dash. Armed and dangerous. Report any and all information. Reward for capture is 1,000 grubins.
One thousand grubins? For Oliver?
Forrest, meanwhile, was doing all he could to wriggle out of Oliver’s suffocating grip. Despite their earlier “no flying” agreement, Forrest must have grown a bit desperate for air because his bristles let loose a little spark and he, ever so slowly, began to rise up.
“No!” Oliver whispered, trying to tug Forrest firmly back down. “Now would be the worst time to fly. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Oliver turned and pushed through the crowd. He mumbled, “Excuse me,” to an elderly couple debating whether the Chancellor sported a set of false teeth, but Oliver somehow managed to trip over the man’s cane and go bumping down Witch Wendy’s steps. When he’d thumped to the bottom, he glanced up and saw that his Wanted poster wasn’t just nailed to Witch Wendy’s establishment. There was an identical poster nailed to every shop on the entire block!
A few customers rushed forward to help Oliver up and ask if he was okay, but he merely nodded, kept his eyes low, and merged into the swiftly moving crowd. Before long, a group of citizens began to point and shout. Several others skidded to a halt, looking curiously around. Oliver hoped not curiously enough to notice that standing beside them was a fugitive magician wanted by the Quill! A moment later, however, the random shouts and excited chattering turned into one very distinct and fervent chant: “Ms. Bra-vo! Ms. Bra-vo! Ms. Bra-vo!”
Oliver’s knees buckled.
The crowd parted to make way for her.
Ms. Bravo? Here—right here?
Yes.
Ms. Bravo’s smile was bright; her hair was tightly curled; her clothes were bold and colorful; and her loyal companion, Dynamite, was sweeping through the air and posing for the crowd of fans growing by the second. Pippa was right, Ms. Bravo wasn’t tall by giant proportions, but her presence was so enormous that she might as well have been.
Still, approaching a Triumphant had to be better than approaching a wicked witch. If Oliver had marched up to Helga Hookeye at the Twisted Goblet, surely he could find the courage to make his way toward Ms. Bravo, especially because Pippa was counting on him. But Oliver had barely inched forward when something caused him to freeze.
It was his face. Staring back at him from where it was posted in more than a dozen different directions. What was Oliver thinking? The moment he stepped into Ms. Bravo’s spotlight, he would be found out for sure! Even if he waited and tried to catch Ms. Bravo on her way back to her office, the Council district of the city would be teeming with officers of the Quill. Officers who—w
ith a reward of 1,000 grubins at stake—would probably tear one another apart trying to be the first to seize Oliver.
Pippa had told him to turn back if it was too dangerous, but the sinking weight of disappointment was almost more than he could bear.
“Thank you, thank you, everyone!” Ms. Bravo boomed in a warm voice. “Lovely to see you, but I’m afraid I only have a short break before I must return to Council headquarters. I will, however, be at the Official Library for a meet and greet tonight and hope to see you all there!”
With that, she trotted briskly up the steps of Witch Wendy’s and straight to the front of the line. Oliver stared after her for a moment before turning glumly in the direction of a dark alley. He hoped he could find a way back to the main gates while avoiding the crowds, but he had just squeezed into the narrow passageway when Forrest leaped out of his hand and whacked him hard on the backside.
“Ouch!” Oliver said. “What did you do that for?”
Forrest jabbed his bristles in the direction of Ms. Bravo.
“Yeah, I know that’s who we came to see, but I can’t now. Not with those Wanted posters everywhere.”
Forrest simply shrugged.
“So what?” Oliver cried. “I didn’t say ‘so what’ when Helga came looking for you. You could have been stuck with her forever, but at least I’m trying to set you free!”
Forrest gave a little huff before rising pointedly off the ground. Oliver clamped onto his bristles, but Forrest continued to rise, and soon Oliver’s feet were dangling off the ground. “You are not holding up your end of the bargain,” Oliver said in between breaths. “If someone looks down this alley, it is not going to go well for us!”
But as he hung there, Oliver realized how very much Forrest had done for him, and his grip loosened. His feet landed on the ground with a soft thud, and he stared down at his hands. Forrest peeked curiously over his shoulder.
“It’s much easier to be wicked than I imagined,” Oliver said quietly. “You took me to Triumph Mountain, helped Pippa and me set her fire horse free, and got me all the way here. Every step of the way, I’ve forced you to do what I want.” Oliver sighed. “I really did plan to set you free after I spoke with Ms. Bravo, but now that’s not going to happen. And just because I’m stuck, doesn’t mean you have to be.”
Oliver reached for Forrest. His eyes fell on the gold band that encircled every witch’s broomstick and necessitated servitude. His trembling fingers worked to unwind the screws holding the band in place while Forrest held absolutely, breathlessly still. When the band finally clattered to the ground, Oliver sighed. “Thank you, Forrest. I should have said that a long time ago.”
Without so much as a goodbye swish, Forrest zipped through the alleyway and burst into the main walkway. Right away he began sparking and cavorting, charming delighted oohs and aahs from the crowd. Oliver thrust his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the familiar ache of loneliness. He supposed Forrest was merely celebrating his newfound freedom, but as more and more citizens flocked toward the dazzling broomstick, as Witch Wendy’s front porch nearly emptied and the line fizzled out, Oliver understood what was really going on. Forrest was creating a distraction. Forrest was helping Oliver—not because he was compelled to, but because he wanted to.
Oliver felt suddenly brave enough to charge a castle! Wanted posters or not, this was by far the best chance Oliver was going to get to talk to Ms. Bravo and convince her to help Pippa and the Triumphants. Buoyed by Forrest’s confidence in him, Oliver raced out of the dark alley. He hopped up the steps of Witch Wendy’s two at a time, and he pushed through the swinging door. It was darker and cozier than Oliver imagined; Witch Wendy must have specialized only in chocolate because there were no signs of brightly colored gumdrops or lollipops here. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Ms. Bravo either. Behind the counter, however, Oliver spotted a closed wooden door with a crudely scratched sign that read: Private! He, he!
Oliver gulped. Poking around behind a witch’s closed doors didn’t exactly seem smart, but Forrest couldn’t keep the crowd’s attention forever.
Decided, Oliver darted behind the counter, wrapped his hand around the doorknob, and twisted it open.
He was surprised to find the room beyond wasn’t quite a room at all, but a broom closet.34 And in it sat none other than Ms. Bravo, all by herself at a lone wooden table.
On the wall behind Ms. Bravo hung a variety of slightly crooked witchy portraits—all of whom glared energetically at Oliver—and to her right a fat orange and gray cat snored in the lap of a raggedy armchair. Candles flickered from a chandelier overhead, and the aroma wafting from Ms. Bravo’s cup of drinking chocolate made Oliver’s stomach growl yet again.
Oliver clicked the door shut behind him and locked it.
He turned to face Ms. Bravo. “Hello,” he said. He tried to act as if his heart wasn’t pounding in his ears.
Ms. Bravo blinked. “Is it not Thursday?” she asked.
Of all the very many questions that she could have asked, Oliver thought that was a fairly good start. “Yes,” he answered.
“Curious,” she mused. “Witch Wendy always reserves this space for me on Thursday mornings, but I suppose there’s room enough. Would you care to sit down?” she asked, as gracious as gracious could be.
“Um, sure,” Oliver said, hoping Ms. Bravo wouldn’t notice the trembling of his hands as he pulled out the chair. He took a deep breath, preparing to tell Ms. Bravo everything he’d shared with Pippa, but Ms. Bravo spoke first.
“Am I correct in assuming you are about eleven?” she asked with a small, tight smile.
“Ye-es,” Oliver said.
“I thought so. You see, I am quite good friends with an eleven-year-old, and I could tell right away that you’re about the same age. Perhaps you know her?” Ms. Bravo asked, her eyes wide.
Oliver didn’t want to be rude by pointing out that Wanderly was a fairly large kingdom full of lots of eleven-year-old boys and girls, so instead he shifted a bit uncomfortably and said, “Yeah, maybe.”
Ms. Bravo continued, “Recently something terrible happened to my eleven-year-old friend. Do you mind if I share it with you?”
From the tone of her voice, Oliver could tell she was going to tell him whether he wanted to hear or not, and it struck him anew that he was sitting in the same room as a woman who voluntarily woke up sleeping giants. She probably wasn’t used to listening to anybody, much less a kid.
And when Ms. Bravo said his name, his last small bit of hope was dashed.
“You see, Oliver, my friend Pippa was tricked by a lying, scheming, failing magician boy. A boy now wanted by the Council for multiple offenses. So here I am wondering what you could possibly hope to achieve by locking us in the closet of Witch Wendy’s?”
Ms. Bravo brought the cup of drinking chocolate to her lips and took a long, deep sip.
“Ms. Bravo, please. I can explain about all of it, but the only thing that actually matters right now is Pippa—”
“Don’t you dare try to fool me, Oliver. Whatever you got away with in the Swinging Swamp, you’re in the Capital now!”
“Just let me explain, Ms. Bravo. Only a fool would come here in my situation, but I did it for Pippa. Because she asked me to. Ms. Bravo, it’s not me that’s threatening anybody—I don’t even have my hat,” he said, gesturing at his head. “It’s the magicians. They’re planning to do something terrible on Triumph Mountain during the Triumphants’ Annual Fall Picnic. And Pippa’s afraid because her family will be there.”
A look of surprise flashed across Ms. Bravo’s face. “But that doesn’t make any sense! The magicians are a bunch of ne’er-do-wells. They don’t have any business in a place like Triumph Mountain. What do they have to gain from such a preposterous stunt?”
“Ms. Bravo, I could try to explain what they’re thinking, but none of that will change the fact that it’s going to happen in less than three days! And from what Pippa says”—Oliver gulped; he spoke cautiousl
y, knowing what he was about to say was probably the last thing Ms. Bravo wanted to hear from an outsider—“the Triumphants aren’t exactly . . . prepared. That’s why she sent me to you. She was certain you’d help.”
An unexpected wave of relief washed over Oliver.
He’d done it.
He’d said it.
He hadn’t a clue what would follow, but simply completing the task felt important.
Ms. Bravo drummed her fingers on the table. Her eyebrows furrowed as if deep in thought, and when her eyes came to rest on Oliver’s ridiculously short cape, she pursed her lips. “And the charge that you’ve been hiding large quantities of a particularly vile potion called the Black Wreath? What did you intend to use it for, Oliver?”
Oliver vehemently shook his head. “I didn’t intend to use it for anything, because I never had the potion in the first place! The one who had the potion was . . .” Oliver bit his lip. Master Von Hollow hated him. Master Von Hollow was the one who had gotten Oliver sentenced to a Council detention in the first place. Oliver hardly owed him any loyalty. “Master Von Hollow was the one ordering the Black Wreath. He didn’t want anybody to know, so he blamed it on me.”
Quick as a whip, Ms. Bravo leaned over and tugged hard on Oliver’s cape. Slipping from Oliver’s shirt pocket, falling onto the table with a soft clink, and rolling right into Ms. Bravo’s open hands was the nearly forgotten vial of Helga’s potion. Oliver was aghast. Now was pretty much the worst time to finally learn what sort of potion he’d managed to swipe from Helga’s knapsack.
Ms. Bravo’s eyes roved across the crudely written label. “The Black Wreath,” she announced. She locked eyes with Oliver. “Well, isn’t this interesting?”
A sudden and loud thumping exploded against the door. Ms. Bravo plunked the potion back onto the table, and the midnight black liquid swirled and gleamed in its vial.
“Ms. Bravo! Are you all right in there? It’s the Quill! Open up! Open this door right now!” a voice shouted.
Ms. Bravo and Oliver locked eyes.
