Jenna didn’t like being spoken to like that. “I won’t do anything of the sort.”
“Can’t get the servants nowadays, Ern,” said one, nudging the other.
“You are not speaking to a servant,” said Jenna frostily. “You can wait outside. I will go and find Silas Heap.”
The twins turned to each other. “Hey, Eddie. I reckon she might be . . .” But Jenna never heard who they thought she might be. She slammed the door on them and set off, highly irritated, to find Silas Heap.
Silas was no more pleased than Jenna at the intrusion. He had been relaxing by the fire with Sarah in her old sitting room. Despite Jenna’s fears, neither Sarah nor Silas had any intention of going anywhere near her party—they were savoring the prospect of a quiet evening together. Very reluctantly, Silas left the fireside and set off with Jenna along the icy cold Long Walk.
Jenna threw open the Palace doors to reveal the two scruffy men, each munching their way through a sausage sandwich.
“Goodness!” gasped Silas.
“What nerve!” said Jenna. She snatched up the rapidly cooling sausage bucket from the doorstep.
“Lovely.”
“Ta.”
“Not eaten all day.”
“Been a bit of a hike.”
“How are you, Silas?”
“Have we missed the wedding?”
“Can we come in?”
“Perishing out here.”
Silas looked flabbergasted. He stood back and let the two scruffy tramps in. Jenna was not particularly surprised; Silas had some weird friends.
“I’m off upstairs, Dad,” she said, setting off across the hall.
Silas collected himself. “Jenna! Wait a minute.”
One of the twins elbowed the other. “See. It is her. Told you.”
“Dad, I need to go,” said Jenna, already on the staircase. “The sandwiches are getting cold.”
“Well, come and say a quick hello before you rush off. This is Ernold and Edmund. Your uncles.”
“My uncles?”
“Yes. My brothers. You know, the two that didn’t make it to our Simon’s wedding? Gosh, I haven’t seen them since before . . . well, since before all the stuff happened.”
It was on the tip of Jenna’s tongue to tell Silas that the two rude old men were not actually her uncles and were nothing to do with her, but she knew how much that would hurt Silas. She bit back the words and hurried down the stairs—the sooner she said hello, the sooner she could get the sausage sandwiches up to where they belonged.
Jenna held out her hand, keeping her distance from Ernold and Edmund. They looked, she thought, like the sort of uncles who would lunge at you for a sloppy, sausage-sandwich-scented kiss. The very thought made Jenna feel sick. But Ernold and Edmund behaved themselves. They meekly shook Jenna’s outstretched hand and mumbled:
“Sorry we . . .”
“Didn’t recognize you.”
Jenna slipped into gracious Princess mode. “Please don’t worry about it. I didn’t recognize you either. I hope you will excuse me; I have to go. I have some people waiting for me,” Jenna said, making it sound as though she were returning to a board meeting. She picked up the bucket of sausage sandwiches and, carrying it as though it were a precious heirloom, she gracefully ascended the stairs. As soon as she was out of sight, Jenna broke into a run. Thirty seconds later she hurtled into her room yelling, “Sausage bucket!”
20
WITCHERY
“You certainly know how to throw a good party, Jen,” Septimus said many hours later, as they led the revelers out along the shadowy upstairs corridor.
“Thanks, Sep!” Jenna was buzzing with excitement; it had been a wonderful evening. As the guests made their way out along the candlelit corridor, an assortment of Palace ghosts—old servants, ancient officials and a few of the more sociable Queens and Princesses—looked on approvingly. The Palace was beginning to return to its old, lively self.
The party giggled its way down the sweeping stairs, out of the Palace and into the snow, where the icy night air hit them. With their breath hanging in the freezing air, they walked slowly across the broad plank bridge that led over the iced-up Palace moat, gazing at the strangely beautiful forms of the snow sculptures sparkling in the light of a full moon; the sight gave rise to a chorus of “wow” and “hey” and “spookieeeeeee” as everyone stopped and gazed. Some of the boys began a snowball fight and Jenna got out of the way. She found herself standing next to Beetle, who was laughing about something with Marissa.
Jenna tried to think of something interesting to say but couldn’t. Beetle tried to as well, with the same result. Marissa, however, had no such problem. “Hey, Beetle; are you walking back to the Manuscriptorium?”
“Yep,” said Beetle.
“I’ve got a room at Bott’s Cloaks now. Just opposite. Walk with you?”
Beetle sounded surprised. “Oh. Yes. Of course. How’s poor Mrs. Bott doing?”
Marissa shrugged. “Dunno. She doesn’t say much.”
Beetle turned to Jenna, the gold braid on his Admiral’s jacket glistening in the moonlight. “Jenna. Thank you for a lovely party,” he said, rather formally.
Jenna smiled. “Oh, thank you so much for coming, Beetle. It was very nice to see you,” she said and immediately wished she hadn’t. She had sounded so Princessy, she thought. No, worse than that, she had sounded prissy.
“Yeah, it was really great,” said Marissa, giggling and linking her arm through Beetle’s. “Byeeee.” With that Marissa tugged Beetle off into the sculpture garden and Jenna watched them disappear behind a giant frog. Maybe, thought Jenna, she didn’t like Marissa quite as much as she thought she had.
Jo-Jo, Matt and Marcus stopped their snowball fight. “Where’s she gone?” they demanded.
“Where’s who gone?” asked Jenna.
“You know who, Jens,” said Jo-Jo. “Marissa.”
“What’s it to you?” demanded Marcus, eyeballing Jo-Jo.
“None of your business,” Jo-Jo retorted.
“Hey, Forest boy, don’t get clever with me—”
“Stop it!” said Jenna, stepping between Jo-Jo and Marcus. “She’s gone off with Beetle if you must know.”
“Beetle?” three voices chorused incredulously. “Jeez.” They sloped off disconsolately and resumed their snowball fight, but with a lot more edge.
A succession of good-byes followed until Jenna was left alone with Septimus and Rose.
“Hey, Jen, you okay?” asked Septimus.
“Fine, thanks.”
“It was great, wasn’t it?”
“Yep,” said Jenna. “I mean, yes, really great.”
“Time we went, Jen,” said Septimus. “Got to get Rose back before her pass expires.”
Jenna had an idea. “If you hurry you can catch up with Beetle.”
Septimus grinned. “Maybe he doesn’t want catching up with, Jen.”
“Don’t be silly, Sep,” said Jenna snappily.
“Ah. Well, g’night, Jen,” said Septimus. “And thanks. Great party.”
“Thank you,” said Rose. “It was really lovely.”
Septimus gave Jenna a hug; then he and Rose wandered off, weaving their way through the sculptures. After following a well-trodden path past the giant frog, a large chicken, a rowboat, a huge crown, three fat bears, a large, rude Water Gnome and something that bore a remarkable resemblance to Marcia Overstrand with a pile of saucepans on her head—much to their amusement—they reached the Palace Gate. In the distance Septimus saw Beetle and Marissa walking arm in arm up Wizard Way. After a few moments’ thought, he took Rose’s arm and followed slowly, in no more hurry than Beetle was.
Jenna felt decidedly unsettled. She looked up at the Palace, which was blazing with light from the candles in the windows, and sighed. It looked beautifully welcoming, but she didn’t want to go to bed. Not just yet. She slipped into the entrance hall and took her thickest fur cloak from the coat cupboard under the stairs
. Beside it hung her Witch cloak, which she grabbed and angrily scrunched up into a ball: that was going in the trash. She’d had enough of witches.
Witch cloak stuffed under her arm, Jenna took the path that led round the back of the Palace to the new kitchens where the trash was. As she bundled the cloak into the bonfire bin something brushed against her dress. Jenna looked down. “Binkie!”
Maizie Smalls’s cat stared balefully up at Jenna. Jenna felt a little spooked—Binkie was not the kind of cat you wanted to meet alone at night. If it had been any other lost cat she would have picked it up and taken it into the warmth of the Palace, but there was no way she was going to touch Binkie. Jenna watched the cat stalk off toward the thicket of trees that bordered the Palace gardens. A feeling of unease made Jenna reach into the bonfire bin and take her Witch cloak out again. She threw it over her red fur cloak and set off toward the river—somehow, she didn’t know why, she felt protected by her Witch cloak.
There was a disused jetty just past Spit Fyre’s dragon field where Jenna liked to sit and think, and right now that was where she wanted to be. As she cut across the Palace lawns, Jenna glanced over to the thicket of trees that bordered the Palace grounds. She shivered, and felt glad of her Witch cloak surrounding her like a shifting shadow.
Deep in the darkness of the thicket, Binkie, chief of the Forest Cats and new familiar to Morwenna Mould, the Wendron Witch Mother, was purring loudly. Morwenna stroked the cat and crooned, “Well done, my little spy. Well done.” She eased her bulk off a fallen log and moved silently out of the trees. Morwenna was determined that this time, the Princess would not get away, unlike a few years back, in the Forest.
All Witch Covens crave a true Princess—it gives them great power among other Covens—and Morwenna knew that this was her last chance. Soon enough Jenna would no longer be a Princess and then the Wendron Witches would have to wait for Jenna’s daughter. The Witch Mother smiled grimly. The Wendrons would get in fast next time—CradleSnatching was so much easier. If only she hadn’t once made a promise to that lovely young Wizard, Silas Heap, they would have CradleSnatched this one fourteen years ago. How different things would have been.
Morwenna followed Binkie down toward the river. Tail held high, Binkie tiptoed over the ice-crusted snow while Morwenna sank down so deep that the snow fell into the tops of her boots. As they drew closer to their quarry, Morwenna was shocked to see that the potential Wendron Witch Princess was wearing a Port Witch Coven cloak. She had heard a rumor that Jenna had kidnapped the Coven’s youngest witch and stolen a cloak—and it looked like it might be true. Morwenna smiled. This Princess was going to be worth having.
As Jenna walked below the trees that led to the Dragon Field, her cloak was doing what Witch cloaks do best—blending in with the shadows—and Morwenna could no longer see her. Horrified at losing sight of the Wendrons’ Princess, Morwenna made a decision. She would have to do some FootFollowing.
FootFollowing is an ancient witch skill. It involves following a quarry by stepping into their exact footprint. Once a witch has FootFollowed three consecutive footsteps she knows that her prey can never escape, wherever they go: through the densest forest, up the tallest mountain, under the deepest river. Always, the witch will be Following in their footsteps. Like most witch Magyk, it has both advantages and disadvantages. The advantage is that the witch is sure to find her victim. The disadvantage is that she has no choice but to do so. She must FootFollow in every footstep until she reaches her target. It can at times be dangerous: for example, if the FootFollowed happens to fall off a cliff, the FootFollower will have no choice but to do the same. Morwenna was aware it was not something to be undertaken lightly, but Jenna’s Witch cloak had worried her—there was more to this Princess than she had realized. She must take no chances.
Finding three consecutive footprints was not as easy as Morwenna had expected, because the Witch cloak was doing its job well. As Jenna moved through the snow it had brushed across her footprints, blending them together—as Witch cloaks are meant to do. But Jenna had then stopped to open a gate, and Morwenna got lucky—three perfect Princess footprints planted in the snow. The witch whispered the FootFollow and set off. This, she thought, was going to be a pushover.
It probably would have been a pushover if Morwenna had not been encroaching on dragon territory. While Spit Fyre was perfectly happy to allow Jenna to walk through his Dragon Field—Witch cloak and all—he felt very differently about a real witch.
When one is FootFollowing it is not possible to look up from the footprints. Morwenna’s brilliant blue witchy eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, so she got quite a shock when she suddenly saw planted in front of her two huge green dragon feet with very large claws indeed. (No one cut Spit Fyre’s toenails anymore. Even Billy Pot, the dragon keeper, had given up—they blunted his hacksaw.)
Morwenna said a very rude Forest curse and slowed down—but she could not stop. Her feet were FootFollowing and she was heading straight for the underbelly of a nasty-looking dragon. This was not what she had planned. It was not what Binkie had planned either—tail puffed out like a bottlebrush, the cat shot off into the night.
Spit Fyre snorted threateningly. A tendril of dragon dribble landed on Morwenna’s winter fur cloak and scorched a trail of holes. A nasty smell of burning wolverine hit Morwenna’s nostrils, but she had no choice but to keep on going. With some difficulty, she squeezed beneath Spit Fyre’s tummy and headed for his frighteningly spiky back legs. Morwenna began to feel scared—those spikes were sword sharp. She would be cut to pieces.
After his recent fight with the Darke Dragon, Spit Fyre had grown his adult leg spurs. He was very proud of them, but although they were extremely sharp they were also soft and new, and Spit Fyre did not want a witch anywhere near them. And so, to Morwenna’s surprise and great relief, the dragon carefully lifted his feet and stepped aside. Morwenna was out of the Dragon Field as fast as she could go—but not before a well-aimed stream of dragon spit had hit her squarely on the back. Spit Fyre watched the witch go in disgust, then he took off for the boatyard, where he had taken to spending every night keeping the Dragon Boat company.
Morwenna moved fast and silent along the dark footpath that ran along the riverbank. The moonlight showed nothing more than shifting shadows as she went, her Forest Witch cloak merging with both the snow and the river beyond. She was now walking along a well-trodden path and was pleased she had chosen to FootFollow—the Princess could be anywhere. As Morwenna came to a bend she was surprised to find that her feet took her away from the path and through a gap in the hedge. She pushed through the snowy leaves and stepped silently onto the old jetty. The witch smiled. How very convenient, she thought. Earlier that evening, she had tied up her coracle to the mooring post at the end of that very jetty.
Jenna was sitting, leaning against the mooring post, watching the breaking reflections of the moon in the mirror-black river and wondering why she felt so upset about Marissa asking Beetle to walk home with her. Jenna remembered that when Marissa had said that she was renting a room above Bott’s Cloaks, she had been pleased for her—until later when she had realized that Bott’s Cloaks was opposite the Manuscriptorium. And then, unaccountably, she had felt distinctly not pleased. She had even caught herself thinking how nice it would be to have the freedom to rent a room opposite the Manuscriptorium, rather than having to live so far away, in the Palace. This had thrown her into confusion. She loved the Palace—how could she possibly compare it with a tiny room above smelly old Bott’s preloved cloaks? Why would she want to live there?
While Jenna was pondering the merits of the Palace versus Bott’s Cloaks, the jetty gave a sudden lurch. She turned around and a flash of fear went through her. She saw the large bulk of Morwenna Mould creeping forward, carefully placing her feet into the snow in a rather peculiar way. Jenna knew at once she had to get away— there was no doubt in her mind that being crept up on by a witch when it is way past midnight and you are alone, perche
d over an icy river, was not good.
Very slowly, so as not to disturb Morwenna—who seemed to be in some kind of trance—Jenna got to her feet. If she had been anywhere else, she would have run for it, but unfortunately the only escape involved actually going toward Morwenna, who pretty much took up the width of the landing stage. Jenna hesitated. She was sure that Morwenna hadn’t seen her—the Witch Mother was staring intently at the old planks as though she had lost something. But she was moving ever closer in an oddly deliberate way that frightened Jenna. Jenna decided that her best chance was to take Morwenna by surprise. She would wrap her Witch cloak around her like a shield and run straight at her. With any luck she could push past Morwenna before the Witch Mother had time to do anything.
Jenna took a deep breath and ran. As she got to within arm’s length, Morwenna looked up. “Princess!” she gasped.
Jenna stopped. She eyed up the available space on either side of the witch—there were maybe six inches of landing stage, certainly no more. And below was the icy river.
Morwenna took a step forward and Jenna took a step back. “Morwenna,” she said, playing for time. “How . . . nice to see you.”
Morwenna did not reply. She was trying to remember the Rules of FootFollowing. Could she grab her prey now or did she have to Follow all the footsteps? Would she have to go to the end of the jetty first and then come back? She wished she could remember.
“Yes,” said Morwenna, distracted, “very nice.” And then, “Bother,” as her feet began to take her past Jenna. She was going to have to Follow every single step. What a stupid spell, she thought. “Excuse me a moment, Princess Jenna. Um, don’t go away.”
Politely, Jenna stepped aside to let Morwenna by and smelled the earthy scent of leaf mold and decomposing fungus as the witch squeezed past her. Jenna was confused. She had been convinced that Morwenna was stalking her and yet clearly that was not the case. Lulled into a false sense of security, Jenna headed for the path back to the Palace.