Clover Twig and the Magical Cottage Read online

  “Go on then.”

  Obediently, Clover fixed her steady blue eyes on a distant cobweb hanging from a rafter and stared. It was quite easy. She had a technique for it. Basically she just went off into a pleasant little trance. Sort of retired into her head and thought about something else entirely, leaving her eyes to get on with it. It didn’t matter what she thought about. It could be anything. Sometimes she emptied her mind and thought about nothing at all. That was quite restful.

  After a minute or so, Mrs. Eckles began tapping her foot.

  “All right, that’ll do. Not exactly earth shatterin’ is it? When I stare at things, they do somethin’. Okay, movin’ on. Next question. Are you prepared to live in?”

  That came as a shock. Clover hadn’t even thought about living in and leaving her family behind.

  “You gets yer own room,” Mrs Eckles went on. “In the loft. There’s a bed.”

  Ah. Now, that was different. At home, Clover shared a bed with her sisters. She couldn’t imagine the luxury of waking without someone’s elbow in her ear.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ll certainly give it a try.”

  “Of course, we’d need to see ’ow we get on,” said Mrs. Eckles. “See if we suit each other.”

  “Of course. And I’ll need to take every Sunday off to visit home.”

  “Fair enough. And you’re ‘appy with the terms? There’s other stuff needs doin’. Shoppin’, cookin’, collectin’ the eggs from Flo and Doris. That’s the chickens. They takes turns. Flo does brown, Doris does speckled. You up for that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Last question,” said Mrs. Eckles. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice took on dark overtones. “’Ave you, or anyone in the family, got certain—shall we say—Powers?”

  “Well, I’ve seen Pa lift up a pig with one hand. We think that’s what put his back out. It was a very big pig, you see, and …”

  “Nah, nah!” Mrs. Eckles waved her quiet. “I ain’t talkin’ about pig liftin’. I means—unusual Powers? You know. Fortune tellin’. Premonitions. Ability to shift things about usin’ the Power o’ the mind.” She gave a slow, meaningful wink. “Like this,” she said.

  Her green eyes swivelled to an old watering can that stood by the back door.

  To Clover’s astonishment, the can began to rock! Gently at first, then faster. Then it spun on its base. Leading with its spout, rolling drunkenly from side to side like an old sailor, it propelled itself through the door. It hopped down onto the doorstep, then down again and out into the sunny garden, where it proceeded to water a clump of bluebells.

  “Now, that’s starin’,” said Mrs. Eckles. Her eyes were on Clover. She was clearly waiting for some sort of reaction. “Can you do stuff like that?”

  “No,” said Clover slowly. “None of us can do stuff like that. We’re not a … magical family.”

  “Does it bother you? Stuff like that?”

  “Well, I’m not easily rattled, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Eckles. “You might see a few things that are … out of the ordinary. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m sure I’ll cope.” Clover gave what she hoped was a confident smile. Mrs. Eckles didn’t notice, because her eyes were now on the busy watering can out in the garden.

  “But can you keep yer mouth shut? I don’t want you snoopin’ an’ spyin’ an’ spreadin’ gossip. Too many blabbermouths around. Just look at that daft can. All right, pack it in now, no need to drown ’em!”

  The can immediately stopped watering and plonked down next to the bluebells.

  “I’m here to clean,” said Clover. “I don’t pry, and I never gossip.”

  “In that case, I’ll give you a trial. Work ‘ere today, and we’ll see how you gets on. There’s a scrubbin’ brush under the sink, bucket in the towel cupboard. The kettle’s somewhere, I dunno, you’ll ‘ave to look. I gotta do me outside chores. Gotta oil that flippin’ gate, put it in a better temper. Then I gotta look fer Neville. Can’t do everything.”

  “’Course you can’t,” said Clover, tying her apron strings and rolling up her sleeves. “You leave me to it, and as soon as I’ve cleared a space, I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.”

  Chapter Three

  The Shoes Go First

  Fascinating though it would be to watch Clover work, we must leave her here. We will return, but right now, someone else is demanding our attention.

  Far, far away from the forest, in a mountainous region of high, pointy crags and icy winds, standing right on the edge at the top of the highest peak, there is a castle. Castle Coldiron.

  It is all spires and pointy roofs and sharp bits. It looks dramatically impressive from a distance, but if you look close, it is crumbling quite badly. Here and there, sections of wall are missing. Bits of it have dropped off and plunged into the ravine far, far below, where a rough, raging river roars.

  From the topmost turret window there is a good view of other, lesser peaks. If you like rock and gray skies, this is the view for you.

  The castle is home to another, very different Witch. Her name is Mesmeranza, and she has a Plan. It is an Evil Plan, full of sly cunning. And if time, trouble, and long years of wicked brooding count for anything, it deserves to succeed.

  Mesmeranza has a pale, heavily powdered face that at first glance looks quite young. But her eyes are older. They are emerald green and look like they’ve been around for a while. Her lips are painted red. Her black hair is swept up and secured with a scarlet comb. She is wearing a purple satin dressing robe and matching high-heeled shoes.

  Currently, she is sitting in a high-backed chair next to the window, flipping through the pages of a shoe catalog. Her nails, also very red, are long and filed into points. Next to the chair is a polished glass table. On it sits something the size and shape of a goldfish bowl. There are no fish, however. In fact, it is a crystal ball. Right now, it is nothing to get excited about, being filled rather boringly with drifting gray mist.

  Mesmeranza’s Plan requires quite a bit of multitasking, as Evil Plans so often do. As well as looking at shoes, she is in the middle of dictating a to-do list to a small, gray, frazzled looking woman with flyaway hair, who is sitting at a desk some distance away, frantically scribbling into a little black book.

  Behind the desk, two things are pinned to the oak panelled wall. The first is a calendar, open to the month of May. Three days—a bank holiday—are circled in black. The words THE PLAN!!! are written inside in bold black letters. Next to the calendar is a postcard of what could be a cottage. It is hard to tell, because it is a very small postcard pinned to the wall by a very large dagger.

  The scribbler at the desk is Miss Fly. She has hollow cheeks, a long, red, stuffed up nose, and reddened eyelids. She has a liking for thick, wrinkled brown stockings and brown, shapeless cardigans covered in cat hairs. Her pockets are full of screwed up hankies, for Miss Fly is a cat lover who is allergic to fur. Sad, really.

  “What number are we on?” demanded Mesmeranza. Her sharp voice echoed across the room, causing Miss Fly to give a startled jump and drop her pencil.

  “Five,” said Miss Fly, nasally.

  “I can’t remember what I’ve said now. Read them out.”

  Miss Fly gave a little sneeze, mopped her nose, and began to read.

  “Nubber One. Cottage. Nubber Two. Cake. Nubber Three …”

  “Number,” corrected Mesmeranza. “It’s number, not nubber. Speak properly.”

  “Sorry, it’s by Ebs.”

  “What? Oh, your M’s.”

  “Yes. By Ebs. It’s by allergy.”

  “Get rid of the cats, then. Don’t expect sympathy. Carry on.”

  “Nubber Three. Disguise. Nubber Four. Boy. Nubber Five. Shoes.”

  “Put the shoes first.”

  “What?”

  “The shoes go first. Before anything else, I need the right shoes. These red ones.”

  Mesmeranza stabbed at a page
in the catalog with a crimson talon. The shoes she was pointing at were bright red and strappy, with perilously high heels.

  “Haven’t you got enough shoes?” ventured Miss Fly, who went for more sensible brown wide-fitting flats.

  “No,” said Mesmeranza, firmly. “Shoes are vitally important. What have I always said, Fly? Get the shoes right, and everything else follows smoothly. We don’t all have to go around with Yeti feet like you. So the list now reads: Shoes, Cake, Disguise, Boy.”

  Miss Fly began worriedly crossing things out. “So where do I put ‘Cottage?’”

  “At the very end. The cottage will be the culmination of everything else.”

  “So it’s at Nubber Five now?”

  “No. I haven’t finished. Number Five, notice how clearly I say that, Number Five is ‘Find Hypnospecs.’ They’ll be up in the attic, in amongst Grandmother’s things in one of the old chests. I shall need them when I interrogate the boy. They haven’t been used for years. I’ll try them out on a footman just to be sure they’re working properly.”

  “You can’t do that,” objected Miss Fly. “You can’t hypnotize the footben.”

  “Yes I can. I’ll choose an old doddery one, so it won’t matter if something goes wrong.”

  “But you can’t …”

  “I can! I can do what I like. I must have the Hypnospecs. They’re vitally important to the Plan.”

  “How do they fit in again?” asked Miss Fly.

  “Don’t you listen? I’ve told you a million times.”

  “I’ve forgotten. You’ve had so many plans, I get confused.”

  “I don’t know why; it’s very simple. Wearing a brilliant disguise, I come upon the boy unexpectedly in the woods. I befriend him, pick his brain of useful information, then use the Hypnospecs to wipe his memory. That’s it. On to the next phase.”

  “Have you decided on the disguise?” inquired Miss Fly, wearily.

  “Ah. Now, I’ve given that a lot of thought. I’m still debating. It’s essential he doesn’t recognize me from the last time, when I was the old tomato seller. What a sight I was. I borrowed your shoes, remember?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Fly, shortly.

  “That was the finishing touch, your shoes. My, did I look frumpy.”

  “They’re very cubfortable,” Miss Fly told her. “By shoes.”

  “Comfortable,” agreed Mesmeranza, “but hideous. This time I’m thinking upmarket. I’m thinking Rich Lady Lost In The Forest. Different clothes, different voice, better shoes. And I shall wear Grandmother’s Hat of Shadows, just to be on the safe side. I think that’s up in the attic, too. It’s filthy, I hope you’ve got overalls.”

  “Be?”

  “Yes, you. You don’t expect me to go rummaging around up there, do you? That’s one of your jobs, along with ordering the next cake. Tell Mrs. Chunk to make it a chocolate one this time, it’s good to have variety. Write it down, then. Why aren’t you writing it down?”

  “I’b just thinking.”

  “Well, don’t. I do the thinking round here. I come up with the ideas.”

  “But I’b just thinking. The poisoned tobato didn’t work, did it?”

  “I’m very aware that the tomato was a slight error of judgment.” Mesmeranza gave a scowl. “You’ll notice I’m not repeating it. Anyway, how was I to know the wretched boy didn’t like tomatoes? Stop dredging up old history and write down cake.”

  “But I was just thinking. Shouldn’t it be sweets?”

  “What?”

  “Sweets are traditional.”

  “Far too obvious. Sweets, gingerbread, apples, poisoned combs, they’ve been done to death. Cake is new. It has a wholesome, innocent quality. Nobody suspects cake.”

  “Not everybody likes cake, though,” observed Miss Fly.

  “Demelza does. I’ve already left three on her doorstep. She chomped through those happily enough.”

  “But it’s not her you have to convince, is it? She won’t be around. It’ll be the boy. Assubing he’s looking after the cottage again, which you don’t know, do you?”

  “That’s the whole point of interrogating him, Fly. I intend to find that out. Although no one else would feed that beastly cat, and he’s the only neighbor, so she’s stuck with him. No, I’m positive it’ll be the boy again.”

  “The boy who wouldn’t take the tobato.”

  “Yes, yes! But I’m not offering him a tomato, am I? This time it’s cake! He’ll open the door and find a lovely, freshly baked cake sitting on the doorstep. A humble gift left by an anonymous admirer. Are you telling me he won’t take it in? Especially if it’s raining. No one leaves a cake out in the rain.”

  “But how do you know it’ll be raining?”

  “I shall make it rain,” said Mesmeranza, witheringly. “I’m a Witch. I can do that.”

  “But he bight not be feeling like subthing sweet. He bight prefer a healthy alternative …”

  “He’ll like cake!” screeched Mesmeranza. Furious, she slammed the catalog shut. “I’ve started now. I can’t change course in the middle, can I? I’ve already established the idea of cakes appearing on the doorstep. Don’t you think it’d look suspicious if there was a—a box of root vegetables or something?”

  “Better for you,” ventured Miss Fly. “Root vegetables.”

  “We’re going with cake! Write it down!”

  Miss Fly wrote it down, sniffing sadly.

  “Number Six,” Mesmeranza went on. “Hair Appointment. I think I’ll wear it up. I’ll need to try it with the Hat. Actually, hair should be Number Two. Or perhaps Three, after I’ve decided on the disguise. So it’s One, Shoes. Two, Disguise. Three, Hair. Four, Cake. Five, Boy. Six, Hypnospecs. Seven, Hat. Although the Hat should really go with the disguise, which is Number Two. Number Seven—”

  “Wait, wait, I can’t keep up …”

  “Number Seven, Look For The Bad Weather Umbrella. Number Eight, Find Grandmother’s Wand,” rattled off Mesmeranza, adding, “Mind how you handle it. It might look harmless, but don’t let it fool you. Latent magic build-up might take your hand off, which would be a waste of good power. Be careful of the Umbrella, too, we don’t want a flood.”

  “Are you sure you should be using all that old equipbent?” asked Miss Fly, doubtfully. “It sounds—dangerous.”

  “Of course it’s dangerous! That’s the whole point of it. Dark, dramatic, and dangerous. That was Grandmother’s style, and it’s mine too. I’m not messing about this time, Fly. I’m through with tomatoes. Demelza’s been laughing at me too long. Slapping on more and more security spells. Flaunting her ownership. As if those crumbling old walls can keep me out.”

  “They have so far,” pointed out Miss Fly.

  “Not any more. This time I’m bringing out the heavy guns, as well as doing a lot of careful planning, which brings me back to the list. Number Nine—”

  “Wait a binute, wait a binute …”

  “Number Nine, I’ve just remembered. I shall need Grandmother’s Poncho of Imperceptability.”

  “Her what?”

  “Poncho of Imperceptability. She made it during one of her mad knitting periods. A nasty, lumpy, woolly thing with a hood. Anybody else would have stuck with a basic Cloak of Invisibility, but apparently ponchos were in at the time. Hardly a style statement, but it does the job. At least no one will see me.”

  “No? Why is that?”

  “Because it’ll make me vanish, you fool. Anyway, it’s in the attic somewhere. Find it.”

  “Oh dear. All right. What color is it?”

  “It doesn’t have a color, Fly. It’s imperceptible. You’ll have to feel for it.”

  “How do you know it’s got a hood if you can’t see it?”

  “Because I tried it on once when her back was turned. Right, I think that’s everything. That leaves Cottage at Number Ten. Oh, and one last thing. Warn Humperdump Chunk about the annual dungeon inspection.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Fly, pitifully. A strange expressi
on came over her face. She groped for a hanky. “Bust I?”

  “Yes. It’s long overdue. I’ve a feeling he’s slacking. I think we’ve run out of prisoners; I’ve been too busy to even think about it. I don’t want to find him gone off on one of his everlasting lunch breaks. What’s the problem? Why are you looking like that?”

  “No reason,” snuffled Miss Fly, who in fact had a very good reason for looking like that.

  “Well, just make sure he’s down there when I arrive. I hope the place is looking better than the last time. Stinking straw, doors wide open, rats everywhere. I had to wade. I don’t think he ever lifts a finger. I’d fire him if it wasn’t for his mother.”

  “Perhaps you should anyway,” said Miss Fly, hopefully.

  “And lose Mrs. Chunk? Are you mad? Anyway, that will be all. Take the list and copy it up in your best handwriting. Do it somewhere else. I can’t stand your sniffing. Hurry up, I have things to do.”

  “But I haven’t quite—”

  “Go! Now!”

  Miss Fly hastily gathered up her hankies, her pen, and the little black book and scuttled from the room.

  The moment the door closed, Mesmeranza’s emerald eyes went to the crystal ball on the glass table. She leaned down, picked it up, and cradled it gently in her cold, white hands.

  “Right,” she breathed. “Time for a little peek.”

  Miss Fly entered her apartment to a chorus of crazed howling. Her notebook and pen flew out of her hand as a flurry of fluffy feline forms hurtled through the air and attached themselves to her with their claws.

  A large tortoiseshell scrambled onto her shoulder and screamed in her ear. Three small kittens, silly with excitement, galloped up the curtains. A lean Siamese and a hefty black and white began circling their food bowls, tails shivering and mouths drooling in anticipation. A small ginger crouched on the bed, enthusiastically coughing up a hair ball, while a big cream-colored one was sharpening his claws on the rug. A one-eyed gray began fighting with a small, ferocious looking tabby.

  “All right, darlings, in a binute, give me a bobent,” cried Miss Fly, sneezing, gasping, and attempting to detach the raking claws, whilst fighting to get the screaming tortoiseshell’s tail out of her face.