Abby the Witch (12 page)

He smiled into
a laugh, his face twisted with humour. 'It's Mr or Commander;
they're both titles. For a witch you really are kind of
stupid.'

A blush was
creeping up her cheeks and, more than his total arrogance, it was
making her blood boil. She shouldn't be blushing in front of this
pathetic excuse for a sailor; she should just tip her head
haughtily and brush him aside into the gutter where he
belonged.

'Are you,' he
tipped his head down towards her, his eyes flickering to and fro as
if he were looking for a ring lost in the sand, 'blushing,
Abby?'

Witches, Ms
Crowthy would say, must always keep their dignity. Power, after
all, is mostly in the eyes of the beholder, and the more you can
maintain your perfect façade of dignity, the more people will
amplify what power you have. Abby had always expected it was like
looking into the eyes of a wild animal and not ever turning your
back on them – the second you lost face around someone, you gave
them permission to rearrange your features into whatever fanciful
fool they decided upon.

If a tilt of
your chin and a good hearty sniff weren't enough to see you through
the most embarrassing of upsets, Ms Crowthy had suggested that the
only method left was to leave with your head held high sniffing
like no tomorrow. So Abby turned her head, flicked her crinkly
ponytail over her shoulder and continued down the street without a
word. See if she was going to let Pembrake take her power.

'You witches
are confusing creatures,' he called after her, 'no wonder we banned
you in the future.'

Abby set her
teeth and almost snorted with rage. She should turn and face him,
wheel around on her feet and chastise him for using a revealing
word like ‘future’ when they were stuck in the past. If he wanted
to walk down the street sounding like a crazy fool, then let him.
She wasn't here to pick up after him.

They walked on
in silence for several minutes, this time with Abby at the lead. It
had taken her several blocks of red-faced anger to calm down
sufficiently to think of where they were going. She couldn't turn
to Pembrake and ask him if he had any ideas; that would be
tantamount to bowing her head in concession. Instead she walked
towards the only place she could think of – her own tiny attic
home. Who knew what it would be in these times – probably a den of
vile intrigue or the source of a hideous plague, knowing her luck.
Still, it would be a familiar land mark, and right now she needed
to remind herself of home.

Charlie had
been maintaining a suspicious silence, probably more irked by
Pembrake's dominating presence than her little friend would like to
admit. She'd told him of how Pembrake had thrown her broom off the
cliff, and poor little Charlie was probably wondering if he'd be
next.

In a way it
was better for both of them if Charlie stayed quiet. She wouldn't
have to put up with a constant barrage of 'do you call this a plan?
Gadding through town with a puffed-up fool while you poke giant
holes in the timeline?'. And Charlie’s sudden vocalisation would
probably shock Pembrake into throwing more things off cliffs.

Better to
introduce him to the talking cat slowly.

It wasn't
until they'd left the wide well-kept streets of inner Bridgestock
for the dark and damp alleyways of the 'slumps', that Pembrake
quickened his pace to match hers. She was almost amused at the
glimmer of concern in his eyes.

Of course it
had taken time to get used to the 'slumps', but with nowhere else
to go the young Abby had come to call it home. She knew all the
back alleyways and shady street fronts selling 'wares' and 'goods'.
She knew which streets to avoid and which hunched over, ambling
figures to cross the street from. It may not have been the safest
of places to live, but it was the only place where she could feel a
bond with people in Bridgestock. The people in the slumps may not
have been witches, but they were all considered second-class
citizens to the rest of the city.

And now she
had something over the powerful, self-assured Commander. The boy
from upper Esquire street had probably only ever heard of the
stories from the 'slumps', the violent ones.

She could see
he wanted to pull her aside and whisper a warning into her ear,
anything to see them walking back the other way into the 'better'
half of the city. But in doing so he would have to concede two
things – 1) that he actually cared what happened to her, and 2)
that the strong Commander was scared of getting dirt on his
collar.

'Abby,' he
eventually managed with a low, even voice as if he expected the
residents to pounce on him like wild animals should he talk like a
normal human.

'Yes,' she
said quite loudly.

'What are we
doing here, this place is… dangerous.'

He finally
said it and Abby had to bite hard on her lip not to smile. 'No it's
not.'

'Abby,' he
took a step closer to her, his face setting with a determination
that made her swallow, 'yes it is.'

She was
faltering; there was something in his tone, but she wasn't about to
give in completely. 'I happen to live here, thank you, and it's
perfectly pleasant. Just because you grew up on Esquire street
doesn't mean you have to buy into the stereo types-'

He stopped her
with a firm hand on her shoulder. '28 years ago this place was full
of Turn Abouts, not little witches like you.'

Abby was
speechless. Turn Abouts was a name given to group of mercenaries
who fought in the Elogian wars. They were killing machines, imbued
with no morals or allegiances beyond that which money could buy.
They had fought for both sides, neither side wishing to be without
their skill. But the stories she'd heard of them were enough to
make even the strongest of armies falter.

Turn Abouts
were about the most horrible thing she could imagine.

'We need to
go,' he whispered quickly, 'and you need to brush up on your
history before you march us into any more firing squads.'

He latched
onto her arm and began to pull her away, but she snapped free soon
enough. Ms Crowthy would go throw the oven at Abby if she allowed
herself to be dragged along by a man. Not only did it go against
the golden rule of avoiding boys, but it went against the natural
independence of a witch. Witches don't get led anywhere they
weren't already happily walking towards, thank you.

He didn't try
to re-grab her wrist, which she was thankful for. What with the
rising fear in her stomach, she probably would have just let him
have it.

Charlie
shifted uncomfortably in her arms and looked at her with twitching
whiskers.

Great, it
seemed everybody thought she was a fool. But she couldn't blame
them – she was a total idiot.

Turn Abouts –
why hadn't she remembered that? She had read it in the history
books, and she really should have remembered that her beloved
slumps were home to some of the seediest and most dangerous of
criminals in this time. She just hadn't been thinking strait, and
now what was supposed to be her big coup d'état against the
arrogant Pembrake, had turned into a massive embarrassment.

Her face hot
and flustered, she rushed after him, keeping her head low. At one
point they passed a man leaning against the wall, glowing cigarette
in hand. He stared at them both, but allowed his eyes to linger
over Abby with a cold mix of indifference yet interest. The man,
tall and thin with shoulder-length oily black hair and a pointed
sallow face, took a mouthful of smoke from his cigarette then blew
it at Abby.

She was
surprised when Pembrake slowed, inserting himself between her and
the man with what looked like a casual move. Abby coughed into her
hand, more thankful than she could ever let him know, and followed
Pembrake as they quickly walked away.

'Thank you for
almost getting us killed,' Pembrake eventually said when the street
had widened and the shop fronts had changed from dirty grey to
clean beige and white. He opened his mouth to apparently finish the
blow, but decided against it with a sniff.

Ms Crowthy
always approved of a good sniff. There was a lot that could not be
said with words that could be conveyed quite clearly with a sniff.
Abby wondered what it was Pembrake's sniff was supposed to mean.
Was that a sniff of 'I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone, I can see you
are still quite scared'. Or a sniff of 'how dare you take us into
such a stupid situation, you idiot witch'. Or just a sniff of 'well
that was a waste of time, what do we do now?'.

Abby was
trying to put the creeping fear behind her, but it had been a
fright. That man, for the most of it, had blown her tingling fright
into full gut-wrenching panic. The way he had blown smoke into her
face and looked her up and down had made Abby revert to a child
seeing monsters under her bed.

'So what do
you have to say for yourself?' Apparently Pembrake wasn't about to
let up. 'I hope you appreciate how stupid that was.'

She tried for
a sniff herself. This one, and she hoped he'd understand, meant
'clear off, can't you see I know how stupid I was'.

'We went
looking for a witch and all we found was cold-blooded mercenary –
remind me never to let you help me look for anything again.'

His constant,
pointed nagging was pushing her fear to the corners of her mind.
'Look, I'm really, really sorry I scared
you, little Commander, but we did not lose time. I'm not
sure what you were looking at, but I was looking for a witch’s
shop. And I didn't see one,' she licked her lips quickly, hoping
that sheer haughtiness would carry her lie, 'so no time has been
wasted, we've just narrowed down our search.'

'Right.' It
was the most sarcastic concession she'd ever heard.

'So now I
suggest we look elsewhere.'

'Another good
plan, Abby: let's see where this one takes us.'

It took them,
after what felt like hours of searching, to the front of a small
building set into one of the tessellated walls above the port. It
was tucked in between a bookstore and a dress makers. They'd walked
past it several times before Abby had guessed what it was. After
all, there were no clues; no signs reading 'witch here' or pictures
of a broom and a black cat. It was only after a little surge of
magic trickled along her back that Abby had suggested they try it
out. And when they'd walked in the doors to find a group of
middle-aged women, all dressed in flowing black skirts and all
sitting down to tea with black cats purring on their laps, Abby had
turned to Pembrake and grinned.

Pembrake
hadn't even bothered to grimace; he was just too busy staring at
the witches, his cheeks sallow and limp.

It must be
confronting for such a bigoted man as Pembrake to come face-to-face
with a room of witches. Especially considering they were all
dressed so alarmingly to the stereotype she partially tried to
deny. Yes, it was mandatory to have a black cat and a broom, but
there was some leeway when it came to clothes. Not all makeup had
to be thick eyeliner and not every skirt had to remind you of a
black cloud of ominous death.

The witches
had looked up as they'd entered, no doubt expecting their entrance
minutes before they'd arrived. The largest lady with the lightest
grey hair sniffed very loudly and rattled her tea cup. Abby took
this to be a greeting and bowed respectfully.

'What you
doing here, witch?' the woman sniffed again. 'You set that cat of
yours down so he can have a drink, and take a step closer,
youngin.’

Abby let
Charlie bound out of her arms, and he settled beside another black
cat who was lapping milk out of a saucer. She was heartened to hear
the officious tone of someone other than Pembrake in the old Crone
before. But most of all Abby was gladdened by the company of other
witches. For six years she had been on her own except for Charlie,
and that had weighed heavily on her heart. 'Yes,' her voice had
broken but she'd redeemed it with a very long sniff indeed.

'Come to seek
our advice, she has,' another witch piped up, 'that boy on your arm
too.'

Pembrake
looked sideways at Abby. He was obviously not used to the company
of witches.

'Oh there's
something odd here there is,' said one witch as she scratched her
purring cat under the chin, 'these folks aren't from around
here.'

The thing
about witches was that you had to let them come to their own
version of events. And they would; with enough tea and chatting
back and forth, they'd soon have your exact life plotted out. It
may require a lot of patience and hot water, but there was no
better way of dealing with a witch than letting her sniff out the
trail.

'My word
indeed,' said a particularly wiry-looking witch as she pushed up
her glasses, 'not even from this time.'

All the
witches clucked like a group of hens searching for worms and there
was a good deal of rattling of tea cups. Abby stood there
patiently, hands clasped in front of her just like a good little
trainee witch. Pembrake, on the other hand, kept moving his gaze
warily from witch to witch: like a captain contemplating the choppy
sea.

'Some kind of
storm,' one witch grabbed her tea cup and stuck in a gnarled
finger, agitating the liquid with a flick of her wrist,
'a chaotic one.'

The other
witches gasped, and started whirling their own cups.

Abby supplied
her own sniff, just to show that she was following affairs.

'A witch and a
sailor – this wasn't supposed to happen.'

'No, no, no,
something's gone wrong here, something isn't as it should be.'

Abby frowned
slightly, she had hoped for better news. She knew that look on
their faces – Ms Crowthy would get that same look when her morning
tea would tell her of a big unseasonal storm – it was a look that
said that something wasn't right with the world.