Abby the Witch (19 page)

Abby felt like
crossing her arms defensively, to conserve what little dignity she
had left. First she saves the Princess then loses her
accomplishment to the more dashing Pembrake, then she is left on
the wayside to recover while Pembrake is fawned over by half the
Royal court, and now the Princess was double checking that her man
was in fact travelling with such a bedraggled looking woman.

Thankfully
Pembrake nodded. Though Abby did note in her little black book of
reasons to hate him – that he did not come out and say firmly,
'yes, of course I am travelling with this woman, how rude of you to
imply that I am too good to be seen with her'.

'Okay then,
please make arrangements, Colonel,' the Princess didn't bother to
look at him.

Abby,
terribly, shared another moment of similarity with the Colonel.
Both of them, it seemed, were not worthy of the Princess'
attention.

And then it
hit Abby. Colonel, Colonel. He couldn't
be 
that
 Colonel, could he? He couldn't be the
Colonel that was responsible for the Witch Ban – for all the
terrible things that had happened to Abby since she'd come to
Bridgestock? He couldn't be the Colonel that ruined the history of
her city, made it into a lifeless, bigoted, war-mongering
machine?

She did not
know what her Colonel – the future-ruining, witch-hating Colonel –
what his name was. Could it be Franklin? Did that seem like the
last name of a walking curse?

Abby felt a
strange itch start at her wrists and travel, snaking, up her
arms. It couldn't be him.

The Colonel
rolled his eyes in a way that looked alarmingly like Pembrake and
stormed off, muttering some orders to the Guards before
disappearing behind a house and out of sight.

It was the
house that the witch had also disappeared behind, Abby noted with
interest, forcing her mind off the subject of the Colonel. But this
was hardly the place to confirm her suspicions; she could not go up
to the man and simply ask if he had any intentions to start banning
witches....

Forcing
herself to focus on anything but the Colonel made Abby notice
something strange: none of the Guards, it seemed, had bothered to
go out and look for the witch that had tried to kill the Princess.
It was funny that the Guards were not out looking for her, scouring
the city for the Princess' assailant. Indeed, when Abby ran over
the memory in her mind, the whole thing was funny in a very
suspicious way.

This was
something to fix her mind to, this was something concrete that she
could focus all her attention on: what exactly was so wrong with
this situation? Why had the Princess been allowed to fly on a broom
in the first place? And why had that particular witch been
allocated to fly it? She had looked, even to Abby from quite some
distance away, to be suspicious, creepy, and unsavoury. Why weren't
the Guards streaming through the city, locking down the slumps and
whatnot, searching for their prey?

As Ms Crowthy
would say – when things smell of rotten fish there is either a pile
of herring in the fridge or someone is trying hard to use ammonia
to put you off the scent. Abby wasn't sure what ammonia was, but
was certain Ms Crowthy didn't have a clue either. Still, it seemed
like a good idea. And it seemed to her that this whole scenario
smelt overpoweringly of fish.

In a moment,
she found herself being politely pulled to the side by the Gov and
the Guard that had looked over her. Though she had just met them,
she was already very comfortable in their company. Her witchly
senses told her they were good people, even for Guards.

'Looks like
you'll be coming with us then, ma'am,' the Gov nodded.

'Abby,' she
supplied looking at Pembrake over her shoulder.

'Abby, then,
don't you worry about him – you'll see him soon enough.'

'As soon as
the Princess is done with him,' the other Guard laughed.

The Gov shook
his head, 'you grow up, Stan.'

'Just saying
what we're all thinking, sir. Sorry, ma'am,' Stan quickly nodded at
her apologetically.

Abby found
herself smiling at their banter and had forgotten that they were
Guards far before they'd delivered her to the back of the
Palace.

She had caught
several glimpses of Charlie along the way, following behind them at
a safe distance. She was quite embarrassed to realise that she had
forgotten all about him what with one thing and another. In fact,
since they'd been thrown back in time, she'd hardly had a chance to
chat with him, something she was sure he would point out to her
vociferously the first chance he got.

It was a bad
idea for a witch to ignore her cat – witch's cats are very smart,
talkative, and cunning after all. If she went on ignoring Charlie,
or busying herself with the strange happenings of the past, he'd
conjure up some way to make her pay.

Cats aren't
used to being ignored.

As they'd
approached the Palace, Stan had stared up, whistling through his
teeth. 'How the other half live,' he nodded at her, apparently sure
that she would be able to appreciate the stark difference between
poverty and wealth.

The Gov had
just sniffed. Ms Crowthy would really get along with him, Abby
thought as she stared up at the huge red and white palace herself.
It was named the Cherry on the Cake in her time. A play on the
tessellated view of Bridgestock, mounting, as it did, up the hill
like a layer cake.

'The Princess
said we was to hand you over to the kitchen maids – said they'd
give you a good bath and a feed.'

Abby was
vaguely aware of the disapproving voice of Ms Crowthy playing in
her head. Witches never needed charity. Gifts, presents,
and kind donations were heartily accepted, but try and be
charitable to a witch and you would receive a scornful look and an
incomprehensible mutter.

But Stan and
Gov weren't offering charity, like the Princess. They were just
pointing her in the direction of hot bath and a good feed.

She smiled
warmly when they left her at the door with a couple of sharp nods
and sniffs.

The kitchen
ladies, as it turned out, weren't going to scrub her clean in the
sink as Abby had feared. But took her to a bathroom in the
servant's quarters were there was a steaming bath waiting for
her.

A large woman
that reminded Abby of Martha, except with a permanent scowl that
could have curdled milk, took over from the two maids that had led
Abby in. She'd stripped Abby and dumped her in the bath then
produced a huge scrubbing brush that looked as if it were more
suitable for elephants and had set to work.

By the end of
the bath, Abby was sure there could not have been a particle of
dirt left on her anywhere as it felt as if her skin had been rubbed
clean off.

The woman had
then started on Abby's hair and her approach was similar to a
farmer clearing his fields of blackberries. She dunked Abby's head
under water and pulled and parted and brushed till Abby's hair, for
the first time in her life, actually draped even and straight over
her shoulders.

But the woman
did not leave it there. Apparently Abby's years of living in the
slumps had offered the woman a challenge she could not back down
from. She cleaned under Abby's fingernails, trimmed the split ends
from her hair, and cut her toenails. Then she pulled Abby from the
bath like a cook claiming a cray from the tank, and towelled her
dry.

'You're ready
for your clothes now, youngin,' the woman nodded appreciatively at
her handy work, 'I'll just get them.'

There was a
mirror in the room, and Abby found herself staring at her
towel-clad self when the woman had left her. There was something
very familiar about this scenario, something very story like –
something very fairy tale. This would be were the ugly
duckling would bloom into a swan, or the dowdy stepsister would
transform into a beauty with the help of a well-engineered
dress.

Abby laughed
at her reflection, her mirth only half-sarcastic. The kitchen lady
would return with a beautiful sky-blue dress that would bring out
Abby's eyes and dress her up, twisting her hair into a bun and
fixing it with a pretty clip. Then she'd climb the stairs to the
court and Pembrake would –

Abby almost
swore. What was she thinking? Pembrake was a terrible rogue, and if
the Princess wanted him, then she deserved the devil.

She turned
from the mirror just as the kitchen lady returned.

'Ha, I can see
the Princess really wants you to stand out.'

Abby looked
down at the grey dress in the woman's hands and her heart dropped,
not that she would like to admit that it had been racing.

'You could
blend in with the rooftops with this,' the woman lifted it up,
'you'll look just like a chimney.'

It was true,
there was never a straighter cut, more sack-like dress. And the
colour wouldn't so much bring out her eyes as turn her skin to the
pale gray of the newly dead.

'Chin up,
dear, at least it will fit better. And clothes are just clothes,
after all.'

'Yes.' Abby
had to agree, she had no choice but to. Ms Crowthy would be worried
indeed if she'd found out Abby had half-entertained the idea of a
sky-blue dress that would bring out her eyes. If you wanted to
match your eyes to the sky, Ms Crowthy would probably say, then go
for a fly. Dresses are for girls and broomsticks are for
witches.

Abby would do
well to remember that.

But, at least
they had made it into the Palace. It seemed, finally, their journey
into the past was getting somewhere.

Abby dressed
in her chimney dress and did not even bother turning to glance in
the mirror again, to do so would invite more pessimism. Whatever
she looked like, the kitchen lady was right, at least it would be
an improvement on her bedraggled, swimming-in-skirts look.

Plus, as Ms
Crowthy would be apt to remind Abby, a witch like her would do well
to think less of her appearance and more of her demeanour. It is
one's attitude and the way they hold themselves, after all, that is
what people notice most. Whether your skirt was flame red or
obsidian black did not matter a touch on what you got up to whilst
wearing it. If you scale a building and jump through a window, sure
a certain type of attire would be more suited, but beyond that it
is the astounding bravado that people will remember, and of course
to lock their windows in future.

A witch, while
she did have a regimented uniform in a way, should spend all the
time regular women might spend applying blush to applying
themselves to brooms, cats, and magic. Magic, like justice, is
blind, and doesn't give a hoot what coloured tights you are wearing
or even if they are run to tatters at the knees. As long as a witch
has sleeves to roll up then she's ready to go.

Abby sighed
softly and smiled at the kitchen lady as she came into check on
her.

'Good and
clean, me love,' the woman nodded firmly.

'Apparently.'

'Now you'd be
wanting to see that meal you were promised, I'm sure.'

Abby's
stomach, at the mention of food, gave a terrifying rumble and she
quickly put a hand over it to damp down its cry.

The woman
laughed. 'This way, me lass.'

She led Abby
into the huge kitchen and through several side doors until they
came into a small room set with a plain table and a chair looking
out through a small glass window onto the back gravel of the
court.

'It's not
much, dear,' the woman pulled the lid off a plate to reveal a full
plate of sandwiches with a side of nuts and dried fruit, 'but I
don't think that'll bother you, pet.'

Abby had
thanked her earnestly and set about to eat her second proper meal
in a very long time.

It was such a
peaceful room, sufficiently far off from the kitchens proper to be
free from their clangs, bangs, and shouts. Abby found herself
thoughtfully munching on a handful of nuts as she stared out the
window. It gave her time to think. A nice lull to analyse the
simply peculiar turn her life had taken.

She was back
in the past with a man she barely knew, but knew enough to hate,
with only a vague hazy idea about how to return home again. If ever
there was a need for second sight, she would very much have liked a
heads up. And now she was in the Palace of all places, having saved
the Princess from a very suspicious attempt on her life.

Who knew what
would happen now. She would probably dress up as a man and join the
army at the rate this was going, and her current attire would
probably help her fit right in.

More
importantly though, what was to happen next? Was she supposed to
present herself to the King looking like the thin trunk of a birch
tree? And what of Pembrake, how was she to find him again? Was he
off gadding with the Princess, not to be seen till he had merrily
ruined the timeline? What vagaries was he up to without Abby around
to watch over him?

Abby sat back
in the simple wooden chair and frowned at the world, crossing her
arms in the coarse dress till the rough fabric scratched against
her skin. What a pickle this was. Stuck back in time with the
world's greatest rouge and with the slimmest chance of returning
home again. If only Charlie were here, he would have something very
motivational to say about the situation. But he was probably out
catching mice along the perimeter wall, making a list of things to
tell Abby off about when they finally met up again.

There was a
soft knock on the door, and Abby looked up from staring angrily at
the wall.

'Well hello,
dear! Look at you all cleaned up.'

Abby blinked
with surprise. Martha, the woman that had rescued her off the cliff
with her husband and who had leant Abby welcome but huge clothes,
was standing in the doorway grinning from ear to ear.