The Marvelous Magic of Miss Mabel (4 page)

“And magic hands is a class?” Nora inquired rather nervously.

“It covers many classes. Knitting, sewing, embroidery, cookery.” Miss Brewer gave a proud smile. “We even teach magic in the garden.”

“I see,” Nora said, glancing at her daughter. Mabel
had stopped eating and was staring at Miss Brewer in alarm. The last time Nanny Grimshaw had tried to teach her how to knit, she almost poked Nanny's eye out and managed to tie herself to the chair.

“Close your mouth, please, Mabel. It is not polite,” Miss Brewer said. “Now, why don't you show me what sort of magic you can do?” She tapped a letter opener on the table. “You must understand, Mrs. Ratcliff, we have far more girls applying for places than we can possibly accommodate.”

“That is why we are here, Miss Brewer. So you can judge Mabel's magic for yourself.” Nora turned to Mabel. “Can you show Miss Brewer your floating?”

Mabel nodded, trying to rise into the air. But her magic wasn't fizzing the way it had been. All that talk of embroidery and knitting and not eating too much cake made her feel as leaden and heavy as a boulder.

“Relax, Mabel,” Miss Brewer advised. “Think of what you were doing when you first started to float.”

Mabel shut her eyes, imagining the Leaning Tower of Melton Bay. It really had been a spectacular invention, and she smiled as her toes began to tingle. The tingling spread up her legs, and Mabel felt as if she was being tickled all over from the inside. With a wisp of laughter she slowly began to rise.

“Well done,” Nora encouraged as Mabel floated up to
the ceiling. She did a somersault before remembering that it wasn't polite to show her pantalets.

“That will do,” Miss Brewer said, watching Mabel breathe her way back down. “You clearly have the gift, Mabel, but you need to work on your modesty.” She stood up and walked over to a cupboard, returning with a crystal ball. Miss Brewer placed the ball on her desk. “This will show me the strength of your magic, so you need to focus.”

Mabel sat up straight like Nanny Grimshaw had taught her, but she couldn't resist reaching out to touch the crystal ball. It reminded her of a large, beautiful marble.

“Hands off!” Miss Brewer barked, causing Mabel to jerk away. Her cheeks burned.

“I'm sorry, Miss Brewer.”

“What I want you to do is think of the color blue, Mabel. Think really hard and try to turn the ball that color.”

Mabel stared at the crystal, imagining a deep ocean blue. She could feel her magic starting to fizz, and much to her delight the ball began to turn color. Waves of blue swirled around the glass, and she wondered if she could make it go yellow. Mabel pictured a warm golden yellow, and with a squeal of joy she watched the ball change color again. It went from yellow to red
to green as Mabel kept switching colors in her head, bouncing up and down in her chair.

“That's enough,” Miss Brewer shouted, apparently not for the first time. Mabel blinked in distress, aware that she hadn't been listening. The headmistress's face was mottled, and Mabel buried her face in Nora's sleeve. Her lip trembled and she knew if Miss Brewer shouted at her again, she would cry. But when the headmistress spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm. “I asked you to stop, Mabel. Three times.”

“Sorry,” Mabel whispered. “I didn't hear you, Miss Brewer. I just wanted to make it change color.”

“If you come to Ruthersfield, Mabel, you will learn to do as you are told. Magic is a wonderful gift, but it is not to be fooled with. Otherwise it can be very dangerous.”

“Sorry,” Mabel repeated, daring a look at Miss Brewer. She couldn't help noticing that the crystal ball was now a dark, muddy brown where the colors had swirled together.

“That is not blue, is it, Mabel?”

“No,” Mabel whispered. “It's not.” She waited for Miss Brewer to tell her what a disaster she was. How she'd never be successful as a witch.

Instead Miss Brewer sat back in her chair, making a steeple with her fingers. She looked somberly at Nora. “Mabel will need to learn to follow rules, and work on her
manners. But I believe with training and discipline she has the potential to be an excellent witch.” Miss Brewer broke into a smile. “And I would like to offer her a place.”

“How marvelous!” Nora said, while Mabel stared at Miss Brewer in disbelief.

“The September after she turns seven we will be expecting her.”

“Seven?” Nora asked. “Isn't that a little long to wait?”

“Magic in a young child is extremely unstable, which is why we don't start the teaching process sooner. By seven Mabel's magic will have settled down and she will be ready to use a wand.” Leaning over her desk, Miss Brewer tapped Mabel on the knee with her glasses. “Sit up straight and get your fingers out of your mouth. Good posture is so important. You'll find that out when you learn to fly a broomstick.”

“Yes, Miss Brewer,” Mabel said, removing her fingers and sitting on her hands so she wouldn't be tempted to suck on them. She had a feeling they weren't going to be making things like sand castles that never washed away or ice cream that didn't melt. It seemed like such a waste, Mabel thought wistfully, to use her magic on becoming a gracious hostess, when there were so many more exciting things she'd rather do with it.

N
OT LONG AFTER MABEL'S INTERVIEW,
Nora bought a pretty fieldstone house on the outskirts of Potts Bottom, won over by some spectacular Royal Duchess roses blooming in the garden and a tiny, glass greenhouse tucked around the back. It was much less grand than the Melton Bay residence, but Mabel liked the way it felt, friendly and welcoming. Nanny Grimshaw, on the other hand, had sniffed when she first saw it and muttered that this was not at all what she had been expecting, although Daisy approved because there was less house to clean. And Nora had never been happier, planting her cuttings
and trimming back the roses before she had even unpacked.

Mabel tried to make friends, but it wasn't easy with Nanny Grimshaw. She wouldn't allow Mabel to talk to the butcher's boy when he came by with his meat deliveries, saying he smelled of pig blood, had dirty clothes, and didn't pronounce his words correctly. And Mabel wasn't permitted to ride along on the milk cart with Mr. Smith and his daughter, Mary, when they invited her, because (according to Nanny) Mary smelled of sour milk, didn't brush her hair, or pronounce her words correctly either.

“Those are not suitable friends for a properly brought up young lady,” Nanny Grimshaw had said. “Although I'm not surprised you would gravitate toward them,” she muttered under her breath, “knowing where you came from.”

“I like them because they're nice to me,” Mabel said, not understanding what Nanny Grimshaw meant.

Most mornings, Mabel would work on her reading and writing, stuck away in the stuffy upstairs nursery. Her head ached as she tried to memorize the long, boring poems Nanny Grimshaw gave her to study. But the afternoons were even worse. Mabel would sit with her embroidery, pricking holes in her thumb as she listened
to the clock tick away the hours, dreaming of all the things she wasn't allowed to do. Occasionally Nanny Grimshaw would nod off to sleep and then, if she were feeling daring, Mabel would creep over to the bookcase and read some of Dr. Ratcliff's books, learning about astronomy and steam power and all sorts of fascinating discoveries. This was always risky though, because if Nanny Grimshaw woke up and discovered Mabel away from her embroidery, she was forced to sit for another hour.

That whole first year in Potts Bottom, magic fizzed out of Mabel. Ladybugs turned purple when they landed on her arm, and sometimes, when she was eating, her fork would fly out of her hand and spin about the room. One day, staring at a picture of a Ferris wheel in the newspaper, Mabel got so excited, thinking of a huge wheel that spun around with people on board, her fingers started to tingle and the paper began to smoke. Luckily, Daisy managed to grab it out of Mabel's hands and throw it through the window right before it burst into flames.

By the time Mabel turned seven she finally stopped floating and her magic had begun to calm down. She was able to control it more now. Mabel discovered that by waving her fingers in circles she could stir up little winds, and if she rubbed leaves between her hands,
they grew rubbery and soft. One day, catching sight of Mabel stretching leaves into different shapes, Nanny Grimshaw had grabbed her by the ear and barked, “You're not supposed to be playing with your magic. Your mother won't be pleased when I tell her.”

“Better wait till you start school,” Nora said gently, when she heard what Mabel had been up to. “Remember what Miss Brewer told us? Magic can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing.”

But once Mabel began at Ruthersfield, she found out rather quickly that most of their time was spent in magic hands class, or dance class, or practicing the correct way to hold a crystal ball. “Long, willowy necks, girls,” their fortune-telling teacher, Miss Regan, commanded, making Mabel feel like an overheated turtle as she stretched up her head, trying to remember to keep a straight back. Mabel's hands always got so hot and sweaty, and she couldn't flutter her fingertips in the graceful way that Miss Regan demonstrated.

The girls were not allowed to experiment with their magic. At all. Something Mabel discovered during her first potions class. They had been instructed to mix up small sachets of smelling salts, which were essential to have on hand because students were always swooning in the hallways, often when the toads escaped from
the spells and charms room. But in place of crushed butterfly wings, Mabel mixed a hyena laugh into her salts, curious to see what would happen. And when she waved them under Cynthia Price's nose (who had fainted at the sight of a toad), poor Cynthia came round braying with laughter instead of fluttering her eyes open in the ladylike fashion that the butterfly wings ensured. Distraught at the noise she was making, Cynthia promptly collapsed again.

“I'm really sorry,” Mabel apologized to Miss Mantel, the potions teacher. “I just thought it might make the girls feel more cheerful when they woke up.”

“Meddling about with magic is not part of this curriculum,” Miss Mantel replied crisply. “We are a school of traditions. You will follow the spells precisely as they are written. Remind me of your name, please, girl?”

“Magnolia,” Mabel whispered, before she could stop herself.

“Magnolia?” Miss Mantel frowned, knowing this didn't sound quite right. “Please report for cobweb-sweeping duty after school then, Magnolia.”

Mabel blushed hotly, realizing it wouldn't take Miss Mantel long to find out the truth. In fact, it took her less than two minutes before she remembered Mabel's real name, and poor Mabel had to write out “I will not lie to my teacher” fifty times, on top of cobweb-sweeping duty.
Luckily none of the girls who had overheard made fun of her. In fact, much to Mabel's surprise, they were most sympathetic, huddling around her after class.

“You can always change your name when you grow up,” Tabitha Pritchard said. “I think you look like a Rosamalinda.”

“Or a Crystabella,” Lucy Habersham suggested. “I've always loved the name Crystabella. It reminds me of a princess.”

“I wish there was a spell that would make people forget I was called Mabel,” Mabel sighed. “So when people spoke to me they'd say ‘hello, Magnolia,' and dull old ‘Mabel' would be erased from their minds. Nobody would ever call me that again.”

“Well, I like the name, Mabel,” Ruby Tanner said softly. She was a thin, pale girl with even thinner, paler hair. “It's a strong, capable name.” And Mabel tried to remind herself of this every time her wand case ended up in tangles, or as she struggled to master the waft and glide.

Curiosity burned inside her like an oil lamp, glowing dimmer and dimmer in the stifling atmosphere, but never completely going out. Nothing could extinguish Mabel's longing to experiment, turning a spell inside out to see what would happen or giving an extra little flick with her wand. Which is why she ended up on cobweb-sweeping duty more times during her first
term than any other girl in the school. But however constricting Mabel found Ruthersfield to be, for the first time in her life she had friends. Lots and lots of friends. There was nothing more wonderful than sitting at the lunch table with a whole group of girls, laughing and chattering away, and Mabel soon became known for her spontaneous hugs. She would fling her arms around girls in the hallway, slipping squares of Daisy's homemade toffee into their pockets.