Castle Hangnail Page 7

  “Were-donkey,” said Molly firmly. “Looks like it caught a stray bit of magic. It happens, you know.” (This was a lie.)

  “Magic?” Harrow looked around a bit wildly. “From where?”

  “Could be anywhere,” said Molly, still petting the donkey. It had a very soft nose. “Sunspots. Passing fairies. You know.” (This was an even bigger lie.)

  “Is it going to happen again?”

  “It might,” said Molly. “Once things turn into other things, they’re liable to do it again without warning.” (This was actually true.) “I’ve turned him back for now . . .” (This was a gigantic lie.) “. . . but I wouldn’t upset him.”

  “Upset him?” Harrow gave a horrible cracked laugh. “I’ll upset him! Where’s my axe?”

  “Axe?” asked Molly blankly.

  “I’m going to chop that monster’s head off! I’m not keeping a dragon in my barn!” He began rooting through his tools.

  “No!” said Molly, throwing herself in front of the donkey. “You don’t want to do that! If it sees you coming with the axe, it might turn into a dragon again!”

  Harrow paused, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll get it in the dark,” he said.

  “Dragons can see in the dark,” said Molly. “Like cats. Or bats.” She took a step backward. “Besides, it—uh—”

  Oh, what would be horrible enough to save the poor donkey’s life?

  Inspiration struck. She dropped her voice as low as she could, took a step forward on her very impressive boots, and leaned forward.

  “It might not stay dead,” she hissed.

  “Eh?” said Harrow.

  “You know how snakes thrash around for hours if their heads are cut off?” she said. “Dragons are worse. You can chop it into little pieces and bury them, and they still might claw their way out of the ground and when you least expect it—when you’re on the way to—to—to the outhouse, say—”

  Old Man Harrow turned the color of cottage cheese. “Stop!” he said, taking a step back. “What do I do?”

  “I’m a Witch,” said Molly. “From Castle Hangnail. I’ll take it off your hands. For—oh—five dollars?”

  “Five dollars?” said Harrow.

  “Disposal fee,” lied Molly glibly. “I’m giving you a discount because it’s a very small donkey.”

  Harrow looked from the donkey to Molly, then to the ruins of his barn. “Well . . .”

  “I’d say take time to think about it,” said Molly, examining her nails, “but I can’t swear that the donkey won’t turn back once it’s rested up a bit.”

  There was a long minute while the old farmer teetered back and forth.

  And then—

  “Four dollars,” said Harrow.

  “Four fifty,” said Molly. “I can’t go any lower or I’ll lose money.”

  Harrow might not have understood magic, but he understood money very well. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But I don’t want to see that donkey ever again, you hear? It slips away and comes back to the barn and I’ll have you before a magistrate, you understand?”

  Molly folded her arms. “I assure you,” she said, in her frostiest and Witchiest voice, “that will not be necessary.”

  Harrow counted out four fifty into her palm. “Now get it out of here!”

  “Come along,” said Molly to the donkey, putting an arm around its neck. “Let’s be a good donkey and not think about being a dragon . . .”

  She led it away from the barnyard. When she was down the road, around the bend, and out of sight, she sat down in the road and laughed hysterically until she thought that she might cry.

  She pulled out the letter from the Board of Magic. As she watched, a red line drew itself through “one (1) act of Smiting.” For some reason, this made her laugh even harder.

  Angus galloped up. “You’ve got a donkey,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine, fine . . .” gasped Molly, wiping her streaming face. “Fine. Well, it’s fine now.”

  The Minotaur looked at the donkey. The donkey looked at the Minotaur.

  “Well,” said Angus. “I guess Castle Hangnail has a donkey now.”

  Chapter 12

  Two days later, Majordomo went into town with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

  He went into town once a week, to visit the mercantile and pick up the mail. Under normal circumstances, he looked forward to this—he would have a cup of tea at the little café and a nice chat with the woman who ran the post office and then he would take Cook’s shopping list into the mercantile and pick up all the little odds and ends required to keep Castle Hangnail running smoothly, like sugar and dish soap.

  Today, however, he was worried. Nothing travels as fast in a small town as news. Surely everyone must have heard about Old Man Harrow and the dragon-donkey by now.

  The question was how they would feel about it.

  If a donkey suddenly turns into a dragon and a Wicked Witch shows up a moment later, you’d have to be a pretty dim bulb not to guess that the two were connected. (Harrow had something of an excuse, since being trapped behind a dung heap by a fire-breathing monster tends to addle the mind a bit. He had figured it out by the next day, but was too frightened to go and ask for his four fifty back.)

  When the old Evil Sorceress had been in power . . . well, she’d been old when most of the people in town had been born, and she hadn’t done a lot of magic toward the end, even before she’d convinced herself she was a rosebush. Having an actual practicing magician in the castle was going to be new to many of the residents.

  Majordomo had to admit that having a Master who wasn’t senile was an improvement. There had been a bad few weeks when the old Sorceress had begun ordering things off the shopping channel on TV. He’d been returning them as fast as they arrived. Postmistress Jane had helped him stamp “Return to Sender” on everything, but there was a difference between packages and dragons.

  Would the townspeople be impressed with Molly’s magic, or would they side with Old Man Harrow?

  In his pocket, he had an envelope addressed to the Board of Magic. He had carefully filled out all the boxes, printing the name Eudaimonia in purple ink.

  Surely this would be enough. They wouldn’t feel the need to send somebody out and check, would they? As long as their list of Tasks checked itself off and he’d sent in the form saying that there was a Master in the castle, the castle should be safe.

  It had to be.

  Majordomo ran a hand along the top of Miss Handlebram’s white picket fence. Roses and dahlias and spires of delphinium twined through the fence slats.

  Miss Handlebram herself came around the side of the house and waved. She was a stout, gray-haired black woman with a pleasant face. If she had ever been seen without gardening gloves and galoshes, he’d never heard of it. “Guardian!” she said. “How are you doing?”

  “It’s, um, Majordomo now,” said Majordomo awkwardly. How did you go about telling everyone that you had a name instead of just a title? “The new Master—Mistress—the Wicked Witch named me—”

  “That’s a wonderful name,” said Miss Handlebram firmly. “I like it. Majordomo. It sounds like something you might name a rose—a sturdy white one, I think, with good resistance to beetles.”

  This sort of compliment might confuse many people, but Majordomo had lived down the road from Miss Handlebram for eleven years and took it in stride.

  “It’s good that there’s a new Mistress in the castle,” she continued. “One likes to see the old traditions being kept up. I shall have to invite her to tea.”

  The old Evil Sorceress would have blasted Miss Handlebram on the spot for such presumption—at least, when she’d been in full possession of her wits. Majordomo could very easily picture Molly sitting in Miss Handlebram’s garden, swinging her feet and eating scones.

  He didn’t know how to fe
el about that.

  He waved to Miss Handlebram and continued down the road to the village.

  The post office was his first stop. He nodded to Farmer Berkeley, who was coming out of the building.

  “Guardian!” said Berkeley cheerfully. “Just the fellow I’d like to see. I’ve got an old donkey cart out in one of the sheds, you’re welcome to it. Ha!” He grinned broadly as he walked away.

  Majordomo sighed. Word had spread. Clearly.

  “Won’t be a minute,” said Postmistress Jane. She took his letter to the Board of Magic, applied a stamp, and dropped it into the slot. Then she opened the post office box for Castle Hangnail. “A good bit of junk mail, I’m afraid—it’s that time of year—another notice from the Board . . .”

  Majordomo unsealed it. It had an official seal and stated that they had been given the absolute last extension possible under the Minions-in-Residence Act of 1481, and either they got a new Master in immediately or Castle Hangnail would be slated for decommission.

  He shoved it in a pocket, where it joined six other identical letters. Once Molly finished the Tasks, they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

  “Oh, and a letter for someone named Molly?”

  Majordomo took the envelope. It was addressed to Molly Utterback, care of Camp Hangnail. Someone had sealed the envelope with a sticker in the shape of a pink glittery heart.

  “Camp Hangnail?” asked Jane. “Are you running a summer camp up there now? Not that that’s not a good idea . . . all those rooms, and that lovely moat to go swimming in . . .”

  “No . . .” said Majordomo. “I think there’s been a mistake. Miss—Miss Utterback, is it?—is the new Mistress of the castle,” he explained to Postmistress Jane. “She’s an Evil twin. This must be from the good twin.”

  Camp Hangnail?

  It’s the good twin, he told himself. Good twins are never very bright.

  “Oooh, an Evil twin!” Jane nodded. Her brown ponytail bobbed up and down. “Just the sort of thing you like to see in somebody up in the castle.” She grinned. “Is it true about Old Man Harrow?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Majordomo warily. “Is what true about Old Man Harrow?”

  “Well, Mabel had it from Darcy that Harrow’s donkey up and turned into a monster! And a little girl showed up and turned it back and led it away, gentle as a lamb.”

  “Oh,” said Majordomo. “I . . . uh . . . guess that’s true enough. The Mistress is quite young for her age.”

  “Child prodigy, I expect,” said Jane cheerfully. “You’d expect that from an Evil twin, you would.”

  “She’s a Wicked Witch,” said Majordomo, feeling an unexpected glow of pride. “A child prodigy. Yes.”

  “And . . .” Jane looked from side to side. “We’re not supposed to give out information about customers, but he came in today and filled out a change of address form! Says he’s had enough and he’s moving to the city to live with his daughter.”

  “Oh my . . .” said Majordomo.

  “It’s his daughter I feel sorry for,” said the waitress at the café, a few minutes later, bustling up with his tea. “Your usual, Mr. Guardian.”

  “Thank you.”

  “On the house, Mr. Guardian,” she said. “Anyone who can get that nasty old Harrow out of town is tops in my book.”

  “I didn’t do it myself . . .” said Majordomo.

  “No, indeed, it was that nice Wicked Witch of yours. Still! Harrow used to come in here and it was shameful the things he’d say to the staff and he’d leave a penny as a tip.”

  Majordomo very wisely did not argue with this.

  He enjoyed the tea and the steady flow of gossip from the waitress, who knew everything in town and not just the fate of Old Man Harrow. “And how is that Wicked Witch doing in her new castle?” she asked after a bit.

  “Very well, I think,” said Majordomo, standing up. “Also—” He cleared his throat. “It’s Majordomo now. The new Mistress named me.”

  “Ooh, that’s a posh name!” said the waitress. “Don’t know if I’ll remember that right off, but you just keep reminding me, Mr. Majordomo, and I’ll get it straight.”

  He left her an especially generous tip and went off to visit the mercantile.

  • • •

  He was on his way home when Miss Handlebram ran out to meet him. “There you are!” she said happily. “Was afraid I’d miss you on the way back.”

  She was carrying a bunch of roses—deep, dark ones, with vivid red hearts. “These are for you to take up to the castle. The rose is called Witchcraft and I thought, now what could be more fitting than that? You give those to your Mistress and see that she comes down for tea.”

  “Yes, Miss Handlebram,” said Majordomo, accepting the roses.

  Chapter 13

  Molly took the letter and rolled her eyes. “Sisters,” she said, in deep disgust. But she was thrilled by the roses, and by the invitation.

  “I’ll go to tea tomorrow,” she said. “Although—”

  She glanced down at herself. The boots were still impressive, but wrangling the donkey had taken a bit of a toll on her outfit. Donkeys and lace simply do not go together, which is part of the reason you very rarely see a doily on a mule.

  “As to that,” said Pins, with a discreet cough, “I have just finished something up . . . if madam will step this way . . . ?”

  It was a coat.

  It was the greatest coat that Molly had ever seen in her life.

  It was black (of course), but it was different shades of black. The fabric was charcoal black and the trim was metallic black and the lining was obsidian black and the buttons were tiny silver raven skulls with even tinier twinkling black eyes. The sleeves were swooping and edged with black lace, but because Pins knew how Witches were, the lace could be tied back out of the way and there were very practical tight black sleeves underneath.

  Molly was almost speechless. “Pins,” she said, and had to stop and wipe at her face. “This is—it’s the Witchiest—it’s the best thing I’ve ever had!”

  She swooped him up and hugged him. Pins looked smug as only a stuffed creature can.

  It was true that there was nothing any tailor could do about her height, but the coat somehow made five feet tall (with the boots) the exact height that a girl should be. Molly swept around the room. The top hugged in close while the outer reaches of the coat flared like a peacock’s tail. There was even a little button under the fold of the collar where Bugbane could cling with his feet.

  “This is magic,” said Molly, turning in front of the mirror.

  “Possibly a little,” said Pins. “Mostly it’s double stitching, though, and the black frogging on the collar. Now, let me just snip this loose thread—there! Wear it to tea tomorrow.”

  She wore it to tea the next day, and the day after that she wore it when Miss Handlebram came stumping up the road to the castle, armed with shears and a copy of Gardener’s Guide to Flowers.

  “Miss . . . Handlebram?” asked Majordomo, blinking.

  “That’s right, Guar—Major! Your dear little Witch asked me up to help her with the herb garden, and I’m here to set things right.” The gardener adjusted her sun hat like a knight adjusting his helmet before battle. “You let me at those weeds!”

  She stepped into the hallway before Majordomo could protest. He wasn’t used to middle-aged women carrying shears forcing their way into the castle.

  “My!” said Lord Edward appreciatively. “At your service, madam!” The old suit of armor managed a creaky bow.

  “Miss Handlebram!” Molly ran down the staircase, clomping on every step. Her coat flared out like wings. “You brought the book! And I found Weeds of the World and Field Guide to Obscure Wildflowers.”

  “Perfect!” said Miss Handlebram, raising her shears. “We’ll figure out what’s worth saving and send t
he rest to the compost pile. To battle!”

  “To battle!” cried Molly, and giggled. “Taming the herb garden counts as ‘securing and defending the castle,’ doesn’t it?”

  Majordomo said, “Um?”

  “We’re defending it from weeds!” Molly charged out the door, with Miss Handlebram behind her.

  Majordomo sighed. Well, it wasn’t quite as impressive as an invading army, but perhaps the Board would consider that a Task done. And he would just as soon not have to deal with an invading army.

  “Fine figure of a woman,” Lord Edward whispered to Majordomo. “Why, if I were three hundred years younger—and had a body—”

  Majordomo put a hand over his eyes.

  • • •

  It took Molly and Miss Handlebram three days to set the garden to rights. Majordomo would peek in occasionally and see the two of them bent over a page in a book, discussing a tricky ID.

  “Now, the stem is square and the leaves are toothed—”

  “But the leaves are set opposite each other, not alternating—”

  “And that’s a yellow composite flower—”

  “Are there hairs on the underside of the leaf? That’s how you tell the two apart—”

  This sort of thing is really only of interest to Witches and gardeners, which is why the two groups get along so well, and why, if you want to find a real honest-to-goodness Witch, the best place to start is at your local botanical garden. Majordomo left quickly.

  “Is good neighbor,” said Cook firmly, sending a plate of sandwiches out to them. “Is knowing all little plants. Me, is knowing cooking. Is can spot cabbage at twenty paces. Any cabbage. Good with cabbage. Other plants, not so much.” She shrugged.

  Majordomo took the sandwiches and did not argue the point.

  It was all going so well, he thought. The villagers seemed predisposed to like her, and she had undoubtedly worked quite an impressive bit of magic with the donkey—a dragon! Really!—and she was working hard to tame the herb garden, which had been sadly neglected for years.