Deep in the darkness of the thicket, Binkie, chief of the Forest Cats and new familiar to Morwenna Mould, the Wendron Witch Mother, was purring loudly. Morwenna stroked the cat and crooned, “Well done, my little spy. Well done.” She eased her bulk off a fallen log and moved silently out of the trees. Morwenna was determined that this time, the Princess would not get away, unlike a few years back, in the Forest.
All Witch Covens crave a true Princess—it gives them great power among other Covens—and Morwenna knew that this was her last chance. Soon enough Jenna would no longer be a Princess and then the Wendron Witches would have to wait for Jenna’s daughter. The Witch Mother smiled grimly. The Wendrons would get in fast next time—CradleSnatching was so much easier. If only she hadn’t once made a promise to that lovely young Wizard, Silas Heap, they would have CradleSnatched this one fourteen years ago. How different things would have been.
Morwenna followed Binkie down toward the river. Tail held high, Binkie tiptoed over the ice-crusted snow while Morwenna sank down so deep that the snow fell into the tops of her boots. As they drew closer to their quarry, Morwenna was shocked to see that the potential Wendron Witch Princess was wearing a Port Witch Coven cloak. She had heard a rumor that Jenna had kidnapped the Coven’s youngest witch and stolen a cloak—and it looked like it might be true. Morwenna smiled. This Princess was going to be worth having.
As Jenna walked below the trees that led to the Dragon Field, her cloak was doing what Witch cloaks do best—blending in with the shadows—and Morwenna could no longer see her. Horrified at losing sight of the Wendrons’ Princess, Morwenna made a decision. She would have to do some FootFollowing.
FootFollowing is an ancient witch skill. It involves following a quarry by stepping into their exact footprint. Once a witch has FootFollowed three consecutive footsteps she knows that her prey can never escape, wherever they go: through the densest forest, up the tallest mountain, under the deepest river. Always, the witch will be Following in their footsteps. Like most witch Magyk, it has both advantages and disadvantages. The advantage is that the witch is sure to find her victim. The disadvantage is that she has no choice but to do so. She must FootFollow in every footstep until she reaches her target. It can at times be dangerous: for example, if the FootFollowed happens to fall off a cliff, the FootFollower will have no choice but to do the same. Morwenna was aware it was not something to be undertaken lightly, but Jenna’s Witch cloak had worried her—there was more to this Princess than she had realized. She must take no chances.
Finding three consecutive footprints was not as easy as Morwenna had expected, because the Witch cloak was doing its job well. As Jenna moved through the snow it had brushed across her footprints, blending them together—as Witch cloaks are meant to do. But Jenna had then stopped to open a gate, and Morwenna got lucky—three perfect Princess footprints planted in the snow. The witch whispered the FootFollow and set off. This, she thought, was going to be a pushover.
It probably would have been a pushover if Morwenna had not been encroaching on dragon territory. While Spit Fyre was perfectly happy to allow Jenna to walk through his Dragon Field—Witch cloak and all—he felt very differently about a real witch.
When one is FootFollowing it is not possible to look up from the footprints. Morwenna’s brilliant blue witchy eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, so she got quite a shock when she suddenly saw planted in front of her two huge green dragon feet with very large claws indeed. (No one cut Spit Fyre’s toenails anymore. Even Billy Pot, the dragon keeper, had given up—they blunted his hacksaw.)
Morwenna said a very rude Forest curse and slowed down—but she could not stop. Her feet were FootFollowing and she was heading straight for the underbelly of a nasty-looking dragon. This was not what she had planned. It was not what Binkie had planned either—tail puffed out like a bottlebrush, the cat shot off into the night.
Spit Fyre snorted threateningly. A tendril of dragon dribble landed on Morwenna’s winter fur cloak and scorched a trail of holes. A nasty smell of burning wolverine hit Morwenna’s nostrils, but she had no choice but to keep on going. With some difficulty, she squeezed beneath Spit Fyre’s tummy and headed for his frighteningly spiky back legs. Morwenna began to feel scared—those spikes were sword sharp. She would be cut to pieces.
After his recent fight with the Darke Dragon, Spit Fyre had grown his adult leg spurs. He was very proud of them, but although they were extremely sharp they were also soft and new, and Spit Fyre did not want a witch anywhere near them. And so, to Morwenna’s surprise and great relief, the dragon carefully lifted his feet and stepped aside. Morwenna was out of the Dragon Field as fast as she could go—but not before a well-aimed stream of dragon spit had hit her squarely on the back. Spit Fyre watched the witch go in disgust, then he took off for the boatyard, where he had taken to spending every night keeping the Dragon Boat company.
Morwenna moved fast and silent along the dark footpath that ran along the riverbank. The moonlight showed nothing more than shifting shadows as she went, her Forest Witch cloak merging with both the snow and the river beyond. She was now walking along a well-trodden path and was pleased she had chosen to FootFollow—the Princess could be anywhere. As Morwenna came to a bend she was surprised to find that her feet took her away from the path and through a gap in the hedge. She pushed through the snowy leaves and stepped silently onto the old jetty. The witch smiled. How very convenient, she thought. Earlier that evening, she had tied up her coracle to the mooring post at the end of that very jetty.
Jenna was sitting, leaning against the mooring post, watching the breaking reflections of the moon in the mirror-black river and wondering why she felt so upset about Marissa asking Beetle to walk home with her. Jenna remembered that when Marissa had said that she was renting a room above Bott’s Cloaks, she had been pleased for her—until later when she had realized that Bott’s Cloaks was opposite the Manuscriptorium. And then, unaccountably, she had felt distinctly not pleased. She had even caught herself thinking how nice it would be to have the freedom to rent a room opposite the Manuscriptorium, rather than having to live so far away, in the Palace. This had thrown her into confusion. She loved the Palace—how could she possibly compare it with a tiny room above smelly old Bott’s preloved cloaks? Why would she want to live there?
While Jenna was pondering the merits of the Palace versus Bott’s Cloaks, the jetty gave a sudden lurch. She turned around and a flash of fear went through her. She saw the large bulk of Morwenna Mould creeping forward, carefully placing her feet into the snow in a rather peculiar way. Jenna knew at once she had to get away— there was no doubt in her mind that being crept up on by a witch when it is way past midnight and you are alone, perched over an icy river, was not good.
Very slowly, so as not to disturb Morwenna—who seemed to be in some kind of trance—Jenna got to her feet. If she had been anywhere else, she would have run for it, but unfortunately the only escape involved actually going toward Morwenna, who pretty much took up the width of the landing stage. Jenna hesitated. She was sure that Morwenna hadn’t seen her—the Witch Mother was staring intently at the old planks as though she had lost something. But she was moving ever closer in an oddly deliberate way that frightened Jenna. Jenna decided that her best chance was to take Morwenna by surprise. She would wrap her Witch cloak around her like a shield and run straight at her. With any luck she could push past Morwenna before the Witch Mother had time to do anything.
Jenna took a deep breath and ran. As she got to within arm’s length, Morwenna looked up. “Princess!” she gasped.
Jenna stopped. She eyed up the available space on either side of the witch—there were maybe six inches of landing stage, certainly no more. And below was the icy river.
Morwenna took a step forward and Jenna took a step back. “Morwenna,” she said, playing for time. “How . . . nice to see you.”
Morwenna did not reply. She was trying to remember the Rules of FootFollowing. Could she grab her prey now or did she have to Follow all the footsteps? Would she have to go to the end of the jetty first and then come back? She wished she could remember.
“Yes,” said Morwenna, distracted, “very nice.” And then, “Bother,” as her feet began to take her past Jenna. She was going to have to Follow every single step. What a stupid spell, she thought. “Excuse me a moment, Princess Jenna. Um, don’t go away.”
Politely, Jenna stepped aside to let Morwenna by and smelled the earthy scent of leaf mold and decomposing fungus as the witch squeezed past her. Jenna was confused. She had been convinced that Morwenna was stalking her and yet clearly that was not the case. Lulled into a false sense of security, Jenna headed for the path back to the Palace.
Behind her Morwenna had put on a surprising turn of speed. The witch raced to the end of the landing stage, wheeled around and headed right back. The next thing Jenna knew was the smell of leaf mold behind her as Morwenna placed her dainty witch foot into Jenna’s last footstep. As Jenna wheeled around in surprise, the heavy hands of the Witch Mother descended on her shoulders and her talonlike grip dug into the top of her arms.
“Got you!” Morwenna crowed triumphantly. “At last.”
21
WHAT IS TO BE
“Get off me!” yelled Jenna, twisting and turning, trying to get free.
“You can’t get away; I have put a Grasp on you,” hissed Morwenna.
Jenna could not believe it—she had been so stupid. She should have run away while she could. Morwenna propelled her back along the jetty and Jenna was convinced that the witch intended to drown her. They reached the mooring post and Morwenna—keeping her Grasp on Jenna—leaned down and pulled a small coracle out from underneath.
“Get in!” she puffed.
There was no way Jenna intended to get into something that looked like a large teacup floating on the river—especially with a witch. “No!” she said and gave Morwenna a shove backward. But the witch’s Grasp held firm and Jenna found herself teetering on the very edge of the rickety planks. She grabbed hold of the mooring post with both hands. If Morwenna wanted to take her, she would have to take the post too.