A Most Magical Girl - Karen Foxlee Page 0,12

their mothers weren’t paying attention.

Or steal precious things from locked drawers very quietly.

She didn’t like him. There was something about him that made her feel scared.

“I’m afraid Miss Henrietta Vine is out on business,” Annabel said, and it made her think of black feathers. She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. Black feathers and invisible men. It just wouldn’t do.

“Her sister?”

Estella? Miss Estella was a mystery. She tried not to let it show.

“Unfortunately, Miss Estella Vine is indisposed,” said Annabel.

“What is your name, then?” he said, and his voice was kind, but beneath the kindness there was darkness coiling.

“Annabel Grey,” she replied, lifting up her chin and smiling the most polite smile she could.

“Ah,” he said, surprised. “The Annabel Grey. Daughter of the Great Geraldo Grey?”

Annabel did not know what he meant. She did not like the way his face had split wide with a terrible tight smile. The Great Geraldo Grey? The name made her heart hurt and flutter at the same time.

“And may I ask after your mother’s health?” Mr. Angel said, tilting his head, smile widening.

“My mother is traveling on the Continent,” said Annabel, and she tried very hard to keep the quiver from her voice.

Mr. Angel thought for some time and then suddenly rapped his cane loudly on the counter.

“A letter for the Misses Vine, then, Annabel,” he said, and took from his pocket a paper folded and embossed with a dark seal. “I have returned. I have the Black Wand and a machine already producing dark magic. When the full moon rises Friday eve, the machine will reach its potential. Thirteen years of full moons. The dark magic it will produce will be unbounded. I will raise a shadowling army and take the city. There will be no more good magic. The Great & Benevolent Magical Society, each and every member, must lay down their wands and bow down before me and pledge allegiance. If not, I will turn them all to dust.”

Annabel tried very hard to keep her polite smile. It seemed to annoy Mr. Angel. He took his black stick and aimed it at the ledger on the countertop. A blast of purple light erupted from its tip, and the ledger vanished, leaving a pile of dust in its place. Annabel’s smile slipped and was gone. She looked at the pile of dust and knew that Miss Henrietta would be very cross indeed. She began to cry.

But Mr. Angel was only beginning. He took his Black Wand and pointed it through the window at the sunny day. He closed his eyes and began to sing a mournful song. Annabel thought it had a very unpleasant tune. A shadow fell over the shop front as though a cloud had passed over the sun, and suddenly a torrent of soot rained from the sky. A fog rose up outside—in wispy tendrils at first, then thicker and thicker, deep brown and purplish in parts, until the street was quite clouded. The shop grew darker and cooler.

Annabel hiccuped and shivered.

Mr. Angel smiled, pleased with the result. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Annabel dried her eyes, said thank you, and handed the handkerchief back to him.

“I’ll tell Miss Vine that you called,” she whispered.

She took the letter, and his dark-gloved hand closed over hers.

“Are you as magical as your mother?” he asked.

His gloved hand was warm and dry, and Annabel could not breathe. He spoke softly. He leaned toward her, close, with his crookedness.

“There is nothing any of you can do to stop me,” he said, then turned and flicked his cloak and was gone, leaving the fog behind him.

Annabel was still sitting there an hour later when Miss Henrietta returned. She did not come back as a crow but as her normal self, scowling at the weather and looking vexed.

“I’ve had to walk from St. Paul’s,” she said. “Because of all this brown fog. Where on earth has it come from? There must be a fire somewhere.”

She stopped when she saw Annabel’s ashen face. She glanced at the letter in Annabel’s hands and the pile of dust where the ledger had been.

“I’ve left you alone for only two hours!” she cried. “What on earth have you managed to do?”

“When calling upon a new acquaintance, a young lady will not stare or comment upon surroundings. She will not touch ornaments, examine paintings, or open the pianoforte.”

—Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)

Miss Henrietta snatched the letter from Annabel’s hands. It