A Most Magical Girl - Karen Foxlee Page 0,37

of Annabel’s wrist. There were waves drawn there.

“The sea,” said Kitty, and she thought of the marshes and birds circling and the way the wind spoke of faraway places there.

“But we don’t want the sea,” said Annabel.

Kitty ran her finger over Annabel’s lower arm.

The third line wound its way through myriad other lines that led to other places. It coiled off Annabel’s wrist onto her forearm.

“What does that say?” asked Kitty.

There was a thick black line and words that Annabel needed to read upside down.

“The…Singing…Gate,” she said. “That’s a strange name.”

“The Singing Gate,” repeated Kitty, running her finger over the words. “I’ve heard of it.”

“How?”

“They talk of it,” said Kitty. “The little folk—always singing and crying about it in the way they do. The wizards speak of it, too. It protects Under London. Stops anyone from entering that’s not meant to go there.”

Annabel had never heard of it. She wished the Miss Vines had mentioned it if it was such a difficult thing. Kitty knew much more than she did—Kitty, who fetched tea from the brownies and dealt with faeries. She wanted to speak to Kitty of such things, but, as if sensing it, Kitty let go of Annabel’s hand. She stood up, and the boat rocked to one side until she sat down beside Annabel. She took the oars and handed one to Annabel.

“Row,” she said.

No please.

They rowed across the still water until they were at the dark, dripping mouth of the third arch. The opening was so tight that the little boat bumped against the walls. They pushed at the brickwork with their hands.

“What if it isn’t the right one?” whispered Annabel as they entered.

She felt she should know. She felt that if she were truly magical she should know. The knowledge should be very solid and bright. She shouldn’t be filled with such uncertainties.

“You’re the map,” said Kitty. “You’re the most magical girl, Annabel Grey. There’s no turning back now.”

Annabel was frightened. There was no way around it. The boat groaned and complained as it scraped against the narrow walls. Hidden objects bumped against the little hull. Each sound made her jump. Each sound made her shiver.

There was a current again, and Kitty put away her oar and moved to the bow. The blue heart light glowed between them. Annabel picked up the broomstick and held it to her chest. She didn’t understand, but it made her feel safer just to know it was there. She could never explain such a thing to Isabelle Rutherford. To anyone from her old life. She wished Miss Henrietta were there to tell her what to do. Her strange great-aunt, who all her life Annabel had not known existed. Who was not at all the way a great-aunt should be, kindly and doting and full of sweet wisdom.

She thought of her mother then. Her mother, who had pressed flowers and embroidered handkerchiefs but had really been very magical and had never told her. Her mother, who had lied to her. She pictured her on a railway platform in Paris in her dark traveling clothes, so beautiful and graceful that everyone stopped just to see her go. Annabel stifled a sob. She desperately hoped the betwixter girl wouldn’t hear. She trembled with cold.

“Here,” said Kitty. “I can only do it for a while.”

She closed her eyes and turned her heart light a deep red. She blew it toward Annabel, and the heat of it was real and warm. It burned Annabel’s cheeks in a comfortable, prickly way, and in minutes her dress and the cloak were stiffening dry.

But then Kitty let out a gush of breath, as if the exertion was too much, and the light turned blue again, much paler, and Kitty brought it back close to herself.

“Thank you, Kitty,” whispered Annabel. Thank you for the warmth. For saving me. For staying with me. She wanted to ask again where the light came from, who had taught her such magic, how she stayed calm when they were in darkness deep beneath London.

She said nothing.

Kitty yawned and curled herself a little at the bow of the boat.

What if those things have come down into the darkness? Annabel wanted to ask. The shadowlings. She peered behind, into the blackness beyond Kitty’s light. The broomstick, sensing her fear, quivered against her. She held out her arm and looked at the strange writing on her mapped arm. The Singing Gate first and then other small words higher.

“What does it say?” asked Kitty, and her voice