A Most Magical Girl - Karen Foxlee Page 0,45

no good if we have to find our way back,” said Kitty.

Beyond the black line of the Singing Gate, there was the large circle of the cavern, and beyond that only one line that marched neatly across her arm.

“Well, that makes it simple,” said Annabel cheerfully. “We just go down this tunnel.”

But Kitty didn’t release her. She placed her finger on the line that threaded away to the edge of Annabel’s arm. When she reached the edge, she turned Annabel’s arm over. The line continued, but it was lost in a vast web of tunnels and chambers and hollows and spaces that covered Annabel’s entire forearm. In the center of the complicated maze were four neat words.

“The Kingdom of Trolls,” whispered Annabel, and she felt quite winded. “Oh, I see.”

She tried not to sound too scared.

“We must find our way through Trollingdom,” said Kitty.

On Annabel’s upper arm there was a body of water. Annabel could see tiny waves drawn there and, up high, the words The Lake of Tears. She went to touch that part of her skin but stopped. The feeling was terrible there, so lonely and empty.

“The Lake of Tears,” she whispered.

“Through the Kingdom of Trolls—if we can find our way through—and across the Lake of Tears somehow,” said Kitty. “And then…”

She peered at Annabel’s shoulder, trailed her eyes up onto Annabel’s cheek, and looked away.

“What?” asked Annabel. It was awful to be mapped in places she could not read.

“Through the Kingdom of Trolls first,” said Kitty, avoiding her gaze. She winced when she went to take a step.

Annabel looked at the grand opening opposite them. It was most definitely the way into the Kingdom of Trolls, and into the Kingdom of Trolls she must go. I am the Valiant Defender of Good Magic. I am a most magical girl. She tried to think those thoughts with certainty, but they were still shaky in her mind. She looked at the Ondona in her hand and remembered how she had made the good magic come out of its end. That made her stand a little taller.

Be brave. Be good.

They must go forward. The shadowlings must be stopped. All she need do was think of what she had seen in the washtub, the darkness about to sweep over London. They had to keep moving until she reached the Morever Wand.

“We will fly,” said Annabel.

Her broomstick was there beneath her arm. It thrummed softly against her. She had not called it hers yet, but it felt right to, although just having such a thought made her bite her bottom lip. What would Isabelle Rutherford think of such a thing?

Kitty shook her head. She took a torch from the stone wall. “The passages will not stay high for long. Not if it is a place for trolls. Trolls are short and fat and like to crawl.”

“Well, then,” said Annabel, and she could not disguise the little shiver she gave. “We will fly for as long as we can.”

The broomstick did not like the passages. The broomstick, they learned, liked air and open places. At first, it would not budge. It was like a stubborn donkey that no amount of carrots or cajoling could move. Kitty sighed and made it worse.

“We need to find the White Wand,” Annabel said to the broomstick, tucking the Ondona into her sash. “The Morever Wand. It’s very important.

“We need to save London,” she added.

“You are on a very special journey, dear thing,” she said. “Please fly.”

She tried other encouragements. “Imagine when we are home—why, we will fly together into the sky.”

Threats. “If you don’t fly this instant, I shall be very cross indeed.”

What worked in the end was not words. She imagined having the wand in her hand and climbing back up the river ladder and seeing the Miss Vines. Just the thought of them filled her with longing: Miss Estella’s wild smile and Miss Henrietta’s frosty blue eyes. She didn’t know how she could miss two people so much whom she had only just met.

The broomstick shot off through the entrance to the passage so fast that Kitty nearly fell off.

But it did not like to be hemmed in. It flew close to the stone ceiling, and they needed to crouch low to avoid banging their heads. It was skittish. It did not like twists or turns, and the passage abounded with them. The tunnel bent back on itself, the ceiling lowered, the walls narrowed. For some time the Singing Gate’s glow stayed with them, but