A Most Magical Girl - Karen Foxlee Page 0,67

used to whip poorhouse orphans. It filtered and combined. It breathed and sighed. Moonlight and air. Fabric and paper fragments. Onyx slivers and black glass glitters. The strange substance dripped into the spinning black heart, which turned faster and faster until it made dark magic.

The machine shuddered and bulged with the weight of it.

The needle in the dark-magic gauge inched closer to full.

“The swiftest and strongest,” said Mr. Angel to the shadowlings. He took Mr. Keating’s handkerchief from his pocket and held it high. “There are two girls, and if they succeed, they will come up again aboveground. It is the Grey girl I need. Seek her out. Bring her to me, unharmed, and I will feed her to the machine….Behold, the moon rises.”

“On arrival at her destination, a young lady should sit quietly and wait for her friend or host in a position that is readily visible. She should not explore the station, nor visit the refreshment rooms alone.”

—Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)

The passage was narrow, and they had to squeeze themselves through it. Annabel supposed it was the worst place she had ever been, but still she led the way. Her broomstick shivered on her back, and she touched it tenderly.

“Nearly, dear thing,” she whispered. “Soon you shall have sky.”

Annabel wished there were a more scenic way to the chamber of the Morever Wand—which was drawn very neatly upon her forehead, according to her two companions. They had peered at her forehead in a way she did not like. By the flame she had looked at her arm where the map had disappeared. The ladder to the secret river…the Singing Gate…the maze of Trollingdom—now all gone. The deep waters of the Lake of Tears had almost completely vanished, too, but she could still feel that place inside her. She could still feel all those places. She wondered if they would stay inside her forever.

The map written on her skin had changed her. She knew it.

“We have come such a way,” she said, trying hard to sound cheerful. She felt very tired but also quite brave.

Behind her she could hear Hafwen muttering to herself about a star. She was very fond of the troll and glad she hadn’t been eaten by the dragon. She turned to check on her friend and saw that Kitty had fallen behind. The wild girl was shivering, and her cheeks burned red.

“Dear Kitty, put my cloak on,” she said. “Are you taken ill?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Kitty. She refused the cloak.

“Well, we’ll be home in no time,” Annabel said as sunnily as she could.

It made her think of homes again. Hafwen’s home, which she had left behind and to which there was no returning, and Kitty’s home, which was nowhere at all. Her own home and, of course, her mother. It made her shake her head, but she kept walking. The passage stank. Something horrible stuck to her ruined boots with each step.

They squeezed themselves, slid themselves, lowered themselves onto hands and knees. The passage opened into small circular caverns littered with strange objects. There were bones and brooches and tattered banners. Troll clothes and pretty ladies’ shoes. Great tufts of hair in piles. They picked their way through the terrible clutter.

Annabel encouraged Hafwen, who grumbled behind her. She looked back at Kitty, who moved slower and slower. Kitty’s coughing echoed about them. The passage became more and more muddled with dragon treasure. Chairs and bassinets (oh, that made Annabel shiver), shields and horses’ saddles. Piles of bones and shredded clothes. They stepped over such things and Annabel recited to herself, very quietly, Be brave, be brave, be brave.

At last they entered a much larger cavern, filled with even more treasure. The place stank of the dragon, and everything was coated with its oil and scales. They slipped on the floor and held on to each other for balance. Annabel raised the torch, and they saw small mountains of coins and embroidered pillows, shields and swords, and the entire skeleton of a horse. They saw armor, ladies’ parasols, empty birdcages, clocks, and mirrors. A man’s coat, spectacles still neatly in one pocket.

Piles of clothes.

Piles of hair.

Piles of bones.

Kitty fell quite suddenly, her eyes closed.

“Kitty!” cried Annabel. “You are taken ill!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Kitty said, but she moaned and struggled to sit up.

Annabel touched her friend’s burning skin. “Stay still,” she said. “Is this the last cavern before the chamber of the wand, Hafwen?”

Hafwen looked at the map on Annabel’s