The Golden Season (41 page)

At this, the young lady’s hand flew up to cover her lips. “You chopped off a baby mouse’s feet?” she whispered from behind her fingertips.

Grammy squirmed. “Well, maybe the mouse was still-born. And maybe it weren’t white but it were
very
light gray. But no doubt, ’twere a full moon.”

“That’s disgusting,” the fashion plate said, setting her hands on her hips. “I am afraid I cannot allow someone who would chop off baby mice feet, even dead baby mice, to move into the neighborhood. You will have to go away.”

“No, ’tis
you
who will have to go!”

“I am afraid not.”

“I am afraid so—”

“Get
on
with it, will you?” someone shouted.

With a flourish Grammy whipped open her patched cloak and twirled around. “By the hair of Beelzebub’s chin, by the cloven foot of Bacchus, I expel thee, oh, witch!”

The young lady remained unexpelled, but stood by politely. Finally, Grammy threw her hands up in frustration. “What are ye doin’, you cluck? Spell me!”

“You’re done?” the girl asked. “I assumed there was more to it than that.”

Grammy’s little sunken face collapsed in on itself even more. “Of course there’s more. I was just giving you a chance to run away, is all.”

Once more, she hefted her stick over her head. “By Moobkamizer’s black heart and Nimbleplast’s hor—”

“Who?” the young lady interrupted. “I’ve never heard of those two.”

Grammy’s arms sank and she grinned, revealing a dimple of such unexpected charm that it went far in explaining the hitherto unsolved mystery of why there existed so many Beadles. “That’s because they’re brand-
new
demons.”

“Really?” the young lady asked. “How frightfully interesting. Where did you find them?”

“Come to me in my dreams,” Grammy said proudly, and then with a sly glance at the townsfolk added, “As an
incubus
. And I gots more, too. By Shillyman’s wart and . . . and . . . Cobbiepouff’s whisker, I take what was yers and make it mine. Begone.” She spun around. “Begone!” She spun around again. “Begone!”

At the end of this last and most violent spin, Grammy pitched sideways, her hand outstretched and her eyes rolling. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said with a gasp.

The young lady grabbed the hag’s arm, steadying her. “Sit down.”

Gratefully, the old lady plopped down in the middle of the street, holding her side. “Yer turn,” she wheezed.

“Come, now. This can wait until you are feeling more the thing—”

“Yer turn!” Grammy insisted.

“Very well,” the young lady replied. She took a deep breath, lifted her hands, palms up to the sky, and pronounced in a loud, ringing voice, “Ipse dixit.”

Grammy froze like someone who’d taken a spitball shot to the bum. “What? Who’s that? What’s that?”

“Ipse dixit,” the girl repeated. She waved her hands in a circle. “Ipso facto. Ad hoc!”

Anxiously, Grammy patted herself down from head to foot. Upon discovering that everything was in the same place it had been that morning, she relaxed. “Yer magik seems to have left you, missy,” she said.

The young lady very discreetly glanced overhead. Grammy Beadle followed her gaze. Directly above them two dark shadows were making slow, lazy circles in the tranquil blue sky.

“So what?” Grammy said. “A pair of birds.”

Nonetheless, she scrambled up and surged forward on one foot, like a fencer executing a lunge, stabbing at the young lady with her bole. “By the Name of He Who Goes Unnamed and Is Nameless, I take your power and your towwwwnnnnnn!”

The girl raised a slender finger to her mouth and nipped the edge of the nail off between her pearly teeth. Again, her glance rose to the sky. Grammy’s unwilling gaze followed.

The pair of ravens had been joined by a half dozen others describing slow pirouettes. A distinctly uneasy expression crossed Grammy’s face. As a witch, Grammy Beadle was extremely conversant with all things of the natural world, and the sudden appearance of a host of silent ravens . . . well, it wasn’t natural.

“Dark powers, unite! Heed me, Bacchus, Beelzebub, Moobkamizer, and Nimbleplast, Shillyman, and . . . and . . .” She trailed off as the young lady, examining the torn nail on her left hand, made a slight indication skyward with her right.

With a scowl, Grammy looked up.

Twenty ravens?

Furtively, she glanced around, gauging the Little Firkians’ reactions to the flock of malevolent death-harbingers. If they had seen the ravens, they apparently didn’t think much of them—except, that was, for the girl’s companion, who was leaning forward, frowning up at the sky. The rest of Little Firkin was watching Grammy, and their expressions were frankly disappointed. Even a little pitying. And pity, Grammy Beadle knew, was not a good foundation upon which to build a witchly empire. She’d better get rid of these heebie-jeebies and—

The salutary sound sent her gaze overhead. A single raven was winging its way to join the other—Grammy’s mouth gaped—forty ravens. All silent. Silent as the tomb. Grammy’s skin crawled.

Maybe she didn’t need to take over the town. Leastways, not today.

Still, pride kept her rooted. She’d never live it down if word got out that a bunch of birds had driven her off. Which meant she needed to provide a good reason for turning tail and running. And what better reason than—

“Is that all?” Grammy shouted. “Is that the best you can do? Come on, lass. Give it yer best!”

The young lady’s face reflected a second of surprise before tightening. “No. That’s not all.
Amo!
” she said, taking a step forward.

Gratefully, Grammy commenced quaking.

Another step. This time Grammy’s hand flew to her chest.

Grammy staggered back as if impelled by some monstrous unseen force. She whimpered for added effect.

The young lady, after a brief look of bewilderment, rubbed her palms briskly together as if preparing for some physical exertion and declared, “Per diem. Non sequitur.” Her hand rose toward Grammy Beadle, who was now fully engaged in cringing backward.

With a shriek, Grammy Beadle lifted up her skirts, displaying a pair of crooked shanks encircled by improbable red garters, turned tail and shot off down the street, disappearing into a side alley.

The young lady, after a glance overhead at a sky now completely free of any shadows, ravenlike or otherwise, walked calmly over to her companion. The Little Firkians gave one another nods of approval and, without a single word to their champion and defender, went back to gossiping, eating, and drinking.

At the same time, a handsome and elegant young man let a curtain drop back down across the pub window through which he’d been watching.

“What an extraordinary creature. Whatever is she doing here?” the young gentleman asked, turning his bemused gaze to a man sitting tipped well back in the chair opposite him, a dark, broad-shouldered gentleman with sooty, overlong hair and piercing blue-green eyes currently riveted on the scene outside.

Before he could reply, the inn’s rotund barkeep arrived at their table bearing two tankards of ale. “That be Amelie Chase,” he said. “Our witch.”