The Marvelous Magic of Miss Mabel (3 page)

“That's not a proper castle,” Eliza pointed out, glancing over at Mabel's structure.

“It's not meant to be a castle,” Mabel explained. “It's the Leaning Tower of Melton Bay!” Her toes had started to tingle. Suddenly the sand felt too warm and her skin too sensitive. A hot, tickly sensation spread over her feet. Mabel jumped in the air, letting out a cry of surprise. She seemed to hover for a second before coming back down, and then laughed nervously, unsure what was happening. Staring at her toes, she jumped again, giving her feet a little kick. The strange, tingly feeling
spread up Mabel's legs and into her stomach, fizzing its way through her chest and arms and up into her head. It was the most unusual sensation, and slowly, as if she were filling with hot air, Mabel began to rise. Her skirts billowed out and she screamed.

The children started screaming too. “Mabel's floating!” “Look at Mabel.”

“Mabel Ratcliff!” Nanny Grimshaw screeched, rushing toward her charge. “Come down here this instant!” She tried to grab Mabel's foot, but couldn't reach.

“Mama,” Mabel cried in alarm, scared at what was happening. She tipped forward and waved her arms about, trying to get back to the ground.

“Come here,” Nora shouted, seeing the commotion and running along the beach.

“I don't know how,” Mabel yelled, frantically kicking her legs. Luckily the wind was blowing in from the sea, so instead of heading out to open waters, Mabel drifted lazily toward the pier. Now that she had stopped rising, her panic began to subside.

Mr. Miller, who ran the donkey rides, was staring, openmouthed. “She's got the gift,” he cried out, letting go of one of his donkeys. “Mrs. Ratcliff's girl is magic!”

“Magic!” Nanny Grimshaw gasped, gawking up at Mabel.

A
slow thrill of pleasure spread through Mabel. She flapped her arms like a bird, spinning around on the gentle breeze. A pair of seagulls squawked at her, and Mabel giggled. It was the most delicious feeling, being weightless as a feather.

“I'll get you down,” Nora cried, clambering over the seawall. She raced along the pier, pushing her way through the crowds. Flinging aside the curtain of the fortune-telling booth, Nora panted, “It's happened, Madame Sweeny, just like you predicted. My daughter Mabel is floating away.”

Without need for further explanation, Madame Lena Sweeny rose from her chair and swept out of the tent, her full purple skirts swishing behind her. She pulled a wand from an embroidered holder fastened around her waist and pointed it at Mabel. “Collectico,” she called out in a singsong voice. Immediately a spool of purple ribbon shot from her wand and flew toward Mabel, tying itself around her waist in a floppy bow. Reaching for the ribbon, Madame Sweeny gently pulled Mabel toward the pier. There was a cheer from the crowd, and Nora rushed over, Nanny Grimshaw hurrying behind.

“Wait!” Madame Sweeny raised a hand. “Don't release her. She will float right back up again.” Turning to Mabel, the fortune-teller said, “You must breathe slowly, child. Ground your magic.” She demonstrated
for Mabel, taking in a few deep breaths and waving a hand down the length of her body. “Do you feel tingly inside?”

“Like I swallowed soap bubbles, but without the nasty taste,” Mabel said.

“That's your magic,” Madame Sweeny replied. “You need to center it in your belly, send it down into your feet, otherwise you're going to keep floating away.” Mabel nodded, and the fortune-teller looked at Nora. “Her gift is strong, just as I predicted. She will eventually stop floating, but for the moment, I suggest you keep her tethered to the ribbon whenever you are outside, otherwise you run the risk of losing her.”

“Oh my goodness.” Nora put a hand to her chest. “That must not happen.”

“Look,” Madame Sweeny said, gesturing at Mabel. “She is already learning how to control it.” Every time Mabel started to lift off the ground, she took a few deep breaths, copying what Madame Sweeny had shown her. The fortune-teller tied a loop at the end of the ribbon and held it out, but before Nora could take it, Nanny Grimshaw stepped up and grasped the ribbon firmly in her hand.

“There is a school for witches in the village of Potts Bottom,” Madame Sweeny continued, “by the name of Ruthersfield. I suggest you write to Miss Brewer, the
headmistress, and inquire about a place for Mabel. She needs to learn how to use her gift properly.”

“I shall post a letter this afternoon,” Nora said rather shakily. “Without your kind assistance, Madame Sweeny, I dread to think what would have happened to poor Mabel.”

“No doubt the child would eventually have blown out to sea.”

“Oh, dear me,” Nora Ratcliff said, feeling quite faint. “What a dreadful thought.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Madame Sweeny said somberly.

“It's so unfair,” Mabel heard Eliza whisper to Hettie. “I should have gotten the gift, not her. Witches are elegant and graceful. They don't make weird things out of rubbish or have dull names like Mabel. Eliza Anastasia Cranford. Now that's a proper name for a witch.”

I
T TOOK TWO POTS OF
Daisy's strongest tea before Nora felt back to herself. Nanny Grimshaw had retired to her room, claiming a headache due to all the excitement, and Mabel spent the rest of the afternoon floating up to the ceiling and touching the plaster molding before breathing her way back down.

“What do witches do, Mama?” Mabel asked, attempting a wobbly somersault.

“Well, they tell fortunes and make magic spells,” Nora said. “Love charms, healing balms, things like that.”

“And glide about looking graceful,” Daisy added,
plumping up the cushions. She hugged a blue velvet pillow against her chest. “Witches are the most elegant creatures in the world.”

“Do you think they make sand castles that don't wash away, or ice cream that never melts?” Mabel asked, landing on the bear rug in front of the fire. “That's what I want to do with my magic.” And then in a quieter voice, “Do you think they have dull, boring names like Mabel?”

“My mother was called Mabel,” Nora said rather sharply. “It's a lovely name.”

“But it just doesn't sound very magical,” Mabel whispered. “Couldn't I change it to something else? Like Anastasia? That is a beautiful name for a witch.” Mabel yawned.

“Take a rest,” Nora said, covering her daughter with a shawl. “It's been a long day.”

Mabel rubbed her eyes and curled up on her side. “Mama,” she murmured softly. “Eliza said my mother was an earthworm. Isn't that silly? You're not an earthworm, are you? You don't live in a flowerpot.”

Feeling her legs go suddenly weak, Nora sank down on the sofa. She glanced at Daisy and said, “Of course I'm your mama, Mabel. Eliza is talking nonsense.”

That evening, when Mabel was safely tucked up in bed (the ribbon tied around one of the bedposts just in
case she did some nighttime floating), Nora sat down at her desk and penned a letter to the headmistress of Ruthersfield Academy, explaining the situation with Mabel. “If they offer her a place, Daisy, I have decided to leave Melton Bay,” Nora said, accepting the cocoa Daisy was offering.

“But this is your home, mam. And what about all those roses you've worked so hard on growing? Trying to make them smell extra nice and bloom different colors and things.” Daisy frowned and bit her lip. “Where will you go, mam?”

“I believe I shall move to Potts Bottom so Mabel will be near the academy.” Nora screwed the lid on her ink pen and took a sip of cocoa. She sighed softly. “I can take plant cuttings with me, Daisy. They will put down fresh roots. But it won't be long before Eliza Cranford brings up the matter of Mabel's beginnings again. And I can't bear to see Mabel getting hurt.”

“I don't mean to speak out of turn, mam, but you can't shield Miss Mabel forever.” Daisy twisted her hands together. “She is bound to find out sooner or later.”

“Not if we move to Potts Bottom. No one knows us there, and if I can protect my daughter from unnecessary pain, then I intend to do that.” Nora's voice was hard, and Daisy lowered her eyes.

“Of course, mam.”

Surprisingly, it was only six days after the letter had been sent that a reply arrived for Nora. “They would like to see Mabel for an interview,” she said, informing Nanny Grimshaw. “Next Tuesday afternoon. I will accompany Mabel myself, of course, so please have her dressed in her new crinoline frock. We are to take the train to Little Shamlington, and a carriage will be waiting to escort us over to Ruthersfield.”

Mabel had never ridden in a steam train before, which was exciting enough, but a day without Nanny Grimshaw was even more exciting. Nora had tied the ribbon around Mabel's waist for the trip, and she held the other end tightly in her lap.

“I can't concentrate to stay down, Mama,” Mabel said, as they sped past fields and villages. “See how fast we're going! So much faster than Mr. Miller's donkeys!” She clapped her hands in delight, and wisps of purple smoke puffed out between her fingers. Mabel blinked in surprise, watching the smoke drift upward.

When they arrived in Little Shamlington, a smart purple carriage was waiting to meet them. It had the Ruthersfield crest on the side, a cauldron and two crossed broomsticks. Once Nora and Mabel were settled inside, they trundled through narrow, hedge-lined roads, Mabel's face pressed against the window. Potts Bottom was much smaller than Melton Bay,
and crossing over a bridge, Mabel saw barges floating down the canal, pulled along by horses. She stared in fascination as they wove through twisty cobbled streets, past a bakery and a butcher's shop with rabbits and chickens hanging upside down in the window. Best of all Mabel liked the wooden shoe sign swaying above the cobbler's shop. The carriage slowed as they turned down Glover Lane, and the horses trotted between wide iron gates, coming to a stop in front of a large, gray, stone building.

“That's the witch school?” Mabel said, looking at Nora for confirmation.

“Yes, this is Ruthersfield,” Nora murmured, checking that her hat was on straight. Holding tight to Mabel's ribbon, they walked up the broad front stairs, arriving at a handsome pair of carved double doors. Nora pulled on the bell rope, and a low clanging sounded from inside.

“Please could you call me Anastasia?” Mabel whispered, in between deep breaths.

A witch in a purple cloak opened the door. She wore a feather-and-bead-trimmed hat. Tight auburn ringlets framed her face. “Mrs. Ratcliff, I presume? And this must be?”

“Mabel,” Nora said quickly, and Mabel gave a hop as two black cats sauntered past her.

“Welcome to Ruthersfield,” the witch said. “I hope your journey wasn't too taxing.”

“It was most pleasant, thank you,” Nora replied.

“I'm Miss Seymour. I teach some of the magic hands classes here at the academy.” Mabel wanted to know what magic hands classes were, but she was too shy to ask. “I know Miss Brewer is most eager to meet you, so if you'll follow me, I shall take you along to her office.”

Mabel stared about the hallway. There was a plush horsehair sofa covered in what she thought at first were piles of fluffy black cushions, but which on closer inspection turned out to be sleeping cats. She wiggled her toes in her tight kidskin boots, wanting to unbutton them and slide across the smooth, polished floor in her stockings.

“Ready?” Miss Seymour said, smiling at Mabel as if she could tell what Mabel was thinking. “We don't want to keep Miss Brewer waiting.”

They walked down a number of long corridors, and whenever they passed a classroom with the door open, Mabel peered inside, squinting so she could see properly. Lately, things far away had started to look a little blurry, as if there was a constant sea fog clouding her vision. Nanny Grimshaw hated it when Mabel squinted, saying if the wind changed, her face would stay that way.

“That's our cookery lab,” Miss Seymour said. “The girls are making light-as-air cakes today, which calls for a cup of west wind. And west winds can be rather unruly if the girls don't mix them in quickly enough. That's why we keep the door open.” Just then a strong breeze knocked Mabel to the floor and went swirling off down the corridor. “They don't like feeling trapped,” Miss Seymour explained, helping Mabel to her feet.

Miss Seymour stopped in front of a green leather door. She knocked once, and a sharp voice called out, “Enter.” They were ushered into Miss Brewer's office, which was filled with rugs and books and potted plants. Miss Brewer herself appeared ancient. It was impossible to tell how old she might be, except that her skin was as wrinkled as a lizard's and she wore her silver hair back in a bun. A string of jet beads dangled around her neck.

“Mrs. Ratcliff, what a pleasure,” Miss Brewer said. The headmistress was sitting behind a huge walnut desk. She picked up a pair of spectacles on a long ivory handle and stared at Mabel through them. “How old are you, child?”

“Five and three quarters,” Mabel whispered, not letting go of her mother's hand.

Miss Brewer raised an eyebrow, continuing to study Mabel. Finally she put her spectacles aside and flapped her hands at them. “Do sit, do sit. I have ordered some refreshment.”
When a maid brought in a tray loaded with tea and fruitcake, Mabel forgot her shyness and helped herself to a piece. The fruitcake was delicious and she chewed away happily, her mouth full of nuts and sugared plums. “Small bites, Mabel,” Miss Brewer instructed. “It is not fitting to have such a hearty appetite. And sit up straight, child. You are slouching like a sack of onions.”

The headmistress looked at Nora. “Here at Ruthersfield we pride ourselves on teaching young girls more than just the traditional skills of magic. These things are certainly important, but so are poise and manners, learning to become a gracious hostess. Each girl leaves here knowing how to dance the waft and glide, create a sparkling conversation spell, and thanks to our excellent magic hands program, all our graduates excel in the fine art of making homes more pleasant and beautiful. They will also be taught how to knit a wand case, sew a spell apron, and embroider covers for their crystal balls.”