The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (2 page)

Meg rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, I expected as much from you. The question is – what does Amelia want?”

At the first opportunity, Harold hung up his apron and hurried out towards the shoreline. If nothing else, he had to be sure he hadn’t dreamed what he’d seen the previous evening. As he reached the outskirts of the village, he saw it plain as day: a little iron castle apparently sprung up overnight at the roadside. Two seven foot high snails were tethered close to the side of the road, rasping noisily at the grass as Harold slipped nervously past them. The iron castle stood silent and looked empty, from as close as Harold dared get. He’d had all night to worry what kind of people such a strange carriage might bring, and he’d all but convinced himself that the knight driving the snails had come to rescue the maiden in the tower. The thought provoked Harold into action at long last: he might not stand a chance against the knight, but nonetheless he wanted to declare his intentions, and take the maiden a gift. He carried on down to the shore, almost stumbling on the pebble beach several times, his eyes on the tall grim tower out to sea. He greeted the old fisherman mending nets, and explained his plan. The old man, in a mood to humour this keen young lad, asked what gift Harold intended to take to the maiden in the tower.

“Sausages,” Harold held up the waxed paper package. His family made some of the finest pork and leek sausages in all the land, and they didn’t come cheap. What better gift did the butcher’s boy have to offer?

The fisherman grinned, despite his best efforts not to, and asked, “You sure about that, boy?”

Harold nodded. He knew his sausages. He’d made these with his own two hands, and they were the very best.

“Perhaps the fair maid might like a pretty posy better?” the old man suggested. “There’s primroses growing just up there, all around the well.”

Harold, thinking that there just might be something in that idea, ran off to pick a bunch of the biggest, yellowest primroses. With flowers in one hand, and packet of sausages in the other, he went back to the stony beach. He’d give her both, and double his chances to win her affection.

~

The old fisherman rowed Harold out to the tower, and waited at the landing stage, just as curious about the mysterious Lamb family as anybody else in Springhaven. Harold looked up at the huge door to the tower: heavy black wood studded with brass. He smoothed his hair, then straightened his clothes and his posture. He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

He stood there a long time, listening. He could hear no footsteps within; no voices. “Hello?” he shouted up at the high narrow windows, and knocked again. For all his fantasies of adventure and danger, and of rescuing the lovely Amelia from her cruel parents who kept her prisoner, a part of him wanted to do this properly if at all possible. For a long time, it seemed he might actually have the opportunity to engage in thrilling heroics, and he was quite relieved when he finally heard the tap of footsteps hurrying down stairs. He heard a commotion of keys being clanked and bolts being drawn, and then the heavy door creaked open a few inches. The man who peered out from behind it could only be the reclusive Professor Lamb. His unbrushed hair stuck out in odd directions, and he had tired, bagged eyes half-hidden behind large spectacles smudged with fingerprints. He wore fingerless gloves, and a shabby voluminous overcoat draped from his shoulders. Without any kind of introduction or preface, the Professor simply said, quietly, “I’m very busy. Please, go away.”

But before he could shut the door in Harold’s face, a tall elegant woman intervened. “Now, what’s all this?” she said, in a voice that rang as loud and clear as a bell. “Flowers? Jonathan, who is this boy?” Mrs. Lamb demanded of her husband.

“I don’t know, dearest,” said Professor Lamb. “Who are you, boy?”

“It’s Tom Butcher’s eldest,” said Mrs. Lamb, before Harold could speak for himself. “Harold. I remember him now, of course. Pink. Shiny. Has that nervous look about him. Now, what do you want, boy? Speak up.”

“I, um…” Harold had been rehearsing what he meant to say all morning, but the right words had all gone. “I brung these for your daughter Amelia,” he said, holding out the flowers at arm’s length. “And these,” he said, remembering his sausages.

Mrs. Lamb recoiled, greatly surprised. “Amelia? Gifts for Amelia? All this sudden interest in that girl – what is the world coming to?”

“May I see Amelia, please?”

“No, you may not,” said Mrs. Lamb. “And I don’t have the slightest idea why you’d want to. You do know she’s actually quite plain, don’t you? Jonathan’s first wife, bless her heart, had a lot of unique qualities and was certainly a very spirited young lady, but when it came to her presentation she worked with a very plain canvas. And of course, poor Amelia does take after her mother so.” She put her thin, elegant hand to her forehead. “Oh dear me. All these years, and we’ve never had trouble like this
before
… Have we, Jonathan?”

“Certainly not, dearest,” said the Professor.

“Then… can you see that she gets these?” said Harold.

Mrs. Lamb took the flowers and the package, examining them suspiciously. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt, just this once,” she sniffed. She knew of Tom’s pork and leek sausages, and their justifiably steep price. “But don’t do it again!” and she slammed the door.

This rude dismissal only left Harold all the more determined to rescue the mysterious (and doubtless lovely) Amelia. He looked up at the forbidding grey front of the tower, and high above he caught the briefest glimpse of a face looking down from the battlements. His heart lurched:
Amelia
. A pale girl dressed in black, with long, long hair the colour of honey. She’d darted shyly away the moment she caught him looking, but he’d had his first glimpse of her.

~

From the top of the tower, Amelia watched her suitor leaving. Her stepmother had shooed her away before she could reach the front door, so instead she’d run all the way up to the roof to get a sneaky look. From her high vantage point, she’d only been able to make out that the young man had brown hair and broad shoulders, but what her stepmother had said to him was nothing but the unpalatable truth: no suitors had ever come calling for Amelia before.

She turned to find Meg had followed and was scrutinising her again. “What was all that about, then? Who was that boy?”

Amelia shook her head. “I don’t know.” But he’d brought her flowers, and wanted to see her. How romantic: a young man who’d never even seen her before, rowing out to bring her flowers. Like something out of a fairy tale. She wished she’d had a chance to get a better look at him.

Meg leaned over the battlements, watching the rowboat steadily retreat to the shore. “Sincerity knew him, though, so he’s probably not one of them…”
Sincerity
. Meg meant Amelia’s stepmother, although the second Mrs. Lamb permitted very few people to call her by her first name.

“One of…
them
?”

“In days gone by it would have been enough for you to hide here in your tower, but now there are those in the world who’d like you out of the way a bit more permanently.” She hesitated, not meeting Amelia’s eye. “And I’m afraid they might have followed me here.”

“Then why did you come?” Amelia cried.

“Because they might have found you anyway, and you’re better off taking your chances with me, than with your father and his twit of a wife. I know he only wants the best for you, but do you really want to live out your days in hiding?”

Amelia hesitated. The idea of getting away from the tower and seeing something of the world had always held a faint glimmer of temptation.

“Because I can tell you now,” Meg continued, “that if you do, then they’re likely to be a very short number of days. What’s more, I can’t stay here long. Somebody’s bound to have seen me arrive.”

“But Father said –”

“Your father thinks you’re a helpless child. Don’t you want to prove him wrong?”

Amelia blushed fiercely. That seemed a low blow, and almost enough to make her stubborn. “I’m not a child.”

“You certainly
shouldn’t
be, at your age.” Meg sighed. “I’d like to give you more time to make up your mind, but me and Sir Percival are going to be on our way just after lunchtime. That should give you plenty of time to pack your things, if you’re coming with us. You’d need a stout pair of walking boots, mind. And no more than one small suitcase – we’ve no room for excess weight.”

~

Over lunch, conversation was light and it gave Amelia a little time to think. She picked at her plate, her stomach churning. Meg spoke little with a table full of good food in front of her, but Amelia noticed that Sir Percival, who hadn’t taken off any article of his armour all morning, ate nothing at all. She wondered why, but worried about looking rude or foolish, and so didn’t ask. Her stepmother often chided her for asking too many silly questions. She tried not to, but her father’s extensive and eclectic library had been open to her for years, blurring the boundaries between the real and the fantastical.
Maybe if I went out and saw things for myself… Yes, but how much sightseeing will I be doing if people out there want to hurt me or imprison me, or worse?
She’d argued herself round in circles about it all morning, afraid that staying really might be as perilous as leaving. She wished she’d seen Meg’s letter. “I’ve packed my bag,” she blurted out while she was clearing the dishes after their meal. She’d found the small, smart suitcase her stepmother had given her as a child, and packed it before she’d even decided whether or not she could bring herself to leave. She looked at Meg, not wanting to see her father’s expression.

Her stepmother broke the uncomfortable silence. “You’re leaving after all? I’m glad. Not glad to see you go, of course, but it
will
do you a world of good. Oh, all those fascinating people to meet, all those intriguing and spectacular things to see,” she said, wistfully. “If only we could come with you, darling.”

Meg looked at Amelia’s feet, nodding in approval at the plain and rather heavy brown boots. “They’ll need breaking in, by the looks of it,” she said. “But there’s time for that yet.”

~

Amelia had at least one intriguing and spectacular thing to see before she even left Springhaven. With Meg and Percival, her parents came ashore with her and walked her out to the edge of town. There in a green field they found two enormous snails grazing, noisily munching two paths through the grass and leaving wide glistening trails behind them. The vivid greenish yellow of their shells shone in the sunshine, each banded with spirals of a brown so dark it was almost black.

Amelia couldn’t help but give a little shriek of disgust. “What on
earth
are
those
?”

“Giant snails,” said Meg, as she approached one of the monstrous things and stroked the great glossy curve of its shell affectionately, careful to mind the spikes. “What else would you think they were?” The sun glinted off the dozen or more rings she wore, and her arms jangled with the discordant music of many bangles. “Give me a hand with the harness, will you Perce?”

The knight clanked swiftly to her assistance, and together they hitched up the two giant snails to the mobile miniature castle.

“Take care, Amelia,” said her father, as she hugged him goodbye. “There’s a great deal of danger out there in the world, but you can trust Meg. She’ll bring you home safe again.”

“Yes,” said her stepmother. “If nothing else, Miss Spinner is a robust and practical woman, who has travelled a great deal.” Then she kissed her stepdaughter on both cheeks, hugged her and dabbed her eyes theatrically with a lacy handkerchief. “Be brave, darling. There’s so much out there, so much beauty in the world.” She beamed, starry-eyed with unshed tears. “Bring me back ever so many souvenirs.”

No sooner had Amelia stepped inside the mobile castle, than the whole thing lurched into motion, and they were on their way. Amelia grabbed for the handhold by the door, and looked anxiously around the cabin. It was every bit as cramped on the inside as she had guessed from the outside, although surprisingly pleasant. Halfway up the front wall an open hatch lead out onto the driver’s seat, where Sir Percival had taken up the reins of the two giant snails, but other than that it looked like a pleasant enough parlour. A floral glass lampshade swayed gently from the ceiling, a colourful rug covered the floorboards, and the walls were decorated with a selection of botanical watercolours. A small table stood bolted to the floor, with a padded bench curved around the inside wall of the cabin. The cabin even had something that looked like a small kitchen area with a boiler, sink and cupboards. None of these home comforts distracted Amelia from the fact that there was barely standing room for three people. She hoped their journey wouldn’t be too long…

“And what do you call one of these?” she asked, still clutching her suitcase.

“That’s better,” said Meg. “Not such a silly question, that one. I call it a snailcastletank. Percival says it’s an inelegant name, but it’s the only one in the world, and it’s mine, so I call it what I like. Now sit down, and don’t look so frightened – I don’t bite.”

Not reassured, Amelia perched lightly at one end of the curved bench, as Meg cleared the clutter from the table. She clattered dirty teacups into the sink on the back wall, shut away books and trinkets in a glass fronted cabinet, and tipped a vase of dead dandelions out of the tiny porthole as the snailcastletank rolled down the winding road, leaving Springhaven behind at a slow but certain pace. Then she whipped the prettily embroidered tablecloth off of the table and stood with her hands on her hips. “Now,” she said, “what do you make of that?”