Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (49 page)

Margot
inclined her head in deference. “Of course, my lady.”

“
And the dagger?” The creature asked.

Margot’s
back was to Nettle, so she couldn’t see Margot’s expression, but
from the lengthy hesitation, she guessed the sister was reluctant
to reply. “Dolcie is making progress, but the fae is hard to
break.”

The beetles
clicked and grinded and said, “We need those Tears.”

“
Be assured, we will wrangle enough to make the dagger by the
time we have need of it.”

“
Well and good then, everything is as planned.”

Margot
inclined her head once more. “Yes, my lady.”

It was only then, as the ball of insects collapsed, as they
scuttled back through the gaps in the walls in which they came did
Nettle realize with a lurch, that Jazz wasn’t in the Atelier.
Claudine must have been lying…
Lying through her rotten teeth!
All this time, Jazz
must have been in the kitchen, in the other room with the red door!
Nettle frantically wondered what to do, how to get out of here. But
it was too late. She heard the Atelier’s door burst open and
footsteps stomping up the staircase. She was trapped.

All sorts of
thoughts were running through her - the sisters at the forefront –
their hunger for Jazz, their desire to possess her father. The lies
that dripped from their tongues like molten honey, sticky and
sweet, and they’d caught her like they’d intended. Something
exploded within, surging through her, something primeval and honest
and pure. Rage. She felt the blood in her veins catch fire with a
fierce kind of fury. She screamed, a bloodcurdling screech of
wrath.

Nettle stalked
out of her hiding place.

Margot
swivelled around caught completely unaware.

Nettle
grabbed the first solid thing that presented itself to her, it was
the enormous deformed skull of a troll.

“
What are you-” was all Margot got out because Nettle was
running at her, her features contorted with blinding
rage.

Nettle threw
the skull at her. Not so much wanting to hit her, but because
Margot stood in front of the only window in the Atelier.

Margot ducked out of the way and the window behind her
exploded outward, the shards of glass rain
ing upon the ground below like deadly
icicles.

Through the
open window was a tree. She could make it, she was positive she
could. Nettle ran as fast and as fleet-footed as she could. There
was nothing in her mind but to reach that tree. She flew past
Margot and hurtled out the window, just as Claudine screeched,
“Stop her!”

Only as
she soared through the window did Nettle realize with a horrid
jolt, that she’d misjudged the distance to the tree. It was a
strange sort of sensation, falling, her limbs flailing, as if she
could grab hold of something substantial. As she plummeted to the
ground, she squeezed shut her eyes. It was unlikely she would
survive the fall, she knew that - the Atelier was too
high.

The
impact seemed to her like she was experiencing it in slow motion.
It was her shoulder that hit the ground first, cracking against
wood, pain shooting through her arm and chest; her neck dipped
forward, then whipped back and for a split second she was confused.
Surely she should have slammed headfirst into brick, not wood? Then
the strangest of sensations - she bounced upward to fall again and
be safely caught.

Opening
her eyes she found she was less than a meter from the cobbled
ground, cradled by branches that had woven themselves together like
netting. But how was that possible? She thought the tree had been
too far away. She saw that the tree trunk was leaning over to such
a degree, its roots were half exposed, as if it had reached out to
catch her fall.

The
sisters were leaning out the uppermost window, shrieking at her.
She couldn’t make out what they were saying, her mind was befuddled
with how the tree had saved her life.

Nettle
tumbled from the tree’s branches and landed awkwardly below. She
staggered down the tea house’s alleyway, reaching the cobblestone
path. She tore down the flight of stairs, frightened and terrified,
pushing her way through laughing crowds, and locals going about
their daily duties. Except now as she shoved her way though, she
didn’t see bright friendly jugglers and singers or helpful shop
owners; instead their sunken features looked sinister, their gazes
covetous.

The Crone had warned her to be wary and at the time she
hadn’t understood the significance. The old woman had said the
Balfreys’ were going to take what they wanted, and what they wanted
was her
father and Jazz. A
horrified sick feeling came over her as she
realized that it had been her who’d
thoughtlessly handed them over to the
sisters, without any qualms.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Jack
Bedden-Trogg

It was eerily
quiet out on the front porch. The forest’s bleak mood suited the
present situation; the overcast sky enshrouded the cottage in a
gloomy light and the mist, rising in grey wisps, created a world of
shadows.

Bram sat next
to Nettle. The golden hue of his skin had bleached and grown
sickly, and his intense blue eyes had shifted to the murky colour
of a wind-whipped lake. He rubbed at his eyes, his knuckles pushing
beneath the lenses of this glasses causing the spectacles to bob up
and down.

He didn’t know
what to do.

He’d found his
sister on the porch a good while ago, sitting in a stupor. As far
as he could tell she’d made it as far as the top step where she’d
slumped against the porch railing, sliding to the boards and
kind-of sat there like a broken doll, staring vacantly ahead, into
nothing that he could see. She was adrift in her own little world
and everything he’d tried couldn’t snap her out of it.

At first he’d
asked plenty of questions, begging her to respond; finally yelling,
shaking her by the shoulders, pinching an arm. On Quary’s advice,
he’d even given her a good slap – which he now suspected was just
something to entertain the spriggan - his fingers had marked her
cheek a brilliant cherry red. But it elicited no response, not even
a flicker of an eyelid. Nothing. She remained as still as a statue,
her bewildered expression just as frozen.

“
Nettle, come on…” He took her clammy limp hands in his own.
“Tell me what’s happened.” What was he to do? She was his big
sister, she had always been there looking out for him. He leaned
his head on her shoulder. She smelt of citrus soap and the familiar
trace of cinnamon. “I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice cracking,
tears stinging his eyes.

Egnatius
placed a hand gently on his back. Bram straightened, and even
though he hastily rubbed at his eyes before turning, when his gaze
met the elderly spriggans, his eyes still shone with tears.
Egnatius’s wizened face was etched with pity. He said softly,
“There’s little you can do, lad. She’ll come out of it in her own
time.”

Bram gave a curt nod, his mouth pressed together in a hard
line as he struggled not to cry and lost. He watched as Egnatius
slowly hobbled back inside the cottage. He assumed the old spriggan
was right,
but
how much time do we have?
His gaze fell downward to linger on the
porch’s floorboards, his fingers chipped away at the flaking paint.
Nettle’s state really had him worried - could it have to do with
Jazz? Had something terrible happened to her? Jazz was a jerk at
times, but he’d never wish her ill - although she probably would
hate to hear it from him - he actually cared for her. She was his
only cousin after all.

Spix came to
sit down beside him and silently handed him a handkerchief. Bram
took it, giving his friend a ghost of a smile in appreciation. He
took off his glasses, wiped away his tears and blew his nose. They
sat beside one another in silence. It was chilly and damp and Bram
had earlier changed into a pair of dark brown corduroy pants and a
blue striped rugby jersey, pulling onto his feet thick woollen
socks that bunched around his ankles. Spix polished his stones,
slipping them into a pouch at his waist, while Bram stared ahead at
the curtains of mist obscuring the copse, his mind a whirlwind of
considerations as he mindlessly tugged at his sleeves.

The quiet
solitude of the porch was disturbed by a scuffling and growling and
muttering coming from inside the house, growing louder, as, whoever
it was, approached the front door. Both Bram and Spix
half-swivelled to look behind them. Quary emerged, dragging a
battered old suitcase he’d found in the attic.

While Nettle was hunting for Jazz in Olde Town, the
spriggans had been helping him pack, of sorts.
Well to be fair,
thought Bram
wryly,
helping themselves to our food supplies.
They’d puffed
themselves into the size of dwarves and spaced themselves about the
house so they could easily toss to one another the things they
wanted to bring – mainly food. In Quary’s case, he was only
interested in Nutella.

Bram’s brow
furrowed and his mouth set in a crooked line. It looked like Quary
had managed to stuff all the jars of Nutella into the bulging
suitcase he was awkwardly navigating around Willoughby’s
birdcage.

Sandee had
tended to the wounded bird while Nettle was away. She’d ripped the
stuffing out of a soft pillow and jammed it into the birdcage and
softly placed the thrush onto the makeshift nest. The little bird
was in bad shape, but Sandee reassured him he’d live. She had
rubbed something greasy through her fingers that glistened like
glitter and smelt of earthy mushroom and stroked it through
Willoughby’s burnt feathers, gently rubbing it onto his scorched
flesh. She’d fed him a potion with an eyedropper that Bram had
procured, to ease him into sleep and tucked one of Nettle’s woollen
beanies over him like a blanket to keep him warm. As the little
bird slept he gave the odd shudder, but at least his heart was
pulsing with a more regular beat.

Bram heaved a heavy sigh.
What am I to do?
Everything was a mess. Jazz was gone,
so was their father, and Nettle who always knew what to do in any
situation wasn’t even conscious. He rubbed her limp hand, willing
her to surface from wherever her mind had taken her.

Suddenly the copse erupted into a deafening noise. A
horrendous alarm boomed throughout the Wilds like cannon-fire. Bram
leapt to his feet. His heart near exploding in his chest.
What
now?

BaaarrroooooMMMM!

BaaaarRRROOOOOOMMMM!

BAAAAARRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM!

Birds took
flight scouring the sky, circling above in a whirlwind of beating
wings and caws of distress; Hetty Hen and her gang of wild chickens
bolted toward the safety of the rickety old hen-house; butterfly
and moth blew out of the black-stemmed thicket in a haze of
delicate papery wings, while rats and mice scurried away from the
copse-line through the tussock-grassed lawn.

The copse had
come alive, swaying against the mottled grey skyline as its
branches writhed and crawled, weaving stem and branch and stalk
together, knitting itself into a tight net about the property.
Above the howling, Bram could hear a crackling - not just the
branches breaking and snapping, more like static electricity
building.

Bram pressed
his hands over his ears, barely muffling the deafening noise that
roared in his head. He stumbled down the steps toward Burban, Spix
at his heels. The raucous noise had no effect on Nettle, still
sitting motionless.

Bram shouted
as loudly as he could, “WHAT’S GOING ON?!!”

Burban and his
fellow companions instantly stopped howling. The silence came so
abruptly it was disorientating. Bram gingerly splayed his fingers
apart and took a look about him. Spix had loaded his sling while
the other spriggans gathered behind him, equally nervous. Through
the shadowy mist behind him he could see the blurred outline of
Egnatius leaning on his walking stick by the front door.

Burban went to
speak, but his voice croaked. He HA-hmmm-AHmeeed a couple of times
to clear his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky
from sounding the alarm. “There’s a stranger out yonder… he wants
in.” And he HA-hmmmed a little further.

Bram’s heart gave a buoyant lurch, the colour of his eyes
lit to a bright kingfisher-blue. For a brief moment he’d hoped it
was Jazz, he’d even take Claudine right now, until he took in what
Burban had said -
he,
not
her...
and
a stranger?

“
Who is it?” It was Quary who asked, his one good eye narrowed
suspiciously. With the tip of his thumb he was rubbing the hilt of
his sword, still sheathed in its scabbard, hooked through his
belt.

Krinsky called
out to Bram, “Says he followed yer sister all the way from Olde
Town.”

Burban gave a
gruff, annoyed sound at his companion’s interruption. He gave Bram
a jerk of a nod. “He’s demanding to talk to her.” His wide lips
pinched tight as he muttered, “Right rude little plonker an’
all.”

Bram shared a look of surprise with Spix. Followed or
stalked? Friend or foe?
Whoever this guy is, has he anything to do with
the state Nettle’s in? Does he know what’s happened to Jazz?
He pushed his
glasses back to the bridge of his nose and drew himself as tall as
his short frame allowed. “I want to speak with him.”