Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (5 page)

Tucked into the rear of the motor-home was the bedroom she
normally shared with Bram. However, while Jazz was vacationing with
them, Nettle had been forced to share their bedroom with
her cousin, who was
a notorious snorer and had no notion of how to keep quarters tidy.
Bram slept on the couch and their father in his poky bedroom above
the cab.

Nettle
changed into a pair of fresh leggings. As she dressed, her thoughts
found their way back to last night’s inspiration: how to convince
their father to stay permanently at Blackthorn Cottage. It wasn’t
easy being back here surrounded by memories of Briar, but Bram was
right, they should settle down, stop the travelling, and stay put.
Now that Olde Town was seemingly re-established, Nettle was sure
there would be families living and working in the village, and a
school they could attend. Bram needed friends his own age, as too,
did she.

The idea of meeting a group of friends and keeping them was
thrilling, and a glorious daydream she indulged in when her spirits
were low. It wasn’t as if Nettle and Bram never met kids their own
age as they travelled. The problem was keeping in touch. Creating
history and cementing deeper friendships was hard to do if one
couldn’t even give out their forwarding address. And their father
forbade it. However her father did allow contact, as long as
neither of them mentioned where they were or where they were
going.
Ugh,
he’s so over-protective, stupidly so,
Nettle thought. Most of the time they
didn’t even know where they were headed next, it was simply on
whim.

Nettle was able to tr
ade emails with the friends she’d gathered along
their travels. But in most cases, after time, most of her friends
emails would simply fall few and far between, until they finally
ceased contact.

There were a couple of photographs on the walls:
the tousle-headed
Bella and her younger brother Benny, whom they met a few years ago
at a camping ground near a lake, where the four of them had gone
trout-fishing almost every day; Cameron, Izzy and their tubby
cousin Ron, arms wrapped around one another, laughing, as they flew
by on a flying fox; twins Mei and Megu, swimming in a river, who
taught Nettle the art of origami.

There was one friend whom she still kept in contact
with
: Alice
with her choppy blond hair, freckled face and gappy
teeth.

Last night
Nettle had an idea, an absurd, ridiculous idea. One she was
positive would ensure a new focus, a new direction for her father.
That was if, and that was a big if,
she was able to pull it off. And that was
it, she wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.

Wonder what Alice would think of my plan?

Nettle resolved to email her friend later that day… until
she groaned,
I can’t,
no electricity, no internet connection, no satellite
coverage. With a sigh she left the bedroom. She was sure the answer
would come to her in time, but for now, she was
starving.

Bessie
was parked up and had her sides drawn out, creating a more
comfortable living space between the dinette and the long cosy
couch. Nettle stood at the compact stove, stirring the bubbling pot
of porridge, while Bram, as usual, sat at the dinette with his nose
in one of his books. He was thoughtfully chewing on a pencil while
commenting on all the things he was learning. “Did you know…” was
his catch phrase. He was the smartest eight year old she
knew.

This month he was all about chess
, so it took her by surprise when he
said, “Did you know that oldest known giant sequoia is 3,500 years
old?
”

There could only be one reason for the subject matter
change.
“Researching the Forgotten Wilds, are you?”

He
nodded without even looking up from the book. “As much as I can.”
And he jotted down something of interest into his
journal.

It was warm
and toasty inside Bessie when Nettle poured their breakfast into
bowls and they both tucked into the hot sugary porridge.

“This is
so good,” Nettle grinned with a mouthful of delicious chewy oats.
Bram nodded in agreement, his golden head bobbing up and
down.

Suddenly a
n almighty ruckus came from outside. Bessie’s door blew
open and crashed against the outside wall. Jazz stepped inside, her
hands clenched around her battle-scarred hockey stick, holding it
much like a baseball bat. Bram and Nettle shared a puzzled
expression.

Jazz, to say the least, was completely hockey mad. Captain
of the school team, she was obsessed by the game. She lived it,
breathed it, slept it, created play moves on her iPad, and
diligently practiced a series of drills every single day. She
glared at the siblings, her blue eyes blazing with fury,
thwacking
her hockey stick in
the palm of one hand. “Alright, which one of you two has
it?!”

Bram gulped
and wondered if he could slide under the table and hide.

Dressed as usual, in her hockey uniform
- a crisp white polo shirt with
‘St. Miriam’s School for Girls’ blazoned on the pocket in black
thread, pleated skirt with knee-high white socks and sneakers -
Jazz looked set to implode. “Come on,” she threatened, raising the
hockey stick higher and wagging it slightly. “My earrings, where
are they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Nettle
pulling a
you’re-totally-bonkers
face, and then wondered if antagonizing
her cousin perhaps wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

Jazz’s gaze narrowed and she let out a warble of outrage.
She thumped the dinette with her hockey stick. WHOOOMP! “I am NOT
BONKERS!” The bowls of porridge jumped and Bram’s wobbled
dangerously near the table’s edge. “One of you has my gold
earrings. The totally
expensive
gold earrings, I know
you
envied
,” she ground out, waving her hockey stick
at Nettle, who gave a little shirk of the shoulder. Jazz had oodles
of jewellery. “The Egyptian pair my mother gave to me for
Christmas!” Jazz clarified. Down came the hockey stick again -
WHOOOMP!

“I don’t even have pierced ears.” Nettle retorted, pulling
back her hair to show Jazz.
Really,
how utterly mad is she?

Jazz didn’t even care, she was on a rampage. She was
fourteen, tall (just as tall as Nettle), and her lithe athletic
body honed from hours of hockey practice could take her down, she
knew, without any form of resistance.
Probably with only her little
pinky,
Nettle supposed.

“If one of you doesn’t own up and give them back to me,
like immediately! I’m going to
inflict some serious pain.” WHOOOMP!
Bram’s plate of porridge crashed onto the floor.

“Dad!”
yelped Bram. “Jazz’s gone MENTAL!”

CHAPTER FIVE

A
Tarnished Bracelet

When
Fred leapt into Bessie, his heart racing from hearing the
frantic yells of help from Bram, Nettle was dodging a wild swing
from Jazz. Jazz, blustering, scarlet cheeks blowing from the
exertion, swung again and missed. She smacked the ceiling,
“AaaaarrrrggGHHHHH!!” she shrieked.

“
Hey, hey!” bellowed Fred.

“Where
is it!?” Jazz screeched, totally ignoring her uncle.

“I
haven’t taken anything,” Nettle cried skirting around the tiny
dinette. Bram had holed himself up in the bathroom. “I don’t know
where your stupid earrings are.”

“Yes,
you DO!” Jazz raised the hockey stick.

Fred grabbed
the hockey stick from behind. “Hey! Hey! What in
blazes is going on?”

Jazz
immediately rounded on her uncle, wrenching it back from his grasp.
She jabbed him in the stomach with the handle. “Uncle Fred my
earrings went missing last night and one of those two,” pointing to
Nettle and to the bathroom door, “took them.” Jazz’s ponytail, with
its locks of strawberry and gold, switched like an antagonised
cat’s tail.

“
Did not,” came from behind the bathroom door.

“
Did too,” replied Jazz childishly.

“Did
not,” answered Nettle just as immaturely and poked out her tongue
at her crazed cousin. She turned to her father. “Come on Dad, how
ludicrous is that? Why would we even bother?”

“
To annoy me,” answered Jazz, poking her own tongue out in
return.

The door
to the bathroom slid open and Bram cautiously poked his head out.
“Well, she does, kind of, have a point there.”

“Uncle
Fred, I heard them whispering in my bedroom last night. I thought I
was dreaming,” she glared at Nettle, “until I woke up and found my
suitcase rifled through.”

“That’s
ridiculous,” protested Nettle. “Bram and I were in my bedroom all
night.”

Bram leapt out of the bathroom, excited.
“See, I told you
so,” he said to Nettle. “Those talking rats must have taken
them.”

Jazz
gave her little cousin an absurd look. “Talking rats?”

Bram
ignored her, continuing to address Nettle. “I heard them dragging
something, metal-like, in the walls. It must have been the
earrings.”

“Talking rats, oh yeah…
OK…” Jazz rolled her eyes. “That’s your
cover story? Talking rats? I suppose they snuck in, opened my
suitcase with their tiny little fingers and opposable thumbs, and
decided my big dangling earrings brought out the sparkle in their
beady little eyes, and they just had to have them?”

Bram glowered, when Jazz said it like that, she had a point
- it did sound completely ridiculous. He adjusted his glasses,
clearly uncomfortable, and made a little
pfft
-ing noise.

“Talking rats?” inquired Fred, his voice a little thin and
papery. He had stilled and was trying very hard to appear casual.
He thought nobody noticed, but Nettle did. Curiously, she observed,
how intently her father was trying
not
to stare at Bram, not even daring to breath,
awaiting his son’s response. And whatever Bram’s reply was going to
be, meant something significant.
But just what?

“I heard
them last night in the walls.” Bram answered, deciding to brave
Jazz’s ire. “I thought, at first, they were just normal rats, but I
swear,” his big blue eyes imploring his father to believe him, “I
heard one of them say they were lost.”

“Uncle
Fred!” shrieked Jazz. “Don’t say you believe him?”

“Jazz,”
Fred growled. “Calm down.”

Jazz
clamped her lips together looking like she was about to explode,
but adhered to her uncle’s command.

Nettle heard the long expel of breath he’d been holding,
the almost unperceivable shake of his head, and the slight flare of
his eyelids.
This wasn’t the news he’d hoped to hear from Bram. But
surely, he doesn’t believe in talking rats?

Though his gaze rested thoughtfully on Bram,
Nettle could see
her father’s mind was elsewhere. After a long moment, her father
spoke. “Now, there’s an easy way to learn the truth.” He turned to
his daughter and son and fixed them with a baleful stare. “Did you
take Jazz’s earrings?”

Bram shook his
head.

“No
,
of course not,” answered Nettle, her lips puckered with annoyance.
Jazz was bothersome to be sure, but she wouldn’t steal something,
just to irritate her. No, there were more creative ways to
infuriate her older cousin. And maybe, tonight, she might ponder
one or two.

“Well
then,” Fred said turning to Jazz with a light smile, relieved to
have solved the mystery. “Your earrings must be lost, or for the
moment misplaced.”

Jazz’s
mouth gaped with injustice. “But-”

“But
nothing, Jazz,” interrupted Fred. He stared hard at his young
niece. “I’m sure your earrings will turn up soon. Maybe, as soon as
you tidy your things.”

“
I-” began Jazz, but found herself interrupted by her uncle
once more.

“Now,
the three of you are going to spend the day cleaning the cottage,
OK?” Fred’s stern expression brook no argument. All three of the
children nodded, Jazz in particular, resentfully. “OK, alright
then… I’ll be outside, working in the yard.”

Fred left Bessie
, but before he closed the door, he re-entered,
took Jazz’s hockey stick from her and warned the three kids, “And
no arguing.”

The trio
waited until they saw Fred disappearing around the cottage before
breaking into a heated argument.

“
One of you took them!” Jazz hissed.

“
Did not!” yelled Bram.

“We
wouldn’t touch anything of yours, you jerk!” retorted
Nettle.

Jazz fell
quiet.

In
Nettle’s opinion Jazz was the complete opposite to herself in
looks. While she considered herself dull and quite ordinary, Jazz,
with her beautiful almond shaped eyes an exquisite shade of
cornflower blue, pert nose and full apple cheeks within a well
proportioned face, was stunning. Her pale skin had just enough of a
hint of warmth she didn’t freckle. Even now, with her face screwed
up, blotchy with outrage, she was still pretty.