Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (52 page)

“
That’s what I’m saying,” he said slowly, as if exasperated on
being asked the same thing countless times by an idiot, “Is that so
hard to believe? This house obviously has some security, but look
at where it’s situated – nowhere is safe, really.”

Nettle rounded
on the spriggans, glaring at Quary. “How come you never said
anything?”

Quary just
shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“
To be fair lass,” Egnatius said, leaning on his walking
stick, “it looked like it happened quite some time ago.”

Then Nettle remembered the first time she’d walked into the
cottage, less than a week ago, the overturned furniture, smashed
shelves, broken glass,
the room looking like the remnants of a
fight…
Someone from the Wilds was in this house…

Bram gently
took her hand. “I think you’d better sit down.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

That’s
a Curse

Five minutes
later, Jazz had actually made herself useful by slathering together
some jam and peanut butter sandwiches and steeping tea in a bright
yellow teapot. At Bram’s look of amazement she merely answered,
“St. Miriams curriculum.” When he continued to stare at her, she
gave an irritated sigh. “They need to ensure if ever our
house-staff went on strike we wouldn’t starve to death and could
pour a decent cup of tea if we had visitors.” Bram continued
staring at her a little longer. His spoilt cousin never ceased to
amaze him.

While Jazz had
been busy fixing them something to eat, Nettle had explained
everything that had occurred in Olde Town: Pippa’s warning, the
confrontation with the sisters in the tea house’s kitchen and her
escape from the Atelier, which in particular had caused a little
ripple of interest from the spriggans.

At the beginning of her tale, she and Jack sat across from
one another,
locked together in a hostile stare-down. But the more she
spoke, Jack’s harsh expression softened until it melted to a
reluctant look of admiration.

Jazz pushed a plate toward Jack, who prodded the sandwich
suspiciously. She and Bram shared a look –
he’s-never-encountered-peanut-butter-and-jam-sandwiches?
Jack took a tiny
bite, rolling the sandwich around in his mouth. A grin slowly
spread across his face. “This is really quite weirdly good...” He
wolfed down the sandwich and reached for another, swiftly finishing
it.

Nettle was a
bundle of nervous energy. All she wanted was go back to Olde Town
and rescue her father - right this minute - but she understood
Bram’s need to learn as much as he could to make an informed
decision as to how best they could accomplish this. It was hard to
wait - she couldn’t stop tapping her foot, all she could think of
was lost time.

“
Do you mind?” Jack said, tossing an annoyed look her way.
Nettle scowled back at him, but stopped her restless
foot-tapping.

Bram sat at
the head of the dining table, smoothing open his journal. “Before
we rescue Dad, I need to know exactly what we’re facing.” Spix sat
cross-legged on the tabletop, carefully placing a row of odd-sized
pencils in front of him. He passed Bram a red and black striped
pencil, and the youngest Blackthorn wrote at the top of the page –
Balfrey Sisters Are Witches - and underlined it twice. Bram looked
up expectantly at Jack, his pencil poised. “Right, let’s start with
the witches. How does one become one?”

Roq stood on-guard behind Jack with an enthusiastic air of
one desperately wishing for the least likely provocation to poke a
hole in the goblin. Jack gave the spriggan a displeased glance
before addressing Bram, his features softening toward the boy. “You
can’t just become a witch or warlock, you’re born one,” Jack
explained, dusting breadcrumbs from his jacket sleeve, and
unwinding his scarf to carefully lay on the back of his chair.
“They’re the offspring between fae and mortal. Not one of the Folk
like the Hags - they’re wild and feral and so very, very ugly-” He
stopped himself with a shake of the head and a self-deprecating
grin. “Let’s not get into them just yet, but witches and warlocks
come under Kin-Folk and other such peoples of the Wilds, who
aren’t
of
the Wilds, but related to it.”

Nettle
mentally sighed, she wasn’t hungry. She picked at the crust of the
sandwich, glancing at her brother and the way he furrowed his brow
in concentration. Bram was busy scribbling down the information in
note form. He didn’t look up when he next asked. “What sort of
magic do they have?”

Jack leaned
his elbows on the table and pressed his fingers together before him
as he thoroughly contemplated the question. “Folk from the Wilds,
well, magic is in our blood. Witches and warlocks are half-breeds,
and are more like alchemists.”

Nettle stopped
picking at her sandwich to look at Jack. From her encounter at the
tea house, that made a lot of sense. The sisters hadn’t cast the
type of spells she was used to reading about, but had used powders
and gases and liquid against her. Her shoulders writhed with the
memory of being engulfed within the fire-ball and its scorching
heat.

“
Huh?” Jazz said, her nose wrinkled in confusion. She slipped
into a chair beside Nettle and started pouring cups of tea. Steam
rose, permeating the air with the smell of chamomile.

“
It’s like an olden-time scientist,” Bram enlightened, wisely
choosing to explain in a rather rudimentary simplistic term for his
cousin.

Jazz’s mouth
pursed in an impressed, silent “O.” But Bram wondered if she
actually understood.

Jack began
rapping a distracted beat on the table-top with his fingers as he
considered the siblings. “They know instinctively what’s needed to
be brewed together to make spells and potions. But their personal
powers, or magic if you like, is dependent on their lineage.”

“
Like, who their parents are?” Jazz asked. She’d half risen to
slide a tea cup across to each of them before sitting back down
again. Nettle, not interest in the tea, distractedly prodded hers.
The sisters may very well have put her off that kind of drink for
life.

Jack nodded,
“Precisely.” Jazz squiggled a little in her seat, casting a
thrilled look at her cousins as though she’d passed her exam with
top marks. Jack took a sip of his tea, smiling a little in
appreciation. Nettle mentally groaned, rolling her eyes at her
cousin, as Jazz simpered back at the goblin.

The kitchen
had grown chilly - with everything going on in the last few hours,
the fire had been completely forgotten. With restless energy, and
wanting to do something, anything, Nettle rose, padding over to the
wood-burner to tend to the fire. If they were going to be
discussing the witches a little longer, it would be more pleasant
if they were warm.

Jack casually
rotated the cup of tea around in his hands as he explained further.
“Since they’re the offspring between mortals and fae, witches and
warlocks normally have very low level magic.”

Nettle caught
on quickly. “But obviously, that’s not always the case.” She was
crouching before the wood burner, sifting around the ashes and
embers with the poker, when she unearthed something. She reached in
and pulled it out, dusting off the layer of grey ash.

Nettle gasped.
It was the Box. She’d tossed it into the fire a day or so ago. It
should have been burnt to a cinder. But it was in pristine
condition. Not even a scorch mark.

“
You’re right, lass,” said Egnatius.

“Huh?” she said a little dazedly, looking at him over her
shoulder, lost in her thoughts.
How on earth did this Box survive a
fire?
Nettle
slyly pocketed the Box. Until they rescued Dad, the mystery of the
Box could keep to until another time.

Egnatius shot
her a quick curious glance. He was sitting on the kitchen bench
pressing more shredded leaf into his pipe’s bowl while keeping a
cagey eye on the goblin. “Most witches are able to heal quickly or
give you an itchy-eye or brew up a mug of stink-love.”

Nettle stoked
up the embers in the burner and threw a few dry sticks and
pinecones on. Something fizzed past her shoulder and she rocked
backward, barely suppressing a shriek of fright as the kindling
burst into flame.

Jack gave an
arrogant wink, as he rubbed his hands free from the fire-ball he’d
just thrown. Nettle heaved an exasperated sigh, piled a few more
heftier logs onto the fire, then stomped back to her seat to glare
at the goblin from across the table.

Sandee was
sharpening her sword’s blade with long leisurely strokes. “There’s
some witches who’re able to conjure a maelstrom, and some can bend
nature to their will,” she said casting a suspicious look at the
goblin. “And there’s some who can even persuade you that there’s a
bridge to safely cross a ravine, when there is none.”

“
Aye,” Egnatius quietly agreed, lighting his pipe. “There are
those.”

Bram frowned,
looking up from his notes. “And that kind of magic comes from
who?”

Jack placed
the cup back on the table to lean back, an arm slung casually over
the back of the chair next to his as if idly chit-chatting about
the weather. “Normally, one parent is a witch or warlock and the
other is either a ysar or goblin or even one of the rarer elder
families.”

“
So what kind of magic do the Balfreys’ possess?” Bram asked
intently. Spix was now busy lining up a row of stones beside his
sling.

Jack gave a
small shake of the head, his broken nose crinkling a little as if
the knowledge defied him. “Most of the witches and warlocks the
Balfreys’ have collected have minor powers, like your little
spriggan friend here described - nothing much to worry about. But
in the Balfreys’ case, their mother’s a witch, making them just a
little bit more dangerous than the average. And while I’ve learned
Lysette was incredibly powerful due to her sire - whom I’m assuming
has to be from one of the elder families - her younger half-sisters
come from a mortal father.” His eyes darkened to a deep purple as
he said quietly, as if talking to himself. “But they’re displaying
quite the talent for magic.” His gaze locked with Nettle’s.
“Someone from the Wilds must be helping them.”

Nettle’s brow had furrowed.
Why is he talking about Lysette’s sisters
as if they’re alive?
Her gaze fell to the table top where she’d
absentmindedly been gouging the surface with a fingernail as the
memory of the O’Grady’s Bookshop tugged at her. The book about
Lysette…
Her
death was attended by her mother Lucinda and her siblings...
Lucinda
had to be the
Crone, she knew that, but there was something more obvious staring
her in the face. She thought back to the Crone and her threadbare
cloak, the old woman’s ragged nails digging into her arm -
They never cared
for me, neither of ‘em. Embarrassed is what they are. Just stuck me
with a name to suit them, an’ hope I go away, or die, whatever
comes first.

Me and my fair
girls…

Nettle mentally groaned, really was she that stupid she
hadn’t seen what was plainly obviously. “The Crone,” she said
slowly, raising her green eyes to meet his violet ones. “Is
Lysette’s mother...
and
the Balfrey sisters...”

Jack
opened his mouth to speak when Jazz interrupted. “What do you mean,
Lysette’s sisters?” She pulled an absurd expression. “Ah… how could
they be? They’d be, like, hundreds of years old. How could they
even live that long?”

Jack’s eyes
narrowed. “Dryads Breath, amongst other things. It’s a life
extender. And of course, stealing life-essence from the mortals
visiting Olde Town.”

Everyone had
stilled. Even Quary stopped half-way through a mouthful of Nutella
to turn a wide-round eye on the goblin. The atmosphere in the
kitchen grew anxious. They hadn’t bothered to light the lantern or
any candles, on this dreary morning, so the fire was the only warm
light in the room.

“
They’re stealing life from the visitors?” Bram asked, his
expression aghast.

Jack’s posture
tensed and he leaned forward, his expression serious. “The whole
town is rigged to steal life-essence from whoever comes to stay.
Every drink and every morsel is drugged with a powder that leeches
life from the mortals and is gathered in the orbs about the town,
above, as chandeliers, or as gas lanterns along the path.”

Nettle shook
her head, stunned, fleetingly remembering the book store and the
exchange of orbs between the goblin and Smilla. “And everyone is in
on this?”

Jack gave a
terse nod. “Many of the Balfreys’ witches and warlocks in the
village are well over a century old. In exchange for collecting
this life-essence they gain credit at the tea house so they can
purchase Dryad’s Breath. And if they don’t need any, they’re able
to purchase ingredients for their spells.”

“
They’re stealing life from us, to live longer…” She recalled
the family at the tea-house, the mother who complained to her
husband about her wrinkles.

“
Yes. But the Balfrey’s are stealing a lot more life-essence
than is warranted for extending the lives of themselves and their
little gang of elderly thugs.”

“
What are they up to?” Nettle asked breathlessly.

The goblin
jerked his head back, surprised. His eyebrows arched upward and he
looked at her askance. “I thought you knew.”

She shook her head slowly. She hadn’t known.
I should have
though,
she
berated herself,
back at the kitchen they’d practically screamed it at
me.