The Courage of Cat Campbell (16 page)

“I cannot imagine what Marie Claire is so happy about,” Poppy said as she washed up the dishes after supper.

Cat shrugged and continued clearing the table, trying to hide her guilt.

“I didn't sleep at all last night,” Poppy confessed, resting her hands on the sink. She frowned and leaned forward, staring hard through the window. “What in the . . .” Poppy began, rubbing at her eyes. “That can't be. It's just not possible.”

Hurrying over, Cat peered through the glass to see what her mother was looking at. By the light of the moon she could just make out a handful of chickens floating around the yard, wafting gently on the breeze like helium balloons. No wonder her mother looked so shocked!

Bending over the sink, Poppy splashed cold water on her face. She patted it dry with a towel and walked rather shakily across the room. “I'm going to bed,” Poppy murmured, rubbing her eyes again. “I'm so tired I'm seeing things.”

“Night, Mamma,” Cat called after her, praying that the chickens would be back on the ground by tomorrow. She'd have to be more careful with her measuring and stirring next time, but the spell hadn't been a complete failure, Cat decided. The chickens didn't seem to mind, and Marie Claire certainly appeared happier.

Cat knew she should let Boris out for a little crawl on her hand. If she was serious about facing Madeline Reynolds, she needed to be prepared. But the thought of Boris scuttling all over her at this moment just wasn't something she felt up to. That could wait until tomorrow. Smothering a yawn, Cat was about to turn off the lights when she noticed a crumb of pink cake lying on the table, the size of a small pea. She eyed it for a moment, and then, making up her mind, Cat darted over and popped the crumb into her mouth. It was so small she couldn't taste much, just a little sweetness and maybe a hint of vanilla. However, Cat was smiling as she climbed up the stairs. Suddenly everything felt more hopeful.

T
HE NEXT MORNING CAT WAS
relieved to find Marie Claire standing at the kitchen table, rolling out croissants. And even more relieved to see the chickens clucking around the yard as usual.

“I'm feeling extremely light on my feet this morning,” Marie Claire said, giving Cat a wink.

Poppy, on the other hand, was hunched over a tray of cupcakes, piping on frosting and reading the newspaper at the same time. “They still don't know where she is,” Poppy murmured. “No sign of Madeline Reynolds anywhere.”

Cat shuddered. Any day now, the world's most evil storm brewer could turn up in Potts Bottom, and Cat had to be ready.

When Cat got home from school, the bakery was jammed with customers. She felt a touch guilty as she slipped upstairs to her room, knowing Poppy and Marie Claire could use her help, but she had to keep working on her fears. “Okay, Boris, now I'm going to let you out for a little walk,” Cat said. “Please go slowly and don't run up my sleeve.” She opened the container and, before she could change her mind, Cat tipped him onto her open palm. “Ohhhhh,” she wailed softly, but she didn't flick him off right away. “One, two, three, four, five,” Cat said, before giving her hand a violent shake. Boris dropped onto the floor, and Cat gave a sob of relief. “Five seconds—I did it!”

She rubbed her hands together to get rid of the ticklish feeling and pulled
Practical Magic
out from under the bed. Cat had memorized the Trapped like a Fly Spell by heart, but she wanted to read over the wand technique again. “Right, Boris, get ready to be tied up,” Cat said.

“Cat, are you in there?” Poppy knocked on her daughter's door. “We could do with a hand.”

“I'm studying,” Cat called back, slipping her magic wand under the rug.

“Are you all right?” Poppy said, opening the door and stepping inside.

“Mamma, I'm busy.” Cat slammed the spell book shut and shoved it behind her.

“Cat! What exactly are you doing?” Poppy walked across the room and plucked the book up before Cat could stop her. She looked at the cover. “
Practical Magic
?”

“I'm just reading it.”

“You shouldn't even have this.” Poppy gasped, glancing around the room. “You found it in the attic, didn't you?” Her voice rose in anger. “Where are the others, Cat? I'm sure my mother kept them all.” Poppy got down on her hands and knees and peered under the bed. She pulled out the box of magic books. “Now I know where you've been getting your spells from.”

“Mamma, please.”

“I cannot believe you're up here practicing magic,” Poppy fumed.

“Don't take them away,” Cat begged.

“I most certainly will,” Poppy said, holding the box in her arms. “I'm your mother, Cat, and I know what's best for you.”

“You think you do, but you don't.” Cat couldn't believe what her mother had just done. “You mustn't throw them away.”

“I'm not going to throw them away. I just don't want to see you get hurt.”

“No, you don't want to see me do magic.” Cat started to shake, anger rushing through her in a torrent.

Poppy knelt down on the rug beside her daughter, balancing the box of books in her lap. “This is becoming an obsession, Cat. Ms. Roach isn't going to change her mind. I know what she's like, and you need to find something else to focus on. What about gymnastics or horseback riding? I'd even support you if you wanted to run away and join the circus.” Poppy gave a wobbly laugh, but Cat didn't join in.

“Please let me keep the books, Mamma.”

Poppy gave a deep sigh and stood up. “I've made a nice chicken pie for supper,” she said softly. “You'll feel better after you've had something to eat.”

“No, I won't,” Cat whispered, realizing that as well as losing her books she had also lost sight of Boris. Her spider was nowhere to be seen. If she had had the power to turn her mother to stone right then, she might have done it.

The weather turned wintry overnight. There was frost on the grass when Cat left for school in the mornings. Ten days had passed since Madeline Reynolds escaped. The villagers took to wearing dark-colored clothing as if all the browns and blacks and stormy purple sweaters reflected their bleak, gloomy mood. Nobody smiled, and the lines outside the bakery wound right along the canal path and up to the street as the villagers lined up in worried silence for their cakes and croissants and warm butter bread. Cat had stopped speaking to her mother, Peter had gone back to sitting with Adam on the bus, and it was difficult for Cat not to feel her own spirits starting to droop. Her dream of becoming a witch seemed to be slipping further and further out of reach.

On Friday afternoon, Cat hurried straight home from school, so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn't notice Clara Bell coming out of the bakery until they almost collided with each other. “Sorry,” Cat apologized, looking up. “I didn't see you coming.”

“No harm done,” Clara Bell said, closing the shop door behind her. “And lucky for me, I just got the last loaf of walnut bread. Beat old Maxine Gibbons to it!”

“That's nice.” Cat forced herself to smile. “The shop's never been this busy.”

“Comfort eating,” Clara Bell said. “I have to admit I bought cookies as well.”

“Are you nervous?” Cat asked her. “About Madeline Reynolds being out there somewhere?”

“A touch, I suppose. But I try to save my worrying for things I have some control over.” Clara Bell shifted the bags in her arms, rustling the thin white paper. “And how are you doing?” she asked gently, her brown eyes full of warmth. “Did my little book help?”

“It did,” Cat said, glancing over at the canal. “Although no one seems to think it's a good idea for me to reapply to Ruthersfield next year.” She didn't mention her plan to try to capture Madeline Reynolds, because she knew how crazy it would sound.

“But you still do?”

“I want to, more than anything,” Cat said, her lip beginning to quiver.

“Believing in yourself and your magic is half the battle, Cat. That's one of Francesca Fenwick's most helpful tips, I think.”

“I'm trying to believe,” Cat said, “but it's so hard. I'm beginning to think it's not worth it. I can't do it. I'm making everyone unhappy.”

“You have to have a great deal of courage to be a Late Bloomer,” Clara Bell said. She slipped a hand into one of the bags and took out a raspberry jam shortbread. “I didn't quite tell you my full story before, Cat, but when I was at college, I took potions class as well as history. That's what I really wanted to be, a potions teacher, but I got an F in my exams.”

“An F?”

“I know. I was devastated, but I chose not to retake them because I was scared I'd fail again. And now I'll never know what might have happened.”

“I thought you loved teaching magical history,” Cat said.

“Oh, I do, I really do,” Clara Bell said. “And maybe things would have turned out like this anyway. I just wish I'd been braver back then, that's all.” She popped the cookie into her mouth and chewed. “Don't let fear stand in your way, Cat.”

When Cat woke on Saturday morning, it was still dark. The quiet buzz of the radio drifted through the floorboards, along with the smell of coffee cupcakes. Cat buried her face in her pillow, hating the sweet scent. It reminded her of happy weekends, making pretend magic potions at the kitchen table while her mother and Marie Claire baked. A great wave of self-pity engulfed her. But feeling sorry for herself wasn't going to solve anything, and Cat picked up
The Late Bloomer's Guide to Magic
. At least her mother hadn't taken this book away, although if she'd seen it sitting on the nightstand, Cat knew she would have. She started reading chapter 7, which was all about the importance of positive attitudes. By the time the postman arrived, Cat's spirits had lifted and she could hear Ted Roberts whistling as she raced downstairs. He gave Cat a big smile as she opened the bakery door and handed her a stack of letters.

“You're in a good mood,” Cat said. “I haven't seen anyone this happy in Potts Bottom all week.”

“I've stopped worrying, Cat. I decided this morning. I said, ‘Ted Roberts, you can't spend the rest of your life worrying about something that may never happen.' ” The postman shifted his bag of mail over to his other shoulder. “Besides,” he added, “if you ask me, I think she fell off that work broom over the Pacific Ocean and got eaten by a shark.”

“I haven't heard that idea before,” Cat said.

“No? Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? My mother's the same age as Madeline Reynolds and she has trouble just getting up the stairs. So how's an eighty-five-year-old witch going to go gadding about on a work broom? Tell me that.” Ted Roberts nodded at the mail in Cat's hands. “I think you'll find something interesting in there,” he said, giving Cat another huge grin.