“You know,” Fliss said thoughtfully as she was drying some glasses when the week was almost up, “ever since we came back and saw Father, I’ve been thinking . . .”
“About?” Betty looked up from the board onto which she was chalking the specials.
“Whether we could have done more . . . to change things, for Mother.” Fliss’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We had the bag, Betty! What if we’d gone back to the night she died, changed her mind somehow . . . told her not to go out into the fog?”
“Even if we’d thought of it, she’d probably have left even faster, seeing the three of us from the future,” Betty said wryly. Privately, she’d harbored the same regrets, but realistically, she knew that nothing else could have been done once the curse was triggered. It was time to let the past lie and plan for the future—now that they had one. “We’d made a decision, Fliss. We had to break the curse and get back to Granny, and we did it. We saved ourselves and nine other Widdershins girls. How many people can say they’ve done something like that?”
“I know,” Fliss conceded. “You’re right.”
“Not to mention breaking not one, but two people out of Crowstone Prison,” Betty added. “I’d say plenty’s changed. You’ve managed to go a whole week without kissing anyone—”
She ducked, grinning as Fliss flicked the towel she was holding at her with a playful “Hey!”
Fliss tossed the towel down, looking thoughtful. “I think I’ll hold off on the kissing for now,” she said, staring through the window into the distance. “Until someone . . . worth kissing comes along.”
“Probably a good thing,” said Betty. “You were running out of options in Crowstone, anyway— Ow!” She laughed as Fliss grabbed the towel and threw it at her; then her grin faded. “What we have now . . . it’s enough. More than we could have hoped for. Expecting everything to be perfect would be like expecting Charlie to put on a lace dress and play tea parties.”
“Eh?” Charlie demanded, crawling out from the fireplace at the mention of her name. “I ain’t wearing no dress!”
“Good thing, too,” said Betty. “Look at you, covered in soot! What’re you doing under there?”
Charlie stuck her tongue out. “Looking for Hoppit.”
“You’d better hop it, before Granny sees you,” said Betty, nodding to the door. “Here she comes now!”
“Meddling magpies!” Charlie muttered, frantically brushing ashes from her clothes.
The doors of the Poacher’s Pocket opened, and Granny came shuffling in with a basket of groceries. Hot on her heels was Fingerty, laden down with a further two baskets.
“Might as well open now, girls,” she called, setting her shopping down. “It’s five minutes early, strictly speaking. But I’ll make an exception for you, Seamus, seeing as you’re so helpful these days.”
“Yerp.” Fingerty nodded, winking at the girls. “An’ a hero, too, Bunny.” He puffed out his scrawny chest. “Captured the crookedest crook in Crowstone, let’s not forget that!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Granny. “Fliss, fetch Mr. Fingerty his usual and then the three of you can get yourselves down to the harbor. Your father wants you.”
“Father? At the harbor?” Betty glanced at Fliss, bemused. What could he want them for? It wasn’t market day; no trading ships would be in. Why was Granny wearing such a knowing smirk? “Granny? What exactly is—”
Granny waved a hand, scattering tobacco from her unlit pipe. “You’ll have to find out for yourselves, and . . .” She stopped, glaring. “Charlie? CHARLIE! What is all this soot doing on my floor?”
Charlie scuttled out from under a table. “Father needs me!” she yelled, making a getaway through the door. “Bye!”
“Come on,” said Fliss to Betty, throwing down her apron. “Let’s go!”
Giggling, they left Granny grumbling and shot after Charlie, through the twisting streets, past the crossroads and ferry point down to the harbor.
“Where is he?” Charlie demanded as they surveyed the fishing boats. She squinted against the sun, her breath misting the crisp November air. “Wait, I see him . . . but whose boat is that?”
Betty shielded her eyes, gazing ahead. Her father’s stout figure was visible on a little vessel bobbing on the waves next to the jetty. It gleamed under fresh layers of jewel-green paint. “It’s ours,” she whispered, her heart soaring. “He did it. He finally fixed it!” Before she knew it, she was running, skidding along the jetty with Charlie and Fliss at her heels until they reached it.
Their father chuckled. “Well, it’s about time!”
“I could say the same to you,” Betty retorted as they scrambled aboard.
Father unwound the mooring, swaying easily with the motion of the boat. He scanned the sky as they pushed off easily, gliding through the water. “Weather’s fine, and it’s only just past midday. We may as well make an afternoon of it. So, where to?”
“Marshfoot,” Betty said at once.
“Marshfoot?” Father repeated. He shrugged. “Marshfoot it is.” Betty settled back in her seat, eyes on the smudge of land on the horizon. Marshfoot might not be as ambitious as some of the escapades she’d been planning, but it was a start. And any uncharted territory, however small, was still an adventure, she decided. Still a triumph.
There was time for bigger, time for further.
There was time.
“All right there, Fliss?” Father asked, shooting Fliss a concerned look.
Fliss nodded, taking deep breaths as she turned a familiar shade of green. “I’ve been better,” she muttered, catching Betty’s eye. “Been worse, too.”
“What’s this boat called?” Charlie inquired. “I didn’t see a name.”
She was right, Betty realized with a jolt. “It should have one, Father,” she insisted.
“Of course.” Father steered them to the left. “I thought I’d leave that to you girls to decide.”
“We should call it the Traveling Bag,” Charlie declared at once.
Their father laughed. “You can’t name a boat after a bag!”
“Why not?” Charlie demanded. “Boats are named after lots of things, and most of them are stupid!”
“Charlie’s right,” Betty agreed. “It was . . . it was from a story we heard once. About a magical bag that could take a person anywhere. It’s perfect.” She fell silent, realizing for the first time that this was a tale only they knew. For in this life, there had been no traveling bag or mirror handed down—only the dolls, from Sorsha herself. It was a past only they remembered; a secret only they shared. One that had forged their future.
Her hand found its way into her pocket, where a smooth wooden shape nestled snug and warm. She stroked her thumb over the doll’s sleek surface, recalling that other journey to Marshfoot, on a foggy, fateful night when she had been so unprepared, and unknowing.
“She who tries, triumphs,” Betty whispered to herself. She was Betty the Brave, Betty the Explorer.
And with her sisters at her side, she was ready for anything.