“Pst! Betty!”
Fingerty gurgled with fright as a voice cut across his own, interrupting his tale. Betty, who had huddled down in the sacking to listen to him, sat up, dazed at the sound of it. She had been so wrapped up in the story that the cold, damp fog in the present almost came as a surprise after the long, hot summer of Sorsha and Prue’s.
There, between the marsh mists, Fliss’s face hovered like an apparition above the boat. Joy and relief coursed through Betty like a wave. How wonderful—and weird—it was to see her sister’s face in this way again!
“Fliss!” She reached out to the image of her sister’s face, not quite touching it—but Fliss’s eyes were searching the boat in earnest.
“Betty, where are you?” she whispered.
“I’m here!” Betty said, then realized Fliss was unable to see her. “Oh, wait—the dolls!”
Fingerty clutched his oar to him like a shield. Blinking, he recovered himself and peered closer at Fliss.
Colton had stopped rowing and was gazing at the hovering, ghostlike face with curiosity and possibly a degree of fear. During Fingerty’s tale he had listened, as enraptured as Betty. “Does Fliss have something, too? Like the bag and the dolls?”
Betty nodded. “A mirror.” Hastily, she twisted the outermost doll so that the two halves of painted key no longer met. Instantly Fliss focused on her, and Betty knew they had reappeared.
“Fingerty?” Fliss gasped. “What’s he doing with you?”
“He was with the warders looking for the prisoners. Colton and I . . . Oh, I don’t have time to explain now, but we had to kidnap him.” Betty gripped the edge of the boat, hope and fear soaring in her heart as questions tumbled out of her. “Where’s Charlie? Are you safe? Did you escape Jarrod?”
Fliss shook her head. “Charlie’s safe. We haven’t escaped. Jarrod’s asleep with the bag, and he’s brought us to this creepy old mill. It’s deserted, all boarded up. The only way out is the door and he’s blocked it, so we’re trapped. Wait—Charlie’s here . . .” Fliss’s face vanished momentarily and was replaced by Charlie’s.
“Charlie!” A lump lodged in Betty’s throat at the sight of her little sister. She so badly wanted to hold her, to feel her sister’s hot, sticky little hand in her own again. There was no way to tell if that could happen now. The curse had begun to bring them closer than they’d ever been—before ripping them apart. “Are you all right?”
Charlie nodded, a tangle of hair bobbing over her forehead. Her cheeks were grubby and tearstained. “I’m awful hungry now. And there’s birds squawking in my head. I want it to stop!”
“Oh, Charlie,” Betty said again. Her eyes filled with desperate tears. It had begun: the crows’ caws counting down the hours until sunset.
“I can hear them, too,” Fliss said quietly, reappearing in Charlie’s place. “The crows. It’s awful. I can barely hear myself think.”
“Hearing crows?” Colton asked, perturbed. “That’s part of the curse?”
Fliss nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Are you in Windy Bottom?” Betty asked urgently. “Is that where this mill is?”
“I think so. I—I don’t know how long he’s planning on staying, but he’s mentioned getting supplies and working out a plan before we move on. Perhaps once you’ve made it back to Granny you can send help, but even if we escape Jarrod, we’re no closer to breaking the curse . . .” Fliss paused, frowning. “Wait, why is Colton in the boat with you if you’re heading back to Crowstone . . . ?”
Betty gulped. “About that, I . . .”
“Betty?” Fliss repeated sharply. “Answer me! Why is Colton . . . ?” She emitted a sudden gasp as Betty shook her head guiltily.
“I never said I was going back, Fliss. Not without you and Charlie.”
“But the curse!” Fliss croaked. “You can’t do this! You mustn’t!”
“I’m not going back alone,” Betty repeated.
“Don’t be a fool!” Fliss begged. “Turn around! You must still be within Crowstone’s borders . . . Save yourself before it’s too late!”
“I’m coming to find you whether you like it or not.”
Tears dripped down Fliss’s cheeks. Betty glanced at the water, half expecting them to land there, but they vanished the moment they left her sister’s skin. “I could shake you, Betty Widdershins!”
“Let’s hope you get the chance,” Betty whispered, but at that moment Fliss’s eyes took on a panicked look.
“I have to go—Jarrod’s stirring. I think he’s waking up!”
“Fliss!” Betty reached out just as her sister’s face vanished. “Charlie?” Her fingers found only swirling curls of mist, like her sisters were already phantoms.
No! She couldn’t think like that! They were alive, unharmed. For now.
She felt Colton’s and Fingerty’s eyes on her and buried her face in her hands.
“It’s not too late for you,” Colton said. His eyes were haunted. “I could take you back . . . search for Charlie and Fliss myself. You’re not out of Crowstone yet—”
“No.” Her voice was muffled. Less than an hour ago Colton had been her sworn enemy. Now, even with their fragile truce, she didn’t want him—or Fingerty—feeling sorry for her. For them to help her they had to believe she was strong.
“Yer want to listen, girl,” Fingerty said. His gravelly voice was softer than usual, like some of his hardness had chipped away from seeing Charlie and Fliss. “Won’t do yer sisters no good chasing after them, not if it means getting yerself killed.” He blinked suddenly, eyes reddening. “An’ poor old Bunny . . . she can’t lose you all . . .”
“I said no. I’m going.” Her sisters weren’t lost! She couldn’t let herself think that, not yet. She held out her hand to Colton. “Give me the oar. I need to do something, I can’t just sit here!”
Colton shook his head. “You should rest.”
“Row faster, then,” Betty snapped. She turned to Fingerty, who was squinting into the mist looking troubled. “And I need to hear the rest of Sorsha’s story—”
But Fingerty lifted a gnarled finger to point silently into the fog. Betty and Colton stared.
A tiny flickering light was hovering above the water close to the boat, glowing like a ghostly orb. Betty had never seen a wisp so closely before. It had a mesmerizing quality, and she could suddenly believe all the stories about them as wraiths luring travelers to danger. Spooked, she blinked, remembering Fingerty’s superstitious talk to the warder.
Strange things have happened on this water . . . Terrible things. He glanced at her and made the sign of the crow. “I’ll not say another word about all that until we’re on dry land.” With that his lips clamped shut like a mussel and he grabbed an oar from Colton. Together, they rowed in silence, each as eager as the other to get away from the mysterious wisp.
Betty settled into the pit of the boat, dragging her gaze from the wisp. After fumbling with the dolls to hide the three of them from sight once more, she turned her face into the musty sacking and wept silently, trying to make sense of all she knew about Sorsha and the curse. Thoughts and images muddled in her head: fishy eyes, magical dolls, and musty carpetbags . . . Widdershins scratched into stone. She felt strongly that Prue was the person Sorsha shouldn’t have trusted, but without the rest of the tale she couldn’t be sure. Answers were there, somewhere . . . she just couldn’t make them fit. Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, exhaustion and the lull of the waves tugged her into sleep.
She dreamed of her sisters and picking merrypennies in the meadows beyond Nestynook Green. She woke with damp eyes to the shriek of birds and bleak dawn light, and jolted up from the bottom of the boat. Ahead lay a bay of golden sand shaped in a perfect crescent. Beyond it, the land was lush and green, and despite the sky being overcast, Betty was surprised to see that the water was blue and clear; so clear she could see tiny fish swimming alongside them. Somewhere near, too near, a crow rasped, soon joined by a second. The last traces of sleep left her as she scanned the skies. No crows, only scavenging gulls. It was happening, just like Granny had said.
It starts with birdsong. The crows’ chorus. No matter how hard you look, you’ll never see them. The sound exists only in your head . . .
Panic rose in her throat, and she clapped her hands over her ears. The crows in her head croaked louder. The sound itself was horrible, like the inside of her skull was being scratched and pecked at . . . but what it meant set her limbs shaking with terror.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Please stop . . .”
But there was no stopping it, no going back; the curse had been set in motion. Even if a tiny, deep part of her had clung to the possibility that it couldn’t be real, there was no denying it now. And as surely as the sun would set, it would also mark the last day of the Widdershins sisters unless they uncovered the secret to breaking the curse.
Colton touched her arm lightly. She looked up, her eyes wild. Fingerty hung back, squinting and twitching as if he had gas.
“It’s started,” she whispered. “I can hear the crows.” She pulled herself onto the seat. Every bone in her ached. “Where are we?” she croaked.
“Horseshoe Bay,” Fingerty answered. He was huddled at the other end of the seat, like a gnarled old tree stump. “Had to come farther around the mainland, as Marshfoot’ll be swarming with warders.”
Betty’s gaze swept over the beach. Here the sand was like coarse golden sugar, not the dull, ugly shingle she was used to. She had always thought she’d be happy for such a sight, but instead, she felt cheated. Without her sisters and Granny to share it, the bay’s beauty was bittersweet. She had risked everything to be here, and yet now that she was about to step onto dry land that wasn’t Crowstone for the first time in her life, her hopes were smaller than they’d ever been. She tried to tell herself that it was still possible, that they had come this far, but the crows in her head were doing their best to drown out the practical little voice she always tried to listen to.
Colton leaped out as the boat ran ashore. Betty wavered, momentarily queasy. Colton offered his hand to her, not quite meeting her eye. She hesitated, then took it, allowing him to help her out. They might not be friends, but there was no point in her being proud. After, he went to help Fingerty, but the old man slapped his hand away, still sore from having a fish hook held to his throat.
“I can manage.”
“Suit yourself,” Colton replied.
“Need no help from a pecking crook,” Fingerty continued as he climbed awkwardly over the side of the boat.
“Takes one to know one,” Colton muttered.
Fingerty’s fleshy nose reddened, but he said nothing. Together, they hauled the boat up over the sand.
“Over there.” Colton pointed. “We can leave the boat behind those rocks. There’s plenty of seaweed to cover her up with.”
“You could make a wish here, for yer sisters,” Fingerty said unexpectedly. “Folk say wishes made in this bay be sure to come true.” He frowned, the roughness leaving his voice as he watched Betty. “You look like yer could use a bit of luck.”
Betty looked back over the shimmering water and remembered Father’s cousin, Clarissa. She had traveled here all those years ago, wishing for the curse to be broken . . . but it hadn’t worked. Perhaps the curse was too powerful. Or perhaps, with the crows overpowering Clarissa’s thoughts, she hadn’t wished for the right thing . . .
Betty closed her eyes, trying to blot out the sound of the birds and focus. The logical side of her knew that wishing alone couldn’t give her what she wanted, but right now she’d take all the help she could get. If she was going to die, she would at least try everything in her power to change things first.
“I wish for the knowledge that I need to break the curse,” Betty whispered. Her words were whipped away on the wind before they had barely left her mouth. She blinked, shaking a frizzle of hair out of her eyes, and searched for a path away from the cove. They trudged up it in silence, the sound of their invisible footsteps on gravel and sand confusing the gulls that were circling and pecking. Betty welcomed the noise, though it was still not enough to mask the crows’ rasping.
“If I live past today, I never want to hear another crow again,” she muttered.
Fingerty’s eyes darted from side to side. “Crows . . . curses . . . cuckoo, all this,” he said, shuffling farther into his coat.
It was then Betty stopped abruptly. Something heavy in her skirt was bumping against her knee as she walked. From her pocket she withdrew a flat, rough gray stone . . . like those Crowstone Tower was built from. Her fingers trembled. She flung it away into the scrub, but not before Colton saw.
“What was that?”
“A stone from the tower,” she said quietly. “Whenever the curse is triggered, one falls from the walls.”
Colton gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “This is some curse.”
Betty nodded wordlessly and set off again. She had only taken a few paces when the weight in her pocket returned, along with the dull thud against her leg. The stone was back. She continued, not bothering to remove it again. It echoed the heaviness of her heart.
Did you really think you’d be any different? it gloated. She curled her fingers around it, its weight a cruel reminder of all the other Widdershins girls before her.
Let it be, she thought. It stood for all she was fighting for, too.
The sandy path gave way to cobbles. They found themselves on the outskirts of a town that was just rousing itself from sleep as the sun rose, starting to break through the cloud.
From a baker’s cart Colton stole three buns and an urn of milk. Too hungry to feel guilty, Betty wolfed down the still-warm bread. Even Fingerty ate gratefully, without a single snippy comment about crooks, and was far better tempered for it.
Betty tapped her foot impatiently. The sun had risen, but instead of being warmed, she felt chilled. She wondered if she would see it mark this point in the sky again after today. “Can you hurry? We need to keep moving.”
“Give us a chance!” Fingerty spluttered, wiping milk from his chin.
“I need you to make some inquiries. Find out how far away Windy Bottom is. It’s too risky for Colton or me to ask.”
Fingerty hiccupped. “Best undo this spell, then, unless yer want folk scared, thinking they’re talking to spirits.”
Betty rolled her eyes. She hadn’t foreseen that she would be quite such a bossy leader, but in her imagined escapades the stakes had been about adventure. This was about survival. “Obviously. But Colton goes with you, unseen, and so does the fish hook.”
Fingerty scowled. “Hmm.”
They found a narrow stone bridge and ducked into the shadows underneath. It was deserted but for a beggar woman selling matches, intent on counting her meager takings.
“Here,” said Betty. She took the nesting dolls out from the folds of her clothes. After twisting the top of the outer doll counter-clockwise, she removed it, taking care not to dislodge Colton’s scrap of cloth or her own piece of bitten thumbnail that kept them invisible. She took out Fingerty’s button, then sealed the dolls carefully once more, lining up the keys.
Fingerty blinked as he became visible, looking this way and that now that he was no longer able to see Betty or Colton. Then he tensed as Colton leaned over to say something in his ear.
“Still here, old man.” He nudged Fingerty in the ribs. They began to walk, passing the beggar. She called out to Fingerty, but he did not answer, and her face fell. Betty watched her pityingly. Some people did not need magic to be invisible.
She was pacing impatiently, kicking up a small tornado of dried leaves at her feet (much to the confusion of the match seller), when Colton and Fingerty returned.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Yerp.” Fingerty cuffed his nose, speaking quickly. “Windy Bottom is a couple o’ miles west. There’s a coal wagon over yonder that’ll be going through it—if we hurry we can catch it.”
“Good,” said Betty. Finally, it seemed, her luck might just be changing. A few minutes later, having sneaked onto the coal wagon, she didn’t feel quite so lucky. The three of them were perched uncomfortably upon mounds of coal that shifted every time the wagon went over a bump. Soon they were covered in coal dust, and it was an effort not to sneeze or cough too loudly as the horrid stuff got into their noses and throats.
Betty lay back, closing her eyes, which had started to stream. If she concentrated hard, the wagon’s rumbling almost drowned out the incessant cawing of the crows in her head.
She lay there, willing Fliss’s face to appear before her with the news that she and Charlie had somehow escaped, or were at least still safe, but there was nothing. Betty wondered if the wish she had made in Horseshoe Bay had been as wasted as Father’s cousin Clarissa’s.
She glanced at Colton, her thoughts souring further. He hadn’t needed a magical bay to make his wish come true. The Widdershinses had done that. Whatever he might desire now could only pale in comparison. Her curiosity deepened. “What did you wish for?”
“No point, so I din’t bother,” Fingerty grunted, unaware that the question hadn’t been directed at him.
Betty raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who said it’d come true.”
He scowled. “Yerp. Well, too late by then. Else I’d have wished never to have clapped eyes on either of you.”
“Maybe you should’ve wished for some manners,” Betty said under her breath.
Fingerty eyed her suspiciously. “Eh?”
“Nothing.” She turned to Colton. “And you? What was your wish?”
“To escape,” he said, without hesitation.
“What do you mean? You already have escaped.”
“No. I just got out of the prison. That’s not the same as being truly free. I’ve escaped Crowstone, but I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, not yet. Maybe not ever.” He chuckled softly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I think I do,” said Betty, softening toward him a little more. Colton was as haunted by Crowstone as she was. Perhaps neither of them would ever completely shake it off. “I know better than anyone that some prisons don’t need any walls.”
“And you’re still not free, even now.” He chuckled sourly. “Just like me. Some things . . . I know I won’t ever forget them. The stench, the cold . . . the cruelty. A place like that . . . it gets its claws into you and won’t let go.”
“Ain’t a good place,” Fingerty murmured in agreement. Their eyes met, something passing between them. Not quite a truce, but the start of an understanding.
“You said you were innocent,” Betty blurted out. “Is that true?” Suddenly she found herself hoping that it was. That breaking him out had served some noble cause if her own failed.
A sullen note crept into Colton’s voice. “Absolutely.”
Betty stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.
“After my father died, my mother became a servant,” he said eventually. “For a wealthy household. She worked hard for poor pay, though we were at least fed and clothed. But she wanted more for me, and saved as much money as she could so that one day I might have enough to start a new life for myself. We were treated like nothings by those we worked for. Oh, they didn’t hate us, but it was like . . . like we weren’t really people, with hopes and feelings.
“The only one who was different was the youngest of the house, a little girl. Her name was Mina, and she was seven years old. Perhaps it was because as the youngest, she knew what it felt like to be ignored. She’d often come to us for a kind word or a bit of comfort, always happy to listen to my mother’s stories or sneak off to climb trees with me. She taught me how to read. She was a wild little thing—a bit like your Charlie.” He smiled faintly at the memory, and Betty was reminded of Colton’s concern for her younger sister in the cell when he thought her tooth had been knocked out, and later, his distress when Jarrod had taken Charlie hostage.
Colton rubbed his nose. “Mina was the only one who cared when my mother became ill and died.” He blinked, but Betty could see the glassy sheen his eyes had taken on. “It was then I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t live that life anymore, not when my mother had worked so hard to change things for me.
“So I took out the money she had saved and packed up what little I had. But when I told them I was leaving, they laughed at me.” His lips pursed angrily. “Laughed! They told me not to be so stupid, that no one would take me as an apprentice or a scholar and that I’d end up begging on the streets. So I showed them the money.” He grimaced.
“That was a mistake. They wouldn’t believe my mother could have saved so much. They never noticed, you see. Never paid attention to what she went without, just to put by that little bit of her wages every week. Over a while, the money wasn’t such a little amount anymore. They accused me of stealing it and locked me in the cellar.” He leaned his head back on the rattling wagon, closing his eyes. “It was thanks to Mina stealing the key that I escaped. She was the only one who believed me, but of course, no one listened to her. When I got out, it was with nothing but the clothes on my back. All my mother’s money had been taken from me.”
“But . . . but that’s not fair!” Betty said fiercely. Poor Colton. No wonder he’d been so desperate to escape! He had already been through so much before he’d ever set foot in prison. He knew loss, just as she did.
“Needless to say, I didn’t get far,” Colton continued. “I tried, but having no money meant I couldn’t. I was hiding in a cow shed when they caught up with me, and of course by then I had no chance of making anyone listen. Running had only made me look guiltier.” He opened his eyes and met Betty’s. “And so I was thrown in Crowstone prison, where no one believed me, either.”
“I believe you.” Betty reached out and touched Colton’s hand. “And I understand why you lied to us to get out.”
“Doesn’t change anything, though, does it? I’ve escaped, but you three girls are paying the price.” His voice cracked with remorse.
The ache of wanting to cry filled Betty’s throat. Colton had a conscience; he wasn’t a monster. She couldn’t say she forgave him completely, but she was now certain that he had never meant the girls harm and would never have forced them to leave Crowstone. That had been Jarrod’s doing. But the person Betty blamed most of all was herself. “I’m glad you’re out,” she said at last. “You didn’t deserve to be in there.”
“It’s a bad enough place for those who are guilty,” Fingerty added gruffly. “An’ for some, the nightmare ain’t over even when they’re let out.”
“The ones sent to Torment?” Betty asked.
“Yerp.”
“Is that why you helped people escape? You felt sorry for them? Or was it only for money?”
For a moment it seemed Fingerty was struggling to answer. “Both,” he admitted finally. “I saw the way people are treated in there. Life on Torment ain’t much better.”
“People say you were nearly sent there,” Betty said. She winced as the wagon went over a bump.
“Wish I had been,” Fingerty growled. “Better that than to be a spy for the warders fer the rest of me life. No one likes a crooked warder less than another warder, that’s a fact! Some of them . . . there’s no sense of justice or fairness. They’re there to be cruel, because that’s what they enjoy. But not all of them. Some care . . . especially for the prisoners who really could be innocent.”
“Is that why you know so much about Sorsha Spellthorn?” Betty asked. “Because you thought she was innocent?”
Fingerty nodded. “Her tale fascinated many of the warders. My father, his father. Stories got passed down. Mostly of her being a witch, because those tales justified locking her up. The story I’m telling is the one they tried to stamp out. The one that’s frowned upon. Added to the strangeness of the tower—how it still survives—and of course her leaping to her death, no wonder it’s still going strong after all these years.” He paused, swaying with the cart. “And now that you’ve heard most of it, there’s not much else to tell except the final part.”