Heading for home, the witches hurried along Fore Street and caught up with DomDaniel and the Darke Toad.
“Give me the Darke Toad and then push off, you old bag of bones,” the Witch Mother said to DomDaniel.
DomDaniel and the other witches looked shocked. The Witch Mother looked horrified. “Did I just say that?” she asked.
“Yes, you smelly old haddock, you did,” said the normally timid Daphne.
“Daphne!” said Linda. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“And mine,” said Veronica. She laughed. “Witch Mother, you look like a cracked old teacup with that stupid white stuff on your face.”
“Or the fungus under the sink.” Daphne giggled.
The witches stared at one another in horror—they were all saying exactly what they were thinking.
The sound of hooves clip-clopping toward them heralded Simon’s return. He was leading a big, beautiful black horse, which he had found in a tiny, filthy and unlocked stable. Simon, who still had some scruples, had left a crown (the standard price for a horse) plus a silver sixpence for the saddle and bridle.
DomDaniel looked at the horse approvingly. “Very nice,” he said. “Time to go. I’ll take the horse, Heap. You’ll be walking.”
“Not for long, you slimy old basket.” The Witch Mother laughed.
“What did you say?” demanded DomDaniel.
“You heard,” snapped the Witch Mother. “Hand over the Darke Toad, you weasel-eyed stoat face.”
DomDaniel was used to the Witch Mother being rude to him. It had once been something he had liked about her, but now he thought she was going a bit far. “I have not forgotten that the Darke Toad was part of our bargain, Pamela,” he said stiffly. He bent down very slowly—he hated the way he could feel skin and fat slipping over his bones—and picked up the toad.
The Witch Mother looked longingly at the Darke Toad as it sat gulping and blinking on DomDaniel’s very squishy palm.
“Give it to me,” she said. “Hurry up!”
DomDaniel frowned—he would have liked to refuse but a Darke bargain must be kept. Grumpily, he dropped the toad into the Witch Mother’s outstretched hand.
“Say the words,” snapped the Witch Mother.
“Say the words, please,” DomDaniel said peevishly.
“Oh, get on with it, fatso,” snapped the Witch Mother.
DomDaniel looked very annoyed. If he hadn’t suddenly felt unpleasantly itchy he would have said something equally rude in return. But all he wanted to do was get away from the witches and have a good scratch. “Madam, I assign to you all rights to this Darke Toad. May its Darkenesse follow you for all your days. So be it. Ooof.” DomDaniel could stand it no longer. He found a particularly itchy spot on his stomach and gave it a surreptitious scratch.
The Witch Mother cradled the Darke Toad in her hands. “Toady-woady,” she cooed.
“I’ll be off now,” said DomDaniel. He felt as though his skin were crawling with ants.
“Good riddance, you smelly old slime bucket,” returned the Witch Mother. “Come on, girls. Home. Oh, and Daphne, give Heap the wheelbarrow.”
“Why?” asked Daphne.
“Because those Clothed Bones won’t last much longer. Ha ha!”
DomDaniel could bear the itching no more. “What”—scratch—“do you”—scratch-scritch-scratch—“mean?”
The Witch Mother laughed. “You vain old lump of gristle, don’t you realize? We’re rubbish at stuff like that. There’s no way we could make a spell that powerful permanent, not even with Cowan blood. In fact, I am amazed it has lasted as long as it has. Ha!” She poked DomDaniel in the chest and her finger sank deep into his robe. “Eurgh, that is not nice.”
DomDaniel stared down at the hole in his chest. He looked up at the Witch Mother in shock as, like a crumpling balloon, his cloak caved in and the remains of the witches’ Clothing Bones spell evaporated. DomDaniel emitted a long, low groan, his legs folded out from under him and he collapsed into a heap on the road.
“You tricked me!” his—still Clothed—head screamed.
“Yes, we did. Serves you right, you smarmy little snake,” said the Witch Mother.
Linda was astonished. “You tell him, Witch Mother. I must say, I’m impressed. You’re not as utterly pathetic as you look.”
The Witch Mother pointedly ignored Linda. She turned to Veronica and Daphne and said, “Unlike Linda. Who is as completely vile as she looks.”
Daphne and Veronica laughed with delight. “Yeah. Vile!” they chorused.
Linda was speechless with fury.
The Witch Mother chuckled—she was back in control of her Coven. She held up the Darke Toad and smiled. A lump of white makeup fell onto DomDaniel’s head, once more atop a pile of bones. The Witch Mother stared down at the head. “No one will mess with us now,” she said. “Not even you.”
DomDaniel hurled the worst Darke swear words possible at the departing Coven, but they took no notice as they followed the Witch Mother up the street, a line of mismatched chicks trailing after their mother hen.
With gritted teeth Simon picked up the bones and put them into the wheelbarrow, carefully balancing the head on top while DomDaniel swore at him. Simon patted the horse’s nose and wondered whether he should let him go. He decided to leave the decision to the horse.
“Thunder,” he whispered—for that had been the name scrawled over the stable door—“you can follow me if you want to. It’s a long way, but I’ll look after you, I promise.” The horse pawed at the ground and sniffed the early morning air. The sun would soon rise, and he wanted to be off and away from the dark and cramped stable.
As the night sky began to lighten, Fore Street echoed to the clip-clop, clip-clop of Thunder’s hooves and the plaintive eek-eek, eek-eek of a squeaky wheel as Simon pushed the wheelbarrow and its contents along the pavement. At the end of Fore Street the wheel fell off the barrow and DomDaniel’s head rolled onto the street. “Put me on the horse, you dithering idiot,” it snarled.
Simon had had enough insults for the night. “All right,” he said. “I will.” In one seamless, angry movement, he threw off his cloak, caught the head and the UnClothed bones up into it, bundled them up into a ball and slung it onto the horse. Then he swung himself into the saddle and rode off toward the dawn, heading along the track that wound through the dunes and would take him across the Sheeplands, up into the Badlands and back to the dark, dank Observatory.
From its new home on the doorknocker of the Port Witch Coven, the Darke Toad blinked and watched them go.
Septimus and Marcia emerged from Fishguts Twist onto the deserted harbor front. A somber atmosphere hung over the harbor, and a few people were sitting mournfully on the harbor wall, staring at the dark water, thick with wreckage. The Harbor Master’s house was a blaze of lights as the surviving sailors bunked down for what remained of the night.
Marcia closed the thick oak door of the Customs House with a quiet thunk. She and Septimus headed across the entrance hall and up the wide stone stairs to the guest quarters.
“It was very nice of you to reverse the witches’ Silent,” said Septimus as Marcia Lit a nightlight and gave it to Septimus to take into his room.
“Not as nice as you might think,” Marcia said, smiling.
“Oh?”
“It had a twenty-four-hour Think Speak on it.”
Septimus laughed. “You mean they will have to say exactly what they are thinking for the next twenty-four hours?”
“They will indeed,” said Marcia. “That will make life rather interesting, I should imagine. Now, Septimus, off to bed. That’s enough excitement for one night.”
Septimus yawned. He reckoned Marcia was right. “Good night,” he said. And then, “That boy … why did he run away from us? We were only trying to help him.”
“I seem to remember another boy who wanted to run away, not so long ago,” said Marcia. “It took him a while to realize that I wanted to help too.”
“What boy?” asked Septimus. And then he realized that Marcia meant him. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Good night, Septimus,” said Marcia, smiling. “Sleep well.”
“I will,” said Septimus.