There was a very peculiar smell in the kitchen of the Port Witch Coven. Simon sat on a small greasy sofa, squashed uncomfortably between Veronica—the witch with the cone of hair on top of her head—and Daphne, the small, chubby one. To take his mind off how uncomfortably close they were—and what knobby elbows Veronica had—Simon tried to work out what the weird smell was. Soon, as his eyes grew accustomed to the murky darkness—which was illuminated only by the fire in the stove—he realized what it was. Cats. Countless pairs of blank yellow eyes, glinting in the glow from the flames, were staring at him.
Simon felt edgy. He was wedged so tightly between the witches that he could hardly breathe. It was just his luck, he thought, that the nice witch who had fetched the wheelbarrow was not sitting next to him. She was busy stirring a dirty old pot on the stove, from which came another peculiar smell—Witches’ Brew. Every now and then she glanced around at Simon and smiled shyly at him, and Simon smiled back. But even Dorinda’s smiles did not stop Simon from longing to jump up and run out of the fug, into the clean night air of the Port. However, he knew better than to leave his master, who was piled on the kitchen table with his head placed at a jaunty angle by Dorinda.
DomDaniel was looking at the Witch Mother, who seemed, Simon thought, to have a score to settle. “What did I tell you, Dommie?” the Witch Mother crowed. “I said you’d come to no good in the end. I told you the next time you came to see me it would be in a wheelbarrow.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Pamela,” DomDaniel snapped. “Anyway, things are perfectly fine. I am regrouping. Reassessing. Recharging. That Overstrand woman—she’ll be sorry. I have plans. Rather clever ones, actually. I will soon be back with a vengeance. Won’t I, Heap?”
“Yes,” Simon said obediently, though right then he thought it seemed highly unlikely.
DomDaniel stared at up the Witch Mother. “To that end, Pamela, I need a little assistance.”
The Witch Mother gave a snort of amusement. “A little!”
“Ahem. With a Clothing Bones Spell. Difficult to do it for oneself.”
The Witch Mother leaned down, put her elbows on the table and stared eye to eye with DomDaniel’s head. Simon saw the head wince at the onslaught of cat breath. “Well, now, who would have thought it—you asking me a favor?” the Witch Mother said with a stubby-toothed smile.
DomDaniel looked very uncomfortable. “You won’t regret it, Pamela. You get me back on my feet so that I can sort out old Nastier Overstrand for keeps, and I will let you keep the Darke Toad, which is, at this very moment, sitting on your door.”
“The Darke Toad? For keeps?”
“For keeps, in exchange for a top-of-the-range, permanent Clothing Bones. I need one that lasts even without the bones—after they have been, let us say, Placed elsewhere. Can the Coven do that, Pamela?”
The Witch Mother frowned. What DomDaniel was asking for was a very difficult and complex Darke Spell, and she wasn’t sure that the Coven could do it—especially the bit about lasting without the bones. What, she wondered, was the old goat planning? But a Darke Toad was a huge status symbol—a sign to any passing witch or warlock that beyond the door lay serious Darke Magyk. The Witch Mother made a decision: The Coven could manage something, and once the Darke Toad was theirs, what did she care about DomDaniel’s boring old bones?
“Yes,” she said. “We can do that. No problem.”
Crash! The sound of the front door crashing open, then slamming shut, shook the kitchen floor and far, far beneath it, Simon thought he felt something stir. A heavy pounding of footsteps came toward the kitchen and the door burst open. Bang! The fifth witch, Linda, rushed in. Her dark blue eyes glowed in the gloom and her long, shiny black nails flashed like claws. Linda looked furious. Simon saw Dorinda cower in fear, and beside him Daphne and Veronica went tense.
“Ear-flapping, nosy cow!” Linda yelled at Dorinda.
Dorinda dropped the wooden spoon and, like a rabbit caught in a flashlight, she watched, terrified, as Linda set a course for her, kicking her way through the rubbish-strewn floor.
Linda reached her victim and poked her in the ribs. “Madrigor has gone,” she said. “And he is not coming back. Ever. And it is all your fault, you nasty little earwig, you filthy string of nose slime, you—”
“Now, now, Linda,” said the Witch Mother. “Language.”
“I’ll give her language,” snarled Linda. “Earwigging at my door. Listening to every word we said. And then giggling.”
Dorinda gave a whimper and hid her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to,” she said.
“Yes, you did, you lying little weasel. You listen at all our doors; don’t think I don’t know.”
“Does she really?” asked the Witch Mother, looking worried.
“Yes, she does. You’d be amazed at the secrets those delicate little ears have heard.”
“Oh dear,” muttered the Witch Mother.
Linda reached out and tweaked one of Dorinda’s ears. Dorinda squealed. Linda leaned closer and breathed the special kind of Linda mouse breath all over the terrified witch. “Never mind, Dorinda. I’m going to do you a favor.”
Relief flooded across Dorinda’s face. “Oh, Linda, are you?”
Simon sighed. Dorinda must be very silly, he thought—anyone else could see that Linda was planning something very nasty indeed. On either side of him, Veronica and Daphne were watching, enthralled.
“What are you going to do, Linda?” they asked in unison.
“Well, seeing as how Dorinda loves to go flapping her ears around the place, I’m going to give her some ears she can really flap.”
Dorinda began to look worried.
Quick as lightning, Linda grabbed hold of Dorinda’s ears, her nails digging in viciously. Dorinda whimpered in pain. “I’d keep still if I were you,” Linda hissed. “Because I am going to Bestow upon you the finest pair ever of …”
“Yes, yes?” chorused Daphne, Veronica and the Witch Mother.
“Elephant ears!”
Dorinda screamed so loudly that Simon stuffed his fingers in his own (thankfully human) ears and closed his eyes. When the smoke cleared and the smell of burning flesh subsided into the comparatively pleasant odor of cat poo, Simon opened his eyes just in time to see Dorinda flee sobbing, her huge, gray African elephant ears flapping wildly as she hurtled from the kitchen, pursued by gales of raucous laughter. Simon felt sorry for the young witch; he knew that a Bestow was a permanent spell, and for the rest of her life Dorinda would have to live with a pair of elephant ears sprouting from her head. The fact that they looked so comical and that Simon had trouble not joining in the laughter somehow made it even worse.
The laughter subsided and the Witch Mother turned her attention to DomDaniel. The elephant ears had put her in an extremely good mood. It had also shown her that Linda was a force to be reckoned with.
“Linda, dear,” she said obsequiously, “I do hope it would not be too much trouble for you to assist us in a Clothing Bones Spell?”
Linda smiled. “With pleasure, Witch Mother.” She looked down at DomDaniel, who was beginning to relax. “Is this old tramp here for us to practice on?”
DomDaniel frowned but said nothing. He was so near to getting what he wanted, he did not want to jeopardize anything.
The Witch Mother giggled—not a pleasant sound. “Oh, Linda, you are so very amusing. Oh, ha ha. So droll. This, of course, is none other than DomDaniel.”
Linda looked shocked. “Really?” She bent down and stared at DomDaniel’s head. “Gosh,” she whispered. She waggled her fingers in what Simon supposed was a wave and trilled, “Hello, Mr. Daniel. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“Oh, get on with it!” said DomDaniel, who had reached his limits of patience.
“Very well,” said the Witch Mother. “Let it begin.”