“Angus Cairns, I want to talk to you!”
These were the first words out of Alex’s mouth as she slammed into the room this afternoon.
She sounded quite like her mother.
I had no need to ask what she wanted to talk about, for I had been dreading this moment since I opened my haggis hole and told her to look up the story of Ewan McGonagall.
“Come out here! Right now!”
I crept from the Pink Horror.
She stared down at me, hands on her hips, and said, “The brownie in the story is you, right?”
“No, not me. It was my da.”
“All right, it was your father. But you’re the one who carries the curse now, right?”
I lowered my head. “I had hoped it was over,” I mumbled.
“Why would you hope that if you’re still bound by the stupid thing yourself?”
“Because it’s been nearly a hundred years since the Curse of the McGonagalls has struck. And it has never struck in a house where I served.”
“And why is that?”
“It only strikes the men of the line, and in the time since I became Curse Bearer, I have never been assigned to a house with a man in it. Also, some magic can’t cross the water.”
I realized how weak that last sounded even as I said it.
“So what, exactly, is this curse?”
“Wait here,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“Just into the Pink Horror to get something. I’ll be right out.”
When I returned, Alex was sitting at her desk. I could almost see rays of anger shooting out of her head.
“Get up here,” she demanded, pointing to the desk.
I scrambled up.
“What have you got?”
I handed her a scroll of parchment. “Here it is—the curse itself.”
She made a face. “I can’t read something that tiny.”
“Just take it!”
She held out her hand and I dropped the scroll into her palm. The minute it landed, it began to grow. She yelped in surprise but didn’t move.
When it stopped growing, I said, “Take off the ribbon and read for yourself.”
Then I braced myself for what was to follow.