THEY SAT AND READ. AFTER A FEW MINUTES, Lowry gave up. “Molly, I’m not sure this is even written in English.”
“I’ll look in a minute,” said Molly, her eyes wide. “I’ve just found the symbol that Furlock branded onto Carl’s arm.”
“Ooh! Tell all.”
“It’s not a cross or a phantom, like I thought – it’s a set of weighing scales.”
“Weighing scales? Weird.”
“It’s the mark of a demon named Lady Orgella. Want to know her alternative title? Wait for it: the Mistress of Ghouls.”
“Ghouls!”
“There’s a whole paragraph about her!” Molly marvelled, taking out her notepad and copying information down. “She must be really flipping important.”
“But why weighing scales? Is she a demon baker from Hell who’s always burning cakes? Like my mum?”
“She’s a lawyer in Hell, and sometimes a judge. The scales are the scales of justice.”
“They have lawyers in Hell?” said Lowry. “Actually, that makes sense.”
“She specializes in Ghoul Law. Remember, ghouls are demons who’ve been given horrid bodies and sent to earth to exist on a diet of corpses as a punishment for crimes against Hell.” She read on. “Lady Orgella decides how long a demon who’s found guilty must live on the earth as a ghoul before it’s allowed back into the underworld.”
“I like to see women in positions of power.”
“She’s definitely powerful. Ghouls are desperate to impress her so that she’ll let them back into Hell. And get this: like ghouls, she’s a desecrator – she enjoys spoiling things that people hold precious. Apparently she’s also very vain – there’s a quote from an old grimoire here, a magical book for calling up spells. It says that she ‘taketh an interest in whosoever taketh an interest in her’.”
“She soundeth like a proper big head.”
“Her lesser-known title is the Lady of the Double Mirror, whatever that means. Various mayors of Howlfair are rumoured to have paid occultists to summon her to give them secret knowledge. It’s said that one of them agreed to put her symbol on the Howlfair flag to thank her for her services.”
“Is there a picture of her?”
“No pictures. But get this – there’s supposed to be a portrait of her in Howlfair Museum! It’s not labelled, though. It was painted to look like a portrait of a normal aristocratic lady, but there are clues that it’s actually the Mistress of Ghouls.”
“What kind of clues?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“So how are you going to find her picture?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And why did Furlock brand Carl with this Lady Oregano’s symbol?”
“It’s Lady Orgella – and I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe Furlock’s set up some sort of secret club in honour of her, and he decided that Carl might want to join it.”
“Doesn’t sound like he gave Carl much of a choice. Hey, do you think Furlock is some kind of demon worshipper? Maybe Lady Orgella is the one who gives him the power to control ghouls?”
“I definitely wouldn’t rule it out.”
“So… Furlock worships a demon lawyer who has something to do with ghouls, and he runs a kind of evil church underneath Loonchance Manor, and he enslaves children and brands them with the mark of Lady Orgella and he gets them to deliver letters to people, who then end up dead or in hospital.” She faked a big yawn. “To be honest, Molly, I was hoping this investigation would lead somewhere more interesting. But since we’ve come this far, tell me: if Furlock really is a demon worshipper who controls ghouls, how are we going to defeat him?”
“Defeat him?” frowned Molly. “We’re not dragon slayers, Lowry, we’re investigators. We’re going to get hard evidence about what he’s up to, and then we’re going to give it to Mr Wetherill so he can stop Furlock from becoming our mayor.” Molly finished copying the notes from Hayden Drake’s tome. “Now give me that copy of Botanicals. I’m going to find you your werewolf cure.”
Lowry sat giggling into a picture book about mischievous elves while Molly scrutinized Botanicals and made notes on her pocket notepad. The fireplace coughed out echoes and dust. Window frames shuddered. Outside, the day was darkening as a coven of clouds debated whether to smite the town with rain.
At last, Molly slammed Follington’s Botanicals shut.
“I’m done.”
“Really?”
“It’s a simple recipe – good for all kinds of lyncanthropy. No harmful ingredients. We need to get to Hesperus Street. Do you have any pocket money on you? I’ve made a list of roots and oils we need to get from Bodle and Sharnyard.”
“Will this recipe definitely cure werewolf curses? I was saving my money for a massive blow-out at Cakes and Shakes.”
“Yes, it’ll stop any curse from passing to you.”
“And you’re absolutely sure the potion won’t kill me? You’re definitely not just fobbing me off, are you?”
“Lowry, Follington’s Botanicals is a highly respected work. Everything in it has been tested.”
“In that case, yes. I have pocket money.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
First Lowry returned the books, swapping the covers back, and then the girls headed out through the mizzle to Bodle and Sharnyard, the apothecary on Hesperus Street, to buy small quantities of fifteen oils and roots from old Mr Bodle.
In the pungent, bark-scented little shop, Lowry informed Mr Bodle that she was hoping to create her own brand of toiletries.
“I’m working on a special moisturizer,” she told him. “Softens skin and, um, removes excess hair.”
Somehow she got away with it.
“We’ll go to yours and make a tincture, and you can start taking a few drops a day,” Molly said as they walked back to the heart of town. “But you have to stop using it if there are any dodgy side effects…”
They passed the museum, with its three appalling spiky spires of different heights. The black stone faces of the building were crowded with little windows, flags set into holders and furious gargoyles. Black columns held up a porch over the main doors. Gold ravens were painted on the columns, beaks skyward, swirling around as though being drawn into a cyclone. A sign outside advertised an exhibition called The Silver Forest.
“I’ve always been a bit scared of the museum,” Molly admitted. “And Mrs Dalby on reception always glares at me.”
“D’you want me to come along and help you clean the place tomorrow?” said Lowry. “We can try to find Lady Orgella’s portrait.”
“That’d be fab,” said Molly. “Although I don’t know how we’ll be able to tell her picture from all the others.”
“You’re Molly Thompson. You’ll figure it out.”
They headed to Little Valley Drive with the ingredients, and in the cosy kitchen of Lowry’s bungalow, pretending to Mr and Mrs Evans that they were making their own special food colourings, the girls worked happily to cook up a harmless anti-werewolf remedy.
Through the kitchen window, Molly saw the waxing moon glowing in the summer-blue sky, clear as a mirror. It seemed to Molly that it was staring at her. And some words swam into her mind:
I taketh an interest in whosoever taketh an interest in me.