“Oh.” Further consultation took place. “How about three diamond necklaces and an emerald ring?”
“No. I know what I want.”
She smiled then, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright, looking for all the world like someone’s dear old granny. The pirates as a group went suddenly pale, remembering their own grannies and recognizing just how big a mistake they had made.
Half an hour later, the pirates and their witch guests departed. Mrs. Ogden stood cheerfully beside the remnants of her picket fence,holding a piece of paper containing scrawled Latin poetry, and deciding which of the houses along Anchor Road she was going to steal.
She chuckled. Mr. Ogden would certainly not have approved.
Miss Plim, on the other hand, was silent as she sipped tea and watched Mrs. Rotunder navigate south across the town in search of Armitage House. She did not mentionnuance,or even smirk once. But Mrs. Rotunder knew, and thus learned the power of witchcraft even without words.
On the shore road below, Daniel Bixby glanced up as the Rotunder house cast its shadow over him. He had escaped the bonds Miss Dearlove had left him in, despite their surprisingly strong knots, and was now leaning against a wall with his hands in his trouser pockets, watching several women poke around Alex’s house on the pier. At first he thought they were pirates, for they appeared to have been involved in some kind of catastrophic haberdashery incident, but after several minutes passed without them drawing guns on each other, he realized they were, in fact, witches. One woman holding a small white dog was applying a tool to the door’s lock with a determination that should soon have entertaining results, considering the booby trap Bixby had installed only last week.
“Fine weather we’re having,” someone said.
Bixby turned to see a bony, pale-haired man standing next to him. “Hm,” he replied, squinting up through his spectacles at the gray sky, which promised rain.
The man sniffed, and Bixby restrained an instinct to pass him a handkerchief. “I’m looking for a girl.”
A small silence passed, in which someone with an easier sense of humor would have said,Aren’t we all,but Bixby simply regarded the fellow until he blinked those strange, uncomfortable eyes.
“Twenty-one, strawberry blonde hair, name of Charlotte Pettifer. I wonder if you’ve seen her?”
“No,” Bixby said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He went on gazing with such dispassionate stillness that the man actually took a step back.
“Well, now.” The man sniffed again. “I think you may be mistaken.”
“I am never mistaken,” Bixby replied.
The man scowled. It should have been frightening, but Bixby had worked for years with half-mad pirates, had even spent ten minutes in polite conversation with Miss Darlington, and a mere scowl from what was clearly a policeman did not trouble him. He turned to go—
And the man caught his arm.
The question of whose humerus bone would have been broken must remain unanswered, for at that moment the witch sprang the door’s booby trap.
Boom!
The pier shook. The witch fell back with a second, smaller explosion of supportive undergarments. Her white poodle soared into the air, coming down with unexpected force on the head of the pale-eyed policeman.
There followed a third and inexplicable explosion of sawdust. Bixby coughed disapprovingly. When he could see again, he realized the dog was beyond saving, and obviously had been so for several years. The witches were in a flutter that proved them all alive. And so with a shrug he stepped over the policeman’s unconscious body and went off in search of some dinner.
20
every lady needs a she shed—alex is entertained—change of tactics—alex wishes for an explosion—mutual disagreement—water-colored memories—silence
Lady Armitage was excessively fond of dungeons. There was always so much discomfort, so much elegiac charm, about them. She had built herself one in the cellar of her battlehouse, where she might drive husbands down at any time, and collect a few gruesome memories, and be happy. She advised everyone who was going to maraud, plunder, marry, or generally commit piracy, to build a dungeon.
Alex himself also had a dungeon in his cottage, since the house had belonged to another pirate before him. He stored his beer and potatoes there.
Sitting now on the stained wooden floor of Lady Armitage’s oubliette, staring into the shadows, he thought he had never been more content. His back ached as he leaned against the wall, he was literally in sore need of a cushion, and he very much wished he had not thought about beer and potatoes, considering his last meal was hours before. But none of this signified in comparison to the pleasure of Charlotte’s company.
She appeared to have forgotten he existed, other than the times when, in the course of her pacing, she stepped over his outstretched legs. Each time she did so, her expression was careless, but her boots gave an eloquent clack against the floor, and Alex had to struggle not to laugh. He knew if he did, she would ignore him even more vehemently.
The dungeon’s bolted door, high tiny window, wall shackles, and spikes occupied all her attention. She worked upon them with an effort that went undeterred by its complete and utter failure. At one point she even levitated parallel to the ceiling, searching for a possible trapdoor. But incantation, boots, fingernails, outraged witch glare all proved inadequate. Alex watched her grow more pale, more furious, as time wore on. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
