“I saw a bloody crown. But I’ve been thinking about it,” said Chantel. “And I don’t think the crown was empty. I think there was a king in it. I think it was one of the ancient kings, and that I just didn’t recognize him.”
A stony silence followed this remark. Chantel shifted uncomfortably, and Japheth the snake flicked his tongue. It occurred to Chantel suddenly that she had never seen Miss Ellicott’s familiar.
“You do not think that,” said Miss Ellicott.
Chantel was reluctant to contradict, because of her deportment. “I beg your pardon. I think it was King Fustian the First.”
“Oh? And what did King Fustian the First look like?”
“Uh, square,” said Chantel. “His face was kind of square, and his ears were kind of square, and his eyes were kind of—”
“Square, because the sculptor who carved the bas-relief on his tomb was incapable of curves,” said Miss Ellicott. “Do not lie to me, Chantle. It is useless, annoying, and a waste of time.”
Japheth gave an angry twitch. “I thought it might have been King Fustian,” said Chantel, controlling her temper.
“You mean, you thought that was what I wanted to hear,” said Miss Ellicott. “That is not how prognostication works. You see what you see. You make yourself an empty vessel into which the vision pours.”
“Well, I guess I can’t do it, then,” said Chantel.
“Not with that attitude, certainly,” said Miss Ellicott. “If you wish to be of service to your king, so that he may defend our country from the evil Marauders Without the Walls, you must put aside these adolescent vaporings. You do not matter. But at least your vision sounds like a real one. Tell me again exactly what you saw.”
“A crown with blood coming out of it,” said Chantel, her neatly folded hands clenching angrily. “That’s all.”
“Good. You must never let anyone convince you that you have seen something other than what you have seen,” said Miss Ellicott. “And that means you must never convince yourself that—”
There came a tapping at the chamber door.
“I am engaged!” said Miss Ellicott, to the closed door. “Never convince yourself that—”
The knock came again, timid but determined.
“Whoever is at the door had better think very seriously about whether she wishes to remain within my household!” said Miss Ellicott. “Chantle, you must never—”
The knock came a third time.
Miss Ellicott stalked to the door and tore it open.
Bowser stood trembling in the doorway. He looked, Chantel thought, as if he’d been staring into his own open grave.
“M-Miss, there’s somethi—someone to see you.”
Miss Ellicott fixed on him the look that students got when they should not have dared to speak. “I am engaged.” She turned back to Chantel.
“I told him that,” said Bowser. “He said you’d want to see him.”
“He was mistaken.”
“The man said—”
“If he must see me, he may come back tomorrow at nine o’clock,” said Miss Ellicott.
Bowser looked as if he was caught between two terrifying things. “M-Miss. He said to tell you ‘Dimswitch.’”
Miss Ellicott stared.
Then she turned to Chantel. “Chantle—” She opened her mouth, and closed it again. She did this three times, as if she was thinking of things to say and then discarding them.
“Chantle,” she said finally. “Whatever happens, I expect you to do your duty.”
Chantel was startled. “Do my—?”
Miss Ellicott swept out of the office. Chantel and Bowser heard her hurrying down the stairs.
They looked at each other in confusion.
Chantel took Japheth from her neck and let him slither from one of her hands to another. “Why did you almost call him a ‘something’?”
“Because he was.” Bowser was looking at the jars of magical ingredients on the shelves. “What are all these things?”
“Stuff for spells,” said Chantel. “What did he—”
“What’s this?” Bowser picked up a jar.
“Screeching mandrake roots harvested on the night of a blood-red moon,” said Chantel. “Never mind them. What did he look like?”
Bowser put the jar back. “Like death, I guess. He looked . . .” Bowser frowned. “Like something that was going to happen no matter what, and nobody was going to be happy about it.”
Chantel looped Japheth back onto her neck and went out into the hall. She looked down the stairs. The front door was shut, and the hall was empty.
Up above they could hear the chatter of the other girls, reciting rules for spells or sweeping the dormitory. Down in the kitchen, they could hear Frenetica clattering pots.
“Did he say what that meant?” Chantel asked. “Dimswitch?”
“No,” said Bowser. “He just said ‘Dimswitch.’”
“Hm,” said Chantel. “Maybe we’ll find out more when she comes back.”
But Miss Ellicott did not come back.
It was only late that evening that it began to become clear that something was wrong. And when she was still not back the following morning, it was clear that the something was very wrong indeed.
The day after the mysterious stranger spirited Miss Ellicott away, none of the jobbing sorceresses showed up to teach. There was only the non-magical Miss Flivvers. And Miss Flivvers went into a tizzy.
Chantel had always thought of Miss Flivvers as a grown up, and she’d expected her to behave in a grown up way, which up to now she always had. But it seemed that without Miss Ellicott to tell her what to do, Miss Flivvers had no idea. She gathered all the girls into an upstairs classroom. And she gave them lists to memorize, and that was that.
Chantel and Anna slipped away. No one said anything. They were suddenly freer than they had ever been. Chantel and all the other girls could have sledded down the streets on pot lids; there was no one to stop them.
But it was late spring, and anyway the situation was too serious for sledding. Chantel and Anna went down to the skullery to confer with Bowser.
“Could Miss Ellicott have gone to do the Buttoning spell?” said Anna, without much hope.
“That’s done every second Thursday,” said Bowser. “And she always goes really early in the morning—more like night, actually.”
“Maybe she just went away on a visit . . .” said Anna.
She trailed off as the others shook their heads. You could walk anywhere in Lightning Pass in an hour. There was no need for overnight visits. And she couldn’t have gone outside the wall. People didn’t.
Frenetica the cook stuck her large head around the doorway. “If you’re through solving the world’s problems,” she said, “you can go round to the shop and get me some cinnamon, and two dozen eggs. And place an order for another hundred pounds of potatoes.”
She meant Bowser, of course. Magical maidens didn’t run errands. But on this strange, unsettled day, it didn’t seem to matter. Chantel, Anna and Bowser slipped out the skullery door, down the alley, and around the corner to Mr. Whelk’s grocery on Fate’s Turning.
Where there were only three eggs, and no cinnamon.
“Can I have the eggs, then, please,” said Bowser, setting his basket on the counter.
“I suppose so.” Mr. Whelk spoke in tones Chantel imagined a mournful walrus might use. “Somebody has to.”