Goodly and Grave in a Case of Bad Magic
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“Anywhere else?”
Violet shook her head.
“Thank goodness.” Lucy took out her handkerchief, which fortunately was freshly washed, and wrapped the wound as best she could. Then she helped Violet to stand up.
“Where’s Caruthers?” Violet asked.
“Don’t worry, he’s here. He’s a bit mucky, though.” Lucy retrieved Caruthers from the muddy puddle and handed him to Violet, who clutched him to her chest with her uninjured hand. Then the two of them stumbled shakily out of the alley and back on to the high street.
The violin player was the first person to spot they were in trouble. She laid her instrument down in its velvet-lined case and dashed over to them, her shaggy dog trotting alongside her.
“Hell’s teeth! What happened to you two?”
“A boy. Attacked her with a knife!” Lucy said.
“He attacked her? What about you? Did he get you?” the girl asked, sounding extremely concerned.
“No, he didn’t.” Lucy shook her head. She was beginning to feel rather sick at the thought of what might have happened if they hadn’t managed to fight off the boy. By now, some of the shoppers bustling about had noticed something was amiss too. A little crowd began to form round Violet and Lucy.
“Ooh, look at the little one, her hand’s bleeding!”
Violet, who had turned very pale, said, “Could someone please fetch my mother?”
“Your mother, chicken?” replied a tall, dark-haired woman.
“She’s a seamstress. She works at the draper’s.” Violet closed her eyes and began swaying dangerously.
“I’ll take you to your mother, don’t you worry!” The woman quickly scooped Violet up before she could fall and then began heading towards one of the shops at the other end of the street. Lucy hurried after her, stumbling over the cobbles. When the three of them burst into the draper’s, the bell hanging above the door jangled madly, startling the man behind the counter. He looked up from the bolt of cloth he was folding and cried out in alarm.
“Brenda! What’s going on? Is that little Violet Worthington?” he said.
“Get her mother.” Brenda carefully deposited Violet on one of the tall stools that stood in front of the counter. The man swiftly obeyed and hastened through a pair of fringed red curtains that hung behind the counter, concealing the back room of the shop.
“You should sit down too, chicken, you look dreadful,” Brenda advised Lucy, who gratefully slumped on to a stool just as Mrs Worthington, a plump woman with kind brown eyes, ran through the curtains. She lifted up a section of the wooden counter and rushed over to Violet.
“My little girl! What’s happened to you?” Mrs Worthington took Violet’s wounded hand gently in her own and began carefully removing the handkerchief.
“Some lad attacked the two of ’em, down in the alley,” Brenda explained.
Mrs Worthington glanced at Lucy. “You must be Lucy, the new boot girl. Violet’s always talking about you. Can you tell me what happened, dear?”
As Lucy began explaining the attack once again, Violet laid her head on the shop counter. She was fast asleep by the time Lucy had finished speaking.
“That little one needs to be in bed,” Brenda said.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs Worthington replied.
“What about you, chicken?” Brenda asked Lucy.
“I’ll be fine. I can walk to Grave Hall,” Lucy said, although she was so shaken up that she was dreading the long slog back.
“If you like, I can take you. I’ve got my pony and trap.”
Lucy gratefully agreed. She followed Brenda out of the draper’s shop to where the pony and trap were standing. Brenda produced an apple from her pocket and gave it to the grey-and-white pony to munch on while she and Lucy climbed up on to the driver’s seat.
Lucy fell silent as Brenda geed the horse out of the village and on to the road that led back to Grave Hall. Was she going to be in trouble for casting magic in a public place? And what about the boy? She was certain that he’d seen the attack sparks. What if he started telling everyone what he’d witnessed? Lord Grave would be furious!
“You mustn’t worry, Lucy,” Brenda said at that very moment, as though she guessed exactly what Lucy was thinking. “Lord Grave will understand that you had to use magic to defend yourself, I’m sure.”
Lucy turned and gaped at her. “You’re a …”
“That’s right. My talents are mostly lowly, but I’m a magician just the same.”
“But how did you know I used magic?”
“There were a few little sparks floating around you when you came out of the alley. Now, tell me, how is everyone up at the Hall? Does Mrs Crawley still concoct revolting recipes? Bernie and I were very close when I worked there. I do miss her.”
“You used to work at Grave Hall?”
“I was the gardener there.”
“Why did you leave?” Lucy asked.
Brenda kept her eyes on the road. “An agricultural difference of opinion, chicken. Lord Grave sacked me. I don’t really like to talk about it, to be honest.”
Brenda dropped Lucy at the bottom of the long drive which led to Grave Hall.
“Hope you don’t mind me leaving you here,” she said, gazing rather wistfully towards the house as Lucy clambered to the ground. “Much as I’d like to see Bernie again, I don’t want to risk bumping into his Lordship. You take care now.”
Lucy waved Brenda off, then began to toil towards the house. When she finally stumbled in to the kitchen, exhausted and relieved, Becky was there, shelling broad beans. Mrs Crawley was too busy attending to some bubbling pots on the range to notice Lucy arrive at first.
Becky gave Lucy an appraising glance. “You took your time, Goodly. You look a right state. Did you have some sort of accident?” Becky’s tone of voice suggested she keenly hoped something bad had happened to Lucy,
“Not an accident. Sorry to disappoint you, Becky,” Lucy snapped. “I was attacked. So was Violet. She got the worst of it. She got cut by a knife.”
“Violet got cut?” Becky said, accidently knocking the bowl of beans off the table and on to the floor.
Mrs Crawley turned from the range. Her face was bright red and sweaty from the heat of the pans. She hurried over to Lucy and put an arm round her shoulders, her forehead dripping gently on to Lucy’s cloak. She steered her in to one of the kitchen chairs. Lucy was grateful as she was beginning to feel rather odd.
“Vonk! Get in here!” Mrs Crawley cried. “Lucy, are you all right? Where’s Violet now?”
“She’s with her mother,” Lucy told her.
Vonk came shooting out of his butler’s pantry, a copy of the latest Penny Dreadful clutched in his hand. He’d clearly been having a sneaky break while everyone else was working.
“Whatever’s wrong, Mrs C?”
“The girls were attacked! Violet’s been hurt, but don’t worry – she’s safely at home now.”
“What?” Vonk dropped the Penny. He took one look at Lucy and said, “Mrs Crawley, a pot of hot, strong tea is in order, I think.”
“Right you are! Becky, get that kettle boiling.”
“You’ll have to do it! I need to pick all this up!” Becky said. She was down on her hands and knees, scrabbling about for her spilled beans.
While Mrs Crawley clattered around making tea, Vonk sat down opposite Lucy. “What happened?” he asked.
Lucy shakily explained everything, or almost everything. Becky was in earshot, under the table picking up stray beans, so she didn’t mention that she’d used magic to defend Violet.
“And you’re not hurt?” Vonk asked when she’d finished.
“No.”
“Here you are – this has plenty of sugar in it.” Mrs Crawley put a cup of tea in front of Lucy.
“Thanks.” Lucy blew on the tea and then took a sip. It was hot, sweet and very comforting, and she began to recover a little.
By now Becky had finished picking up the beans and sat back down at the table. She took another pod and resumed her shelling in silence. Lucy noticed Becky’s hands were trembling. Becky always made a point of being horrible to Violet, but the attack on the poor little scullery maid seemed to have genuinely upset her.
“I think I’d better go and see Lord Grave and tell him what happened. He’ll want to know,” Lucy said when she’d finished her tea and felt a little more like her usual self.
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain it all to him,” Vonk said.
Lucy glanced at Becky, who luckily seemed distracted by her beans, then shook her head gently at Vonk. He immediately understood that there was something more Lucy needed to tell Lord Grave, and it couldn’t be said in front of Becky.
“On second thoughts, perhaps it might be best if you hurry along and speak to his Lordship yourself. I’ve got a lot to do.”
As she left the kitchen, Lucy glanced over her shoulder and caught Becky staring at her. Their eyes met for a second before Becky swiftly diverted her gaze back to her bowl of beans. In that second, Lucy realised that the normally abrasive under-housemaid was not simply upset by what had happened to Violet; she was frightened.
“I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have used the attack sparks. I did it without thinking,” Lucy said, when she’d finished explaining the morning’s events to Lord Grave. She was sitting in one of the green wing-backed armchairs next to the fire in the drawing room.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You probably saved Violet’s life,” Lord Grave replied. He was sitting in the chair opposite Lucy’s. Bathsheba lay near him, snoozing in front of the fire. Her mouth was partly open, the gleaming points of her fangs on display, and she was dribbling rather gracelessly on to the green woollen hearthrug.
“But what if I’m right and the boy saw the sparks as well as felt them?”
“I suppose he might say something to any accomplices he might have, but he’s not likely to go to the authorities to report anything suspicious, is he?”
“Could he have been a magician?”
“Hmm. I know all the magicians in the area, young and old. I don’t recognise him from your description. It’s possible, though, that he might have come from somewhere else.”
“I wonder what he wanted? Why would he bother attacking a servant girl like Violet? He must have realised she wouldn’t have jewellery or anything like that. And she’d already given him threepence, all the money she had on her,” Bertie said, picking absentmindedly at the frayed material that covered the footstool he was perched on. Bathsheba had a bad habit of using it to sharpen her claws on.
“That’s a good point, my boy.” Lord Grave took a puff of his cigar, which was unlit as he was trying to give them up. Or at least he was when Bertie was around. “Lucy, is there anything more you remember that might give us a clue?”
Lucy thought carefully. “There is something that I don’t understand. Just before the boy ran off, he said something about Caruthers. Something like ‘that stupid frog’ … Why would he say that?”
“Where was Caruthers at the time?” Bertie asked.
“He was on the ground. I dropped him.”
“You dropped him? When the boy attacked you and Violet, who was holding Caruthers?”
“Me.”
Bertie leaned forward, his dark bushy eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. “Did the boy say anything else?”
“Yes. Something like … ‘you’re her’. He seemed quite confused.” Lucy replied, remembering how the boy had looked from her to Violet and back again. “Maybe … maybe he thought I was Violet because I was holding Caruthers?”
“And maybe he thought Violet was you!” Bertie said excitedly. “Which means he meant to attack you first.”
“It’s a good theory, my boy,” Lord Grave said. “But it still leaves us with the same question. Why would anyone want to attack Lucy? We need to speak to little Violet in case she saw anything that might provide a clue as to the boy’s motive. Lucy, you go and rest for an hour, then we’ll visit Violet. In the meantime I’ll ask Vonk to ready the carriage.”
Half an hour later, Lucy was lying on her brass bed in the little attic room she shared with Becky. She felt too keyed up to nap. Bored of staring at the ceiling, she got off the bed and went over to the window. One of the few good points about her bedroom, which was so small the door opened outwards instead of inwards to save space, was the view of Lord Grave’s wildlife park. Lord Grave’s wife had been an animal lover. When she was alive, she had made a habit of rescuing animals: anything from birds to elephants.
Lord Grave had recently employed extra help to care for the animals. That extra help could be seen lumbering about now, carrying meat for the lions. Lucy smiled as she watched the golem going about its duties. It had been her idea to make the golem a wildlife park keeper. Of course, the creation of golems was a strictly forbidden type of magic. A rogue magician called Jerome Wormwood had brought this particular one to life just a few weeks ago. Thanks to Lucy, Wormwood was now safely locked up and wouldn’t be creating any more monsters for a very long time. However, that had left MAAM with the problem of what to do with the golem, who was now harmless, thanks to some vigorous retraining, but still somewhat alarming.
Realising that humans, especially anyone non-magical, might be rather disturbed by the golem, Lord Grave had put a special shielding spell on it. This meant that its true form could be seen only by MAAM associates and the magical residents of Grave Hall. Anyone else would see a rather portly, unkempt, slightly smelly man who went by the name of Mr Gomel. This all worked well enough, although care had to be taken to make sure no one tried to engage Mr Gomel in meaningful conversation, as that might give the game away.
As she gazed out at the wildlife park, watching some pelicans flying around the lake, Lucy went over the attack again in her mind. She frowned as she remembered that when the boy had tumbled off Violet and on to his back he’d dropped something and then quickly snatched it up again. Lucy closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the windowsill. She concentrated as hard as she could, trying to visualise again what she’d seen. The boy’s hand reaching out to grab the object. What was it? But it was no good – she couldn’t bring it to mind. Perhaps Violet would be able to remember something more. Eager to find out, Lucy hurriedly left her little attic room and set off downstairs to meet Lord Grave.
The Worthingtons’ cottage lay a little way outside Grave Village, up a narrow lane. The cottage was small but well cared for. Lord Grave rapped the shiny brass knocker. A moment later, Mrs Worthington opened it.
“Your Lordship!” she said, looking most surprised and also not very pleased.
“I’m very sorry to intrude, but I wondered if we could have a quick word with Violet.”
Mrs Worthington frowned. “Oh dear. Can’t it wait? The poor little thing’s worn out. She can hardly keep her eyes open.”
“Just a few minutes?”
Mrs Worthington sighed. “If you insist.”
“Most kind.” Lord Grave took off his top hat and stepped through the doorway. Lucy followed him inside.
The cottage had just one large room downstairs. The floorboards were bare, but swept clean. Not a speck of dust clung to the rough wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. Mrs Worthington led the way up the rickety staircase, which creaked rather alarmingly.
The stairs opened out directly on to a bedroom that was as small as Lucy’s own but seemed bigger as there was only the one bed, which Violet was lying in. She and Caruthers were snugly tucked up under a pink-and-white patchwork quilt.
Mrs Worthington bent over her daughter and spoke gently to her. “Violet. Lord Grave’s here. He wants to speak to you. Is that all right?”
“Yes, Mother,” Violet said. Her voice was slow and sleepy.
Mrs Worthington gestured for Lord Grave and Lucy to go over to Violet’s bed.
“Hello, Lucy. Thank you for saving me,” Violet said. She looked up at her two visitors. Her eyes were dull and her face looked pinched and grey.
“Violet, I’d just like you to tell me what you remember of the attack. The boy cut you with his knife, is that right?” Lord Grave said kindly.
Violet nodded.
“And then what happened?”
Violet’s eyes began to close. “A penny. Then a peashooter,” she whispered.
“I think she’s delirious,” Lord Grave muttered.
Violet’s eyes opened a little. “The boy. He cut me. He had a penny. Smeared it with my blood. Put it in his handkerchief. Then Lucy hit him on the back of the neck with her peashooter. Can I go to sleep now?”
Lord Grave opened his mouth to ask another question, but Mrs Worthington stepped between him and the bed. “I think that’s enough for today, sir,” she said firmly, and began ushering Lucy and Lord Grave towards the stairs. Lucy glanced over her shoulder and saw that Violet was already fast asleep.
When Lord Grave and Lucy had been politely but speedily shown out of the Worthingtons’ cottage, Lord Grave lingered on the doorstep for a few moments.
“I wish I could have gleaned a little more information from young Violet. I’m beginning to think your attacker really might have been magical.”
Lucy frowned. “If he was, why didn’t he use magic to fight back when I hit him with the attack sparks?”
Lord Grave nodded. “That’s a good point. But perhaps he’d already got what he wanted? Which in this case was blood. Perhaps he’d hoped for your blood, but decided to make do with Violet’s.”
“But why would he do such a thing?” Lucy asked, feeling slightly queasy.
Lord Grave put his top hat back on and gazed grimly at Lucy. “There are many magical uses for blood, Lucy, and all of them are very nasty indeed.”
Back at Grave Hall, Lucy expected that she and Lord Grave would spend some time together discussing what Violet had revealed. But Lord Grave had other ideas.
“It’s a stroke of luck that I invited MAAM to come a couple of days before the actual ball so that we could have a catch-up before the other guests arrive. Lord Percy sent me a chit this morning to let me know they’d all be here at five.”
Lucy, who had become more and more acquainted with the magical world over the last few weeks, knew that chits were a special invention of Lord Percy’s; flying notes that MAAM used to send messages between themselves, and to communicate with other magicians.
“So,” Lord Grave continued, consulting his pocket watch, “there’s about half an hour before they arrive. We’ll be able to confer with them about all this later. In the meantime, would you mind helping Mrs Crawley? I believe she may be feeling somewhat overwhelmed with the preparations for the ball.”
Lucy agreed, but she couldn’t help feeling a little put out. Sometimes she resented the fact that Lord Grave wanted her to be part of MAAM, but also expected her to be a servant. Nevertheless, she set off to the kitchen.
Mrs Crawley was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by a stack of potatoes. She was sipping at a large tankard of her favourite home-brew. The ale was flavoured with Extra Violent Mustard Mix and Mrs Crawley used it as a pick-me-up when she was feeling particularly fatigued.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she said when she saw Lucy. “I really do need a hand! All these potatoes need peeling, could you make a start on them? Becky keeps sneaking off somewhere. She’s acting very oddly. Lord Percy and the rest of MAAM are arriving soon. Oh, and Diamond O’Brien and the rest of the circus folk are coming tomorrow. It’s all going to be a bit frantic now until the big day!”
“Have you ever seen the circus?” Lucy asked, picking up a potato and starting to peel it. Lord Grave had invited O’Brien’s Midnight Circus to provide some entertainment at the ball. Lucy had seen some of the acts before, and had been extremely impressed.
“No, his Lordship hasn’t always approved of that sort of thing,” Mrs Crawley said, taking a gulp of her ale.
This was true. Relations between MAAM and O’Brien’s Midnight Circus had been somewhat glacial due to the fact that the circus folk operated on what Lord Grave called “the fringes of ethical magic”. However, following the death of two magicians at the hands of Jerome Wormwood, Lord Grave and Diamond O’Brien had decided that the magical community needed to come together.
“Oh, you’ll love it! There’s magical knife-throwing, a woman who can fold herself up and trapeze artists. Without trapezes!”
“That sounds very exciting, to be sure!” Mrs Crawley wiped beery foam from her moustache. The refreshment had rallied her and she recovered her usual good spirits. “Now then. Lord Grave wants to give MAAM a nice dinner tonight. I’d like you and Becky to wait at table, Lucy. Don’t pull that face. If the wind changes you’ll be stuck like that. You and Becky need to work together sometimes.”
Lucy sighed inwardly, but decided not to argue. She carried on peeling potatoes. “How are MAAM getting here?” she asked after a while.
“They’re all coming in Lady Sibyl’s coach.” Mrs Crawley glanced at the kitchen clock. “They should be here any minute.”
“Can I go and watch them land?”
Mrs Crawley smiled. “Of course. Off you go, but don’t be too long.”
“Thank you!” Lucy jumped out of her seat, raced out of the back door and through the kitchen garden. Watching Lady Sibyl’s flying coach arrive was always a thrill. Lucy had ridden in it herself once and dearly hoped she’d do so again one day.
When she reached the front of the house, she stood on the gravel driveway and gazed upwards. She soon spotted an unusual black smudge in the sky. There was a rumbling noise like faint thunder as the smudge grew bigger and bigger, and after a few seconds Lucy could clearly see Lady Sibyl’s shiny black carriage, which was pulled by two horses whose gossamer-thin wings shimmered with rainbow colours where the autumn sunlight touched them.
Lucy skittered out of the coach’s flight path and watched from a safe distance as it began to lose height, landing with a gentle crunch on the Grave drive. The coach driver, a slender woman dressed from head to toe in black velvet, deftly pulled the horses to a halt.
Behind Lucy, the grand front door of Grave Hall opened, and Lord Grave and Bathsheba came down the steps. Bertie and Vonk followed. Lucy eagerly ran up to the coach, preparing to greet her fellow MAAM members.
The stout footman travelling alongside the driver jumped down and hurried over to pull out the carriage steps so the passengers could disembark. Then he unfastened the door and held it open as Lady Sibyl started climbing out.
“Hello!” Lucy called excitedly. But her greeting wasn’t returned.
Lady Sibyl was frowning distractedly. Usually, she was very elegant and sure-footed, but not today, as she stumbled on the last of the coach steps and had to be steadied by her footman. The cause of her upset soon became clear when Beguildy Beguildy and his sister Prudence followed her, helping Lord Percy out of the coach. Lucy gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Poor Lord Percy, who was a sorrowful-looking man at the best of times, was in a terrible state and looked more miserable than ever. His right arm was in a sling, his left eye was swollen and turning black and he had a very nasty cut on his cheek, which was clotted with dried blood.