Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [29]
“So what’d you pick it up for?”
“I just wanted to look at it.”
“You can look at it on the table. We charge extra for picking up.”
Jenna stared at the woman. She was sure she’d seen her somewhere before—and her sidekicks too.
“Where’s Sophie?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Sophie. Sophie Barley. It’s her stall. Where is she?”
The boss-with-the-stare bared a row of blackened teeth. “She couldn’t make it. She’s a bit . . . tied up at the moment.” Her two sidekicks giggled nastily.
Jenna began to move away. The jewelry didn’t seem nearly as nice without Sophie.
“Wait a minute!” a high voice shouted urgently. Jenna stopped and turned. “We’ve got some lovely Charms. And we don’t charge for picking up Charms, do we?”
“Shut up, Dorinda!” The boss-with-the-stare wheeled around and glared at the hooded figure standing beside the old woman. “I’m doing this.” The boss turned back to face Jenna and her mouth twitched into a kind of U-shape which, Jenna realized, was meant to be a smile. “We do indeed have a delightful new range of Charms, Princess. Very pretty. Quite charming, in fact.” A strange spluttering ensued, which Jenna thought was probably meant to be laughter, although quite possibly the woman was choking on something. It was hard to tell.
The boss indicated two little wooden boxes at the front of the stall. Intrigued, Jenna looked at them—they were so very different from the rest of Sophie’s jewelry. Nestled on white down inside each box was a tiny jewellike bird. The birds had a beautiful greenish-blue sheen and shimmered like the kingfishers Jenna had once loved to watch from her window in the Ramblings. Despite herself, Jenna was fascinated. She gazed at the birds, amazed at their minute feathers, which were so detailed that she could almost believe the birds were real. Tentatively she reached out a finger and stroked the plumage of one of the birds—and snatched her hand away as if it had been bitten. The bird was real. It was soft and warm and lay breathing terrified, fast breaths.
The old woman in the armchair snapped her eyes open like a doll that has just been sat up. “Pick up the birdie, dearie,” she said in a wheedling whine.
Jenna stepped back from the stall and shook her head.
The boss-with-the-stare swung around and glared at the old woman. “I said leave it to me, didn’t I?” she snapped. “Idiot!”
“Oooh!” A gasp of thrilled horror came from the hooded figure.
The old woman was not as decrepit as Jenna had taken her to be. She rose menacingly from her armchair and pointed a long, dirty fingernail at the boss-with-the-stare. “Never, ever, talk to me like that again,” she hissed.
The boss-with-the-stare went as white as the old woman’s plastered face. “Sorry, Wi—” She stopped herself hurriedly. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Suddenly Jenna realized who the stallholders were. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “You’re—”
The boss-with-the-stare leaned forward and glared at Jenna. “Yeah—what?” she challenged.
Jenna decided against saying she thought the women were witches from the Port Witch Coven. “Not very nice,” she said, a little lamely. Then she made a hasty exit, leaving all five witches—for she was right—cackling uproariously.
The Port Witch Coven watched Jenna disappear into the crowd.
“I knew it wouldn’t work,” Daphne—the dumpy one with the food stains—said morosely. “Princesses are hard to catch. The Wendrons tried and they couldn’t get her.”
“Pah!” snorted the boss-with-the-stare, whose name was Linda. “The Wendrons are fools. They’ve got a few lessons to learn. And I’m looking forward to teaching them.” She laughed unpleasantly.
A plaintive wail came from inside the hooded figure sitting beside the old woman—who was, of course, the Witch Mother of the Port Witch Coven. “But she didn’t take the bird, she didn’t take the bird!”
“And you can shut up too, Dorinda,” snarled Linda. “Any-way, it doesn’t matter—she touched the bird, didn’t she?”
Linda leaned over the two little birds. She took a deep breath in, then breathed out, sending what looked like a long stream of gray smoke curling around them. The blanket of breath