The Runaway Spell Page 3

  “Figures I’d mess this up,” B muttered to herself. She kicked at a tuft of crabgrass.

  Mr. Bishop turned toward her, surprised. “Why would you say that, B?”

  B blushed. She hadn’t realized her teacher could hear her. “I … just … when I use magic, I always seem to cause trouble.”

  Mr. Bishop placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s not true,” he said. “B, your magic is extraordinary. Every beginner witch starts out with some mishaps. Part of learning to master your magic is just learning to trust yourself. Learning to relax and focus. You can do it, B.” He scanned the surroundings one more time. “I think we’re clear. No one seems to have seen us.”

  “If someone had seen us, couldn’t you just … magically alter their memories or something?” B asked.

  Mr. Bishop shook his head firmly. “No, and please don’t ever attempt such a thing, B,” he said. “To use magic to alter a human in some way — either in mind, or in body — that’s extremely risky. Only the most advanced witches, with years of training, and with a compelling reason, should ever even think about it.”

  “Oh,” B said, her mind reeling. “Right.”

  Her teacher stopped scanning the horizon. “Think of the Three High Dictums of magic that you learned from Madame Mellifluous,” he said. “Can you tell me what they are?”

  B nodded. “You can’t make something out of nothing. Don’t use magic to harm others. And don’t let nonmagical people find out about magic.” She didn’t dare look at Mr. Bishop, lest he see the guilt written in her eyes. She’d broken two of the Three High Dictums with her spell on George. Her jangling stomach felt like an erupting volcano.

  “Right. Just think of the harm that erasing people’s memories could cause. That would definitely be a case for the Dismantle Squad.”

  B tried not to panic. She was just going to have to reverse her spell before anyone found out about it and alerted the Dismantle Squad.

  “Let’s head back inside,” Mr. Bishop said, “using our feet, not spells.” He set off toward the school. “I’ll take us to the M.R.S., and then I want to give you a tour of the library. I can show you how to do research and then you can look into all this reversing spells stuff that you’re wondering about.”

  B felt a hint of relief. If there was anywhere she’d find the solution to her problem, it would be in the M.R.S. library. Everything would be okay as long as Mr. Bishop didn’t figure out why she wanted to know so badly.

  As she followed her teacher, she turned back and caught sight of George, galloping down the field, dribbling a soccer ball. The scrimmaging team members chased after him but he was yards ahead of them. He sprinted like a wild animal.

  What had she done?

  Mr. Bishop followed her gaze out to the soccer field. “Your friend George is quite the speed demon, isn’t he?”

  B swallowed. “Um, yeah.” They entered the building and set off down the hall toward Mr. Bishop’s room. Was he suspicious of George’s speed? She forced out a laugh. “That George! Been winning races ever since he could walk.”

  Mr. Bishop gazed at her thoughtfully. “Is that so?”

  B’s insides squirmed. Was her teacher just being a good listener, or could he see right through her?

  They reached the classroom.

  “Grab my sleeve, B,” Mr. Bishop said. “Here we go.

  “The M.R.S. library’s our destination.

  Research is vital to B’s education!“

  Once again the wind arose. This time it deposited them in the great circular library that was the centerpiece of the entire Magical Rhyming Society.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Bishop said.

  “Doug? Doug Bishop. It’s really you!” A burly man in camouflage robes and a flattop haircut appeared. He seized Mr. Bishop’s hand, shaking it heartily and slapping him on the shoulder. Mr. Bishop nearly buckled under the impact.

  “Dirk,” B’s teacher managed to gasp. “Good to see you, Dirk! How long has it been?”

  “Not since fencing team, back in college!”

  The two men were soon lost in conversation about old friends, and B’s attention started to drift to the shelves and shelves of books that surrounded her. She knew the answer to all her troubles had to be right here, in this magnificent library. While her teacher was dodging Dirk’s reenactments of their fencing duels, she approached the nearest set of shelves.

  To her surprise, a short stepladder slid over toward her and nudged her ankles like a friendly little terrier. She stepped on it, and it began to grow taller as it wheeled her around the circumference of the great library tower. “Hey, thanks!” she told it, just in case it could hear. In a place like this library, you couldn’t be sure.

  She spiraled slowly up the stacks, scanning the ornate books. They were nothing like the books in a regular library or bookstore. Each book here was made by hand, with hand-carved details in the leather bindings and gemstone talismans embedded in the spines.

  Her roving ladder seemed to know instinctively when B wanted to read a title more carefully, and it paused before moving on. What would she give for time to read all of these books! Especially Revenge with Rutabagas and Other Produce Concoctions Your Tutor Never Taught You.

  B giggled. She’d have to remember that one for later.

  Halfway up the tower, when B was starting to feel a touch of vertigo from the dizzying height, her ladder stopped in front of a dragon-scale green–covered book called Undoing Magic Spells.

  This is it! B felt a wave of relief. Here at her fingertips was the information she needed to turn George back into himself.

  “How did you know what I needed?” B whispered to the ladder, but it didn’t answer.

  She reached for the book, but a shimmery film suddenly appeared, blocking her fingers. It was soft to the touch, and it looked no thicker than spiderwebs, but it would neither yield nor let B grab the volume.

  B pulled her hand away, and the film vanished.

  She reached up again, and the magical barrier zapped her!

  “Ow!”

  “Ahem.” B looked down to see an older witch in maroon robes whose ladder was swiveling past just underneath B’s. Her lips were pinched tightly together, her face disapproving. B lowered her hand and looked around the room in what she hoped was an innocent way until the maroon witch’s ladder passed.

  Only then did she realize that the people on ladders weren’t removing books from the shelves. They were only browsing. When they got off the ladders, they lined up in front of the circulation desk, where they waited for a turn to browse the hundreds of tiny card catalog drawers. B stepped down for a closer view, and noticed her ladder shrinking as she did so.

  “Thanks again,” she told it when it was little more than a footstool. She could have sworn it nodded, in a laddery sort of way.

  Chapter 7

  B stood, watching the other witches in the library, wondering how she was going to get to that book, when Mr. Bishop appeared at her side.

  “Hi, Mr. Bishop,” B said. “Did you have fun with Dirk?”

  “Hah,” her teacher said, rubbing his arm. “I’m lucky I survived. How’d you make out?”

  “I’ve had a good look, but why can’t I take books off the shelves?”

  Mr. Bishop smiled. “It used to be that you could take any book off the shelves,” he explained, “but just like other libraries, there were problems with books not coming back on time, books getting lost, et cetera. Then, the librarians put overdue curses on the books, giving borrowers purple pimples or itchy rashes, but the nineteen twenty-nine Council on Witch Rights decided that was unethical. So, now we do things differently.”

  “Meaning, you don’t let the books off the shelves?”

  Mr. Bishop laughed. “No, no. Look around you!” He pointed toward dozens of witches, seated at tables and reading. “The way we do it is …” He snapped his fingers. “Better yet, I’ll let you figure it out. You’re a word fan. You’ll love this.”

  They appr
oached the card catalog and stood where they could watch. B saw each witch approach the shelves in turn, pull open an alphabetized drawer, and speak some words — perhaps the title of a book?

  B peered around the arm of a tall witch dressed in yellow to watch more closely. Out from the card catalog drawer poured a silky gray vapor that formed into a cloud. Inside the cloud, a hazy face appeared, its hair pulled back into a tight bun, with bifocals on a string perched on the end of its nose.

  “Your selection, please?” the face said.

  The witch who had summoned the librarian’s head spoke. “Fleeciest Sulphur Show Too.”

  Huh? B glanced up at Mr. Bishop, but he only grinned at her. He wasn’t giving her any clues.

  The librarian’s face nodded, and the witch making the request stepped to the end of a table while the head in the cloud zoomed through the air, reaching nearly to the topmost stacks.

  Fleeciest Sulphur Show Too? B thought. It could be the name of a witching book, but what on earth could it teach? Sulphur — alchemy, perhaps? But fleeciest? How weird!

  On a counter that ran alongside the line of waiting witches, B saw pencil stubs and slips of paper scattered about, with letters scribbled and apparently reordered. Odd. Maybe the library patron witches got tired of waiting so they played word games to amuse themselves.

  The cloud floated back and dropped a book into the witch’s waiting hands. B was just able to glimpse the cover. The book was called: Eel Soup for the Witch’s Soul.

  B was baffled.

  Mr. Bishop struggled not to laugh.

  The next witch advanced to the card catalog; he was about B’s age and looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. He opened a different drawer, and a cloud appeared with a different face inside. Instead of bifocals, this one wore a monocle and mustache. A much older librarian, B decided.

  “Soup in Flowerpot, please,” the witch said.

  The librarian removed his monocle and frowned. “We have no such volume in our collection.”

  The witch frowned and then realization came over his face. “I’m sorry. Scratch the ‘please.’ Just: ‘Soup in Flowerpot.’”

  “Ah.” The cloud whizzed off to another corner and returned carrying Powerful Potions. B was starting to get an idea. She saw witches casually working out their word puzzles on slips of paper, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. B thought about the book titles: Soup in Flowerpot brought down Powerful Potions. P, O, W, E, R … B started to see the letters individually.

  B grabbed a slip of paper and wrote both sets of words, one above the other. Her pencil flew as she crossed out one letter at a time in each row. First the S. Then the O and U. Yep. They were all there.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Bishop said. “You’re getting it now.”

  “It’s an anagram!” B declared.

  “Shh,” Mr. Bishop said as heads all around them turned to stare.

  “It’s an anagram,” B repeated in a careful whisper. “A letter scramble.”

  “Bingo!” Mr. Bishop replied. “I knew you’d figure it out.” He consulted his watch. “It’s time for us to be heading back. Seeing my old friend Dirk didn’t help today’s session, but I’m glad you got to have a look around the library.”

  B didn’t want to go so quickly. She wanted to check out that Undoing Magic Spells book, but she couldn’t let on to Mr. Bishop how important it was and decided she would just have to get back as soon as she could.

  She followed her teacher over to an area where their traveling spell wouldn’t ruffle anyone’s papers.

  “Mr. Bishop,” B said before he began his couplet, “why on earth would they make you do anagrams to take books out?”

  “It was the dying wish of a quirky head librarian, almost a century ago,” Mr. Bishop said. “He thought book borrowers needed more incentive to appreciate the resources provided, so he wanted to make people work for the books they needed — and a way to keep the librarians’ brains active. After all, they have to solve each anagram correctly!”

  Chapter 8

  “Morning!” George cried, sailing past B at the bus stop. He skidded to a halt, then swiveled and pranced back to where B stood. It was Costume Day for Spirit Week and B was dressed as a Halloween witch. George, B realized with a shock, wore a pair of red devil’s horns on his head, and his tail was poking out through a hole in his pants for all the school to see!

  “What are you doing?” she hissed as the bus rounded the corner. “I can see your tail!”

  “So can the world,” George said, smiling. “I’m a devil! Isn’t it great?”

  B frowned. “Sort of,” she said, “except that your tail twitches.”

  George waved this obstacle away. “Not much. I could say it’s battery-powered. I used charcoal dust to smudge it all dark, so no one would see the stripes. I tried to make it red, but the stripes still showed through.”

  “But, George,” B said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “if Mr. Bishop figures out what I’ve done … I’ll get in enormous trouble!” She swallowed hard, thinking of the Dismantle Squad.

  They boarded the bus, and George had to sit awkwardly to avoid squashing his tail. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I figured it was better to let the tail show and say it’s for Costume Day, than to keep trying to hide it.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m starting not to mind it so much. The ears are gone but I can still hear as though they’re there, and it comes in handy sometimes. And the speed? I’m faster than I’ve ever been. I’ve got more kicking power, more endurance … it’s like I’m really turning into La Zebra!”

  “Shh!” B hissed, looking around to see if anyone heard.

  George laughed. It came out like a braying bark. His eyes grew wide, then he laughed some more.

  “You’re not turning into La Zebra Italiana” B whispered. “You’re turning into a zebra, as in, a stripy horsey thing that lives on the plains of Africa.”

  “It won’t last forever, though,” George said. “You said so yourself.”

  “Right,” B said, shrinking down in the bus seat. She couldn’t bring herself to tell George what she’d learned about irreversible spells. Did going from zebra ears to a zebra tail count as “intensifying” like Mr. Bishop had said? B hoped not.

  The bus arrived at the school, and George sauntered off down the aisle, leaving B musing. There was still the Magical Rhyming Society to deal with if anyone ever found out what she’d done. B started to think that she might be in over her head, but then she remembered the book in the library. All she had to do was get that book, and everything would be okay. But she wouldn’t be able to go back until at least after school. Would George’s tail be able to make it through a whole day at school, without giving everything away?

  She scurried off the bus and ran to catch up with George. She found him at his locker, chewing noisily on a lettuce leaf.

  B stopped in her tracks. “George, what are you eating?” she demanded. “Where’s your stash of Enchanted Chocolates?”

  George shrugged and stuffed another lettuce leaf in his mouth. “Don’t feel much like chocolate these days,” he said. “Candy’s bad for athletes.”

  B put her hand on George’s forehead. “Now I know you’re seriously sick.”

  “Nah, I’m not. But my mom had this great romaine in the crisper. Want some?”

  B shook her head. “No thanks. I like my lettuce with ranch dressing and croutons. Not for a morning snack.”

  “Suit yourself,” George said. “More for me.”

  The bell rang. “You’d better hurry,” B said. “Why don’t you save some lettuce for Mozart?”

  George shrugged. “Okay. See you in English.”

  B thought about George’s dilemma at every spare moment in homeroom. And all through English class she waited for Mr. Bishop to comment on George’s zebra tail, but he showed no sign of suspecting it was anything other than a part of George’s costume. When the bell rang and everyone had left the room, B held George back.

  She h
ad to end this chaos once and for all, and she had an idea of how she might do it, even without the book. Mr. Bishop had said that the simplest spells are the most effective. A bag-cauldron concoction got her into this mess — wouldn’t another bag-cauldron concoction be the simplest way out?

  While B thought, George pulled a large zippered baggie out of his backpack and began to munch. A scrabbling noise came from the back of the classroom. Mozart had seen the lettuce and was clawing at the glass wall of his cage.

  “Okay, little fella,” George said. “I’ll share.” George took Mozart out and held him while feeding him small pieces of romaine.

  “I’ve had an idea for a way to turn you back into a one hundred percent human,” B said. “It won’t take more than a minute.”

  “Hope it doesn’t work,” George said, watching Mozart closely. “Coach said yesterday was my best practice in weeks.”

  B wasn’t interested in debating him. The Dismantle Squad wouldn’t stand around talking, and Mr. Bishop certainly wouldn’t, either, if he found out that she’d revealed her magic to a nonwitch.

  B dumped the contents of her and George’s backpacks onto her desk, looking for things to use in her bag-cauldron. From the pile of rubble she picked a half-empty pouch of Enchanted Chocolate Smooches and a stick-figure doodle George had drawn of himself kicking a goal, and put them all into her backpack. It felt like her spell needed one more thing, for good luck.

  A coppery glint on the floor supplied an idea. A penny! Finding one was lucky, wasn’t it? She spun it into the air with a flick of her thumb, just for fun. Oops! It landed in Mozart’s cage.

  She fished it out from the cedar chips, wiped off the flecks of dust and hair that clung to it, and tossed it into her backpack-cauldron.

  Ready.

  She watched George pet Mozart’s soft orange fur, and filled her mind with the image of her best friend, looking like his normal self.

  “H-U-M-A-N,” she spelled.

  His tail didn’t vanish. But it twitched in astonishment.

  Sitting on George’s lap, where the hamster had been, was a kid in an orange tracksuit with a white collar, and a leaf of lettuce dangling from his mouth!