Abby the Witch (28 page)

Perhaps
Charlie was not as smart as he'd hoped.

Pembrake found
it weird to wake up in a proper bed. It was hard to sleep too,
without the gentle sway of the waves. And the air in this room was
stifling. Though he had grown up not a stranger to opulence and
comfort, his years in the Navy had been a radical change. And now
he found himself missing the salty biting air and the ever-present
creak of the ship. This bed, four poster and fit for the guest of
the King with carved posts and embroidered covers, was so heavy he
doubted it would move even in an earthquake. The windows too were
so fancy and gilded that it was almost impossible to open them and
harder again to get them closed.

It was funny
how things changed like that, how you could grow up loving one
thing then gradually find that what brings you joy is the complete
opposite. But it was true, and now Pembrake found himself longing
for the lap of the ocean and the frugality of a voyage.

As he rose to
dress, Pembrake's mind slipped right back to what he had been
trying very hard not to think about. It had been a week now, and he
was still yet to see Abby. Martha had told him that she was safe
and staying with them near the coast, and Charlie had reaffirmed
this the other day. Still, each day they'd been apart he'd added
another ten items on his list of things to tell her.

She was
irrational, irascible, foolish, and naïve, but she was the only
thing that reminded him of home, and the only person he could trust
to help the both of them return to the future. Regardless of all
her faults – the fact she was a witch included, which he was still
getting used to – Abby did seem genuine. She was honest and
painfully proper. She didn't seem to be the kind to have a hidden
agenda, no matter how much his distrust of witches told him
otherwise.

Because that
was the other thing – despite her broom, drab taste in fashion, and
at times severe glare – Abby didn't remind Pembrake of a witch at
all. Where were the warts and bad temper? Why hadn't she killed him
and used his liver to tell her future? Why wasn't she going around
rounding up children for her oven?

No matter what
stereotype Pembrake could conjure, Abby didn't seem to fit any.
Even the Crones that had read their destiny, though confronting and
unnerving, didn't seem to be the monsters Pembrake had expected. He
was reluctant to trust witches as a whole, but Abby wasn't a
threat.

He needed Abby
to get home, he reminded himself again, that's why he needed her.
That's why he'd looked for her when Princess Annabelle had taken
him for a carriage ride through the city; straining his neck out
the window and pretending to be fascinated by the architecture.
It's why he'd persistently asked Martha how Abby was, not giving
her a message to pass on, simply ensuring that Abby was still in
the one place and hadn't wandered off to find trouble somewhere.
That's why he'd been so gladdened to run into her little devil of a
cat. Charlie may have been unhelpful… but he had given Pembrake
food for thought.

He needed to
see Abby to discuss the next step in their quest to return home,
that's why he was dressing so quickly and clumsily, why he'd missed
the same button hole three times now. After tonight, after this
stupid ball, he should be able to return with Martha and put this
whole Palace fiasco behind him. The Princess had asked him to stay
for the Ball, and by 'ask' she'd done it in front of the King. And
even though every bone in his body had told him it was a bad idea,
he'd had to accept; it was a Royal decree of sorts, after all.
Plus, the witches had said that being in the Palace was important.
He just wished he had the time, and Abby, to explore it with. But
the Princess was a massive hindrance to both those conditions.

However, with
the Ball out of the way, the Princess would be hard placed to find
another reason to make him stay around, and hopefully by then he
would have outstayed his welcome anyway.

Pembrake
glanced again at the carriage clock ticking away on the
mantelpiece. The ball was in several hours and already he could
hear the sounds of hustle and bustle trickling in from his open
window. He'd asked for the Princess' leave in the afternoon, on the
excuse that he understood she needed to prepare for the Ball. For
some reason she'd been thrilled, perhaps because he'd sealed his
request with a smile.

He'd wanted
some sleep, but he'd barely dozed. He'd stayed up most of last
night, fitfully turning, incapable of clearing his mind, trying to
resolve the trouble in his head. He so very desperately needed to
talk to Abby. There was just so much he needed to say. The Colonel,
the Prince, and the witches.

If she already
knew, then she hadn't let on. But from the moment he had recognised
the Colonel, even under his bustling moustache, the heavy weight of
history had settled on Pembrake's shoulders. He had an obligation,
that was clear to him; a duty to change what should never have
been.

What a rare
opportunity being thrown back in time was. He had the chance to
change the future for the better. With one swift move he could wipe
the pain from Bridgestock in an instant.

At first he'd
thought that he and Abby had chosen, if it had been a choice, the
very worst destination for their travel through time. The year, the
month, the place – it was the origin of the Witch Ban.
Unless Pembrake had completely forgotten his history from school,
the Witch Ban came into effect after the shocking assassination of
Prince Patrick. It had galvanised public opinion against the
witches and, according to Pembrake's teacher, had enabled the mist
of deception that the witches had cast over Bridgestock to be
lifted. When evidence had escaped that the witches of Bridgestock
had been planning yet further assassinations, with aims to take the
throne – the public had been moved to oust them and take back their
city. A defining moment in the history of Bridgestock and the
Westlands as a whole.

Pembrake
wasn't sure how romanticised that version was, but there did seem
to be a grain of truth. Though the witches he'd met seemed to have
a greater desire to sit around and drink tea than rule the kingdom,
the assassination was fact and the ban itself too. Soon the Prince
would die, the witches would be blamed, and the ban imagined.

But now
Pembrake was beginning to come to his senses. As far as this being
the worst possible time to materialise in Bridgestock's history –
it was the very best. The Witch Ban, amongst other things, marked
the Colonel's meteoric rise to the top. After he was seen by the
population as their powerful liberator who rescued them from the
clutches of the crones, the Colonel rapidly began to cement his
hold on rule. By Pembrake's time, 28 years from now, the Colonel
would be about to make the final move, climb the final rung on the
ladder and assume the role of Bridgestock's King.

If you can cut
off a weed before it comes to flower, then you can stop the
epidemic before it begins. While the Colonel was untouchable in the
future, he was still just a man in the past. And Pembrake knew just
the tool for attacking this pest.

Being in the
past was changing him, Pembrake had to admit that. Being with Abby
also, it was as if overnight his perspectives and attitudes had
morphed into a shape he'd never thought possible. While he
certainly considered himself capable in the future, there had
always been an undercurrent of bitter apathy. He knew he could not
change the way Bridgestock worked, and in the face of this
certainty he had abandoned his power.

But now he saw
an opportunity, the familiar whiff of decisiveness was on the wind.
In the face of oppression and dictatorship, the only solution was
to gain enough power to overthrow the vile lord. And Pembrake could
taste the opportunity, smell the correct action, and see the future
clear as day.

Enough
thinking, Pembrake thought finally as he pulled at the edges of his
jacket. Surely he could fit in a stroll through the grounds before
he had to assume his loyal position at the elbow of Annabelle.

By the time
Pembrake had made it to the damp grass outside, dusk was already
settling in. He walked for a distance over the lawn, hands in his
pockets, still unable to think of anything other than his list of
things to tell Abby. How would she react, after all? What would she
do once she knew what section of history they'd wander into and,
more importantly, once he told her his plan?

Pembrake found
himself walking off the lawn and around the back of the castle,
half thinking he might talk to Martha; after all, he'd have to
organise to come back with her to meet up with Abby. But at one of
the many back entrances to the kitchens, Pembrake found Martha
talking to the huge robust Governor that had been there after the
attempt on the Princess' life.

The Governor
looked up at Pembrake's approach and tilted his head slightly.

Pembrake
cleared his throat, unsure of what the Governor's movement was
meant to intone. Aggression? Pembrake doubted this; the Governor
seemed to be capable of a much more direct display of
antagonism.

'Look who just
walked in then, ay? The Governor sounded like a barman bemoaning
the entry of a trouble maker. 'And what do you have to say for
yourself, son?'

'Not much,'
Pembrake said carefully.

The Governor
nodded. 'I guess that's so. Been busy lately gadding with our
Princess?'

Pembrake was
starting to grow defensive. He could feel the skin on his neck itch
with tension, not least because Martha was standing by nodding in
agreement with the Governor. 'Nothing.'

'So I've
heard. Pretty distraction the two of you make though.' The Governor
nodded at Martha.

'Fairytale,'
Martha said.

Pembrake's jaw
stiffened, but he tried to smile amiably. 'I doubt that.'

'What with you
dressed like a prince,' Martha gave him the lingering once over,
'and what with her a Princess.'

'And you
a hero,' the Governor didn't bother to hide his sarcasm.

'That's
fairytale, that is,' Martha finished.

'This is not a
fairytale,' Pembrake said hotly, 'and I assure you, I
have no interest in the Princess.'

The Governor
shared another conspiratorial look with Martha. 'Sure has a
roundabout way of showing he's not interested in someone.'

'I did not
have the luxury of ignoring the Princess' wishes. She invited me to
this Ball, and I could hardly say no, could I?' It was a lie, he
could have said no, could have weaselled out of it somehow. But at
the time it had seemed so innocent, he hadn't really been thinking
of history, and the Princess' infatuation had been charming.

The Governor
was looking straight at Pembrake, no doubt trying to read his mind.
'I reckon you had many options, son, not least of all not to leave
that young witch of yours alone.'

'You know
she's a witch?'

'I'm not
blind. And there's no need for that tone of voice, son; you sound
like the Colonel. Witches ain't a dirty word, I think you'll
find bigot to be much worse.'

Both the
Governor and Martha were now sharing a wary look, as if they were
Pembrake's parents and were disappointed in their wayward son's
views.

'I don't hate…
witches. But that's not the point,' Pembrake was having trouble
keeping things straight in his mind, he could no longer remember
what the point was… just that his dislike – no, 
caution
- around witches had nothing to do with it.

'I reckon he's
thinking hard about some of the things he's been doing,' Martha
spoke to the Governor as if Pembrake was not in front of them, 'I
reckon he's been doing a lot of thinking recently.'

The Governor
snorted. 'Not nearly enough though.'

'Now see here.
I have not done anything wrong.' Pembrake had no idea what these
two were up to, but they were succeeding in making him red under
the collar.

'You've not
done anything right either. I reckon you should never have come
here, you should have never left Abby alone, and you should never
have gadded with the Princess like that,' the Governor wasn't
angry, or didn't appear to be so; he was delivering his words with
a thoughtful tilt to his head.

'Because you
never know what you've missed, see,' Martha piped in.

'Missed? Missed? What are you talking about?' Pembrake
was ashamed at the anger bubbling through his words, but the
constant poking and prodding was enraging.

'You'll be
wanting to see Abby, then, that's why you came over?' Martha's
voice had returned to its usual sweet timbre, 'you must be looking
forward to seeing her after tonight.'

Pembrake
looked on warily at the sudden change. 'I guess I am.'

'Well you'll
be seeing her a darn right sooner than you think,' Martha gave the
Governor an annoyed look, 'and much sooner than I'd hoped.'

'What are you
talking about? Is she here?' Pembrake's previous anger had shifted
into confusion.

'She shouldn't
be,' Martha tsked, 'but she is. But that's not the question you
need to be asking, Pembrake; it's 
who
 she's with
that might interest you.'

A twitch of
cold passed over Pembrake's shoulders. 'What do you
mean? Who's she with?' He knew the answer though, he
knew….

'The Captain
of the Guard,' Martha made a face. 'I told her it was a bad
idea.'

'It's a
terrible idea!' Pembrake spoke so quickly he almost spat. 'What's
she doing here with him?'

'Well the Gov
here thinks it was important for her to be at the Ball. He got it
into her head that it was of uttermost magical importance for her
to be in attendance tonight,' Martha jabbed at the Governor with
her elbow.