Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (36 page)

The Box.

The mysterious Box with something inside and no way in,
perched on the bedside table. The very same box she’d thrown into
the brook and watched float away downstream.
How on earth did it get back
here? Was this some kind of joke? The spriggans, perhaps?
She was positive
she had thrown it into the stream, but so much had transpired in
the last few days, her memory proved sluggish and
untrustworthy.
Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I thought I had, or had wanted too,
but in the end didn’t.

Nettle sat up
and snatched the Box, squeezing it with her fingers. It looked just
like the Box her mother wanted to give to her for her thirteenth
birthday, with its polished golden wood, her name flourishingly
carved onto the lid. She was so sure she’d thrown it away, yet here
it was in her hands. It felt real enough.

Her mother,
Briar…

Just the thought of her mother twisted her lips sourly. She
felt as if Briar was meddling with her mind, toying with her… She
felt a rush of fury. She didn’t want this Box, this gift.
I want rid of
it!

Nettle rolled out of bed and shrugged into her dressing
gown, thrusting the Box into the gown’s pocket.
I’m going to get rid of you
once and for all.

Suddenly, a horrendous noise suddenly shattered the quiet
peaceful morning. Nettle could hear the ruckus coming from the
kitchen, all the way in her bedroom on the third floor. A cacophony
of high-pitched squealing and cackling laughter, metal clashing and
the kind of shrieks and screaming only a fourteen year old girl
could make.
Jazz!

Nettle flew into the kitchen brandishing her sword,
completely unsure of what she’d be facing.
More faerie? Felons?
Inside, the once
tidy kitchen was strewn from ceiling to floor with dollops of lumpy
batter and broken egg; food-scraps and coffee grindings were
splattered against the walls; drawers and cupboards were pulled out
or swung open, and it seemed every single pot and utensil had been
dragged out of their homes and tipped onto the wooden
floor.

Nettle gawped,
the sword slowly lowering in her limp hand. The spriggans were in
the midst of an uproar of utter wickedness. Jazz had been put to
task, judging by her frantic efforts to stir several pots boiling
over on the stove and flip pancakes encrusted with fried insects.
She was caked with dough and clumps of batter had dried into clumps
in her hair.

Quary perched
on her head brandishing a wooden spoon. He smacked her about when
the mood struck. Her left cheek bore the brunt of his ire being
much redder than the right. “Come on you lazy snippet. I want me
BREAKFAST!” He thwacked her again, guffawing wickedly.

Jazz shrieked
with each strike, while Sandee sat on her shoulder bellowing her
own instructions. “Stir them eggs girlie! Yer pots boilin’ over!
You burn me rock-cakes and I’ll burn yer hair right from yer
head!”

Egnatius sat
in the fruit-basket being too old to join in, but he was cackling
hard as Roq and Spix leapt about the kitchen bench flinging
themselves at Jazz as she passed. They pinching her hard, or
scratched at her arms, or slapped her face. Even Quary’s rooster
was getting in on the action by pecking at Jazz’s bottom. Jazz wept
as she frantically tried to keep up with Sandee’s commands, earning
herself several more thwacks and pinches for her clumsiness.

Spix struck
her bottom hard making her squeal. “Where’s me coffee!” He
demanded.

They were all
yelling over top over each other, ordering her about, it was hard
to make out exactly what each one wanted from her, but it was clear
they wanted their breakfast and they wanted it now.

As yet,
no one had noticed Nettle had entered the kitchen. In some small
way it was delightful to see lazy Jazz getting a little
comeuppance, and she secretly relished watching her cousin’s
misfortune, letting it go on a little longer than she knew she
ought to. But after a lingering moment stretched as long as she
could afford, Nettle couldn’t let her cousin be treated in this
manner.

She
straightened, holding her sword aloft and bellowed, “WHAT DO YOU
THINK YOU ARE DOING?!”

Over the
appalling noise in the kitchen she wasn’t surprised no one heard
her. With a deep sigh of grievance, she strode up and swept the
spriggans from the kitchen bench, catching them completely unaware,
and dropped them into the potato draw shutting them inside.

She backhanded
both Quary and Sandee, knocking them from their perch to land
unceremoniously on top of the dining table. Sandee had the wind
knocked out of her, but Quary quickly recovered his footing and
spun around to strike back. Nettle’s sword in his face, stopped
him.

Jazz threw
herself at Nettle, rocking her slightly. She clung to her sobbing.
“Thank you… thank you… thank you…” Her face was red and faintly
bruised where the spoon had repeatedly struck her and she rubbed
her bottom from all the pinching she’d received. “They’ve been so
nasty and horrid and they’ve hurt me…” she wailed, sniffing.

Nettle
had never seen her cousin so vulnerable before, it kind of shocked
her. Shame at the enjoyment she’d experienced watching Jazz’s
punishment coursed through her, filling her with a ghastly guilt.
She hugged her cousin tightly, keeping the sword’s point
threatening Quary.

A moment
later, Jazz drew away to look at her with big puffy red-rimmed eyes
in astonishment. “Are you holding a sword?”

Nettle
shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah.”

“What
are you doing with a sword?” Bram asked, entering the kitchen
rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Like Nettle, he was dressed in his
pyjamas, but his slippers were bunnies with big floppy
ears.

“
Dad gave it to me. It was Briar’s.”

“
Oh,” he nodded, still sleepy.

“
Can’t you ever call her Mum?” asked Jazz, on one of the rare
occasions she was sincerely curious.

“
No,” answered Nettle, her brow furrowing deeply.

Bram yawned, stretching his arms above his head, rolling
his neck from side to side. Upon surveying the kitchen, he abruptly
awoke. His eyes flashed wide.
“Ooooh…”

“
Watch where yer pointing that thing,” Quary barked at Nettle.
He reached to push the sword away from him when Sandee unexpectedly
slammed into him. “Don’t Captain!” she cried, knocking him from his
feet. She landed on top of him with a heavy grunt.

Quary was flat on his back, the breath punched out of him.
It was a long moment before he could growl, “
Oi,
what you think yer doing?” Then
realizing for once he was in close proximity to his lovely Sandee,
he gave a leery wink. “Now if yer in mind to steal a kiss, you
coulda just asked.” He puckered his lips, his eyes at
half-mast.

Sandee
just rolled her eyes at him and got to her feet. Quary gave her a
sad little face that she ignored. She helped him rise, dusting
flour from his vest and rearranging his hat so it sat properly on
his head once more. Pointing to the sword she said, “That blade is
made from iron and woven into it are strands of
moonthread.”

“
I aint afraid of no munthread,” mocked Quary, puffing his
chest out. He gave her a look that suggested he found her lack of
faith in him offensive.

“Not
munthread, you dolt,” Sandee said in exasperation. “Moonthread! It
aint no ordinary moonthread either. It’s been stolen from a
crescent moon. If it even touches a hair on yer head, it’ll burn
you so fierce there’ll be nothing left of yer bones but
ash.”

Quary shrank
from the sword, hiding behind Sandee. “Well you did right by saving
me.”

Burnt to ash, good to know,
thought Nettle impressed. Suddenly she
felt Jazz grab the sword hilt. “Hey!” She cried in protest. But her
cousin was doing her utmost to wrestle it from her. The
vulnerability was gone, replaced with the usual kind of Jazz Nettle
knew intimately, the one that didn’t like to be trifled with. She
wore a mean expression, one that smacked of retribution. She ripped
the sword from Nettle.

“Burnt to ash… excellent… and I hope it hurts like hell!
Say your last goodbyes,
pipsqueak
,” Jazz threatened Quary. “No-one, and I mean
no-one messes with me!” As she went to raise the sword it dropped
to the ground with a heavy clang.

Nettle
exchanged a bewildered look with Bram. She had no idea what Jazz
was playing at. Her cousin was holding the hilt with two hands and
her face was colouring a vibrant tomato-red. The veins on her neck
were bulging like ropes wrapped around a bollard, sweat glistened
on her brow, and she was huffing and puffing with exertion. Yet the
sword remained on the floor.

Nettle took a wary step back. “
Er,
Jazz, are you OK?”

Jazz stopped
trying to lift the sword long enough to spit at her cousin, “No I’m
not! I don’t know how you managed to hold this. But this is
RIDICULOUS!”

Nettle didn’t
understand. “What do you mean?”

“
Its like lead or something!”

Bram took the
sword from Jazz, lifting it up into the air like it was a feather.
He waved it around a bit with one hand. “Interesting,” he
murmured.

“
Huh?” Jazz gaped, astounded. She snatched the sword back from
Bram and it fell to the ground and stayed there. Nettle didn’t like
to think of the gouges it probably had made in the wooden floor, or
the fact if it had fallen a couple of centimetres to the right it
would have severed Jazz’s foot in half.

“
Well, would you look at that,” said Bram, thoughtfully. He
stood with one arm on his hip while the other massaged his chin.
Nettle shook her head at him, her mouth curving upward. He was so
much like their father.

Nettle leaned
down and picked up the sword. She held it easily enough with one
hand, flipping it over, back and forth. She gave Bram an askance
look. “Dad did say only we could wield it.”

Egnatius’s
muffled voice from the potato draw called out, “Could you let us
out now?”

Nettle walked over and opened the drawer.
“
Hmmmm
let me think,” she teased. “No.” And shut the draw. Squawks
of protests came from Roq and Spix trapped inside. She opened the
draw again. Roq looked up at her, contrite, kneading his hands in
supplication. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

“
What I want is a clean kitchen.”

A whirlwind of
griping exploded from all the spriggans. Even Egnatius who leaned
against Spix’s shoulder grumbled his dissatisfaction

“
Listen girly,” huffed Quary, stomping about the kitchen table
a safe distance from the sword. “I’m the only one who calls the
orders.”

Nettle had had enough. She was sick of the mess, the
spriggans waywardness, the way Quary puffed about thinking he was
in charge.
No, they needed to learn who was in charge here. Me!
She strode straight
for the pantry and grabbed a jar of Nutella. She waved it over her
head and headed toward the wood-burner, pulling open the door. The
fire crackled, amber flames licking charred wood. Her other hand
secretively stole into her dressing gown pocket.

Quary’s good eye flared wide. He waved his hands at her,
protesting. “Hey,
girly
, don’t do anything hasty.”

Roq had pulled
himself half out of the potato draw. “What’s she doin’?”

Nettle
didn’t say a thing. She just glared at the spriggans, turned and
pretended to toss the jar of Nutella into the fire, and shut the
door.

Quary
shrieked, a high-pitch squawk much like Jazz’s. Sandee thumped him
on the arm. “Captain, you blockhead! Look what you gone an’
done!”

Nettle waited,
hands on her hips, bristling.

Quary stumbled
against Sandee and slid to his knees. His face had paled to a
limestone grey. He finally asked in a strangled voice, “What are
you playing at?”

Nettle
took her time answering, she’d crossed her arms and was drumming
her fingers against her forearms. “If you think back to our
agreement, you’ll remember that I’m in charge. Not you. Me. So from
now on, you do as I say, when I say.” There were a few dark looks
traded between Roq and Spix, who’d hauled himself out of the drawer
and was balanced on the drawers edge. Like Roq he had a dusting of
potato dirt over his face and hands. Nettle twisted her mouth as
she stared at Quary unkindly. “And if not, then I’ll get rid of
every single jar of Nutella we have in the house.”

Quary’s
shoulders slumped in defeat. “Whatever you want,” he conceded, his
gaze downcast and his voice feeble. “Just don’t get rid of
anymore.”

“
Then you’ll do as I say.” It wasn’t a question.

Quary looked
up and gave a reluctant nod.

With a
grim smile, Nettle opened up the wood-burner door. A box - the Box
she’d found beside her bed that morning - sat on a hot bed of fiery
embers.

There came a collective sigh of relief from all the
spriggans. Nettle met Bram’s gaze, they both were thinking the same
thing:
What
is wrong with them?

With a baffled shake of the head, Nettle thought to
herself,
who
would have thought Nutella could be so addictive?
She tossed the jar
of Nutella she’d pretended to throw into the fire to Quary who
caught it with fumbling hands. He drew his arms around it
possessively and gave the jar a lip-smacking kiss.
“
Ah,
you tricked us good
and mighty with that one.”