The Marvelous Magic of Miss Mabel (8 page)

Mabel's mouth had gone dry, and her heart thundered in her chest. “Wouldn't it be safer to ride a broomstick like a bicycle?” she suggested, flinging one leg over her new broom to show what she meant. “You'd have much better balance this way and you wouldn't need the cat.” Miss Reed's eyes had narrowed to tiny slits, and Mabel hurried on in a panic, desperate to make her teacher understand. “Shall I sh-show you?” Mabel stuttered, thinking that a quick demonstration might convince Miss Reed. Feeling too flustered to stop now, Mabel took off across the field. “See, you have so much more control like this,” she called down, trying to gauge the look on Miss Reed's face. Mabel groaned in dismay as her dress blew up. She had forgotten to slip her feet back into her skirt loops. Still, at least Miss Reed could see how much sense it made to fly a broomstick this
way. But the flying teacher didn't look convinced as Mabel landed on the grass. Her face was pulled into a sour twist, and trying another approach, Mabel said, “Think of all the money Ruthersfield would save on cream and fish for the cats.” She smiled nervously, not sure what to do with her mouth.

A harsh thwack across her knuckles sent Mabel reeling into Ruby. “Wipe the smile off your face, girl, and go directly to Miss Brewer's office.” She pointed her wand at Mabel's pinafore, and three more black
X
s joined the two she had received from Violet earlier in the week. “Such insolence is not to be tolerated,” Miss Reed fumed.

Mabel could see Winifred smirking as she turned to go.

“I'll look after your cat for you,” Ruby murmured. “You were only trying to help.”

Mabel nodded gratefully, but as soon as she was away from the class, her eyes pooled with tears. She didn't deserve to be hit. Miss Reed was not being fair. Girls fell off their broomsticks all the time, and Mabel's idea was a good one. She trudged up the school steps, dragging her feet as she headed toward Miss Brewer's office. Again.

M
ABEL RATCLIFF,” MISS BREWER REMARKED,
staring at Mabel out of eyes that still managed to intimidate, beneath their folds of droopy reptilian skin. “How nice to see you. Five demerits in three days, plus a suspension.” The headmistress shook her head. “That is not what we expect from our girls.”

“I'm really sorry, Miss Brewer.” Mabel sniffed as she explained what had happened.

“Don't you have a handkerchief?” Miss Brewer inquired, and when Mabel shook her head, the headmistress handed her a clean, crisply pressed one from her desk drawer.

Mabel gave her nose a good blow. “I felt so bad for poor Ruby, and it just seems like a much safer way to fly,” she finished up.

“Here at Ruthersfield, we pride ourselves on our traditions,” Miss Brewer replied. “Riding a broomstick the way you suggested would be most inappropriate.”

Mabel bit her lip. “But don't you think . . . ,” she began, her words petering out as Miss Brewer raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry, Miss Brewer,” Mabel sighed. “I really didn't mean to be disrespectful.”

Miss Brewer was silent for a while, proceeding to read a letter on her desk while Mabel stood in front of her, folding the handkerchief into a tight square. After about five minutes, the headmistress looked up and sighed. “You can go now, Mabel.”

“But I haven't polished your crystal balls yet, Miss Brewer.”

“Yes, you have, Mabel, rather recently if I recall. You will be better served by going to your sewing class.”

“We're making flying cloaks,” Ruby whispered, as Mabel slipped into her seat.

Miss Seymour beamed at the class. “In honor of your first flying lesson, we're going to be designing travel wear today.” Her fat auburn ringlets bobbed around her ears like springs. “Who would like to demonstrate?”
Winifred stuck her hand in the air, and Miss Seymour pointed her wand at her. “Come on up, Winifred.”

Fluffing out her skirts, Winifred flounced to the front of the class. “Now, be as creative as you like,” Miss Seymour said, “but remember, these cloaks have to be practical as well as attractive.” Winifred chose a bolt of deep purple velvet from the fabric shelf and spread it over the worktable like Miss Seymour had shown them. “Now draw on your creative magic and picture the cloak in your head, Winifred. Just like you did when you made your spell apron.” Winifred shut her eyes and concentrated. “Wait till you can feel your magic fizzing,” Miss Seymour said. Winifred nodded. “Can you see the cloak clearly?” Miss Seymour asked.

“Oh, yes,” Winifred sighed. “It's quite beautiful.”

“Right then, whenever you're ready, Winifred. Say the design spell, and remember the upward flick of your wand at the end.”

Taking a deep breath, Winifred waved her wand over the fabric and called out, “Creataclothis.” A cloud of violet and blue smoke swirled around the fabric, and a whirring, snipping sound could be heard. When the smoke cleared, drifting in wisps across the sewing room, there, draped across the table, was a cloak. Miss Seymour held it up and the girls
oohed
.

“It's beautiful, Winifred,”
Florence Steiner said.

“Yes, simply stunning,” Diana Mansfield agreed.

“Very nice,” Miss Seymour said, turning the cloak around, “if a touch lopsided, Winifred. And perhaps a little much with the feathers?”

“A little much?” Ruby whispered to Mabel. “There must be at least a flock of peacocks stuck on there.”

“I think it's perfect,” Florence said with a simpering smile. “Well done, Winifred.”

“Oh, yes, well done,” Diana agreed.

“Who's next?” Miss Seymour mused, looking around the room. “Mabel Ratcliff, I think. Come along, Mabel. Let's see what you can do.” Mabel got up and tramped to the head of the class. She picked out a bolt of brown woolen tweed.

“That's a nice practical color,” Miss Seymour commented.

“So dull,” Winifred murmured. “But practical,” she added quickly, noticing Miss Seymour frowning at her.

“Now, picture just what you'd like to wear when flying,” Miss Seymour said, turning her attention back to Mabel.

Mabel scrunched up her face and was silent for a few moments while she thought. “Creataclothis,” she finally said, waving her wand in the air and remembering the little upward flick at the end. This time there was a
cloud of brown and green tweedy-colored smoke swirling around the table and a sharp clipping sound from inside. When the smoke cleared, Miss Seymour held up Mabel's flying cloak. Except it wasn't a flying cloak at all. It was a pair of men's trousers. The class burst into raucous laughter, and Mabel blushed.

“I—I tried to focus on making a cloak, I really did, but my mind kept drifting to those,” Mabel said, nodding at the trousers. She hung her head in shame. “Wouldn't it be more sensible to wear something like that when flying? Then we wouldn't have to worry about showing our petticoats,” she mumbled, waiting to be sent right back to the headmistress's office.

Miss Seymour looked furious, and Mabel hunched her shoulders, preparing for the angry outburst that she knew was about to come.

“This whole class is showing great disrespect,” Miss Seymour snapped. “You will all write out one hundred lines for me, saying, ‘I shall treat my classmates as I would expect to be treated myself.' ” Miss Seymour tossed her head, sending her curls spinning. She took some deep, calming breaths and turned Mabel's trousers around. “An unusual design, but these are exceptionally made, Mabel. Unfortunately you will not be able to wear them to school because they are not part of our uniform, but your hemming is even and the
buttons on the pockets are attractive and practical at the same time.”

“So your wand doesn't fall out?” Ruby suggested.

“Exactly, Ruby. Nice observation.” Miss Seymour raised her chin a notch, and Mabel couldn't help feeling surprised. There was something bold and slightly defiant about the sewing teacher's response, as if by admiring Mabel's trousers she was exposing a side of herself that had been hidden before. Just like her bicycle-riding side, Mabel thought.

“But, Miss Seymour,” Winifred remarked, glancing at Florence and Diana. “Those are most unfeminine and not the least bit attractive. Girls don't wear that sort of thing. Men do.” Winifred gave a delicate shudder. “I would rather wear an old flour sack.”

“Would you please leave the room, Winifred Delacy? I didn't ask for your opinion, and I'm sure Miss Brewer will have something to say about it.”

Winifred opened her mouth to complain but thought better of it. She had never been sent to Miss Brewer's office before, and giving a sulky curtsy, she turned and left the classroom, throwing Mabel a look of fury on her way out.

For the first time since starting school, Mabel felt as if someone was taking her ideas seriously. That she wasn't completely insane to imagine trousers would be
a much better thing to wear on a broomstick rather than layers of skirts and petticoats. And even though Miss Seymour hadn't come out and said it, Mabel was certain that the sewing teacher agreed with her.

“I'll do half your lines for you,” Mabel offered, waiting in the lunch queue with Ruby and trying to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Bainbridge. “You didn't laugh at my trousers, Ruby, so you shouldn't have to do the punishment.”

“Thanks.” Ruby smiled. “And I thought your trousers were extremely original.”

“You should be doing my lines,” Winifred said, turning around and glaring at Mabel. “Since it's your fault we got them in the first place.”

“I'll help you, Winifred,” Florence offered.

“So will I,” Diana quickly agreed. “I'm sure your father will be terribly upset.”

“I'm sure he'll complain to Miss Brewer when he hears how I've been treated,” Winifred said. She looked down her nose at Mabel. “Miss Brewer should have expelled you, Mabel Ratcliff. I had a stomachache for hours after eating your liver. Why Ruthersfield accepted you in the first place is a mystery. You don't know the first thing about being a witch.” She gave a disgusted sniff. “You can't dance the waft and glide. You slouch over a crystal ball. And you have no sense of
style. Witches do not wear trousers. Nor do ladies.”

“My mother says a lady shouldn't say spiteful things either,” Ruby said quietly.

“What does your mother know about ladies?” Winifred scoffed. “She's just a canal worker's wife.”

A deep red flush spread up Ruby's neck, and she flinched at Winifred's words.

“You're so cruel, Winifred,” Mabel burst out. “That's such a mean thing to say. Why do you always have to be so horrible?”

For a moment Winifred looked taken aback. She wasn't used to girls standing up to her, and Mabel felt suddenly nervous, unsure what Winifred might do. Florence and Diana glanced at each other uneasily, and Winifred's face hardened. “You better watch it, Mabel Ratcliff.” Turning away, she slipped her arms possessively through Diana's and Florence's. “Come on, girls. I've lost my appetite. Mabel's probably poisoned the sausages.”

“Thank you for defending me,” Ruby said after they had left. “Winifred seemed really mad, didn't she?”

“Yes, she did,” Mabel agreed, “and I probably shouldn't have said what I said. But I don't regret it. Winifred is mean.”

Ruby gave her a warm smile. “You're a good friend, Mabel.”

“That's nice to know,” Mabel joked rather shakily. “Because with Winifred against me, I need all the friends I can get.” Out of all the girls in the school, she had definitely picked the worst one to make an enemy.

A
FTER COLLECTING THEIR BROOMSTICKS AT
the end of the day, Mabel and Ruby watched Miss Seymour wheel her bicycle out of the broom shed. Miss Reed stood nearby with her arms folded, a look of utter disgust on her face.