Abby the Witch (15 page)

'A giant cake
maybe?' Pembrake shifted about on the hay until he had apparently
found a comfortable place to rest.

Abby replied
with pointed silence.

'You know,
Abby, if you were any other girl.'

She flinched.
'And what's that supposed to mean?' She could tell, whatever it
was, that Ms Crowthy would certainly not approve and that Pembrake
was saying it purely to annoy her. Still… what did he mean?

Pembrake
shifted his head so she could no longer see his smile. 'I see you
have a lot to learn, little witch.' With that Pembrake had rolled
over and not spoken again until morning.

Abby had
fussed about for a while, trying to find a sufficiently private
place to hang up her sopping clothes, a place she was sure Pembrake
would not accidently come upon and cause her to blush like a
spewing volcano. She would have to be very careful around him, she
could tell.

Eventually
Abby came to rest on a suitable patch of hay. It was scratchy, but
she couldn't really do anything about that. Mostly she was glad
that her whirlwind day was slowing down around her, coming to rest
in this pleasantly peaceful hay shed.

Charlie
settled in beside her and began to purr. 'One of these days,' he
kept his voice low, 'we are going to have to have a good long chat
about going back in time and courting strange naval men.'

Abby tsked
angrily, and flicked his ear lightly before settling further into
her impromptu bed.

Pembrake could
go hang for all she cared, Abby assured herself one final time
before she drifted off to sleep.

The next day
brought with it the bustling sound of the port with men shouting
off in the distance and the blast of a fog horn whistling through
the air. Abby awoke to the ghastly sight of Pembrake leaning over
her, face quizzical but eyes alight with interest.

In the moment
it took Abby's brain to catch up with the situation, Ms Crowthy's
disembodied self had shouted at Abby to cover up at once. Abby
quickly, awkwardly considering she had sunk far down into the hay
during the night, threw her arms around her as best she could,
causing Charlie to fly off the hay and land dazzled at Pembrake's
feet.

'What are you
wearing?' Pembrake didn't look away like a polite gentleman should,
but kept on staring.

She was
wearing, apart from the blush that was searing her cheeks, a pair
of Martha's spare drawers and an alarmingly large singlet.

'You look like
you're from the pantomime.' He still hadn't looked away.

'Go away!' she
tried to struggle up out of the hay, but found it eating her like
quick sand.

Pembrake shook
his head with laughter, either at the sight of her struggling like
tissue on the wind or the impossible plum-red colour of her cheeks.
'Oh I don't think so, this is quite funny really.'

'You're so
rude!' she continued to struggle determinedly, certain she could
not accept a hand from him now, 'don't you know how to act around
ladies?'

A very
self-assured grin settled on his face, his white teeth sneaking out
from behind his lips. 'Oh yes.'

She had had
enough. What a horrible man he was. As Ms Crowthy had assured her
on many occasions, the best way to deal with people that wouldn't
go away, was to throw things at them until they did. And this
wisdom was especially appropriate around boys. Ms Crowthy, the old
Crone that she was, had little tolerance for boys in general,
especially when they went around pestering her young recruits. Many
a hopeful farmhand had gone home with a black eye from a mysterious
boot flying over the hedge.

Abby bunched
her hands round several loose tufts of hay and threw them at him.
He stood there stalwart as the hay gently fell against him, her aim
true but her chosen weapon weak. 'You are very easy to scare, Abby,
it's a wonder you've made it to the age you have without holing
yourself up in a cave and blocking the entrance. It's no wonder you
get on so well with my mother.'

Finally Abby
struggled free of the hay, eventually having to burrow through it
until her feet reached the firm floor. 'And you, Pembrake -' she
went to grab her clothes but he didn't move from her path.

'Yes?' his
eyes were still flickering with that same amused interest.

Standing
closer to him, without the barrier of hay in her way, was far more
confronting, and Abby tried to sniff back some self-respect. 'You
are a horrible rouge,' she ended weakly.

'You're not
very good at winning arguments, are you?' he was laughing through
his words, but still those green eyes would not move from her. 'In
fact there doesn't seem to be anything you can do to surprise me –
you're very predictable, if not a little peculiar and great deal
naive.'

Abby's mind
stumbled and she hated herself for the way her eyes flicked with
confusion.

'You want
predictable, buddy?' Charlie suddenly said as he reared onto two
feet and stood like a little cat man, 'how about I jump up there
and scratch your face off.'

Pembrake
jerked back like a man on fire. His face suddenly yanked back with
rigid surprise. 'Wh-what the hell?'

Abby put a
hand to her mouth and giggled, the look on Pembrake's face was
worth more than all the gold in the world.

'You finding
this funny, Pembrake?' Charlie was putting on a terribly tough
voice which sounded as though he'd modelled it on a drunken sailor.
'Because these claws are sharp,' he finished off with a hiss.

Pembrake
shifted back once more before he tried to straighten up. 'That
cat's talking!' he pointed out to the general room.

'Surprise,
ha?' Abby let the sarcasm keep her voice in a low continuous
tone.

He looked at
her and seemed to calm down slightly, no doubt realising how very
foolish he looked. 'I suppose witches have talking cats, I've heard
the stories,' he ticked his head as he spoke.

'And now
you've seen the real thing, 'Charlie appeared to be squaring up to
him, 'and how does it make you feel?'

Abby couldn't
help but chuckle at Charlie's adorable routine, something he would
probably bite her for later.

Pembrake took
a second to swallow. 'Well, think of it this way,' he knelt down
slightly, though not far enough to bring his pristine face within
scratching distance, 'I could pick you up and throw you in a hay
bale - how would that feel?' Pembrake's voice was menacing but
retained a note of surprise.

It was a
moment that she wished could go on and on forever, but she had to
intervene for the sake of her beloved little Charlie. If he were
20-times larger, then she'd just let him sort out Pembrake for
good.

'Okay,' Abby
said clearly and forcefully, 'game's over, boys,' she leant down
and picked up Charlie who's hair still stood on end, 'I'm going to
get dressed now.'

That morning
was spent back on the streets of Bridgestock, its cobbles washed
clean from the night's rain. Abby had spent most of the time
drifting behind Pembrake, picking strands of straw out of her hair,
and making mutinous faces at the back of his head and sharing
whispered words with Charlie. If Pembrake thought he was better at
finding 'clues' to fixing their destinies and getting into the
palace than her, then so be it. Of course he didn't have a magical
bone in his pompous body, which was going to doom him from the
start. How was he going to recognise a suitable clue to why their
destinies had broken and how it was they were to fix them again? He
didn't even believe in that kind of stuff.

So Abby had
just hung behind him, like a petulant shadow, waiting for him to
give up and come crawling back to her. It wasn't going to happen,
of course. The self-assured, charismatic, arrogant Commander wasn't
about to ask a 'little witch' for advice.

What a waste
of time he was.

'Why,' he
stopped and drew up beside her as they passed a bakery, 'do you
always seem to be making such horrible faces?'

He'd obviously
caught a glance of one of her most enthusiastic faces in the glass
of the bakery windows. 'I find the back of your head to be very
inspiring,' she said sharply before she'd really thought of it. She
was usually very mild mannered and polite. Pembrake seemed to be
bringing out a surprising and worrying side of her.

He looked
shocked but amused. 'Plucky this morning aren't we.'

Her stomach
gave a rumble before she could think of a cutting reply.

For a short
moment he frowned, before he caught himself and turned it into a
sneer. 'Good point, Abby's stomach, perhaps we should find some
food.'

After that,
Abby swore she saw a little bit of the Commander shining through.
It had occurred to her, after all, that whoever Pembrake was around
her, he couldn't possibly assume the same roguish arrogance around
his crew. And as he went marching off down the street, Abby darting
to keep up, she felt like she was following a different man.

They found a
tree, laden with ripe apples sprawling over a wall on Esquire
street. According to Pembrake, he'd often come here as a child, and
there was more where that came from. Abby was simply surprised and
a little taken aback as he kept on handing her apples, stowing only
one in his own pocket.

He had the
face of a worried mother, begging their child to eat. Though he
couldn't come right out and say that he was actually concerned
about her. 'You stock up, I don't want you fainting and losing us
valuable time.' He scaled the wall and threw her down another
apple.

'Ah ha.'

After Pembrake
had grabbed all the apples at hand, he'd vaulted back off the wall,
landing lightly beside her. 'Eat,' he commanded.

And she
did.

With the
apron, that Martha had tied around Abby's baggy clothes so that
they would stay on, full of apples, Charlie trotting beside them,
her and Pembrake had walked the length of Esquire street, a strange
but comfortable silence spreading between them.

It was almost
pleasant with the mid-morning sun shining on their backs. Almost
pleasant, that was, until Abby rounded a corner and knocked flat
into what felt like a brick wall, falling back against the pavement
and losing her apples with a yelp.

'Oh no!' A man
with the dark skin of a South Islander quickly dropped to his knees
and helped her up.

She found
herself staring at his face, open mouthed and confused. It wasn't
the shock of falling on the street that had done it – or the
terrible prospect of her breakfast tumbling along the pavement
brown and bruised – it was the man's face.

The way his
lips seemed to be set with a natural, friendly curl. The way his
jaw tapered to a firm square jut. The way his eyes seemed to be set
into keen search lights…. The man reminded her of Pembrake.

'I really am
sorry,' the man stood her up but fell short of brushing her off.
Instead he nodded very politely, a look of genuine concern on his
all-too-familiar face.

Abby wanted to
shift her shocked gaze to Pembrake and switch between them,
comparing and noting the obvious, distinctive similarities. It was
uncanny. All but for the lighter shade of his skin and pale green
eyes – Pembrake was the spitting image of the man before her.

'You really
must excuse me, ma'am, it was very rude of me to come around the
corner so fast.'

She allowed
herself to finally look past his face to the crisp white, navy suit
he wore, and the slightly-rumpled bouquet of red roses held in his
hand. Her apples lay dejected around them both and the man leant
down to pick one up. 'Bruised I'm afraid, I'm so sorry.' And he did
actually sound it.

And that was
the difference that was most astounding. She was looking at a far
more agreeable Pembrake. She could see Ms Crowthy approving of this
man in an instant. She would probably even invite him in for
shortbread and tea, and if there was a slice of apple pie around,
she'd offer him that too.

'Of course,'
she eventually mumbled, trying to dampen down her shock into a
polite smile, 'don't worry about it.'

But the man
had let his eyes drift down her dirty, ill-fitting clothes and
settled on her thin arms poking from under the fabric. He looked
back at the apple and gave a small smile. 'I don't think it would
be decent of me to leave like this, I owe you recompense,
ma'am.'

She found
herself nodding, not really listening, just thinking about how
astonishingly agreeable he was.

'You don't
have to do that,' Pembrake said from beside her.

Abby had
almost forgotten all about him. She turned to see his face was set
with a peculiar look of recognition. His brow was crinkled and his
nose flared, his eyes peering across his lookalike with cold
confusion.

Had he noticed
that they looked so much alike?

'Of course I
do,' the man said firmly. Then he reached out a large hand to
Pembrake, 'Ensign Karing.'

Pembrake
hesitated then shook it, his face looking paler by the moment.

'I really
insist on paying for the apples,' he said with a firmness that
reminded Abby of Pembrake demanding that she eat moments before,
'In fact, if you would just wait a moment while I deliver these
flowers, I insist on taking you to breakfast.'

Pembrake put a
hand on her shoulder. 'I'm afraid we haven't the time, we are quite
busy.'

'Oh,' Ensign
Karing looked disappointed for a moment, then his determination
returned. 'No problem then. My fiancé is just around the corner,
and she has an apple tree laden with fruit. I absolutely insist on
replacing them.'

He seemed to
be used to giving orders, Abby thought as she let her eyes drift
over his face again.

'The apples
are fine,' Pembrake picked one up, hiding a large brown bruise by
twisting it around.