The Power of Poppy Pendle (3 page)

“You’ll enjoy that,” Mrs. Pendle said. “It talks about what a big responsibility being magical is and how these witches abused their powers and became evil. Ended up on the dark side.” She shuddered.

“So don’t go getting any ideas!” her father joked. Poppy gave him a weak smile.

“Can we have my cake now?” she asked. “It’s a new recipe and I think you’re all going to love it.”

“Ooh, that’s stunning!” Auntie Viv sighed as Poppy put a three-layer lemon cake on the table. It was covered in swirls of creamy frosting with yellow roses piped around the edge. Leaning toward her sister, Vivian whispered, “Poppy couldn’t have made that. You must have got it from Patisserie Marie Claire.”

“Of course Poppy made it.” Edith Pendle frowned at Auntie Viv. “Although I told her it was bad luck, baking your own birthday cake.”

“But I wanted to, Mum. It was fun.”

“Yes, so let’s all enjoy it,” Edith said, thrusting forks around the table. “Because once Poppy’s an Intermediate Witch, she’ll be far too busy to bake. And no more reading cookbooks either.” Edith Pendle sniffed. “Nothing but a waste of time.”

Poppy didn’t trust herself to speak. It was her birthday and she should have been happy, but she only felt sad as she sucked lemon frosting off her finger.

Chapter Three

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Kibet Fallow Da

S
TEP-UP TODAY!” MRS. PENDLE ANNOUNCED, FLINGING OPEN Poppy’S
curtains. She straightened a framed print of her family tree that hung on Poppy’s bedroom wall. “My parents were so disappointed when I didn’t get the gift of magic,” Edith Pendle said wistfully. “I tried and tried, but you either have it or you don’t.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Poppy whispered into her pillow.

After Mrs. Pendle had left the room, Poppy dragged herself out of bed and put on the clean uniform her mother had laid out. She trudged downstairs, stopping for a moment in front of the photo of Great-Granny Mabel that sat on the hall table, the one Poppy’s parents said looked just like her. And although Poppy hated to admit it, even she could see the resemblance. They both had the same blue eyes and flyaway brown hair and an almost identical band of freckles sprinkled across their nose. Except the girl smiling back at her wore a purple graduation gown and clutched a rolled-up diploma. “I wish I’d known you.” Poppy sighed. “Then perhaps I wouldn’t be so mad at you!” After all, it wasn’t Great-Granny Mabel’s fault that Poppy had to go to Ruthersfield Academy, even though her great-grandmother had been the one to pass along the stupid witch gene. “Why couldn’t you have been a baker?” Poppy whispered. “Then I would have wanted to be just like you.”

Most mornings Poppy walked to school, but since today was the Step-Up Ceremony and it was pouring rain, Mr. and Mrs. Pendle insisted on driving her. As Poppy got into the car, she avoided looking at their custom-made license plate, which said
WELUVRWTCH
. Above it was a purple and gold bumper sticker declaring,
PROUD PARENTS OF A RUTHERSFIELD GIRL
.

“Well, you’re really on your way now, love,” Roger Pendle remarked. “Not a Novice anymore!”

Poppy watched as the local school bus rumbled past. A pale girl with a halo of frizzy curls had her face pressed against the glass. She looked about as lonely as Poppy felt. Perhaps if they both went to the elementary school, they could become friends. “I wish I were riding on that,” Poppy whispered.

“No, you don’t,” Mrs. Pendle said firmly.

A sick, anxious feeling had lodged in Poppy’s stomach, the way it always did when Ruthersfield came into view. The academy was an imposing stone building that looked more like a fortress than a school for witches. Flocks of older girls were landing their broomsticks gracefully on the pavement, and Poppy tripped as she got out of the car. Several of the girls tittered. “Don’t forget your briefcase,” Mrs. Pendle called after her. Grabbing it quickly, Poppy hurried off with her head down, trying to appear invisible. She could feel her socks start to slip, and using her free hand, Poppy gave them a quick tug, stumbling forward as she did so.

“Clunterpoke!” someone giggled behind her. Poppy could tell from the voice it was Deirdre Lambert, one of the popular girls in the seventh form. “Clunterpoke!” Deirdre taunted again, and Poppy bit down on her lip, trying not to cry. She was regularly called “clunterpoke,” which in Ruthersfield slang meant “clumsy.” It was, as Poppy had swiftly learned during her first year, an extremely unflattering term.

“Deirdre Lambert!” a sharp voice cut through the noise. “Apologize at once!” Turning around, Poppy saw Miss Corns, their magical management teacher, swoop down on a broomstick. “That sort of language will not be tolerated.”

“Sorry,” Deirdre mumbled, examining her purple fingernails. “It was only a joke.”

“No, Deirdre, it was disrespectful. When you wear the Ruthersfield uniform, you represent the whole school. Your behavior mirrors what this academy stands for, and it does not stand for catty meanness.”

Deirdre blushed. “I’m sorry,” she muttered again.

“Very well.” Miss Corns softened her voice. “Cobweb-sweeping duty after school for a week, please.”

“A whole week? Every day?”

“Which means dusting well in all the corners.”

“Yes, Miss Corns,” Deirdre said, glaring at Poppy. This did seem rather a strong punishment, and Poppy gave her an apologetic smile. It was not well received. Deirdre narrowed her eyes and silently mouthed, “Cake head.” Then, linking arms with another girl, she flipped back her long dark hair and flounced off. Not a good start to Step-Up Day, and as Poppy traipsed along behind them, she could feel the sharp metal clasp of the briefcase scraping against her leg.

Inside the great Hall, it sounded like a convention of spring robins. Only Poppy sat quietly, surrounded by twittering girls. As Ms. Roach walked onto the stage and stood with her arms folded, gradually the room fell silent. “Welcome, fourth formers,” she began. “You have all been here for three years now, learning what it takes to become a witch, and today you are no longer Novices. Today you step up!” Excited whispering rippled through the crowd, and Ms. Roach waited until the room was silent again. “It is indeed an honor to become an Intermediate Witch, and the next few years will be challenging ones, requiring plenty of hard work and determination. We expect great things from our girls.” Ms. Roach looked directly at Poppy, who had been dreaming about chocolate cream pie. Shifting in her chair, Poppy leaned forward, trying to focus, but it was difficult to stop her mind from wandering.

Smothering a yawn, Poppy shifted in her chair again as the headmistress’s voice swelled. “But let us not forget that for hundreds of years witches have had a terrible reputation. They were considered evil and destructive, and were completely misunderstood, usually because of one or two genuinely wicked creatures. Now, of course, we have strict laws and regulations governing the art of magic and, as I’m sure you’re well aware, our own maximum security prison especially for those witches who do not comply.”

“Scrubs,” Poppy heard Megan Roberts whisper. “If you end up in that prison, you never get out.”

“Witchcraft has come a long way,” Ms. Roach declared. “It is a highly respected profession these days, but as you prepare to step up to the next level, let me make one thing very clear.” Here the headmistress paused a moment, staring at each girl in turn. “Black magic will not be tolerated,” she said. “I repeat, black magic will not be tolerated. So, continue to practice your craft wisely, become the best witch you can be, and remember our school motto, girls.”

“Kibet fallow da,” the students chanted.

“Kibet fallow da,” Ms. Roach warbled with emotion. “That ancient pagan saying written down by the first high priestess of magic. And we know what it means, don’t we?” Ms. Roach held her arms wide as the girls yelled back.

“Follow your passion.”

“Yes, and today, as you leave your Novice years behind, I ask all of you to do just that. To follow your passion and strive for excellence.” Everyone applauded, although Poppy was deep in thought as she clapped her hands together, pondering whether dark chocolate or milk chocolate would make a better pie filling.

Chapter Four

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Madeline Reynolds

I
STAYED IN THE AIR FOR FIVE MINUTES,” MEGAN ROBERTS BRAGGED AT THE LUNCH
table, “and my broomstick didn’t even wobble.” They had just come in from their first flying lesson, and Poppy was squashed at the end of the table, her long legs sticking out to the side. She was reading her newest
Good Eats
magazine, paying no attention to the conversation. Deirdre Lambert walked by and gave Poppy’s shoe a light kick. As Poppy glanced up, Deirdre mouthed the words “clumsy clunterpoke,” and gave a spectacular horsey sneer. The girls at the table giggled, and Megan Roberts whispered behind her hands, “Poppy is so weird!” Megan was flipping through the May issue of
Young Witch
, and had stopped at a page showing a smiling girl in a black-and-green-striped leotard, sitting astride a broomstick. At the top of the page, in bold letters, it said,
TEN EXERCISES TO HELP YOU TONE YOUR BROOMSTICK-FLYING MUSCLES
. Sucking in her stomach, Megan sat up straight and looked around the table. “Stomach in, shoulders back when you’re riding a broomstick,” she said. All the other girls copied, except for Poppy, who was staring at a glossy picture of a caramel tart.

“Poppy doesn’t need to practice her exercises,” Megan said, carefully balancing a spoon across the tip of her index finger. “She’s been flying in secret.”

“I have not!” Poppy said, feeling her face grow warm. “I’ve never even held a broom before today, except to sweep the floor with.”

“Then how come you were so good?”

“I don’t really know, but I didn’t like it,” Poppy admitted. “It actually made me feel a bit sick.”

Megan smirked at her friend Fanny Freeman. “That’s so dumb!” she said.

“I couldn’t even get my broomstick off the ground,” Fanny groaned, slumping forward over the table. “Being a Novice was so much easier. All this extra hard work they’re piling on. I’m never going to graduate.”

“Do you want to be a witch, then?” Poppy asked, and Fanny lifted her head to stare at Poppy.

“Of course I want to be a witch, cake head. What’s the point of getting the gift if you don’t use it?”

“I’m not sure,” Poppy said softly, chewing the end of her braid. She didn’t have an answer for that.

In history class, their first big project as Intermediate Witches was to pick one famous Ruthersfield alumna to write about. Poppy chose Madeline Reynolds, which caused quite an upset because she was a witch who had gone over to the dark side. Miss Jenkins, the history teacher, tried to steer Poppy toward someone else. “We have so many marvelous witches from our past to admire. What about Betty Tumly, who invented the lost-and-found tool? You simply program in what’s been lost, a glove, your house keys, even your homework. Then sweep the finder around and it will beep when the missing item has been located. Or Katherine Jones?” Miss Jenkins suggested. “Now, there was an extraordinary woman. She used her magic to invent chocolate-flavored brussels sprouts, all the nutrition of regular sprouts but delicious for children to eat. And let’s not forget your great-grandmother Mabel Ratcliff.”