Holloway pursed his lips. ‘Well, for it to play up like that … There’s only one thing I’ve ever known that can do that to a person.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Grief.’
Willow felt sudden tears prick her eyes. There was a long moment in which she didn’t say anything – couldn’t say anything. Her eyes filled, and Holloway looked like he wanted to go back in time and erase his words.
He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, lass. I said it wasn’t me place – I’m an old fool at times. You just look really sad sometimes is all.’
Willow shook her head. ‘No, you’re not a fool, Holloway. I-I … I lost my Granny Flossy recently.’
As she said her grandmother’s name, it felt as if the air were snatched from her lungs and she forgot how to breathe. It happened like that sometimes, the remembrance of her. Some days it was something as small as seeing a tiny green shoot in the ground that was exactly the colour of Granny’s hair that did it. Other times it was the scent of a stewed grumbling Gertrude – the dark purple fruit that the old woman had used to improve the flavour of her dodgier potions – that suddenly brought tears to Willow’s eyes. These little things would make her stop suddenly, like her legs were wading through churned butter, and she couldn’t move – not until her heart remembered how to beat again.
She wondered if that would ever stop – if she would ever just think of Granny Flossy and not feel as if the world had somehow ended. When she’d found the missing Tuesday and discovered that she’d lost her, Willow felt as if she’d lost a piece of herself in the process too.
She swallowed and willed herself not to cry. Not here. Not now. She’d been doing that a lot lately. She gritted her teeth. She had to be strong.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that, lass,’ said Holloway, his sea-green eye full of remorse. ‘It’s not me place to say, but I figure that might be what’s at the heart of it, and I’m afraid the only cure for that is time.’
Willow bit her lip, trying to encourage the tears to retreat. Perhaps Holloway sensed this as he put on a bright voice and suggested they play a game of cards called Witchstyx.
There were four sets of different cards: a witch’s hat, a broom, a cauldron and a raven.
‘They’re a terrible old stereotype … about witches,’ he said, his cheeks turning slightly red. ‘I mean, I know most witches don’t subscribe to the old ways any more.’ He cleared his throat.
‘Only cos they can’t, wot wiff what ’appened ter magic after the war,’ sniffed Oswin from the opposite chair. ‘Else this one woulds ’ave it all, ’cept mebbe the hat. That would look a bit weirds.’
Willow shot him a look, but her mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh.
Oswin was right that since the Long War a thousand years ago, when magic was almost completely destroyed, magicians were not as powerful as they’d used to be. The magic that had returned to Starfell centuries later wasn’t like the magic of old, which had gifted people with many abilities. It had learnt not to trust humans, and only gave small traces of itself. This was why most people who were lucky enough to have magic in their veins these days only had the one ability, like Willow.
Oswin was right, though, that she’d always fancied the old traditions, particularly brooms. Though she wasn’t sure about ravens – that sounded dead creepy …
‘All ya have to do is match like with like and shout “Witchstyx” first. It’s fun. Ya win regardless, though, showing her a beautifully drawn card of a fearsome witch. ‘Umbellifer. Queen of the Undead.’
Willow took the card and her eyes widened. The ghostly ruler was depicted as a skeletal figure. There were dark holes where her eyes should have been and on her head was a crown made of bones.
‘She’s ’orrid,’ said Oswin, looking at it and shivering. ‘The stories!’
Willow agreed. They were dreadful. All good ghost stories began with the Queen of the Undead. Still, it didn’t stop them trying their best to get her card as they began to play.
Later in the evening, after their fourth round of Witchstyx, Holloway sighed as he sat back in his armchair. He crossed his wooden leg over the other, then grimaced as he fiddled with it.
‘Is it hurting you?’
‘Some,’ he admitted. ‘’Tis not the same as the one I had made in Lael. Elves, ya know? They know how to make things that work. Fitted me skin like a glove, moved when I moved. This just chafes something rotten. Do ya mind?’ He looked at the leg and then at her.
It took Willow a while to realise he was asking her if she would mind if he took the artificial leg off – and she realised that he’d been keeping it on this whole time, despite his discomfort, for her benefit. She felt terrible. ‘Oh, Holloway, please take it off – you don’t have to wear it for me! Is there anything I can do?’
The wizard sighed in relief as he popped it off and gave the skin beneath it a rub. It looked red and painful. ‘Thanks. Not really, though, not unless ya can find me old one! Lost it to that darned sea serpent. Life of a sailor, always doing battle with something – be it sea or sea monster.’ He gave her a good-natured wink.
Willow bit her lip. He did say that it was lost.
Then, before she could even raise her hand to the sky to try and find it, a great cascade of water fell from above and something solid landed with a thunk on the floor.
‘WHAT IN WOL’S NAME? Is that mine?’ exclaimed Holloway, looking down at the wooden leg. It had a few bite marks, possibly from the run-in with the sea monster.
Willow blinked in shock. How had she done that without even thinking?
‘Th-thank you,’ stammered the wizard as he took up the leg. Then he hopped to the kitchen, dodging the great puddle of water where the leg had landed, and started filling up a kettle with water. ‘I’ll just give it a quick rinse before I put it on. Who knows where on Starfell it’s been!’ he said.
He washed the wooden leg tenderly with soap and water, then patted it dry. When he put it on, Willow could see the difference immediately. It fitted like a glove.
He looked at her in amazement. ‘I know things aren’t going according to plan with yer magic, but I can say this for nothing. Despite what you’ve told me about yourself, yer magic is far from ordinary, and I’m grateful as.’
Willow blushed to the roots of her hair at the compliment. But really, as she got up to fetch a mop to clear up the water, she was just relieved, considering the current state of her magic, that she hadn’t somehow made him or the boat disappear instead.
When night-time rolled around, Willow set up a bed on the floor, using the mound of cushions from the armchairs, topped with a large patchwork blanket. Holloway had offered to give her his bunk, but it didn’t seem right to take the old wizard’s bed.
As Oswin made himself comfortable at the foot of the makeshift bed and Willow plumped up one of the cushions, she couldn’t help wondering aloud, ‘But how did I make it happen? Finding his wooden leg, I mean. I didn’t even really try, and when I do it doesn’t seem to work.’
‘Mebbe that wos why it worked. Yew din’t try,’ said Oswin, rolling over to get more comfortable. ‘Yew jes did it.’