‘Sorry,’ he says, helping Daisy up. ‘I thought maybe I could make use of some other powers, but no. Not with that thing above the clouds and us stuck down here.’
Daisy nods. ‘I noticed your magic often affects the ground.’
‘Not on purpose.’
Daisy takes a couple of steps along the road again, then stops, looking at him curiously. ‘What if it was on purpose?’
‘I don’t… what?’
‘Do you think if you really concentrated, you could control how the ground moved?’
‘Possibly? I haven’t really tried. What sort of thing did you mean?’
‘Well, could you perhaps get this bit of road we’re standing on to move over to that bit of road, where we’re headed to?’ Daisy points to the distant smoke that marks out Nearby’s early morning hot breakfasts and ablutions. ‘Really fast?’ she adds.
‘Er.’ Hansel frowns. Trousers. Maybe he can. Or maybe it’ll all go horribly wrong. Maybe the magic would accidentally throw them off their feet at great speed, or cause the ground to swallow them whole. The sound of whatever it is in the sky is getting closer. He puts his arms firmly around Daisy.
‘Ooh,’ she manages, ‘that’s nice’.
He takes in a deep breath through his nose, concentrating on the road towards Nearby. The dull grey light dims for a moment, as if somebody has briefly thrown dawn into reverse. He parts his lips slightly and exhales through gritted teeth. He thinks about the danger his sister is in, about the debt he owes to the Darkwood residents who helped free Nearby, about the fear of the hidden Citadel witches and the hatred of the huntsmen. He collects all the anger and sadness and horror and pictures it pushing him, driving him to a place where he can help. The magic burrows into the ground under his and Daisy’s feet. It rumbles – not unbalancing them, but vibrating deeply at a pace that steadily increases. In front of them, the road begins to crack and split in a long, thin line. There is a shudder underneath them. A circle around them on the dirt road breaks away and begins to push forwards with them on it, along the cleft track, at walking pace at first, speeding up to the tempo of a jog.
‘Hansel, you’re doing it,’ cries Daisy.
Hansel breathes the light in and the magical energy out once more. The tendrils find a pace, plunging into the ground outside their circle and heaving them along. Still, they accelerate. Running speed. Sprinting speed. Faster. The speed of a galloping horse. Faster. Hansel has never travelled so fast before in his life. He wishes he could spare the breath to scream. Daisy is screaming, but it’s one of those excited, happy screams other people do on Ferris wheels. Hansel doesn’t do happy screams on Ferris wheels. He’s not been on one since that time in Goosemarket when he threw up. He is aware that he might throw up again now. At the speed they’re going, it would make an almighty mess. He tries not to think about it, to remove all the thoughts from his head except for the ones driving them ahead of the huntsmen’s hidden flying machine.
Still, they speed up. Wind, dust and goodness knows what else buffets Hansel’s face. He has to partially close his eyes against it, and ends up not seeing Nearby rushing up upon them until it’s a little too late for a gradual deceleration. Hansel brings them to a sudden stop just outside the village, so that they tumble over one another.
‘Sorry,’ says Hansel.
Daisy pushes herself up. She’s giggling with thrilled delight.
‘You did it! That was amazing! I think I’ve got a fly stuck to my teeth but that was amazing!’ She squeezes his arms. Hansel still feels sick, but not altogether in a bad way now.
‘Oh!’ shouts a distant, elderly voice. ‘Hello there!’
Hansel looks up towards the source of the voice. Gregor Smithy is up on the village’s main lookout tower.
‘Hi,’ says Hansel weakly, hoping Gregor didn’t see them arrive.
‘Didn’t even notice you arrive, kidders,’ calls Gregor, swinging a telescopic spyglass over in their direction. ‘Ooft, the state of that road these days. Well, that’s the huntsmen for you, isn’t it? Only ever fund the Citadel and their stupid witch hunts. That ain’t what I pay them my taxes for.’
‘You aren’t paying them any taxes right now,’ Daisy calls to him. ‘None of us are; we’re rebelling, remember?’
‘Oh aye,’ replies Gregor. ‘Well, fair enough about the roads then, I suppose. Anyway, welcome home, you two.’
‘Thank you!’ Hansel thinks for a second. ‘Gregor, could you quickly call the village to a meeting in the square? We’ve got some things we need to say.’
Gregor nods down at them both gravely. ‘Is it about how you lost Ethel Wicker’s best handcart?’
‘Oh,’ mutters Daisy. ‘I forgot about that.’
24
The Breakfast Run That Never Was
‘My best cart!’ cries Mrs Wicker. ‘And all those baskets!’
The entire village has indeed gathered in the square as per Hansel’s request. Only ten minutes have passed since they arrived, although almost all of them have been spent on the question of what happened to all of Ethel Wicker’s stuff.
‘We had to leave it all, Mum,’ Daisy tells her, yet again. ‘Isn’t it better to have us back safe and sound…?’
‘That is beside the point, young lady; that was my favourite cart.’
‘You know, Mum, I’d find it easier to believe that you really are cross at us about the cart if you weren’t still hugging us both.’
Ethel Wicker gives Daisy and Hansel one more quick squeeze before releasing them. ‘Hush up, you gobby child. Your poor old mother might be relieved that you’re both OK, but you’re still in big trouble.’
‘I did make fifty silvers,’ Daisy tells her, jingling her money belt.
Ethel Wicker considers this. ‘You’re still in moderately sized trouble.’
‘It can wait,’ Daisy tells her. ‘There’s something more urgent. There’s a new head huntsman, and she’s even worse than the last one. She’s sending flying machines over to attack the Darkwood as we speak—’
‘“She”?’ interrupts Mother Goggins.
‘Yes,’ says Daisy. ‘Her name’s Morning Quarry; she was just elected. She’s kind of new-fangled, she wants to move away from masks and abomination lists, but she’s going to wipe out Darkwood straight away, and—’
‘And you found all that out just from going to the Citadel for a couple of days?’ asks Carpenter Fred sceptically. ‘What happened to that monster you said was going to attack it?’
‘She’s the monster,’ Hansel says. ‘Or, her hatred of magical beings is.’
‘So, you tried to fight her and failed?’
‘Ah.’ Hansel looks at his feet. ‘Actually, we sort of… accidentally helped her win.’
‘You what?’
‘You don’t understand; she had this friendly smile, and there was this dog, and…’ Hansel sighs. ‘We messed up. I’m sorry. We thought she was the way out of all this hatred. She said such nice things.’