E. Latimer - Escape to Witch City

EMMALINE DORATHEA BLACK.

The shrieking voice echoed down the wide hallway leading up to the kitchen doors. It startled the kitchens cat, a gnarled old tom whod been investigating an interesting stain on the floor mat at the entrance, and it made Emmaline Black jump and fumble the tea tray from which shed been stealing strawberry tarts.

There was a sharp crack as the tray hit the dessert cart, and one of the tarts shed been squirreling away into her sash hit the carpet with a sad little splat.

There was no time to mourn the loss of the pastry though, because another harpy scream came shortly after the first, considerably closer this time.

Emma whirled around, abandoning the desserts, and ran full tilt down the wide hallway that led to the East Wing.

Her mother hated the East Wing for the same reason Emma loved it. It had been built after the rest of the castle by her uncle, Queen Alexandrias husband, now dead several years. The king may have been a little mad, Emma privately thought, but in the best possible way, because he had constructed a sort of warren, with a vast network of strange, crooked hallways and wildly looping staircases.

Most exciting of all, at the very top of the East Tower was the palaces largest library. There were so many places to hide from her mother, and more books than one could possibly read. The best sort of combination.

Emmaline Black! I know youre here somewhere!

The note of hysteria in her mothers voice gave Emma a tremendous burst of speed, and she took a reckless left at the next fork in the hallway, her flat shoes sliding on the tiles.

She knew exactly why her mother was trying to find her, and she wasnt the least bit interested in being found. Isolde Black had been trying to pin her down for ages in order to talk about the sentencings. Tonight, every member of the royal family would be in court.

Emma dreaded court sentencings, not just because the queen would be handing out punishments for witchcraftthough she found these increasingly unnerving, since it seemed anyone could be accused of magicbut because her mother seemed determined to wrestle her into a series of increasingly absurd outfits each time.

She had two outfits for this week, one for court and an even fancier one for Testing Day.

The thought made her feel a little nauseated. Shed seen tonights dress, and it was bad, so she could only imagine The Testing Day ensemble. The high, starchy collar, the ridiculous puffed sleeves, the ruffledwell, everything.

No doubt another fight would ensue, with screaming and tears, and maybe someone would smash something this time. But there was no sense in having that fight until she absolutely had to.

Another left. A right. Two more lefts.

She was breathing hard now, but her mothers horrible shrieking did seem to be growing fainter. After another few seconds she let herself slow to a walk, which was necessary, because the hallway was becoming steeper and steeper. Eventually it turned into a staircase, but it was bizarrely constructed, as if the person building it had only remembered it was supposed to be a staircase at the last second.

At the top, the stairs smoothed out into another hallway. This one was even wider than the last, furnished with pale green wallpaper and glossy marble floors. The rest of the palace was decorated almost entirely in rich purples and golds, so this felt rather like a breath of fresh air.

The corridors here were just as laden with thistle as the rest of the palaceshe could see the purple flowers lining the tops of all the wall sconcesbut the East Wing was mostly ignored, and the plants had dried and crumbled. Queen Alexandria seemed content to simply pretend her husband, and by extension, the wing, had never existed.

If Emma stood on her toes and peered at the top of the nearest cabinet, she could see one sad bunch of flowers shriveled nearly to dust.

When shed first discovered the newer wing several years ago, shed noticed how different it felt. Here, the air seemed fresher. Within minutes, her head had felt clearer than it ever had, her limbs lighter. Shed wanted to skip down the halls singing at the top of her lungs. Shed felt somehow vibrant, positively bursting with energy.

Over the years shed put two and two together: even being in the same room with thistle seemed to drain her. The fresher the plant, the worse it seemed.

Thistle was meant to affect witches. To drain their magic, to weaken them.

Of course, it was technically toxic to anyone if consumed in great quantities, so it could be that Emma was just sensitive. Allergic even.

At least thats what she told herself.

And now, if she could just find a spot to hide, she could sit and eat her pilfered jam tarts in safety. A nice distraction from everything.

From her mothers howling, from the court session tonight, and, most of all, from the fact that tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday.

Her birthday.

Inevitable. Dreadful. And worse than ever this year.

Shed always hated the parties her mother threw for herhuge and extravagant, filled with children she barely knew.

This year, there would be no party. No grand tea party. No mini masquerade. No ponies. Her mother wouldnt be able to turn this into some kind of show-off circus.