Witch in the City Read online

  ONE Crimson Twill

  TWO Broomingdale’s

  THREE The Cat Floor

  FOUR The Broom Floor

  FIVE The Hat Floor

  SIX The Fashion Show

  SEVEN Frog-Eye Pie

  Crimson Twill was a little witch. But you might not know it. She didn’t look like a typical little witch. Instead of wearing pointy shoes, she wore gum boots. Instead of wearing a plain black dress, she wore a polka-dotted one. And instead of wearing a plain black hat, she wore one with a big bow, and the hat was crimson, just like her name.

  Crimson didn’t act like a typical little witch, either. She giggled instead of cackled. She skipped instead of slunk around. And instead of having nightmares, like witches were supposed to, Crimson dreamed.

  Tonight was a dream come true.

  It was Crimson’s first trip to Broomingdale’s.

  Crimson lived in Cackle County, in a cottage with her mom. She loved it there—the fields of broom straw, the deep dark woods, and the bats in their barn. Still, sometimes Cackle County was lonely for a little witch. Crimson was thrilled to be going to the city. And especially to Broomingdale’s. It was bound to be full of exciting new things. Not like the Cackle Country Store, which was so dreary and dusty, it even sold dust.

  She had been to New Wart City only twice before. Once to visit her Aunt Mildew, who worked at the Spell Book Publishing House. (That was fun because she got to meet her favorite ghost writer.) Another time to visit the Museum of Magical Art on a school field trip. (That wasn’t fun because their tour guide was a grumpy ogre.)

  But she had never been shopping at Broomingdale’s. It was the biggest department store in the world. It opened when the stars shone. Witches flew in from all corners of the country to shop there. Her mom went only once in a blue moon. And this time, she had decided Crimson was old enough to join her.

  Best of all, Crimson had some money to spend. Five gold coins!

  She had earned them. She had worked hard cleaning the cauldron after supper, feeding the frogs in the pond, and sweeping the bridge for the troll next door. She didn’t tell her mom that she had gotten the broom to do all the sweeping for her. But wasn’t that what the cleaning broom was for?

  Now the coins jingled in her pocket as she and her mom flew down to the Speedy Underground Broomway.

  What should I buy? Crimson wondered.

  Maybe a new wand. Full-length instead of half-size. But was she really ready for a full-length wand?

  Maybe a new dress. But she liked her polka-dotted dress, with its spider-shaped buttons. Nobody else had one like it. Granny Twill had conjured it just for her. “Unique like you,” cackled Granny. Granny Twill was a really good spellstress.

  Maybe some new shoes. But her gum boots still fit. And they were charmed to make extra-big splashes in mud puddles.

  I’ll find something special when we get there, she decided.

  Maybe there were things at Broomingdale’s Crimson couldn’t even dream up. And she was good at dreaming.

  Which was useful now, because the Speedy Underground Broomway wasn’t very speedy. “We should have taken the Upper Broomway,” sighed her mom. “It’s always impossible to know which will be worse.”

  In front and behind them stretched a long line of brooms and somber, stylish witches. Only Crimson was dressed differently.

  Ads flashed on the tunnel walls as they passed.

  “Crooked Combs—For Split Ends and Endless Knots!”

  “Cauldron Cola—Guaranteed to Rot Your Teeth!”

  “The Terribly Tasteful Triplets star in Which Witch Is Which?”

  A wizard with a tray swooped around the slow-moving traffic. “Late for a meeting? Get a disgustingly delicious deli sandwich!” he called. “Have some flies on the fly!”

  A giant toad three brooms ahead ordered four. Croak! “Yum!”

  At last, traffic picked up, and Crimson and her mom came to a blinking sign: EXIT, NEW WART CENTRAL PARK.

  “Not that one,” her mom said and kept flying.

  EXIT, SLIME SQUARE.

  “Not that one, either.”

  Then up ahead, Crimson saw EXIT, 13TH AVENUE.

  “That’s it,” said her mom, pulling up sharply. Good thing Crimson was holding on with a tight grip!

  Up, up, up they flew through the exit and into the sky.

  They had been flying for a very long time. When they had started out, the sky was bright. Now it was dusky. The stars were beginning to twinkle.

  Or were those stars?

  Crimson blinked.

  No! They weren’t. They were the lights of New Wart City.

  And, above the lights, a silver, moon-shaped sign flashed:

  At last, they had made it!

  Bugs and bones, it’s busy,” moaned Crimson’s mom, gazing around Broomingdale’s roof. “I forgot it was the night of the fashion show.” Every single space on every single parking rack bore a broom.

  “Can you see any free spots?” she asked Crimson.

  Crimson spied a witch heading out, her broom loaded down with bags. “There’s one!”

  Another witch tried to swoop in, but Crimson’s mom swooped faster. They snatched the spot—just in time.

  “Wow!” said Crimson.

  “You have to be zippy when you’re in the city,” her mom replied.

  Crimson slid off the back of the broom. Her mom leaned the broom between the bars on the rack and waved her wand:

  Hicky picky, lock and stay.

  A witch who touches soon will pay.

  Crimson had never heard this spell before. In the country, they left their brooms leaning against the door.

  “I’d better check my list,” said her mom.

  She pulled a scroll out of her pocket. It unrolled down to the ground.

  As her mom read on and on, Crimson glanced at two city witchlings passing by.

  “Rats and bats! We have to miss all the fun,” said one. “Only our troll of a teacher would assign an enchantment essay due the same night as Broomingdale’s big fashion show!”

  “And Vera Fang’s capes are cutting edge,” added the other.

  “Hi!” said Crimson.

  The teen witchlings didn’t reply.

  Instead, they sniffed at her dress. Then they walked away, toward their brooms.

  Crimson told herself to ignore them. She liked her cheery dress.

  She turned back to her mom.

  “We’ll start on the Cauldron floor,” said her mom as she rolled up her list and put it back in her pocket. “Then we’ll head to Potion Accessories.”

  “What about me?” asked Crimson. “I don’t want a cauldron. Or any potions.”

  Her mom thought for a moment. “Very well,” she said. “You can meet me at the Moonlight Café at midnight. It’s just over there.”

  Underneath the Broomingdale’s sign, on the roof, was a restaurant. Through the enormous windows, Crimson could see that it was filled with glittering chairs and tables. And lots and lots of witches!

  “It must be very popular,” said Crimson.

  “They are famous for their pie,” said her mom.

  Crimson loved frog-eye pie. Her stomach rumbled. But she was here to shop, not eat.

  “If you need me, just wave your wand and I’ll be there in a twinkling,” said her mom. “Now, come on. This way to the elevator.”

  Crimson hurried after her.

  Ding! The elevator doors opened. Out spilled witches all dressed the same, carrying small, medium, and big shopping bags and reeking of bug’s breath perfume.

  Crimson plugged her nose—no one wore bug’s breath perfume in Cackle County—and she and her mom stepped inside. Her mom pressed a button shaped like a cauldron.

  Which one should I press? thought Crimson.

  There were so many to choose from: a broom-shaped button, a hat-shaped button, even a button shaped like a wart. “For permanent wart placements,” explained her mom. “But don’t even think about it. Stick-ons are still fine for you.”

  Crimson rolled her eyes. Secretly, though, she was happy with stick-ons. A permanent wart sounded like it might hurt!

  She decided to press the button shaped like a cat. She loved cats. Maybe that’s what she should get.

  A pet cat would keep her company. And maybe Broomingdale’s had a cat that liked to cuddle and curl up on your lap instead of hiss and help with hexes. What a great friend that would be.

  Or maybe she could even find a puppy. She’d heard of puppies, but she’d never seen one. Most witches preferred cats because they were good at balancing on brooms. But Crimson imagined a little puppy snuggled in a basket on the back of hers when she learned to ride. Wouldn’t that be fun!

  She pressed the button.

  “Oooch! Not so hard, not so hard!” said the elevator.

  Down, down, down went the elevator.

  Then . . . Ding! The button shaped like a cat lit up. The elevator doors opened.

  “Remember, meet me at the café in one hour,” said her mom. “And if you need me—”

  “Just wave my wand,” finished Crimson. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  Crimson wriggled past two other witches. Truth be told, she was a little nervous. But mostly, she was excited! Then, with a goodbye to her mom, she skipped out onto the Cat floor.

  Purring, hissing, scratching, licking. Hundreds of cats filled the Cat floor. The cats weren’t in cages but on cushions, on row after row of shelves. Below each cat was a sign with its name and price. None of them seemed parti
cularly cuddly or even extra-magical. But Crimson could imagine . . .

  “Thunder” sounded as big as a pumpkin, with rumbling snores and lightning spiking from his tail. “Cleo” sounded regal and tall, a cat fit for a witchy queen. And “Moonbeam”—Crimson smiled to herself—would glow like the moon, like the broom straw fields on her farm.

  She sighed. But that was just her imagination. These cats were no different from the ones at home.

  That reminded her. Granny Twill’s barn cat was going to have kittens soon. Granny Twill had said that she could have one. Crimson didn’t need a cat, after all.

  She was about to move on to a different floor when she heard a strange, soft whimper.

  It was coming from down by her feet. There, underneath a shelf, crouched a tiny animal. It had ears and a tail and a nose like a cat. But it didn’t look like a cat. It didn’t have a sign. But it did have a collar.

  Crimson crouched down, too.

  She read its collar: PEPPER.

  Pepper looked at her. His tail trembled, and he made his funny noise again. This time it was extra-sad sounding.

  “It’s okay,” Crimson said. She reached out and carefully scooped him up.

  Crimson looked this way and that. Finally, she saw a saleswitch at the back, wearing a Broomingdale’s cloak with the letter B on it. The saleswitch was gazing at herself in a floating mirror and brushing her shiny black hair. Over and over again. She had a small nose and long nails. She looked just like a cat.

  “Excuse me,” said Crimson brightly.

  The saleswitch twitched her nose but didn’t answer.

  “Excuse me,” Crimson repeated.

  “Go away,” purred the saleswitch. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “But . . .” Wasn’t it the job of a saleswitch to help a customer? “I’d like to buy this pet, please.”

  The saleswitch turned. Her tag read MS. WHISKERS.

  “He was under a shelf,” said Crimson. “His name is Pepper.”

  Ms. Whiskers peered at Crimson’s dress and then at Pepper. Her nose twitched again. “You cannot buy that pet. That is not one of our cats,” she hissed. “That . . .” She stared at Pepper’s wagging tail. “Is a puppy!”

  So this was a puppy! Puppies were really cute, just like she imagined.

  But Ms. Whiskers didn’t seem to think so.

  “Only cats are sold at Broomingdale’s. Someone must have smuggled him in here. But he cannot stay. I can get rid of him with a Dog-Gone spell.”

  “Oh, please, no!” said Crimson. She clutched Pepper. “I’ll look after him.”

  “Certainly not. Dogs are not allowed in Broomingdale’s,” said Ms. Whiskers, reaching into her cloak.

  Crimson thought fast. She took out her wand. But she didn’t cast a spell. She pointed. “Is that a mouse?” she said, gesturing under the mirror.

  “A mouse!” exclaimed Ms. Whiskers.

  As Ms. Whiskers crouched to look, Crimson slipped away.

  “I’ll keep you for now,” said Crimson to Pepper. “Until we find your owner.”

  She picked up a shopping basket and put Pepper in it. He wiggled and made another strange sound again. Ruff! Ruff!

  “Shhh. You have to stay hidden for now,” said Crimson.

  Pepper seemed to understand. He curled up and wagged his tail. He looked happy.

  Which made Crimson feel happy, too, even if she hadn’t found anything yet to buy.

  Back in the elevator, Crimson pressed the button shaped like a broom. This time very lightly.

  “Hehehe, that tickles!” giggled the elevator.

  Crimson couldn’t wait to fly her own broom, but she wasn’t quite old enough. She often imagined all the fun she’d have when she was. She wasn’t going to fly in a straight line. No. She was going to do swoops and spirals and spine-tingling spins. Just like Ms. Trix, the famous stunt flier. Ms. Trix had even flown over a rainbow. Crimson dreamed of doing that. Maybe she could find a book on stunts so she could study ahead.

  Down, down, down went the elevator.

  Ding! The button shaped like a broom lit up. The elevator doors opened.

  As soon as Crimson stepped out, a witch bumped into her.

  “Excuse me,” said the witch. She was staring up at the ceiling. Crimson noticed that everyone was staring up—and bumping into one another.

  Crimson looked up and saw why.

  The ceiling was swarming with soaring brooms. Some had crooked handles. Others were long and straight. All the bristles were made of silvery straw. The straw was grown by the light of the moon. The handles were carved from lightning-struck wood. That’s what gave the brooms their magic.

  There were so many brooms, it seemed like the ceiling was made of them. Tags hung down on long strings so the witches could read them.

  Crimson stood on her tiptoes and reached for one of the tags. “No tugging,” said a saleswitch. Crimson thought she was talking to her, but then she realized the saleswitch was actually talking to a broom that she was trying to keep still. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” the saleswitch said to Crimson.

  She had long hair that fell to her waist and bangs trimmed in a perfect line like broom bristles. Her tag read MISS WILLOW.

  “Oh, I don’t need a broom,” said Crimson. “I’m just looking for . . .”

  “A dress?” questioned Miss Willow.

  “No,” said Crimson. “A book on flying. Like, how to do tricks.”

  “Ah. Books are on the Spell Book floor,” said Miss Willow. “Two floors down. The best ones on flying are published by the Spell Book Publishing House. If they don’t have a book on stunts, no one does.”

  The Spell Book Publishing House. That was where Aunt Mildew worked. Her aunt’s company hadn’t published a book on Ms. Trix. “Most witches won’t read about rainbow-swooping stunts,” Aunt Mildew had said. Crimson had thought Broomingdale’s might have more options. I guess not, she thought.

  Crimson was about to leave when the saleswitch cried, “Twigs and toads! Not again!”

  The broom Miss Willow was holding had gotten loose. It was swishing around the customers at a furious pace.

  “This broom is such a bother!” said Miss Willow. “It won’t hang up like the others. It’s defective!”

  Back and forth, back and forth it went. Unlike the other brooms, this broom had bristles that weren’t straight. The bottom edge of the straw curled out like a wave.

  SWISH, SWISH, SWISH.

  It dusted a troll’s muddy nose.

  It swept the spider from a witch’s hat.

  It polished the warts on a wizard’s toad.

  It swept so hard, it left behind little sparkly rainbows.

  “Stop!” cried Miss Willow.

  “Stop!” squeaked the bat security.

  The broom didn’t stop.

  Crimson knew what the problem was. She set down Pepper, whispered sternly, “Stay!” and took out her wand. She chanted:

  Sweeping broom, your job is done.

  Now just rest until more fun.

  She said the spell again. You always have to repeat yourself for a half-size wand.

  The broom stopped. It stood straight up in front of Crimson.

  “Holy warts!” said Miss Willow. “How did you know to do that?”

  “This is a cleaning broom, not a flying broom,” explained Crimson, patting the broom on the top of its handle. “Everyone has a cleaning broom in the country. Although not one as energetic as this.” She smiled. Country brooms didn’t create rainbows.

  “In the city we use vacuum sweepers, not cleaning brooms,” said Miss Willow. “This broom must have been shipped here by mistake. Do you want it?”

  Crimson shook her head. “We already have a cleaning broom.” Which she used a lot. She kept her room so clean of cobwebs, it sparkled.

  “I’ll have to spell it into kindling, I suppose . . .” said Miss Willow with a sigh.

  “Oh, don’t do that!” said Crimson. “Someone must need a cleaning broom.” She had an idea. A crowd of witches crunching on frog-eye pie would leave lots of crumbs. “I can take it to the Moonlight Café,” she said. “I’m meeting my mom there at midnight.”

  “Splendid!” said Miss Willow. “I’m sure some extra help there would be handy. Especially tonight.” She checked her witch watch. “And it’s almost midnight now.”