‘Oh, must we?’ said Rosemary.
‘Well, we can’t leave her locked up; besides, we promised!’
‘Couldn’t we get someone else to do it? Someone she isn’t so angry with?’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said John. ‘What about Miss Dibdin? She doesn’t move out till tomorrow — or today, I suppose it is. We can go by broom, and if there’s a light in the station we shall know she hasn’t gone to bed yet.’
Before the broom had wafted them halfway across the field, they spotted a primrose-coloured glow in the window of the Ladies’ Waiting Room.
Miss Dibdin heard the familiar clatter of the broom’s landing on the platform, and came out to greet them.
‘My dear children!’ she said. ‘You ought to be in bed. It’s past one o’clock!’
‘I know,’ said John, stifling a yawn. ‘We’ve come to ask if you will help us.’
‘Oh, please, please do!’ said Rosemary.
‘You see, Grisana is defeated, and Carbonel is on his way home to Fallowhithe. But we locked Gullion and Mrs Witherspoon in the tower room instead of Carbonel, and we wondered if ... if ...’
‘If I would go and let her out?’ Miss Dibdin’s eyes twinkled.
‘She’s very angry with us indeed. Would you mind awfully?’
‘Mind?’ said Miss Dibdin drily. ‘On the contrary, I should enjoy it! I will go just as soon as I have finished sweeping this floor. I must leave the station quite tidy before I move on to Mrs Bodkin’s married cousin’s. I’ve put the cones back at the crossroads, and stacked the half-invisible furniture in the old ticket office, and burned my notes. So off with you, before you fall fast asleep on the broom! That would never do.’
Quite how John and Rosemary managed to keep awake until the broom landed them on the patchwork quilt in Rosemary’s bedroom they never knew. They came down on its many-coloured surface with an unusually big bump and a series of diminishing bounces.
‘No wonder,’ said Rosemary when she picked up the broom. ‘The tape that keeps the twigs on has bust. It must have happened when it scraped along the window-sill as we came in.’ She gave an enormous yawn. ‘Do you think we shall be able to mend it?’ John gave an even bigger yawn. ‘And another funny thing,’ said Rosemary. ‘You remember the witch’s hat made of paper? Well, I stuck it on the shelf in my clothes cupboard, and when I looked at it this morning, it wasn’t paper any longer. It was stiff and furry!’
‘Let’s talk about it ... in the morning,’ said John.
Safe at last in bed, he lay sleepily listening to the faint whispering of the tree outside his window. It reminded him of something. ‘I know,’ he said to himself. ‘The rustle of Mrs Witherspoon’s long red skirt. What did she say? “I will have my revenge on you in the way you will mind most and least expect”?’ He burrowed deeper into the bedclothes. ‘I don’t see what she can do, now Carbonel is safe ...’ And then he was fast asleep.
It was the smallest of sounds that began to wake him from a deep sleep; the turning of the handle of the bedroom door. Through drooping lids, he became aware that it was opening, very slowly, and Rosemary glided into the room. Her feet were bare and she was wearing her nightdress, but on her head she wore the tall black witch’s hat that once had been made of paper. She walked with a curious gliding motion towards the chair on which John had flung his clothes when he undressed.
‘I must be dreaming,’ he thought.
Rosemary picked up his trousers from the untidy heap, and after feeling in both the pockets drew out the tin box of Special Things. The lid made the little ‘pop’ he knew so well when it was opened. She fumbled for something inside and, apparently unable to find it, made an exclamation of annoyance, and tipped the box upside down, so that all the Special Things were scattered on the floor. Then she flung the box away. John was wide awake now, and sitting bolt upright in bed.
‘Rosie!’ he said sharply. ‘Rosie! What on earth are you doing?’ She made no answer, but turned and glided from the room as silently as she had come. It was then that he noticed that she left behind that strange smell of stale flower water.
John jumped out of bed and began picking up his treasures from the floor. Whatever was she up to? What had she been looking for? Suddenly his heart gave an uncomfortable thump. He raced back to his bed and felt under his pillow. The Golden Gew-Gaw was still there.
‘That’s what she must have been looking for! There’s one wish left. I never told her where I had hidden it after the chase with Mrs Witherspoon. She must have thought it was still in the box.’ But whatever did she want it for? And why all this secrecy? It was all so unlike Rosemary.
‘If she’s walking in her sleep, I’d better go after her,’ said John to himself. As he crossed the room, he glanced out of the window. In the dim light of early dawn he was astonished to see her going rapidly down the drive, with the same strange gliding motion. Now thoroughly alarmed, John rushed downstairs. The front door was wide open. There was no sign of Rosemary in the drive. When he reached the gate, he saw her moving swiftly in the direction of the village.
‘Rosie! Rosie!’ he shouted. ‘Come back!’ But she took no notice. John pelted after her, but it was not until he had followed her through the village across the Market Square and halfway down Sheepshank Lane that he caught her up.
‘Rosie!’ he panted. ‘Where are you going?’
This time she did answer, but in a strange sing-song, faraway voice, without turning her head as she hurried on.
‘To Tucket Towers. To Gullion and Mrs Witherspoon.’
‘But whatever for?’
‘To join them in their witchery! To be a partner in their magic power!’
‘Don’t do it! Don’t do it, Rosie!’ begged John.
‘I must,’ she answered. ‘Something draws me to them.’ She passed her hand over her eyes as though to clear them, but she did not slacken her speed.
‘What on earth has come over you?’ said John desperately.
‘I don’t know. But I must go. Gullion and Mrs Witherspoon are calling! Calling!’
Mrs Witherspoon and Gullion? Suddenly it all became clear!
‘So that’s what she meant by getting her revenge “in the way I shall mind most and least expect”,’ he said to himself. ‘Through Rosemary. Rosie to be a witch!’ That evil mixture of foolishness and twisted wisdom; of greed for power and riches, no matter what the consequences might be for others. ‘And all because she wants to be revenged on me! What can I do? Whatever can I do to stop her?’ he said to himself in desperation. Rosemary had turned into the drive of Tucket Towers. She seemed unaware of the rough surface, which cut into John’s bare feet. Desperately he ran to keep up with the increasing speed of her rapid onward glide.
Suddenly, even more painful than the stony drive, he felt something sharp as a needle prick into the palm of his clenched hand. He looked down and opened his fingers. It was the stone of the Golden Gew-Gaw, which he was still clutching. ‘Of course! The seventh wish!’ he said to himself, as he slipped the ring on to his finger. The crimson stone glowed in the gloom of the drive like a live coal.
Then he began to think as he had never thought before. This must be the perfect wish. It must cover all the dangers threatening Rosemary, without any of the usual mocking twists of magic the ring seemed to delight in. They had reached the end of the drive before he could begin to get the shape of a wishing rhyme.
‘It’s coming, I think it’s coming,’ he said to himself. ‘What rhymes with “magic powers”? Bowers ... showers ...? That won’t do.’ Now, Rosemary had reached the steps leading to the front door. ‘Of course!’ said John. ‘Tucket Towers!’ Rosemary hurried up the steps, and as she put her hand on the iron bell-pull, John shouted at the top of his voice: