2.6 Mrs Sinclair and the Feather Haa

In which Miss Warner's magic is not enough to conquer Lady Brae's.

Aug 09, 2024

Mrs Sinclair and Miss Warner went out the next morning to the livery stables recommended by the cheery Mistress Mackie, reluctant to face the wearisome process of securing their transportation south. But the night’s experience of bugs in their beds and the unclean china vessels stiffened their determination. A hired groom was found quickly, a sober middle-aged ex-army sergeant called Aitken who was looking for employment. She had wondered, briefly, whether he would have stern views about working for witches, but, after a carefully phrased question about his family and his upbringing, she understood with relief that he was, mercifully, familiar with her craft, and quite equal to the prospect of travelling in the vicinity of spells. He offered to enquire at the coaching inns in the town for the leddies, and an hour later he had returned to Mackie’s with a list of prices for carriages. Miss Warner still feeling tired and sick from the voyage, Mrs Sinclair went with him to inspect what was available, and returned to the hotel feeling relieved. Their hired carriage and coachman would await them next morning, and Aitken would see to their baggage.

She sat alone after dinner, wondering what she had forgotten. But there seemed to be nothing. Her route was clear, the journey was planned, all was in order. She did not understand why she felt bereft, so sad. She would occupy herself by setting this horrible room to rights.

Miss Warner came into their private sitting-room to find her dusting. Her expression was anxious, and she asked a cautious question.

‘Madam, may I ask if you will write to your daughters? Before we depart tomorrow?’

Mrs Sinclair stared at the older woman with incomprehension.

Miss Warner frowned, and bit her lip. ‘Madam,’ she said gently, ‘Would you hold out your hands? Just for a moment?’

Mrs Sinclair obediently extended her hands, palms upwards, and Miss Warner produced a clean white handkerchief. She quickly laid the cloth on her employer’s upturned palms, and said some words in a firm voice. Mrs Sinclair continued to stare at the white linen for a few moments more, and then the reaction came. Fog lifted from her mind. She remembered, and her anguished cry tore at the dusty black curtains and ugly furniture that furnished the room.

‘My daughters! My girls, oh where are my girls?’

But the door was thick, and her sobbing grief went unheard by anyone else in the house. Miss Warner waited compassionately for her mistress’s tears to be spent, kneeling beside her chair.

‘It was not your doing,’ she told her firmly. ‘You are under a Compulsion. I have made it go away, but it will return. We have perhaps half an hour before Lady Brae’s spell takes you back.’

Mrs Sinclair stared at her wildly. ‘Oh god, what has she done to me?’

‘All I know, Madam, is that you and I are to travel to Italy – I am not perfectly sure where, and there is a task you must perform. And then we may return home. You told me this when we were packing, and the girls, though not Anne, understand this too.’

‘But my girls?’ Mrs Sinclair’s expression was desperate. ‘How long have we been away from them?’

‘Two nights only. They are, I am convinced, in good hands, even if the same hands have forced this wretched spell upon you. Lady Brae’s house is a very pleasant place for their holiday, and what I saw of her servants made me feel comfortable that they will be cared for properly. But I simply do not,’ Miss Warner said crossly, ‘have the skills to take the spell off you completely. I have used a counter-spell from a different casting that seems to have worked. I can keep doing this to maintain your grip on reality for short periods only. But the Compulsion is far stronger, and will control you for most of the day.’

‘It is like a monstrous fairy-tale,’ Mrs Sinclair said angrily. ‘I will never forgive her for this. Where are the girls sleeping? Who has them in charge?’

‘Why, Lady Brae and her maids. I cannot account for their enthusiasm, except to assume that not one of them has ever spent more than an hour with children. It is highly likely,’ Miss Warner said briskly, ‘that our return will be greeted with relief by your relation.’

‘She is not my relation and I hope Ishabel gives her all the impertinence she is capable of,’ Mrs Sinclair said savagely. Then her expression changed. ‘But no! Lady Brae may punish her!’

Miss Warner smiled. ‘I have laid all three girls under the protection of Imperviousness,’ she said. ‘It is a spell my grandmother taught me. It was her own invention,’ she said with a satisfied smile.

Mrs Sinclair was interested. ‘Ah! Was she Mrs Matilda Warner of Tyndrum? You are nobly connected. But will not Lady Brae know the spell?’

‘She will not. Our family keep it for our private use,’ Miss Warner said. ‘The girls will be safe under its protection, and Lady Brae may gnash her pointed teeth.’

Mrs Sinclair rose and began to walk briskly around the room. ‘I must contrive. Have you paper there? Take down these notes: I must have them in writing in case the Compulsion deranges my understanding.’

In a clear and unhurried voice she dictated to Miss Warner their destination, the planned route, the expected hotels where she hoped to bespeak beds, and then her voice faltered.

‘I do not know,’ she said, looking blindly at a steel engraving of Tam O’Shanter and the Cutty Sark on the wall, ‘what I am to do once I have arrived at Naples. Where is Pompeii? I must go there, but I have no memory of why, or whether I will be given instructions.’

‘I think it is likely that you will be shown there the next step,’ Miss Warner said. ‘How does your head feel?’

Mrs Sinclair put her hand to her eyes. ‘Thick. Foggy. Is this the Compulsion returning?’

Miss Warner nodded. ‘I think it must be. I will write to the girls. It would be better coming from me. Don’t worry. Sit now. Close your eyes and I will read you something from the newspaper. It may compose your spirits and make the transition easier. Then I will write a letter to your daughters.’

Mrs Sinclair sat down again obediently, and closed her eyes. But after only one paragraph from the Aberdeen Press and Journal about cattle prices she was asleep.

The Shetland Witch

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