“The patriarchs might know the words,” said Bowser.
“They wouldn’t tell us,” said Chantel irritably. The smell of the wall-scrubbing glop was really overpowering. It disturbed Japheth too; the snake had hidden his head inside the collar of her robe.
“Anna! Chantel!” Holly ran into the room, trembling.
Anna reached out to catch her, then stopped, apparently remembering she had evil-smelling muck all over her hands.
“What’s the matter?” said Chantel.
“Mrs.—” Holly swallowed a sob. “I just heard her talking. In the parlor. To a man. She was—” Holly burst into tears.
Bowser looked uncomfortable. “Can’t you just tell us what the problem is?”
Chantel knelt and tried to look into Holly’s eyes, but Holly had her face buried in Anna’s shoulder. “Tell us what happened, Holly.”
Holly unburied her face. “I heard her. Mrs. Warthall. Bargaining. To sell us. To a factory. To make glue.”
“If he wants us for glue,” said Chantel, “then he wants us to work at making glue. He doesn’t want to make glue out of us.”
Holly was not mollified. “My sister worked in a factory and she burned all up into nothing!”
“We have to go see the patriarchs now,” said Bowser. “Before Mrs. Warthall can—”
“Right,” said Chantel. “Holly, stay close to Miss Flivvers. Tell the other girls. Don’t be alone anywhere where Mrs. Warthall can catch you. We’re going to go talk to the patriarchs and—and put a stop to this.”
Holly brushed tears out of her eyes with her sleeve.
“Go on,” said Anna. “Go tell them. We’ll be back very soon.”
Holly hurried away.
They quickly washed their hands and slipped out the kitchen door into the alley that sloped down the hill beside Fate’s Turning.
Seven Buttons didn’t look unprotected. It was forty feet high, looming over Chantel and her friends as they hurried toward the Hall of Patriarchs. It was faced with polished marble, inside and—Chantel assumed—outside. It was unclimbable, unbreachable. Nobody could ever get out . . . er, in, Chantel corrected herself.
It was also not her concern. She was here to strike a bargain with Sir Wolfgang.
Trying to look more confident than she felt, she led Anna and Bowser up the steps. They passed through the deep shades of the tombs. In the gloom they could just make out the carvings of dead kings, lying with stone swords clutched across their chests. They passed the dank stairway to the catacombs, and went into the bright office of the bored clerk.
Mr. Less smiled. “Here to see Sir Wolfgang again? He was furious last time. Ooh, he was mad. He told me if I ever let you in again he’d have my guts for garters.”
“Oh dear,” said Anna. “We’re so sorry we—”
“Could we at least send in a message?” asked Chantel.
“All the patriarchs are meeting in council,” the clerk said. “A terribly official occasion. If I interrupted them, I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Maybe we could come back another time,” said Chantel.
“No need,” said the clerk. “Go right in. End of the hall.”
“But—” said Anna.
“He won’t really have my guts for garters,” said the clerk. “I’m the only one who understands the filing system.”
“Oh,” said Chantel.
It occurred to her that the clerk’s guts were not the only ones that could conceivably be had for garters.
But the younger girls back at the school were depending on her. So she mustered her courage.
They heard voices and followed the sound, down the columned hall, past Sir Wolfgang’s empty office. A carved wooden door stood open. Chantel and her friends looked into a high-ceilinged chamber, where nine velvet-clad men sat around a polished table. Chantel recognized some of them, from processions and ceremonies.
The patriarchs’ talk died away, and they stared.
“What is the meaning of this?” one of them asked. “Who dares to interrupt the patriarchs in council?”
This was not a promising beginning.
Chantel and Anna curtseyed. Bowser bowed. Japheth poked his head up thoughtfully and flicked his tongue, tasting the air.
“Pardon us, sirs,” said Bowser. “We’ve come about the missing sorceresses.”
“And what do you have to do with sorceresses, eh, boy?” said the patriarch at the head of the table.
He was tall and thick, with a mighty mane of hair and a beard like a hibernating badger. He had the most gold embroidery on his waistcoat and the thickest gold chain. Chantel had seen him at the annual ceremony celebrating the sealing of Seven Buttons, and at the yearly commemoration of the treachery of Queen Haywith, when all the patriarchs wore black. She thought his name was Lord Rudolph.
“I’m the pot-boy at Miss Ellicott’s School,” Bowser explained. “And Miss Ellicott is missing.”
“We know that, boy,” said Lord Rudolph. “Have you found her?”
“No sir,” said Bowser. “But we’ve found—well, we think we’ve found something that might have to do with the Buttoning.”
That got the patriarchs’ attention. They leaned forward eagerly.
“You found the spell?” Lord Rudolph demanded. “You, a mere pot-boy?”
Bowser didn’t seem to mind being called “mere,” but Chantel minded for him. Japheth gave an angry squirm.
“No sir,” said Bowser. “The girls found it.”
“Then why in the name of the Seven Buttons don’t the girls speak?” Lord Rudolph demanded.
“Um,” said Bowser, taken aback. He turned to Chantel in distress.
“We found something,” said Chantel firmly. “Not the whole spell, but a clue. But we want—” She took a deep breath and went on. “There’s something we want in return.”
It seemed that Lord Rudolph, unlike Sir Wolfgang, actually could hear girls. “You found a clue? What’s your name, girl?”
“Chantel. I . . . we . . . We’ve got a clue but we want to ask—”
“Supposing you just hand that clue over,” said Lord Rudolph, “and run along and let the men worry about important matters.”
Chantel swallowed. Her deportment made it very hard to keep going when she’d been told not to. “I don’t think we can do that, sir.”
Lord Rudolph leaned back in his chair and turned a speculative, assessing gaze on Chantel. “Oh? Why not?”
“Because we need you to do something for us,” said Chantel, amazed at her own temerity. “We need you to get rid of Mrs. Warthall. We’ll give you these words if you send her away, and let Miss Flivvers be in charge of the school, and . . . and . . .” She steeled herself. “And give Miss Flivvers money so we can buy real food.”
There was an angry rustle of velvet around the table. Chairs were shoved back, muscles tensed as if the patriarchs were ready to spring. Japheth raised his head and switched it from side to side, tickling her ear.
Chantel wished Japheth would turn huge and cobra-like, as he had before. That would be useful right now. She had nothing to defend herself with except her deportment. Anna and Bowser weren’t much help. They were looking at her as the person in charge.