I hadn’t thought of that. What if she’s reading all of my poems? They’re kind of like really bad spells but without the magic. It’s so embarrassing.

  But the cats seemed to like them … Even though I couldn’t recite the sonnet, as I’d forgotten it! I’m probably just tired. I’ll remember it tomorrow when the day is fresh …

  After all the excitement, I drift off to sleep. I dream I’m a witch with a broom and my very own familiar to get into trouble with.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Forgotten Sonnet

  The next morning I wake up in a daze. I wonder if I actually did perform my poems for a bunch of talking cats, or if it was all a strange dream.

  The first clue I have that last night really happened is the witch’s pyjamas I’m currently wearing. The second clue is the open window of my bedroom, which leads to the fire escape. And the third is all the random black cat hairs on my bed.

  So it was real!

  But it’s not just excitement that washes over me, worry does too (a bit like the water I spilled on Dad’s top last night). I’ve forgotten my sonnet! And there’s no way I’ll have time to learn it before the competition once I switch back with the witch.

  I strain my brain by squishing my eyes and gritting my teeth and scrunching my nose. But no matter how hard I think, I can only remember about four lines of my sonnet. The problem is that sonnets are meant to be about your emotions, and when I wrote the sonnet I was really bored at school. So the poem ended up being pretty boring, which made it forgettable.

  To be honest, it was my least favourite poem of the three, but I need it, so I look at Daria’s diary/spellbook and try to find something that might help. I also find some gemstones in a little wooden box that go with the different spells. They’re charged with magic to help you cast a charm.

  There’s a spell that helps jog your memory – you have to jog on the spot with a ruby in your hand. I decide to try that first, but all I end up remembering is my seven times table, which is useful but not what I need right now.

  In the end I decide I’m going to have to write a whole new sonnet.

  “Zee?” Dad calls from the other side of my door. “I’ve got your clothes here, all clean. I’ll leave them outside your room. Now hurry up, we’re leaving in a minute. With or without you!”

  I roll my eyes. Dad is so dramatic. He always says that whenever I’m late, but he’s never left me behind.

  “I’ll be quick!” I promise because I’m keen to explore. I need to gather inspiration for my sonnet.

  Once I’ve got my clothes on, I stand in front of the witch’s suitcase and wonder if something else might be able to help.

  If the pyjamas brought me a bunch of talking cats, then the cloak and boots might do something else. So, despite being worried, I decide I’m going to try them on and see what happens next, starting with the boots …

  Right now, the emotion I’d choose to write a sonnet about would be excitement.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Dancing Disaster

  The boots were a bad idea. A VERY bad idea. But I survived to tell the tale, so prepare to find out about the most embarrassing day of my life. Before today, the most embarrassing day of my life was when the whole class got told off for being too loud, so our teacher asked us all to work silently. It was late in the afternoon and the air was hot and I was tired, so I let out a big yawn. Except it ended up in a BIG BURP.

  Everyone gasped and looked at me while I covered my mouth with my hands. Then they all turned to see if the teacher had noticed, and it was like the whole world stopped. It didn’t actually – if the world really stopped, there would be lots of natural disasters. But that’s how it FELT. Somehow, the teacher hadn’t noticed, but everyone made fun of me for weeks after and kept making burping noises when they saw me.

  But today was worse than that.

  Mum and Dad and I were walking along the promenade, which is a fancy word for a pavement next to the sea. It’s also a word that means to go for a stroll, which is what we were doing. Loads of people seemed to be admiring my boots, which made me happy even though they weren’t MY boots. And then it happened.

  Someone was playing a guitar and singing in a corner next to some food stands. There were large crowds of people watching them, and Mum and Dad decided to stop and watch too. At first I was enjoying it, but then I felt a strange tingling sensation coming from my feet.

  It was like getting pins and needles, and I wiggled my toes to try to get the feeling back. But then, without me controlling them, my feet started tap, tap, tapping to the music.

  Mum and Dad glanced over at me and said, “What are you doing, Zee? You HATE dancing.”

  Which is true – I HATE dancing. We had to do a group dance in our school play once, and I was so bad at it that my teacher decided to make me a tree that everyone else had to dance around. So the fact that I suddenly could dance to a rhythm was strange.

  A few other people were looking over. The music picked up its pace, and so did my feet.

  They were now doing a weird two‑step dance where they crossed over each other. But the magic was only in my feet, so my arms were just dangling there. I looked a bit like a puppet with its strings cut off, and by this point EVERYONE was watching.

  The person who was playing and singing noticed and said, “Everyone, make way for our dancing queen!”

  By this point I was DYING inside, but my feet were loving it, so they tap, tap, tapped towards the singing man. And then for ten of the longest minutes of my life, he sang and I danced, and people clapped along. (I was crying too, but I don’t think anyone noticed my face because my feet were wild.)

  Afterwards, I could tell Mum and Dad didn’t know if they should be proud or confused, so they made faces that looked a bit of both.

  “I guess after that you won’t mind reading your poems out loud, will you?” Dad said chirpily. I swear Mum was doing her best not to laugh. I should also mention that it wasn’t raining, but she was carrying around an umbrella to stop the sun shining down on her. See – vampire. And she thinks I’m weird.

  But Dad was very wrong. I am nervous about my poems, and dancing in front of everyone only made it worse. I’m also not any closer to coming up with my sonnet.

  I’m going to try the witch’s cloak next. But this time I’m going to wear it in private …

  CHAPTER 6

  Night Flight

  It’s late at night and the moon is high. I can hear Mum again, secretly typing away on her laptop behind her bedroom door. Dad’s probably asleep by now.

  The sky is a blend of purple and blue, kissing the horizon at the sea, which looks black from here. I’m walking around the living room with the cloak wrapped around the T‑shirt and shorts Dad washed for me, trying to test what sort of magic will come from it.

  Down on the street below, there are only a few people dotted around – a nurse on their way to work, someone walking a dog, and someone else waiting for a bus. The woman waiting for the bus is wearing a bright dress with a matching beret. A sudden gust of wind swoops the beret off her head, and it lands on next door’s balcony. The woman looks really upset, and I can see her bus is about to arrive.

  I have no idea what makes me do it, but I open the living‑room window and lean over the balcony.

  “I can reach your beret, don’t worry!” I call down to the woman.

  Her eyes widen, and she looks frightened. “No, don’t,” she says. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  But I ignore her and lean forward even more. I can squeeze my hand through the bars of the other balcony. I’m a few centimetres away from the beret and lean over just a little bit more when … CRACK.

  The bar of the balcony I’m on snaps off. I feel myself fall forward, head‑first towards the pavement below.

  The beret woman screams, but things move too fast for me to make a sound. Then I feel the same tingly sensation of magic, but this time in my shoulders instead of my feet. Just as I’m about to slam into the ground, I swoop back up and hover in the air like a hummingbird. The cloak is trailing behind me, acting like wings.

  The woman’s screaming face has frozen into a look of wonder.

  It takes me a few moments to realise that I can fly in the way that you might swim. So I do a little doggy paddle towards the hat (not the most elegant, but it works). I return it to the woman just in time as her bus arrives.

  While the moon is high, I decide I’m going to go on an adventure!

  *

  I fly straight towards the beach, swooping past the pebbles until I reach the ocean. I pause for a moment, hovering on the spot, then fly towards the windmills that break up the horizon.

  I’m astounded by how bright it is out here with the stars winking down at me. The waves lap beneath me as I fly just above the water. The further I go, the darker the water gets, and I feel a bit scared when I imagine what lies beneath the surface.

  After a while, the town behind me looks like a miniature toy set. I don’t want to lose sight of it completely, so I loop round and round for a while, then make my way back. Bravely, I let my hand touch the surface of the ocean and it’s ice cold. The waves reach up for me as I reach out for them, as if they want to pull me under.

  I’m feeling more confident with my newfound wings, so I walk across the ocean. My cloak stops me from sinking into the depths of it. And I promise myself to never forget what this magical moment feels like.

  Once I get back home, I set my wet shoes on the radiator to dry. I keep the cloak on, the smell of the sea woven into it, as I write my new sonnet:

  The Night

  The night is full of shadows, sparking fear,

  I hide beneath the covers on my bed,

  I hope that the scraping sounds I can hear,

  Aren’t hungry monsters that need to be fed.

  The night is filled with nightmares and with woe,

  With worries that swirl and whirl all around.

  I’m trapped in my bed with nowhere to go,

  I hope that by morning, light will be found.

  But past my window, a star sparkles bright,

  I put on a cloak and stand on the sill.

  A gust of wind throws me into the night,

  I fly, with wings, my fear turning to thrill.

  I glide through the sky while the world is in slumber,

  I fly through the night; all I feel now is wonder.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Useful Spell

  It’s the morning of the competition and I feel SICK with nerves. My stomach is doing somersaults the way I did in the sky when I wore the cloak. The good thing is I remember all three poems, even the sonnet. I only wrote it last night, but it was all so exciting that the words stuck to my brain like papier mâché on a balloon.

  The bad thing is I’m still nervous about having to read my poems out in front of HUNDREDS of people. I feel like this even after practising in front of the cats and dancing in front of a bunch of strangers.

  Dad is insisting I have a proper energising breakfast, so he said I’m not allowed pancakes or French toast (my favourites). Instead, he is making me have icky porridge with raisins in it. Even Mum doesn’t seem pleased to eat it.

  She takes her seat at the table and pulls a face, saying to Dad, “I’m wondering, now, why I ever married you …” She’s drinking “cranberry juice”, which I’m certain is actually blood.

  If we’re going with my theory that Mum is a vampire, then I’m starting to wonder if Dad is a zombie. I have evidence for this:

  1.) He sleeps a lot. (I don’t know if zombies sleep a lot, but they always shuffle around like they’re really tired.)

  2.) Dad makes funny noises in the morning when he’s trying to get up, which sound like zombie growls. It’s especially funny when I pull the curtains open and let the sunlight in. But actually, sunlight is more of a vampire thing …

  3.) DAD EATS BRAINS. OK, so technically not brains, but the porridge Dad has plopped in front of me looks very much like brains. It’s a little too dry, and the raisins look like mouse poop.

  I’m going to need something magical to help me get through breakfast. The witch’s things are all packed neatly in her suitcase, ready to return to her when we arrive at the hotel. Dad washed her PJs, and I’ve not touched anything else besides the cloak and boots. But there’s this really pretty brooch in the shape of a dragonfly with gems studded all over it …

  No – I’m not going to risk trying the brooch when I’m not sure what it will do. And anyway, there’s a spell I remember looking at when I first found Daria’s diary.

  Dad’s busy making some coffee and Mum is adding spoonfuls of sugar to her porridge to try and make it taste nice (it won’t), meaning I can carry out my plan. In my left hand I’m holding an opal from the wooden box in Daria’s suitcase, while my right hand hovers over the food. And then I recite the words from the spell as quietly as I can:

  Hair of dog, string of gum

  Make this icky meal taste yum

  “Right!” Dad says, taking his seat at the table with his mug. “Eat up!”

  Mum and I look at each other and sigh. I take a bite.

  I widen my eyes. “OH MY GOODNESS!” I say, with my mouth full.

  Dad looks up, a little alarmed. “What’s wrong? Did I not mix the porridge up properly? Zee, just spit it out if—”

  “No,” I say, swallowing my bite. It seeps down my throat in the most satisfying way because the porridge and raisins taste like cookie dough and chocolate chips. “It’s DELICIOUS!”

  Mum looks at me like I’ve just turned into a lizard. But Dad looks really pleased.

  “Well, thank you, Zee,” Dad says. “I’m glad you like it. I added a top‑secret ingredient …” He pauses. “It’s cinnamon. Gives it a zing!”

  I’m glad I’ve made Dad happy. And I’m happy because I’m eating my favourite dessert in the whole world.

  I’m still nervous about later on, but I feel energised, just like Dad promised.

  CHAPTER 8

  Meeting a Witch

  The Grand Hotel is beautiful. It’s a big old building that looks a bit like a palace, and it has a swivelly door that spins round to let you inside. I’m not wearing any of the witch’s clothes in case something goes horribly wrong, but I have her suitcase with me and her diary in my hand so I can double‑check what room the MAGIC meeting is in.

  I’m supposed to recite my poems in forty‑five minutes, which means I need to be backstage in half an hour. I feel ready, I think, which surprises me. But I’m still nervous.

  The inside of the building is even more beautiful than the front, with marble floors and wood‑panelled walls. There’s a big circular desk in the middle of the entryway with three people waiting to help you find what you’re looking for. I ask about the Miraculous and Great Ideas Club, and they point me down one of the many maze‑like hallways.

  “Are you sure you want to go on your own?” Dad asks anxiously. I’ve told him he has to go and watch all of the other performances to tell me how they’ve done. Mum’s gone ahead to save them both a good seat.

  “Yes,” I say for the hundredth time. I don’t really want the witch to see me with my dad. I remember how confident she seemed getting the train on her own, and I want to be the same.

  Finally, Dad lets me go and I wander the halls, quickly forgetting the instructions the person at the desk gave me. Luckily, there’s someone familiar headed in the right direction. Or should I say a familiar.

  “Oh, hello!” I say, jogging up to the kitten with the white chest. The one with the soft whispery voice.

  She turns to me, looking surprised, but maybe it’s just because she has these big orange eyes. “Ah, you made it then?” the kitten asks.

  I nod. “So did you,” I say. “Good luck with your audition!”

  She peeks into the room first and curls her ears back. “The others are here too,” the kitten says. “I don’t stand a chance against all of them.”

  I frown. “I’m sure you do!” I say, wishing I could take her home myself. Then I realise something. “Why can I understand you? I haven’t got any witch’s clothes on.”

  The kitten thinks about this for a moment. “Maybe some of the magic has rubbed off on you? From when you last used it?”

  That makes sense. I suppose the magic will disappear in the end and I won’t hear cats speak any more. The thought makes me sad. I wish the kitten luck again before she leaves.

  “Good luck to you too,” she says. “For your competition!” And then she disappears inside the room.

  “Oh!” a surprised voice says from behind me a few moments later. I turn to see the witch from the train. Daria. “Is that my suitcase?”

  “Yes!” I say, holding it out to her. Then I explain. “I saw you were going to be here today, and I have a poetry competition in just …” I glance at the clock and see I’ve only got about twenty minutes until I need to get backstage. “About half an hour.”

  Daria looks impressed by what I’ve told her, which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. “Well, good luck!” she says. “Hang on, I’ll get your suitcase …”

  “Oh, don’t worry …” I say, thinking she’s about to rush back home to go and get it. But of course, she’s a witch.

  Daria takes one of the gemstones from her suitcase and recites a quick spell. In the blink of an eye my suitcase has appeared and we trade back. She asks me what I want to wear for the competition, as I mention I’ll need to change quickly.

 

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