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It wasn't everyday you returned from market to find a hole in the ground where your castle used to be.
Sophie Hatter, twenty years old in mind and ninety at heart, was naturally the last person to be impressed by a dramatic turn of events. She stood stock still, staring down at dead grass and muddy drag marks.
She was categorically unwilling to accept this unwanted development. After spending a moment inwardly negotiating with the elements, she willed it all to go back to normal between blinks.
Be there. I'll look away, and when I turn back, let the castle be there.
But it wasn't there. Only rocks, weeds, the aforementioned hole in the ground.
Oh, for goodness' sake.
“It was right here,” she murmured, confused. “The castle. Our home. The pile of washing I hadn't folded yet. Howl's nail varnish collection. Where on earth could it have got to?”
She shifted her basket of fresh fruit and bread from one arm to the other. So much for a cosy fireside breakfast. There was no clean, dry sideboard to rest her baguettes on, and a damp ditch simply would not do.
Tap, think, ruminate. The castle must have moved at quite a rate, to be gone without a trace. Someone left in a hurry.
And where's that wizard of mine, then?
It was unthinkable that Howl had forgotten about her. Sophie was quite memorable. She'd also taken the trouble to remind him twice this morning that she was popping out for an hour or two, and even left a whimsical note stuck to the bathroom mirror, where he passed enough of his time. Back soon! Please retrieve TWO clean plates from the cupboard!
No, if Howl was feeling the sudden urge to flee the vicinity, he would have taken Sophie with him. That was the polite thing to do.
Still, the castle was gone. She squinted at the gap where the front door used to be, brow furrowed.
Not on. This simply isn't on.
Howl wouldn't leave her, which meant that even if his beloved castle weren't here, he would be. Somewhere. In the unruly, sparkling flesh. Sophie scoured the landscape for a sliver of shimmer, a flash of misplaced flamingo pink, where all else was brown and grey and murk. How glittery had Howl been this morning, when he'd distractedly kissed her goodbye? On a scale of one to primary school craft project.
Very. Howl had been looking very sparkly, come dawn. He should stick out like a sore thumb.
Not immediately, though. Sophie could find no trace of him in the mud puddles where the castle's foundations had lain—he had, historically, made for a rather garish, green puddle, so she'd no doubt spot him easily enough.
As she perused a miserable clump of thorn bushes, something bright and shining caught her eye further back in the hills—and yes, it would be just like Howl to sulk under the cover of foliage. Off she traipsed, rosy apples bruising in her basket, checking over her shoulder every other step in case the castle decided to put in a guest appearance after all.
It didn't.
In the end, her beloved/besieged wasn't difficult to find. Howl did not, as these things went, trend towards the subtle.
She found him not too far from the road, a bright jewel in a desert of dust and brush. There was definitely some high-level sulking going on—Howl had probably chosen the holly bush for the added prickle. Drama, drama, effect!
“Darling, I've noticed the castle's gone,” she began lightly, because if you ignored the elephant in the room, it only grew bigger through negligence. “Why might that be the case?”
“Sophie, I tried to stop it,” Howl moaned, “or rather, I tried to reason with the damnable thing. But the woodwork was having none of it!”
Sophie joined him in the holly bush, closing the fruit basket so she could sit gingerly atop its wicker lid. The apples were already bruised, so why not?
“It was a choice, then?” she sought to clarify. A prickly bush on the hillside was no match for a comfortable armchair or settee. Any piece of furniture would be welcome, in all honesty. An upturned apple crate would be better than thorns. “The castle wasn't accidentally misplaced.”
“No, it left quite deliberately,” Howl said morosely, hugging his knees. He'd picked out one of his fancier pairs of trousers today. Sophie mentally mapped the stitches she'd have to place to pull them back together, if she ever saw her sewing kit again. “I know I've tended towards the disastrous lately—that mess with the letters, you'll remember, and the body swap dilemma. But it wasn't me this time! The castle turfed us out. Wants to see Ingary on its own terms. Sophie, it said it's taking the day off! Maybe two! We've been working its legs too hard lately, thus burbled the pipes. The castle was feeling unappreciated. Went to see the world without us.”
Sophie frowned, running her fingers through Howl's silky hair. Even in his misery, he was lovely. “But I thought we were getting along. We've been staying in one place for longer so the dear thing didn't exhaust itself. Letting it make more of its own decisions, as agreed.”
Howl shrugged, fingernails chewed to ribbons. “Adolescent castles are temperamental, aren't they? It's got all this personality. I expect it's just a phase, but that doesn't help in the short-term. It said we had no idea how it was feeling. Can you believe that? I'm well known for my feelings!”
She could believe it, unfortunately. The castle was stubborn, growing back into itself after being rebuilt, following its dismantling post-Suliman. Its whims were unpredictable at best; Howl was right to be indignant. He had poured every inch of himself into reimagining their wandering home, after the dark events of days passed. His very best magic, and then the tired bits left over, too. Blood, sweat and tears didn't begin to cover it. That the castle could still feel the need to branch out, after such effort...
“Well,” she said, deciding they'd best get a grip on the situation before it slipped completely out of control. That wouldn't do. “First things first—let's get ourselves somewhere warm and dry. We can have a discussion about temporary living arrangements over a nice cup of tea.”
Tea was, as ever, a fortifying prospect. Howl rallied himself to crawl out of the bush, twigs making a nest of his hair.
“Alright, then. Tea. Yes, please.”
“Where's that iridescent irritant of yours?” she asked, scouring the sky for a speck of stubborn star-shine. “I expect Calcifer has a valuable opinion or two to share. I'm surprised he hasn't already dropped in for a bit of malign narration.”
“Calcifer flew up through the chimney and zipped off, as the castle was making its escape,” Howl grumbled. “Said he wanted no part in the stress-induced hair loss I was about to endure. There was a bit of cackling going on. Good riddance, I say.”
Sophie hummed. Their errant star no doubt had plenty of celestial-scale mischief to be getting into. Hopefully that would keep their own woes relatively simple and manageable.
“I suspect that's for the best. We don't need Calcifer's natural antagonism making things worse.”
“Worse?” Howl moaned, picking berries from behind his ears. “How could things be worse? I've no clothes, Sophie. I'm a one-shirt man. You deserve more. Two shirts, at least!”
After a bit of walking (and a lot of complaining), the unfortunate pair ended up in a quaint café on the edge of Market Chipping. It was one of the places Sophie liked to come to when she craved a saucer of peace with her tea. Howl usually wouldn't be seen dead in such a place—who would compliment his outfit? How could be possibly charm the populace, with only floral wallpaper to impress? But they'd needed somewhere private and quiet to sit and put together a plan, so he'd loped in behind her, asking politely if they could split a plate of pink wafers.
The need for accommodation for the coming night had become rather pressing. Once they had food and hot water in them, their predicament was still there, staring them in the face.
“But all of my things are in the castle!” Howl lamented, pouting over a crumbling wafer. He was set on demolishing the entire plate, and Sophie planned to let him. “My things. You know how I feel about things.”
Sophie nodded vacantly. She liked this shop. The tea was good, the biscuits plentiful, and the owner had no interest whatsoever in her customers, once they had been furnished with food and drink. It was an ideal spot for putting your life back together.
“If it comes to it, we'll get you lots of new things,” Sophie said kindly, though she wasn't thrilled, either. All of her books were in the moving castle. And the knitted cardigan she'd been working on for the past fortnight! Her hats, the silk scarves Howl had given her for her birthday. She hoped the castle, in its haste to abandon its owners, wasn't also considering a spate of spring cleaning. “For now, we'll have to hole up in a hotel. Possibly for a few nights—our domicile has never gone vigilante before. I've no idea how long this will take to resolve.”
Howl finished off his latest wafer, visibly perking up at the prospect of a comfortable hotel suite.
“Could we go to The Emerald Feather?” he suggested. It was, naturally, the most expensive hotel in town. “Do you remember it, Sophie? We spent our honeymoon there. Or a few nights of it. They had a chocolate fountain shaped like a swan.”
Sophie blushed. She did remember. She affected a frown but secretly, she was excited at the thought of going back. She was a fiend for room service.
“If we can make a reservation, that will do nicely.”
Howl nodded, then retreated back into his misery. Calcifer wasn't here to alleviate things with an ill-timed joke; if Sophie didn't get things on track, she'd be looking at a Grade-A Green Slimy Meltdown over the teashop's delicate doilies.
“Why would it leave us, Sophie? What did we do? We were renovating the kitchen! Spending more time at home. Travelling a bit. We were hardly ignoring our surroundings! The old chap could've had a day off whenever it liked. It only had to ask.”
Sophie frowned again. Howl was right. They really had been looking after the castle as best they could—she'd been practicing her small repair spells on the cabinets, and had set the hardwood floors to polish themselves. As far as her middling magic went, she was becoming quite proficient. Maybe the castle didn't appreciate being the subject of her experiments? Or maybe it had grown tired of them. Felt the urge to see if the grass was greener elsewhere.
“I'm not sure what happened,” she said, squeezing Howl's hand. He squeezed back. She did appreciate how soft his skin was. “But we'll work it out. Problems are, after all, our profession.”
He smiled weakly.
“You're right. What can't we do?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she said sweetly, sipping her tea. “We're not very good at badminton. It was nice to see Letty last week, but honestly, what a disaster.”
“We're not good at it yet, no, but we'll get there. You'll get there, Sophie.”
Oh, he was soppy for a wizard. She smiled back.
They finished off their wafers, and left money in the saucer for the tea. Leaving in slightly higher spirits than with which they'd arrived, Sophie led them out into the street to look for a carriage. They needed transport—they were in want of wheels!
After successfully flagging one down, she glanced up at the hills behind the town. The castle was out there somewhere, wandering without purpose. Burning up the wood supply Markl had hauled in last week.
Take care, she thought. Don't go too far.
Howl will never survive without his wardrobe.
As wonders never cease, it was Howl who had the bright idea they desperately needed, though he didn't immediately realise it. A hot bath, a basket of fruit and two rounds of room service later, inspiration struck.
The Emerald Feather's welcome comforts had gone a long way to remedying their despair. Post-soap and wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown, Sophie sank into the goose down mattress, silver hair wet on her shoulders.
She sighed. She stretched. She tried to relax.
We're alright, aren't we? First steps are done.
Howl was sitting at a carved wooden table next to the window, sipping at a fresh cup of tea. He had today's newspaper—the Chipping Chronicle—spread out in front of him. He'd been looking for the cartoon pages, but somewhere along the way, had stumbled upon the classifieds.
“Sophie, there are all sorts of houses listed for sale in here. It's a pity there isn't a section for moving castles,” he said blithely, all the better for his post-bath state of bliss.
Sophie, who had been dozing and on the brink of a nap, sprang awake. “But there is!” she said, rising from the bed to join her casual genius. From the window they had a pleasant view of the town, all the way down the winding main street to the docks. “Howl, you're brilliant. Tell me, is there a potion shop near here?”
His nose crinkled. “Am I really? I suppose there's Markl's latest venture. He's taken over half of old Lavande's flower shop, in Dice Thrower's Alley. Business is booming.”
Sophie rubbed her chin, shaking her head. “No, we don't want to drag Markl into this if we can help it. If we can continue to keep Calcifer's special brand of madness out of it, too, then all the better. They'd never let us live it down, losing the castle, of all things. What about the Wizard Pitch's apothecary? He might have a copy going spare.”
“A copy of what?” Howl asked, now absorbed in the crossword.
“The Sorcerer's Sentinel. Most magickal shops carry it.”
Sophie nodded to herself, biting the tip of her thumb. Yes, The Sentinel might be worth looking at—it wasn't so much a magickal newspaper as a single-page catch-all for the week's salient happenings, but it was something. Wizards weren't terrific at writing things down, beyond spells.
What she was particularly interested in was a small section she'd skipped over, last time she'd seen a copy. It came about halfway down the front page.
Magickal Properties for Rente and for Sale!
“Ah! The Sentinel. Good thinking, sweetheart,” Howl said, giving up on 4-across and getting to his slippered feet. “Yes, Pitch's apothecary is only a few streets from here. It's down on Whippet Way. I'll just put some clothes on and comb my hair, and I'll pop in to see if they have a copy left. I'll curl my hair too, why not? Oh, and I'll also need to pick out a pair of shoes. I bought some from the emporium next door, whilst you were checking us in. Or boots! I could ask if they have any boots. Or... what do you think about sandals, Sophie? Will I need a coat, do you think? Best take a scarf, at any rate. You should never be caught sans scarf. But then, my best scarves are in the castle... Sophie, would the hotel staff be particularly upset if I took one of these lacy pillowcases and—”
“No, look, stop, I'll go!” Sophie insisted. In the time it had taken for Howl to narrate his journey from table to near-empty wardrobe, she had already pulled on her dress and laced up her boots. “You stay here, do your crossword, and look pretty.”
Howl, who knew an easily achievable task when he was given one, sat back down.
“Only if you're sure.”
“I'm sure. Be right back. Whippet Way, you said?”
“Take two lefts and a right, and you'll be there.”
Sophie tucked her hair behind her ears, waved goodbye, and was out and about in a flash. She twisted a glove in her hands as she dipped and dived along Market Chipping's avenues, avoiding carriages and her fellow harassed townsfolk.
A single sheet of paper—that's what she had her sights set on.
One side of ink, that she hoped would get them on their way.
Half an hour later, when she returned triumphantly to The Emerald Feather, Sophie found her beloved once more adrift in the bath.
“The water pressure's perfect,” he said, one arm draped languidly over the lip of the clawfoot tub. “I didn't even have to enchant it. And there's no creaking or groaning! Can't we stay here instead, Sophie? Maybe the castle has tired of its day off. It'll come back when it's feeling lonely.”
Sophie sat down on the towel hamper, smoothing out her copy of The Sorcerer's Sentinel—the Wizard Pitch had let her take it for free, after explaining their predicament—and looking for the relevant column.
“No, we can't stay here, Howl. I want my craft room back. There's nothing more irritating than a half-finished project. And what of your jewellery boxes? Are you willing to let your prized brooch collection march off into the night without you?”
He sank under the bubbles, a disconsolate mess once more. When he resurfaced, Sophie waited for protest that didn't come, and so got to reading.
“
MAGICKAL PROPERTIES FOR SALE, RENTE AND MANIPULATION,
IN BEAUTIFUL LOCALES ACROSS INGARY.”
She knew, of course, that they would not find their own dear castle lurking in the ads. It had been gone for less than a day—The Sentinel could hardly afford multiple print runs. Besides, the castle could easily be traipsing about by itself for the next several hours without anyone paying attention. They were a common enough sight, in the hills behind Market Chipping. It was only when it couldn't settle, without Howl's input and Calcifer's guidance, that people would wonder if something was amiss.
As she scanned the paper, Sophie knew that these other assorted haunted houses, cryptic cottages and bewitched bungalows were not their idea of home. But they would do for now, and they would do for her plan. Something to sink into that wasn't a sterile hotel room.
“Howl. Looking at these prices, I'm afraid we might have to sell off a few of your gaudier cufflinks.”
She watched his face fall, and that was part of it, too. When Howl had rebuilt the castle after the Suliman debacle, he had poured everything he had into it. Every inch of heartfelt magic. The castle was part of him. It knew him—how many times had the curtains burst into colour, to cheer him out of one of his more emotional episodes? The bathroom transforming to suit his soaking preferences, the ingredients cabinet locking itself when he had an especially dangerous potion experiment in mind. The castle knew him, the castle was him, in many ways.
The castle cared. Howl and the stones were a team. If he went off enchanted house shopping, it wouldn't be pleased. It might even get jealous.
Personality. It's overflowing with the stuff.
Sophie was counting on that.
“Sophie, please. Anything but the cufflinks. We don't need to buy a house, do we? Just find our old one. The day's on its way to being done; it might come back of its own accord.”
Perhaps. But we'll need to be convincing, in case it doesn't. Ever tried to catch a castle's wandering eye?
“We'll wait, and whilst we do that, we'll prepare ourselves for the worst. So,” she said, circling a few ads with her pencil. Options. As widespread as we can make them. “We'll keep the cufflinks. How about that old shirt stitched with gold thread? You bought from it from a travelling prince who needed money to get back home.”
Howl groaned into his dissipating bubbles. “No. You were right the first time. The cufflinks can go.”
“I can put up a few fancy hats, too. We'll both make sacrifices.” She placed The Sentinel on top of the closed toilet seat, so that Howl could look over her choices. “All contingent on getting the castle back, of course. If all goes well we won't need to cough up money for a new house, but we ought to be ready. Now, where do you think should we start? The bungalow in Porthaven, or the penthouse in Cleric's Way?”
Howl splashed over to the lip of the tub and propped his chin in the edge, gazing balefully up at Sophie.
“The one that's closest. I don't suppose the castle's got too far without us—Calcifer hasn't imbued it with his starshine for a week or so. Its energy will be lacking.”
“Good point,” she said, as Howl tapped a damp finger against one of the advertisements. “And good choice. That one's only a few miles from here. I'll get in touch with the estate agent and see if we can arrange a viewing for tomorrow. And Howl, you do know everything's going to be fine, don't you? It's just another stick caught in the spokes, so to speak.”
He smiled at her, and it was a little else hopeless than earlier.
“I know. We work these things out. We're a devilishly handsome team.”
He sank back under the bubbles. Sophie waited patiently for him to come back to her.
A team, yes. You, me and the castle.
Where oh where did our third arm go?
When the sun had risen, Howl poked his face hopefully out of the window, but no joy. The castle had seemingly decided to extend its spontaneous sabbatical. It hadn't come back for them.
“Time to get moving?” he asked glumly.
“Time to get moving,” Sophie confirmed.
As they rolled away from Market Chipping in the early morning, tucked into the swankiest carriage spare cufflinks could hire, Sophie kept one eye on the hills.
“It's out there somewhere,” she murmured, “and it best not have unpolished my floors.”
“The castle won't be seen if it doesn't want to be,” Howl said, tucked in beside her. He'd gone back to the shoe emporium before they'd left, and asked if they also did tailoring. He was now a vision dressed in black and grey; it really brought out the fathomless depths in his eyes. He called it his morning mourning look. “It's sulking, Sophie. One for the ages—which naturally I respect very much, though I don't understand the whys of it.”
He yawned. Without the castle, Howl seemed flimsier. Like he was built from crumbling wafers.
A wizard needs his reliquary.
Sophie suspected this vanishing act was a ploy for attention. Like maker, like morally corrupt architecture.
“It'll show its siding soon enough. It's not going to like what we've got planned for today's outing.”
Their merry little jaunt saw them follow the winding Clay Road all the way from Chipping to West Kiln, a sweet village Sophie had often thought about visiting, and now finally had the chance. She admired the red bricks and chimney stacks as they rolled through cobbled streets, and wondered if there was a gift shop. She would quite like to buy a postcard as a keepsake. The day we went house shopping to make our truant house jealous.
Sadly, she knew that there would be no spare time for browsing shops and quaint cafés today, though the magickal estate agent Sophie had contacted that morning wanted her to meet them bright and early in a chain coffee shop, on the high street.
“Couldn't we meet at the property instead?” Sophie had pushed. “We've another viewing lined up right after.”
The prospect of a sales competition had won them their way, and so the carriage rolled them past West Kiln's tiny high street, and the cute coffee shops and tea houses lined up like landmarks.
The curious cottage—the first property Sophie had circled in The Sentinel, and the one Howl had been taken by—was situated at the end of a winding cul-de-sac, set into a green and grassy hill. From a distance it looked remarkably normal, almost too normal—but as the carriage pulled to a stop outside, Sophie started to glimpse a few cracks here and there. A shimmer, a spackle of magic. There was a spell, she realised, pasted over the front of the cottage—a vestige of misdirection to lure away unwanted onlookers. From head on, all was well, but out of the corner of her eye...
“It's really a mansion,” Howl said, astonished. He held out a hand to help Sophie down from her seat. “What incredible spellwork! And thank goodness for that. My shoe collection alone would've overrun that tiny hovel.”
Sophie squeezed his fingers, pleased to see him in good spirits. She leaned in to murmur, “Don't forget, Howl—we're not actually looking to buy this house. We're just trying to get the castle's attention.”
Howl smiled, bringing her hand to his mouth so he could kiss her fingertips. “But we've a part to play, don't we? The castle can be hard to convince. It's got my stubborn side, and your fiendishness. Oh, and you do have a flair for the dramatic, so play along.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I knew you'd get into it.”
“Coo-ee! Over here!”
Sophie jumped, looking around for the source of the shrill voice. There, at the top of the steps by the fake-cottage's front door, was the answer—a woman was waving at them!
As they looked on, the woman started down the steps, heels clicking decisively. She had lilac hair and a sparkling pair of purple spectacles—purple, indeed, was the theme. She was swathed in drapes of plum and lavender from head to toe, flowing down as they started up the steps to meet her halfway. Sophie couldn't help but return her welcoming wave. She looked magnificent.
“Good morning!” the woman called as they met, shaking both of their hands with vigour, waving a clipboard with her free hand. Even her gloves were purple. “I'm Grace Flibbins, magickal estate agent with Wiskins & Merlin! You're the Pendragons, I presume?”
She shook their hands a second time, then pulled Sophie into a hug.
“Yes, nice to meet you. I'm Sophie and this is my husband, Howl,” she muffled into soft fabric.
“Very pleased to meet you,” Howl said politely, shaking her hand a third time, his smile as dazzling as the diamond earrings he'd picked out that morning. “So sorry to drag you out here this early, but we just couldn't wait to rummage through this charming cottage's secrets.”
“Oh, not at all!” Grace trilled, beckoning them up the steps. She swayed—for a brief moment, the clipboard in her hand disappeared, to be replaced by a paper coffee cup. “I'm energised and excited to show you around.”
At the top of the steps, Sophie paused, whilst the other two went on ahead. Once more she scanned the hillside and streets around the village, but saw no sign of lurking brickwork.
You'll find us eventually, she thought. If a magician's hidden mansion couldn't draw the castle from its sojourn, what would? In the meantime we'll be here, admiring someone else's spells and enviable charm.
It took hours and hours to tour the hidden mansion. Sophie hoped their second appointment hadn't waited around for them, as they'd long since missed their viewing. There was no chance of them finding a way out of the labyrinth of rooms again, without Grace's guidance.
The not-really-a-cottage was a truly remarkable achievement. A masterpiece of magic. No wonder Grace had been happy to meet them first thing. Viewing such a house was an event, an entire day out in itself. Sophie was exhausted by the time they reached the eighth marble-floored bathroom.
Ms Flibbins explained that it had once been the summer home of a powerful sorcerer—“Dostiere? That old rogue! I never knew he had this place tucked away!” cried Howl—but after Suliman's war draft had come into effect, he'd taken off with a princess from a conveniently faraway land. In recent weeks, he'd contacted Wiskins & Merlin via untraceable carrier pigeon to arrange its sale, given he had no intentions of returning to Ingary.
Sophie thoroughly enjoyed her nose through someone else's past life. Grace and her colleagues had done a good job of making the mansion feel comfortable and presentable, though she noticed there was still a touch of dust tucked into corners, and a vague stale smell they hadn't quite been able to chase away with flowers and artful pot pourri arrangements. Howl fawned appropriately as they moved from room to room, and she agreed that it was very lovely.
But it was big. And empty. And airy.
(Eight bathrooms!)
There was nothing wrong with the place. Sophie knew it was perfect, and she knew it would sell. What disheartened her was the stationary feel, like the mansion had never walked a mile in its life. It was too perfect, and far too settled.
It became clear as they explored the cavernous kitchen—equipped with three ovens, and what Grace called a “magickally self-cooling larder, the most advanced in charm technology!”—that Sophie and Howl weren't the only beings in the vicinity who'd noticed the secret mansion's secret flaws.
As Sophie passed the sink, the silver-plated taps began to splutter rusty water.
When Howl dipped his head to glance into the fruit bowl, the countertops shuddered.
The moment they looked at each other, the candelabra spluttered out overhead.
Whilst Grace investigated these oddities via her enchanted clipboard, all fluster and apology, something heavy began rolling around on the upstairs floorboards. Still determined to make the sale if she could, Grace rifled through her papers.
“Oh, I am sorry, dear Pendragons. These old buildings, you know! The owner promised to have it perma-charm free for viewings, except for the facade spell which he couldn't peel off if he wanted to, but we must have missed something. There was no mention of a resident ghost, or sentient furniture. I'll send him a quick anonymous carrier pigeon, and get this sorted out post-haste!”
Sophie shared a knowing look with Howl. She started to tell the estate agent that there was no need to worry, but in a swirl of purple Grace was already leaving the room, click-clacking down the marble hallway to presumably catch herself a pigeon.
“You don't suppose we have a rude interruption on our hands?” Howl whispered. “A many-legged catastrophe, spying on our own day-off.”
Overhead, the cottage's roof tiles knocked together.
Sophie's lips pressed into a thin line. Here you are, then. Watching on, after all.
The rumblings weren't likely to be the mansion's fault, nor its absent maker's.
The castle was close. The castle was near.
“Howl,” she whispered, “quick! Cast a spell on those taps. Anything will do; I know you're not feeling your best. Make your presence known.”
He gave her a quizzical look, but complied. Sophie was the queen of good ideas. As Grace came bustling back into the kitchen with her clipboard, the grin of a professional salesperson fixed in place, he stepped over to the sink.
“Allow me to take care of this,” he said loudly, flexing his bejewelled fingers. With a flick of his wrist and an unnecessarily grandiose flap of his sleeves, the taps were silenced, clear water dribbling down the plughole once more.
“Oh, wonderful!” Grace exclaimed, clapping a periwinkle pen against her clipboard. “I don't suppose you could take a look upstairs as well, before we head out to the garden? You are a gem.”
“It would be a pleasure. I can cast all over, just in case.”
“That'd be grand!”
Sophie and Howl looked at each other in anticipation. They waited.
The moving, moaning, moping castle didn't disappoint. After a moment, the cottage-mansion's kitchen windows rattled a warning in their frames.
“Still upset with us,” Howl stage-whispered, looking around at the innocent architecture. “What should we do now?”
Grace, perplexed, valiantly showed them the vegetable patch and fabulous greenhouse. She rallied when nothing usual happened outside—or nothing beyond the sunflowers growing a few inches when she wasn't looking, at least.
At the end of the tour, once they were back on the front doorstep, Grace practically shook their hands off in relief.
“Do think about it, won't you? I know Mr Dostiere is asking for a lot, but West Kiln really is a lovely location. All the coffee shops and potteries you could ask for! And the house is just darling, don't you think?”
Howl patted the bricks, casting a sly look over his shoulder. Just in case.
“Yes, I do think. It's majestic. Thank you, Grace!”
Sophie echoed his sentiments, and they left in a whirl of smiles and goodbyes, for all appearances delighted with their sweet little cottage in the hillside.
“I can assure you it's usually a very well-behaved house,” Grace called after them, following along the path to where their carriage stood waiting, doors open. “I don't know what's got into it today, but I just know you can handle it as well as anyone! I have another viewing set for tomorrow with a couple from Snorchester, but do get in touch if you're interested.”
“We will!” they chorused, Sophie waving goodbye as Howl helped her up into her seat.
They had, of course, no intention whatsoever of buying Dostiere's mansion; they had only wanted to pique a passing dwelling's curiosity. Step one: blinding success, she thought with satisfaction.
Then she realised there was work still to be done, and the satisfaction slipped somewhat.
No celebrations until we have the castle back. Until I have my slippers on and a kettle boiling on the hob.
“There's still a bit of afternoon light left,” Sophie murmured, directing the driver out of the cul-de-sac and back along Clay Road. “Howl, there was another West Kiln property in The Sentinel—it shouldn't be far from here, towards the edge of town. I'd arranged a viewing, but we might have missed our chance. It's a farmhouse. What do you say to luring the castle there, see if we can save ourselves another night at the hotel?”
Howl pouted. “You're not happy with The Emerald Feather?”
“I'm very happy,” she replied, patting his knee. “I am concerned you're going to buy the shop next door out of all stock and supplies.”
“Surely that's the dream?” he pointed out. “An early retirement is the kindest gift a wizard can bestow.”
Sophie sighed. “I suppose so.”
Maybe that's what the castle is after. Retirement. Maybe it will walk itself to the sea and never be seen again, except by seagulls and sea foam.
When they reached the second circled address in The Sentinel, a farmhouse surrounded by mud and crooked wooden fencing, they found it deserted. It looked like it had been empty for some time—there was no queue of eager potential buyers for this slice of West Kiln paradise. Sophie tried to recall what the ad had said—it had been reduced for clearance, she knew that much. The farm had been on the market for several months without an interested buyer.
“Are we... is this the old Veridian place? I've heard of it,” Howl said quietly, escorting Sophie up a crazy-paving path to a ramshackle gate. “Yes, Veridian Farm. An old wizarding family who happened to have an affinity for agriculture. There was a frightful duel here, you know, not long before you and I met—one of the King's wizards, sent to draft Veridian himself, got into a spot of bother. The old man refused to report for war duty.”
Sophie shuddered. The years-long magic-inflected war had been a ghastly affair; Ingary was still feeling its effects, all this time after its end. Craters in back gardens, unexploded bombs washing up on beaches.
“A wizard duel,” she murmured, taking in the farm's dilapidated outbuildings. Whoever took this place on would need to invest time, care, and a serious amount of money in its revival. No wonder it had been stagnating in The Sentinel. “Who came out of it the winner?”
Frowning, Howl placed a hand on her waist and guided her around two charred marks, burnt into the front garden. “Neither of them. Magickal homes don't usually succumb to something as tawdry as a haunting, but in this case, the rumours were enough to put off anyone else from moving in. That's why it's empty. I didn't realise it was here, tucked away in such a nice village. The two wizards died in combat, and their spirits are said to still be trapped, duelling throughout eternity.”
Sophie glanced around as they headed for the farmhouse doors. They'd arranged to meet a different estate agent here, from a firm called Helga Hexe, but there was nothing to say the man had arrived.
Time to squeeze in a dab of castle wrangling.
“Howl,” she said, shaking off the shivers of his ghost story. “Do what you do best and draw attention to yourself. Our delinquent home might have followed us here.”
They were perfectly capable of making a spectacle of themselves, and so they indulged, complimenting the farmhouse's supporting beams as though they were carved from heartwood. Howl even tossed out a spontaneous cleaning spell, so they could peer through the musty windows and pretend they liked what they saw. The interior was, to no one's surprise, dusty and dark, but Sophie kept the disappointment from her face. This was no beautifully arranged mansion.
“Maybe the castle doesn't care if we move to a farm. It knows we wouldn't last a day.”
“You wouldn't last a day,” Sophie informed him. “I'd manage just fine.”
“Yes, you would,” Howl admitted, touching her cheek with the back of his hand. He looked at her fondly, then a noise from somewhere out there had him spinning on his heels. “Did you hear that?”
“I did,” Sophie whispered, resisting the urge to follow his gaze to find the source.
The castle, come a-lumbering, was somewhere across the way. There was a whinny from the direction of the road—their carriage driver called out something about circling around, to stave off the horses' restlessness.
“Please do!” Howl called, waving him off. To Sophie, he said, “It's probably best we don't have an audience for this. Ghosts and a cantankerous chateau, what could go wrong?”
Sophie smiled grimly. She still hadn't worked out what had upset the castle so badly. It was a conundrum. It didn't want to house them, but didn't want them to live elsewhere? Was this a plea for attention, or a stand of some sort?
“Hello there, Pendragons!”
An interrupting voice came interrupting, from the roadway. Another carriage had arrived, this one painted the name Helga Hexe in extravagant cursive.
“Um, hello!” Sophie called, pulling Howl away from the window. She wasn't sure snooping was encouraged. “Are you the estate agent? We're supposed to be meeting with Clarence. Sorry we're late—very late, fact. We got rather caught up at the Dostiere cottage.”
The estate agent grinned as he came bumbling along the cracked path. He was far less purple than Grace, but just as jolly. “I'm the man you're after, then! Clarence Hexe, most please to meet you both. You are my would-be farmhands, I'm guessing? Welcome, welcome! And please, no apologies about the timing. We know how it is, with these magickal manors and their mannerisms—I spelled the gate so I'd hear a bell ring when you arrived. Tucked myself into a coffee shop on the high street and caught up on paperwork.”
Clarence chortled. Sophie wasn't sure she'd heard a chortle in real life before, and decided she quite liked it. She gave him another meek wave, and went in for a handshake—his palm was clammy, but the enthusiasm was there. He was lacking Grace's clipboard, but seemed just as keen on making the sale. Sophie supposed wild enthusiasm was about the only way to sell a place as haunted at this. Nothing to see here, the ghosts are mere decoration!
The estate agent—Clarence with a C, not a Q! as he proudly announced—may not have been purple, but he was dressed even more loudly than Howl, which Sophie considered an achievement. Frills, lace, buttoned-up cuffs galore. He was far more interesting than the farmhouse's entrance, which was just as dreary within as it was without. The floor was stone, and Sophie clacked miserably along, making note of every cobweb.
Cleaning. Perhaps that's what the castle is upset about. Are our standards slipping? Or maybe they should slip. I wouldn't like to be poked with a feather duster every other day, either.
Clarence showed them around the could-be-haunted farmhouse with the smoothness of practiced performance. He truly was great, armed with an entertaining aside for each archway they marched under. “Look here, a living room that's survived untold centuries! And through that window you'll see a barn that's crying out to be filled with equipment! A stable that's short a few ghosts! A kitchen just begging to be baked in! And oh, need I point out the site of an infamous magickal duel to the death? You, my friends, would be living in hidden history!”
Bathroom count: two and a half. Much more reasonable.
The property proved to be as much a labyrinth as the mansion. Sophie was dizzy by the time they made it back to the front gate, having seen enough barns and back buildings and buttressed bedrooms to last a lifetime. The castle had, predictably, reared its bricks and mortars during the tour—Clarence, however, hadn't been rattled by the rattling picture frames, the howling chimney stacks, nor the self-toppling furniture. All special effects he expertly overlooked. If anything, the castle's attempts to get their attention were merely adding to the farm's legend.
It was when they were shaking hands on the mud-caked driveway, to a casual onlooker appearing to be sealing the deal, that their devious dwelling next made its presence heard.
“Is that house one of yours?” Howl asked Clarence, managing to keep his voice calm and casual, despite the impish smile creeping across his lips. “We didn't see it listed in The Sorcerer's Sentinel.”
Howl was pointing across the road, where a new property had laid down roots. One could swear blind it hadn't been there this morning.
Sophie tutted, preemptively annoyed by the melodrama of it all.
The castle, their castle, had planted itself across from the haunted farm. It was as out of place in West Kiln as it possibly could be, bereft of red brick and terraced shop fronts.
As Sophie watched, it spat out a wooden window shutter, water burbling up from the guttering.
What a disaster you are. You're Howl, with chimneys and downspouts.
“Could we view that property, too?” she asked, feigning surprise. “I know it's sudden, but it does have a certain morbid curiosity to it. Is it like the Dostiere cottage, with a spell over the facade?”
“Erm,” Clarence swallowed, tugging at his lacy shirt collar. “Just a moment, please. I, ah... I don't see anything about a dilapidated castle here in my notes, but... but it must be one of ours, because it wasn't there when we went in, and only another wizard would build right next to a haunted wizarding farm! There have been rumours of various moving castles in these parts, of course, so perhaps...”
They let him muddle it out. If nothing else, their enthusiasm sealed the deal where paperwork could not.
After a few more minutes of baffled indecision and a hearty slap on the back from Howl, Clarence was leading them across the road as if he'd known the moving castle for decades. It was a local institution, a personal favourite! Sure, it might look a tad crooked, but she sure was a keeper!
Clarence's improvised tour was... interesting. As they walked around pretending never to have been in their own home before, Sophie was able to see, for the first time since she'd hobbled aboard as a flighty ninety-year-old, their living space with brand new eyes.
There was the obvious, of course—Calcifer's fireplace, reconstructed exactly as it had been, before the fall. Scuffed pots and pans hung above the sink, the collection of shoes and wellies flopped over on the battered doormat.
“As you can see, it's a well lived-in space! Ha ha!” Clarence squeaked, stepping over Sophie's unfinished crochet project. “Nice and cosy, don't you think? And it has... so much character. I can't quite conjure the adjectives.”
“Nor can I,” Howl deadpanned.
Sophie followed in a daze. She was noticing the little things—soft pastels, sweetening the sunlight in the kitchen. The shelves Howl had propped up, endearingly off-centre. He'd insisted on doing it by hand, no magic necessary—it hadn't been long since the body swap fiasco, and Howl's castle-related magickal confidence had been still questionable.
By hand, Sophie thought. By heart. Couldn't that count for something?
She thought that might be it, though the castle would need to confirm.
Is it the magic that gets to you? Tires you out. Drives you down.
Did you need a break, dear old thing?
“We have a lovely home,” Howl said to her whilst Clarence was preoccupied with the cursed doorknob leading to the library. He was looking around affectionately, and mostly thinking aloud—Sophie often said that he couldn't even make toast without providing narration. Chatty Clarence mistook it for conversation.
“Oh, you do? Might I ask where you and your wife are moving from? As much as I'd love to sell this, erm... charming abode to you...” The poor man looked around, abandoning his quest to enter the library, still confused as to whether he could sell something that he'd never seen before. “If you're happy where you are, I won't drag you away, you know! That isn't the Hexe fashion. A good home is a good home.”
“Yes, it is,” Howl agreed solemnly.
Sophie supposed they should show the poor chap some mercy. She invited Clarence to step outside so they could compare the two properties' wildly different exteriors, hissing to Howl as she went: “Say something nice. Make the castle feel loved.”
As she left through the doorway she'd first jumped through all that time ago, she could see Howl, reaching to adjust a broken drawer. He didn't use magic—he used his hands.
And maybe that's it.
Maybe that's it.
It took Sophie much longer than she would have liked to convince Clarence to head back to the office and double check his paperwork. Was the dilapidated structure opposite the Veridian Farm for sale, or was it merely stopping by? Eventually, underwhelmed and overheated, he went hobbling off to his stylish carriage, sweating behind his salesman smile.
“It was lovely to meet you!” she told him. “Both tours were a wealth of discovery.”
“Yes, I certainly learnt a lot too,” Clarence agreed, apparently relieved to be leaving. “I'll check on this newly arrived abode at the office. If it isn't yet in Wiskins & Merlin's listings, it'll be in ours soon enough, and then we can get cracking. Speak to you soon, Pendragons!”
Sophie, herself somewhat on the dishevelled side, wished him a pleasant journey and dipped back inside the castle's open door.
“The estate agent's gone,” Sophie said, running a hand through her hair. “But he'll be back. And our carriage is waiting outside to whisk us away to another viewing in Kingsbury—so you don't have too much time left to decide, dear castle. If we're not up and moving from here soon, you'll be officially on the market. Strangers will be roaming all over, scrutinising your pan handles.”
There was a grumbling groan from the fireplace. Where was Calcifer when you needed a rousing, fire-starting speech?
“Come on, old friend,” Howl said kindly. “This is nothing we can't thrash out. You wouldn't have Sophie storing her posh hats in a lowly hotel wardrobe, would you?”
The castle, it seemed, had nothing to say to Howl's existential threat to handmade headgear.
Sophie sat down on the stairs and waited. What for, she wasn't yet sure— for negotiations, of some sort, to unfold. Howl and the castle were more than bone-deep, more than magic.
As she listened to Howl reason with the wallpaper, she thought it sounded quite like a sales pitch.
She wouldn't know that Howl had made the sale until she felt the stones stir beneath her.
And in the hearth, where a star sometimes deigned to sit, a new fire sparked to life.
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“Dear castle. How are you? I heard you went for a jaunt without us. We can do with this with magic or without—what would you prefer?”
CASTLE TO HOWL:
There comes a rattling of silverware.
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“Without, then. Very well. Sophie and I are trying to understand why you ran away. What's on your mind—or on your countertops, I suppose?”
CASTLE TO HOWL:
A groaning in the light fittings. A creaking up the stairs.
SOPHE, INTERJECTING:
“What does that mean? Howl, I didn't know you could speak castle!”
HOWL TO SOPHIE:
“Of course I can. You speak it, too. Each time you sneak down the stairs in the middle of the night, on the hunt for biscuits, is a sonata along the castle's spine.”
SOPHIE, INTERJECTING:
“Oh, well. Apologies for the clumsy sneaking, then. I'll leave you to it.”
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“I hear your creaks. I raise you a scraping. You'd like to have days-off every now and again, is that it? All of the creative casting and such-like becomes tiresome?”
CASTLE TO HOWL:
Windows shift in their frames. Roof tiles adjust at will.
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“I see. It's framed in exhaustion, then. We gave you more freedom, as agreed, after our last little mishap. But we can do more. Calcifer has been visiting, powering you with his natural evil. What else can we do? It goes without saying we'd be lost without you. As you can see, we've taken to touring the most vulgar establishments.”
CASTLE TO HOWL:
Gargoyles crack their jaws. Cabinets shake their bones.
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“Now, now. It's not personal. If anything, Clarence had you undervalued! But Sophie and I need somewhere to live and plot and careen off-course—and then, what of Calcifer? Would you see him cast adrift? He needs you, too. We need you. And you need us! What's a moving castle without its wizard? An ad in the classifieds, and that's about it.”
CASTLE TO HOWL:
A muttering in the doorways. A jitter atop the spires.
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“You are heard, and understood. Correct me if I'm wrong, but—you ran away because you're tired of the shifts, the spells, the changes? You'd like to take off every now and again. Stand on your own two, three, four, five feet. Have more say in your daily happenings. How about this, then?”
OFFER:
- The castle gets one day off each month, to wander at will.
- The castle and the Wizard take turns choosing their destination.
- The Wizard does not purchase other inferior magickal properties, farmhouse or otherwise.
IN RETURN:
- The castle does not run away again,
without giving advance notice of impending antics.
CASTLE TO HOWL:
There sounds a not entirely unhappy wheezing of pipes.
(Though it's not quite happy, either.)
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“You drive a hard bargain. How's this?”
REVISED OFFER:
- The castle gets TWO days off each month,
plus the odd Sunday afternoon, subject to negotiation.
CASTLE TO HOWL:
A wheeze, a whine, a whinny.
(Though that last might be the horses.)
HOWL TO CASTLE:
“Good to hear it, old friend. Make what amendments you will.”
HOWL TO WARDROBE:
“Dear heart. How I've missed you. It's been a terrible day and a half.”
*
*
*
*
*
“It's so good to be home.”
Sophie spoke the words whilst sitting on their rooftop terrace. It was a new addition—there were a lot of those lately.
The castle was coming into its own, becoming what it wanted to be, even if that changed from day to day. Some days it was a crooked tower, other times a farmyard cottage. Never, ever did it resemble a mansion.
It wandered, gathering inspiration, and each time it returned, there was something slightly different. Something new to discover.
The rooms within stayed mostly the same, which was good for Howl's fashion-induced stress levels, but windows might change shape, or pop up on an opposing wall.
Sophie and Howl hadn't bought a new house, but they'd ended up with a new one, anyway. A new old place to rest their heads.
“So good,” Howl agreed, on his way down to inspect a gurgling pipe in the bathroom. Calcifer had come back to stay for a week or so, kindly agreeing to illuminate any blockages, so Howl could run away squealing in more flattering lighting. “Let's not scare the castle off again. At least not for a while. It's so much better when we're here.”
Sophie agreed. She liked the idea of being at home more. And she liked the scenery passing by beneath them, too, the wind making a silver masterpiece of her hair.
The castle was choosing their destination this week—apparently, it was to be a surprise. Sophie was quite looking forward to it. She wouldn't mind somewhere coastal, or somewhere with potteries.
The moving castle was priceless. It was its own haunting of sorts, never to be confined to a newspaper advert. Sophie was pleased they were moving together again, as things should be.
(And as a bonus, in another sense, they weren't going to have to move. Sorry, Clarence.)