Witch Catcher by Mary Downing Hahn Page A

his fur dry, I went to the closet and grabbed my denim shirt from a hanger. The rain had cooled things off, and I was glad for a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. Leaving Tink behind, I tiptoed down to the landing and peered over the railing. Dad, Moura, and Mr. Ashbourne were now sitting in the living room drinking tea. Someone had spread Great-Uncle Thaddeus's paintings on the floor, and they seemed to be studying them.
    "When you're willing to sell, I'll give you a good price for the lot," Mr. Ashbourne was saying to Dad. "As Moura surely told you, I have an interest in the realm of fairy."
    Dad took another sip of tea. I wished I could see his face, but all I had was a view of the top of his head, where his hair was thinnest.
    "What I really want, however, is the witch catcher your uncle owned," Mr. Ashbourne went on. "Moura tells me it's gone missing. Has it turned up yet? I've amassed a large collection of globes, but there's always room for another. Especially if it's as fine a specimen as Moura claims it to be."
    Moura smoothed her hair, held back today with silver combs, and suddenly turned to look directly at me. "Why, Jen, are you planning to join us or sit on the steps all day?"
    Dad frowned, no doubt annoyed to catch me eavesdropping again. "Come and have a cup of tea, Jen," he said.
    There was nothing to do but trudge down the steps and take a seat close to Dad. While Moura poured my tea, I turned to Mr. Ashbourne. "What's so special about that witch catcher?"
    Mr. Ashbourne scowled at me over the rim of his cup. "I'm not accustomed to the bad manners of American children," he said to Dad. "Where I come from, children don't ask questions. They answer them."
    Dad glanced at Moura, who gave him a smile and a pat on his knee. Turning to Mr. Ashbourne, she said, "Really, you're dreadfully out of touch, Ciril. This is the twenty-first century, you know. Customs change."
    "Thank you for reminding me, Moura," Mr. Ashbourne said sarcastically. "But no matter what the century, manners are manners, after all."
    "I assure you Jen didn't intend to be rude," Dad put in. To me he said, "Please apologize to Mr. Ashbourne."
    "I was just asking him a question," I said, genuinely puzzled. "Why is that rude?"
    "Never mind. It's not important." Mr. Ashbourne went back to studying me. "I shall answer your question with one of my own, young lady."
    He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on me as if he meant to read my mind. "Are you sure you don't know where the witch catcher is?"
    I wanted to look away, but it was impossible. Even behind his glasses, Mr. Ashbourne's eyes held me tight, probing, probing, probing.
    "If fen knew, I'm sure she'd tell you," Dad began, but Moura hushed him with a tap on his knee with her long red fingernail.
    "I won't tell you," I whispered.
    "Oh, I think you will," Mr. Ashbourne said, leaning so close I could see my reflection in his glasses. Suddenly, the lenses turned iridescent. A pattern of spinning colors held me fast, made me dizzy. My arms and legs went limp.
    "Indeed," Mr. Ashbourne said softly, "I believe you'd go to your room right now and fetch the witch catcher for me. You have it hidden up there, don't you. my dear?"
    I shook my head, but at the same time I felt myself getting slowly to my feet. Moura began to whisper to Dad, who was too interested in what she was saying to notice me. Although I tried to resist Mr. Ashbourne, it was useless. Whether I wanted to go or not, my feet carried me upstairs.
    Just as I reached the landing, I heard a loud crash. A second later, Tink came flying down the steps and disappeared.
    "What the devil was that?" Mr. Ashbourne hurried past me, with Moura and Dad close behind.
    I ran ahead of them to my room. The closet door was wide open, and shards of colored glass littered the floor.
    "The witch catcher," I whispered. "Tink must have broken it."
    Moura rushed past me and knelt to study the bits of glass. Mr. Ashbourne leaned over her, staring at the