The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

Hic!

RUPERT JUMPED OFF THE TABLE, AND WITCHLING Two’s tear-water sloshed into the mesh of his sneakers. Her tears were already at Rupert’s ankles. He slopped and splattered and splashed toward the closet under the staircase. Rupert yanked on the door handle, and the door very reluctantly opened against the current of tear-water.

Rupert dug around in the dark, dank closet and came out holding a bucket. He scooped some of Witchling Two’s tear-water into the bucket, ran upstairs, and dumped it in the sink. Then he ran back and did it again.

“Please,” he said, after Witchling Two stopped howling so loudly, “don’t cry! I was only teasing. There are no bunnies. They don’t exist in Gliverstoll, and certainly not in my basement.”

Witchling Two hiccupped, tears still flowing.

“You’re flooding my basement… and your lair.”

Witchling Two hiccupped again. Hic!

Rupert couldn’t believe what he was about to say, but he knew that it might be the only way to get Witchling Two to stop flooding his house. “That’s right,” Rupert said. “If you stop crying, I’ll let you use my basement as a lair. Promise.”

“But I hic! don’t know hic! if I can stop. Hic!”

“You have to,” Rupert said. “Or else you’ll flood my entire house. And then my mom will find out. And then I won’t be allowed to be your apprentice anymore. And you might not pass your Bar Exam. And then you’ll never get a name.”

Hic!

“Be right back!” Rupert said as he ran upstairs to dump out another bucket of water.

Rupert hopped up the stairs, accidentally sloshing water on the carpet of the first-floor hallway. He carefully speed-walked the rest of the way to the sink and dumped the water out again.

He ran back to the basement, his sneakers making SQUISHY noises and leaking water everywhere. The tear-water was up to Rupert’s thighs now, and he tried not to think about what he would do if the water rose any higher.

Witchling Two still cradled her knees and hiccupped on the worktable. She dipped her bare toe into the water, and then curled up again. “Ruhic!pert,” she sputtered. “My hic! cauldron.” Witchling Two reached into her pocket and pulled out a flat piece of plastic. “It’s my hic! porthic!able, inflatable cauldron! Hic!”

Rupert tore the cauldron away from her and blew into the plastic mouthpiece. The more he blew, the bigger the cauldron became — until it became so big that Rupert could fit inside the middle. Rupert tried to pass it off to Witchling Two, but she shook her head and backed away from it.

“No!” she said. “If I hic! touch it, it will hic! turn to iron!”

Rupert looked at it in confusion. “Well, what do I do with it?”

“Set it hic! in the water.” Witchling Two held her hands over the floating plastic cauldron and snapped her fingers. “Get this water hic! up, and drain it until the basement’s neat,” she said.

The cauldron whizzed and whirred, and the tear-water in the basement began to churn. Then the whirling and twirling and swirling got faster and faster. Rupert jumped onto the table just in time — and then the cauldron sucked all the water into its middle like a vacuum.

For a minute, Rupert and Witchling Two held onto each other, listening only to Witchling Two’s occasional hic!s. Then Rupert climbed off the table and peered into the cauldron. There was nothing inside. He examined the floor and the legs of the table, and they were both dry. Even his sneakers were dry.

Witchling Two crawled off the table, too, beaming. “Did I… actually perform a spell correctly?” she said, suppressing a hiccup.

“I think so—”

POP!

The cauldron exploded — smoke, light, dust, and all of the tear-water burst out. The water fell on their heads in fat droplets like a heavy rain. Then all of the sudden, the water turned into freezing ice pellets that plunked them in the head. Rupert pulled Witchling Two under the table to avoid getting hit.

“THE CAULDRON WASN’T BIG ENOUGH!” shouted Rupert.

“YES IT WAS!” shouted Witchling Two.

“THEN IT WAS YOUR SPELL!”

“MAYBE!”

Rupert tried to recall what she had said — and realized with horror. “GET THIS WATER HIC! UP AND DRAIN UNTIL THE BASEMENT’S NEAT,” he recited.

“WHAT?”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU SAID!” Rupert told her.

“WHAT’S WHAT I SAID?”

“YOU SAID GET THIS WATER HIC! UP AND DRAIN UNTIL THE BASEMENT’S NEAT, BUT YOUR SPELL MESSED UP. IT’S GETTING THIS WATER PICKED UP AND RAINING UNTIL THE BASEMENT SLEETS!”

Witchling Two put a hand to her mouth, then sank into her own icy tear-water in shame. “I’ll never pass my Bar Exam!” she bubbled into the water, and then she started to whimper. And that whimper turned into a snivel. And that snivel turned into a weep. And that weep turned into nothing because Rupert ran over and shook her by the shoulders.

“No crying!” he said. “From now on, you can only cry when you’re happy… like humans.”

Witchling Two nodded.

Rupert handed her a bucket, retrieved a mop from the closet, and the two of them set off on a long afternoon of very arduous manual labor.