Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.7

Chapter 7.

 

               Walking on the Moors.

 

Botswana was already in the kitchen when Amanderella came down, sleeves rolled up and hair pinned back with a determination that suggested she had been awake for hours. The table was laid with porridge, eggs, thick slices of toast, and a pot of tea that steamed cheerfully in the cool morning air.

“You need a bit of flesh on your bones,” Botswana said firmly, pushing the toast rack closer. “The Moor will blow you away if you go out looking like a strong breeze could snap you in half.”

Amanderella, who had never in her life been blown anywhere she did not intend to go, thanked her and ate with quiet efficiency. The food was plain but excellent, and the warmth of the kitchen made the memory of curses and cliffs feel very far away.

When the plates were cleared, Botswana produced a paper bag, a waxed packet, and a flask.

“I’ve made you a packed lunch,” she said, tucking each item inside Amanderella’s satchel before she could protest. “Cheese sandwiches, an apple, and a slice of my ginger cake. And tea, of course. You can’t go wandering about without tea.”

Amanderella accepted the satchel with a small bow. “You are most kind.”

Botswana waved this away. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I don’t want you fainting on the Moor. People would talk.”

Amanderella put on her coat, checked her compass, and unfolded the map Botswana had pressed into her hands. The paths were marked in thick pencil, with several alarming circles labelled Danger and one particularly large one labelled Absolutely Not.

Botswana hovered in the doorway as Amanderella stepped outside.

“Now, you keep to the paths,” she said, wringing her hands. “There are unmarked mine shafts all over the place. Old ones, new ones, ones nobody remembers digging. If the Boggits are waking up again, they’ll be looking for someone to trip.”

Amanderella tucked the map safely into her pocket. “I assure you, I have no intention of falling into anything.”

Botswana gave her a doubtful look. “That’s what they all say.”

The wind lifted Amanderella’s hair as she walked down the garden path, the gate clicking shut behind her. The Moor stretched out ahead — wide, quiet, and full of secrets.

By the time Amanderella came back through the garden gate, the afternoon light had softened and the kitchen windows glowed with a warm, buttery shine. Her boots were dusty, her cheeks pink from the wind, and her satchel a little lighter after the packed lunch.

Botswana was at the sink when she came in, sleeves rolled up and steam curling around her like a friendly cloud.

“There you are!” she said, turning with relief. “I was beginning to think the Moor had swallowed you whole. Sit down, sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Amanderella removed her coat and hung it neatly on the peg. “The paths were clear, and the map was most helpful.”

Botswana sniffed. “Maps are all very well, but they don’t show you where the ground gives way under your feet. Tea?”

Amanderella nodded. “Tea would be welcome.”

Botswana busied herself with cups and spoons, her movements brisk but cheerful now that Amanderella was safely indoors.

A knock sounded at the back door, a firm, familiar knock that made Botswana’s eyebrows jump.

“Oh! That’ll be my boy,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “He said he might pop in after work. He likes to check the house for dangers.”

She opened the door, and a tall, tidy man stepped inside, carrying a clipboard and wearing the expression of someone who had already assessed three staircases and a fire exit that morning.

“Afternoon, Mum,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Just thought I’d stop by and make sure you haven’t left any trip hazards lying about.”

Botswana swatted his arm. “Don’t be daft. This is Lady Gottsnobbler. She’s staying with us.”

Amanderella inclined her head politely. “A pleasure to meet you.”

He nodded back, polite but curious. “Likewise. I’m Zambezi Junior, but everyone calls me Zam. Insurance risk assessor.” He tapped his clipboard. “I see danger where other people see furniture.”

Botswana sighed. “He thinks the curse is just statistics.”

Zam gave a small, patient smile. “Because it is.”

Amanderella hid her amusement behind her teacup.

Botswana clattered about the kitchen, pulling out pots and vegetables.

“Can’t stop long,” said Zam. “Bess is expecting me home, and little Ganges, of course.” He turned to Amanderella. “My first son,” he said proudly. “And the reason why Mother is so worried about the curse. I’ll bet she’s told you all about it.”

“She has indeed,” said Amanderella.

“Well, you may think it is nothing, but I don’t,” said Botswana huffily. “So go on home and make the most of what little time you may have left.”

Zam grinned and gave his mother another fond kiss. “On my way,” he said, and added, “Carefully,” as he went out of the door.

Botswana watched the door close, her expression tightening the moment he was gone. She let out a long breath, went to a drawer, and pulled out a creased envelope.

“This came last week,” she said quietly. “From America. From Cousin Billy‑Jo. He always writes when something dreadful happens.”

Amanderella accepted the letter and unfolded it. The handwriting lurched across the page.

‘Dear Botswana,
You won’t believe this, but the curse has struck again. Cousin Chuck got a job cleaning the windows on a skyscraper, When he had finished he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The day after his son was birthed too!

Billy-Jo Lollingfolly.

Amanderella folded the letter and handed it back.

Botswana pressed it to her chest. “And that was the very day the Boggits started their moaning. The very day. First Chuck, then the noises, and now my Will has a new baby. It’s the curse, Lady Gottsnobbler. It’s waking up again.”

She hesitated, then added in a low voice, “My late husband always said the Boggits start up just before one of the Lollingfolly men gets hit by the curse. He kept a little notebook of all the times it happened. Said there was a pattern.” She tapped the letter with one finger. “And this fits it exactly.

Amanderella set her teacup down. “If it reassures you at all, my walk was entirely peaceful. I saw no signs of Boggits. Only sheep, a pair of buzzards circling overhead, and some deer in the distance.”

Botswana paused mid‑chop. “No Boggits at all?”

“None,” said Amanderella. “Not even a suspicious rustle.”

Botswana sniffed, half relieved and half unconvinced. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though Boggits don’t always show themselves. They can be sneaky when they want to be.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile. “The Moor felt very calm.”

“Calm can be a warning,” Botswana muttered, returning to her carrots with renewed vigour. “But never mind. Dinner won’t cook itself.”

The kitchen settled into a warm, companionable rhythm, the clatter of pans, the soft bubble of the stew, and the steady scrape of Botswana’s knife, while outside, the Moor lay quiet and wide, giving nothing away.

Botswana paused, knife hovering above the chopping board. “If the Moor won’t tell you anything,” she said at last, “the village will. Folk down there have heard things. Seen things. You should talk to them, Lady Gottsnobbler. They’ll give you the truth of it.”