Dragonclaw by Kate Forsyth

tensed and picked up her knife, knowing she was too exhausted to fight any more with fire. It was Meghan, though, dripping wet, her grey hair in rat’s tails to her knees.
    â€˜Well done,’ she said. ‘Get yourself ready as quick as ye can. They must have a witch-sniffer—all that magic you’ve been expending today drew them to us like a bear to honey.’
    Isabeau flew to obey as Meghan tried to climb the ladder, swaying as she gripped the handrail. ‘Seychella?’ Isabeau asked anxiously, but Meghan only shook her head grimly.
    A few minutes later, when Isabeau bolted up the stairs to get her boots and a change of clothing, she found Meghan, still wet and naked, kneeling on the ground before her chest. She was hurriedly throwing things into a tiny pouch. Isabeau was amazed to see the great book disappear inside it, although the pouch was no bigger than her hand and the book so massive she could barely lift it.
    â€˜You’re shivering, Meghan, get dressed!’ Isabeau cried.
    â€˜This is more important,’ Meghan said abstractedly. ‘I canna allow them to get their hands on my treasures.’
    Isabeau’s eyes widened as Meghan threw more into the pouch than could ever have fitted naturally. Meghan saw her look. ‘Magic bag,’ she said briefly. ‘One o’ the treasures o’ the Towers. I used it when I first came here. Everything we own came out o’ this bag! Do no’ dawdle, Isabeau, they’ll be here any minute!’
    Isabeau ran up the ladder to her own room as fast as she could, pulling on her boots and dragging her knapsack towards her. She stuffed a spare pair of breeches, a soft shirt, a dress, a woollen vest Meghan had knitted, and her sewing kit into her sturdy pack. She ran downstairs again, and in the kitchen finished packing her and Meghan’s knapsacks with provisions. From each she slung a bottle filled with water from the barrel. She stuffed two light kettles with cotton bags of various sizes, all filled with tea, flour, salt, oats, and other essentials. Her belt was hung with leather purses containing dried herbs and spices, for cooking and for magic spells. She packed her witch knife and a small saucepan, some pewter bowls, some of Meghan’s healing potions and grabbed her plaid and tam-o’-shanter from where they hung on a hook by the fire. All the time, her head whirled with everything she had seen and learnt that day, and with the knowledge they had to leave the valley. She had always imagined setting out on adventures, but never like this.
    Jorge was much recovered after his hastily swallowed meal and had wrapped himself in an old plaid while his clothes steamed before the fire. Isabeau took his tattered robe in her hands and tried to hasten the drying, but her powers were drained and she was as weak as any novice. She was plaiting her damp hair and trying to think what she had forgotten when there was a loud hammering on the trap door upstairs. Isabeau jerked to her feet and ran up the ladder. Meghan was in the top room, clearing out the shelves with ruthless abandon, Gitâ helping enthusiastically. Isabeau could hear, faintly, the sound of Seychella’s voice, pleading with her to open the door.
    â€˜It’s Seychella,’ she cried. ‘Should I open it?’
    â€˜Do no’ be a fool,’ Meghan said, rummaging through the shelves in search of something.
    â€˜But what if she is trying to escape the Red Guards? They’ll catch her.’
    â€˜I would say they have caught her already,’ Meghan said. ‘Canna ye sense the Mesmerd? It’s probably holding her.’
    The idea that the Mesmerd was right outside made Isabeau recoil in horror. Meghan stood calmly before the trap door and made a series of signs with her fingers. An intricate symbol of green fire flared up for a moment, and then was gone. Meghan repeated the gestures at each of the doors on the way down the ladder,