ABIGAIL

"Is your mommy home, sweetness?" The question came from a pair of fat red lips distorted into a huge fake smile. The fake smile was stretched across a wrinkled, leathery face and sported a glistening pair of pure white dentures. Her eyes, partially hidden behind stylish tinted glasses, bulged ever so slightly. No doubt, the over abundance of face lifts was the reason her eyes never seemed to blink.

The girl looked into those eyes with a mixture fascination and defiance. "My mother does not live here," she said, keeping her voice even. "You lot took me from her six years ago."

The woman continued to regard the girl with the same plastered smile, giving no indication she had heard the reply. Next to her, her companion hacked and couched painfully. "Cheeky brat," he managed to wheeze. "You know we are referring to your true parents. Your government appointed parents." His shaking, liver-spotted hand plucked a red handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the dribble by his nose. "Your true guardians. Not whatever biological sewer grime happened to spawn you," he added as an afterthought.

Abigail felt the blood rise to her cheeks and she clutched the door nob tightly, determined to slam the door on the two hideous faces. But before she could act, the two adults had pushed their way past her and slithered into the landing. "Put my coat away, would you, dearie?" The woman said, throwing her fur over Abigail's head. Abigail gasped as the scent of unwashed musk and monkey hair filled her nostrils.

"What d'ya think you're doing, Haggis?" the old man said. "The little demon will pilfer it, for sure." To underscore his point, the old man hugged his rank coat protectively around his bony person.

Haggis merely tittered through her dentures. "Nonsense, Amon. The cute little dear is perfectly sweet and obedient. Aren't you, sweetness?" Haggis leaned forward and pinched Abigail's cheek painfully, only adding to the red hue that had already accumulated. Amon snorted in a way that said, 'suit yourself', and sauntered on past a small bookcase collecting mounds of dust and occupied himself with a bleary television that sputtered through a haze of static.

"Child!" a woman screeched from atop a flight of stairs. "Child, who was that at the bloody door?" Heavy footsteps began pounding their way down the stairway accompanied by loud mumblings. "...By heaven, if you've subscribed us to another one of your pathetic science magazines or given away any more alms, so help me I shall..." A stout woman appeared before them in a wet, pink bathrobe and her hair impossibly tangled in a mess of curlers. Her hand flew to cover her mouth as she gasped. "'Pon my word," she whispered. "You lot are from the Ministry."

"That we are, fair madam Paltra," Amon said, bending his bony knees in an attempt at a bow. "It is our grandest and gravest privilege to inform you-"

"GEORGE!" The stout woman hollered through a cupped hand, thoroughly startling Amon. "GEORGE, GET DOWN HERE. WE 'AVE COMPANY.

"Oh, this is wonderful. Ever so wonderful. Of course you'll be staying for tea. It's only fair. You've come to my home so I must offer you something. Oh, dear, George will be so thrilled that you both have come to visit.

"GEORGE, GET THE BLOODY 'ELL DOWN HERE. Poor chap is a tad hard of hearing is all. He'll be down in his own time. He always comes down in time for tea. You will be staying for tea of course. It's only fair, after all.

"Now where is the blasted tea. I can't very well serve you tea without tea. That would be ridiculous. She should have brought it in ages ago. Where is that blasted brat? I tell you, when I get my hands on her that brat of a demon child she will wish she was never born.."

The stout woman's eyes fell upon Abigail who was still struggling beneath the huge fur coat and her eyes grew red with rage. "How dare you?" the woman roared, her nostrils flaring wildly. Abigail's eyes shot up and widened with shock. "How dare you, you despicable child! These are our esteemed guests. How dare you attempt something so low and vile."

"But- but-" the girl stuttered in confusion. "What are you-"

"Trying to steal this good woman's fur coat! After she has graced us with her presence all the way from the ministry. The shame. Ohhhh, the bloomin' shame!"

Haggis' stretched smile regarded the one-sided exchange with implacable serenity while Amon shot her a sly smirk that clearly said 'I told you so'.

"But I didn't." Abigail protested. "Honest. She gave it to me-"

"LIAR!" Madam Paltra exclaimed as she grabbed a book and flung it at the girl. Abigail deftly ducked the projectile and scrambled from under the coat and out of the room. A vase smashed against the wall over her head as she reached the hall way followed by a torrent of abrasive curses and expletives.

Breathing heavily and still partially on all fours, she scampered for the safety of her room, into the relative darkness and she slammed the door.

A heavy silence followed the echo of the slammed door that was only broken by her mixed panting and whimpering. She leaned against the cold wooden door and took in several deep breaths. In and out... in and out.

Slowly, she stopped shaking and her head filled with a sense of coolness. Her eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dim light of her room and one by one she found the things that always comforted her during low periods. Three wall, covered from floor to ceiling with books. Heavy leather tomes, thoroughly worn and dog-eared with not a speck of dust on them. A small lamp that she kept lit into the small hours of the night as she lost herself within flaking pages of worn parchment and cracking ink.

And there, across the floor boards of her cramped room, adorned by incense and candles, her very own, personally drawn pentagram.

Abigail wiped her nose on her sleeve and strained her ears. Faintly she could hear the slight remnants of conversation wafting their way up from the living room but she could make out no words. What was going on? Who were those people? What did they want?

She decided she was going to find out. She bent down and pulled a loose floorboard revealing a reflective glimmer. Tenderly, she lifted the polished mirror from it's hiding place and gazed into it. A pale twelve-year-old with determined dark eyes and straggly black hair stared back at her. Quietly, she spoke the Aramaic word of command and her reflection faded replaced by a grimacing rat.

"Well, it's about ruddy time, sweetheart," the rat said, pulling at its whiskers. "I've been cooped up in here for forever. Been wonder when you planned on setting me loose."

Abigail ignored the rat and spoke the second word of command. The rat began to groan and pulled at it's whiskers all the harder. "Hey, what's wrong with you? Didn't you get the hint that I was subtly clubbing over your noggin? And here I've been thinking what a clever and kind little girl you were when all along you're as thick as-"

"I want to see what's going on downstairs," Abigail said, keeping her voice as steady as stone.

"So go downstairs and see. Honestly, of all the things you could possibly have me spy on. Far away lands, romantic islands, secrets within the ministry, inside the boys locker and you ask me to go look downstairs. I'll have you know, darlin', I am a most accomplished rat, familiar with all forms of espionage with a license to kill. Or is that grill? I always forget because I'm an expert cook to, you see-"

Abigail spoke a word of punishment and the rat's verbal resume trailed off in a shriek of pain. "Alright, alright. Downstairs it is then. But I'm telling you now, missy, you won't like what you see."