Search Results for 'able'

November hadn’t counted on May, and the insurmountable difficulties in dealing with May, who may or may not do anything you may care to predict.

Maybe May would and maybe May wouldn’t, May may be there or May may not, May may do this or May may do that, in short, May was either or, this or that, yes or no and maybe never. May was better or worse or maybe May was neither, or both. May was red and blue and maybe purple, or maybe May was sunny yellow, mellow yellow, maybe May was just a banana, for scale.

“You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”

Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.

“What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders.  “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”

Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently.  “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”

“You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning.  “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”

As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room.  The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl.  Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her.  She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.

Frella considered the box of props, Truella’s request still echoing in her mind. Or perhaps “command” was more accurate? She had been tempted to tell Tru to put together her own prop box. Regardless, Frella, being uncommonly good-natured, decided to indulge her friend. After all, poor Truella deserved a bit of indulgence after her recent ordeal.

It was curious, even ironic, that a witch as formidable as Truella had found herself spirited away by Thomas Cromwell. The incident left Frella baffled, but Truella, true to form, had been vague about the whole affair, refusing to provide even a brief synopsis. And any hope of clarification had been swallowed by Truella’s recent hobby: deleting gifs on her phone—a pastime that Frella was convinced had reached the level of an obsession.

Shaking her head, Frella returned to her task. The box needed to be extraordinary, full of magic tailored to delight, surprise, and assist even the most accomplished witch. With a whispered spell, she conjured a feather-light coat woven from shimmering starlight, and folded it carefully into the box. Depending on the moon’s phase, the coat could cloak its wearer in illusions or make them vanish entirely.

Next came a pair of Ug Boots enchanted with swiftness, rendering the wearer light as air and nearly impossible to catch. Beside them, she placed a midnight-blue satchel with a mind of its own—returning lost items to their rightful owners, whether or not they wanted to be found.

Frella paused, her hands hovering above the box. What else? After some thought, she conjured a delicate chemise spun from moonlight, its diaphanous fabric especially created to ward off hexes. “Truella should get plenty of use out of this one,” Frella mused, remembering past escapades. “Not that I’m calling her a tart or anything.”

She followed it with iridescent sunglasses. The lenses could decode ancient texts or, failing that, soften a cutting glare. A golden phoenix brooch came next. Pinned to fabric, it could either blaze into a protective flame or summon a fiery companion to light the way.

With a snigger, Frella crafted a magical moustache—a silky, distinguished creation. It granted the wearer an air of nobility, perfect for moments when one needed gravitas, especially if Truella found herself back in the 16th century (or whenever it was).

A string of enchanted pearls nestled into the box, each bead holding a spell: one for charm, another to quell hunger, and a third to lower prices at the supermarket. Truella was always banging on about her budget.

Frella added three wigs: a flaming red one for irresistible allure, a sleek black bob for perfect recall, and a powdered peruke for communing with spirits of the past.

For good measure, she added a selection of headgear: a  knitted beanie for quick thinking and to keep warm, a velvet-trimmed bonnet to ward off insults, and a silk turban that blocked eavesdropping and mind-reading.

Finally, she included a pretty peacock-feathered fan. A mere flick of the wrist could shift the weather or create a gust strong enough to fend off any ill intentions.

The box now brimmed with marvels; would these treasures aid Truella and perhaps shield her from whatever tangled fate had ensnared her with Thomas Cromwell?

Frella could only hope so.

The postcard was marked URGENT and the man in charge of postcards made haste to find Thomas Cromwell but he was nowhere to be found. The postcard was damp and the ink had run, but “send your boatman asap” was decipherable.  The man in charge of postcards was not aware of any boatman by the name of Asap, but knowing Thomas it was possible he’d found another bright waif to train, probably one of the urchins hanging about the gates waiting for scraps from the kitchen.

“Asap! Asap!” the postcard man called as he ran down to the river. “Boatman Asap!”

“There be no boatman by that name on the masters barge, lad.  Are you speaking my language?” replied boatman Rafe.

“Have you seen the master?” the postcard man asked, “And be quick about you, whatever your name is.”

“Aye, I can tell you that. He’s asleep in the barge.”

“Asleep? Asleep? In the middle of the day? You fool, get out of my way!” the postcard man shoved Rafe out of the way roughly. “My Lord Cromwell! Asleep on the barge in the middle of the day! Call the physician, you dolt!”

“Calm yourself man, I am in no need of assistance,” Cromwell said, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he rose to see what all the shouting was about.  Being in two places at once was becoming difficult to conceal.  He would have to employ a man of concealment to cover for him while he was in Malove’s body.

I must have a word with Thurston about licorice spiders, Cromwell made a mental note to speak to his cook, while holding out his hand for the postcard. “Thank you, Babbidge”, he said to the man in charge of postcards, giving him a few coins. “You did well to find me.  That will be all.”

“Rafe,” Cromwell said to the boatman after a slight pause, “Can you row to the future, do you think?”

“Whatever you say, master, just tell me where it is.”

“Therein lies the problem,” replied Thomas Cromwell, promptly falling asleep again.

While Malove was tucking into some sugared ghosts at the party, she felt an odd plucking sensation, as if one of her spells had been accessed.

A split second later, Cromwell woke up. There was no time to lose gathering ingredients for spells, or laborious complicated rituals.  Cromwell made a mental note to streamline the future coven with more efficient simple magic.

“Take all your clothes off, Rafe.”  Astonished, the boatman removed his hat and his cloak.  Thomas Cromwell did likewise. “Now you put my clothes on, Rafe, and I’ll wear yours.  Get out of the boat and go and find somewhere under a bush to hide until I come back.  I’m taking your boat. Don’t, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.”

Terrified, the boatman scuttled off to seek cover. He’d heard the rumours about Cromwell’s imminent arrest.  He almost laughed maniacally when the thought crossed his mind that he wished he had a mirror to see himself in Lord Cromwell’s hat, but that thought quickly turned to horror when he imagined the hat ~ and the head ~ rolling under the scaffold.  God save us all, he whispered, knowing that God wouldn’t.

In a split second, boatman Cromwell found himself rowing the barge through flooded orange groves.   I must fill my pockets with oranges for Thurston to make spiced orange tarts, he thought, before I return.

“Ah, there you are, bedraggled wench, you did well to send for assistance. A biblical flood if ever I saw one.  There’s just one small problem,” Cromwell said as he pulled Truella into the barge, ” I can save you from drowning, but we must return forthwith to the Thames. I can not put my boatman in danger for long.”

“The Thames in the 1500s?” Truella said stupidly, shivering in her wet clothes.

Cromwell looked at her tight blue breeches and thin unseemly vest. “Your clothes simply won’t do”.

“Some dry ones would be nice,” Truella admitted.

“It’s not that your clothes are too wet,” he replied, frowning.  He could send Rafe for a kitchenmaids dress, but then what would the kitchenmaid wear?  They had one dress only, not racks of garments like the people in the future. Not unless they were ladies.

Lord Thomas Cromwell cast another eye over Truella.  She was a similar build to Anne of Chives.

“If you think I’m dressing up as one of Henry’s wives…”

Laughing, Cromwell admitted she had a point. “No, perhaps not a good idea, especially as he does not well like this one.  No need for her to be the death of both of us.”

“Look, just drop me off in Limerick on the way home, it’s barely out of your way.  It’s probably raining there too, but at least I won’t have to worry about clothes. I’d look awful in one of those linen caps anyway.”

Cromwell gave her an approving look and agreed to her idea.   Within a split second they were in Ireland, but Cromwell was in for a surprise.

“Yoohoo, Frella!” Truella called, delighted to see her friend strolling along the river bank. “It’s me!”

Thomas Cromwell pulled the boat up to the river bank, tossing the rope to Frella’s friend to secure it. Frella’s friend grabbed the rope and froze in astonishment.  “You! Fancy seeing YOU here! Uncle Thomas!”

After leaving the clamour of her fellow witches behind, Frella took a moment to ground herself after the whirlwind of ideas and plans discussed during their meeting.

As she walked home, her thoughts drifted back to Herma’s cottage. The treasure trove of curiosities in the camphor chest had captivated her imagination, but the trips had grown tiresome, each journey stretching her time and energy. Instead, she gathered a few items to keep at her own cottage—an ever growing collection of mysterious postcards, a brass spyglass, some aged papers hinting at forgotten histories, and of course, the mirror. Each object hummed with potential, calling to her in quiet moments, urging her to dig deeper.

The treasures from Herma’s chest were scattered across her kitchen table; each object felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together.

As Frella settled into a chair, she felt a sudden urge to inspect the mirror; the thought of its secrets sent a thrill through her, albeit tinged with trepidation.

It was exquisite, its opalescent sheen casting soft reflections across the room. She held it up to the light, watching colours shift within the glass, swirling like a living entity.

“What do you wish to show me this time?” she whispered.

As she gazed into the mirror, her reflection blurred, and she felt a pull—a connection to the past. Images began to form, and Frella found herself once more staring at the same elderly woman, her silver hair wild and glistening.

As the vision settled around her, Frella felt the air shimmer with energy, and the scene began to shift again. She focused intently, eager to grasp every detail.

Oliver Cromwell sat at a grand wooden desk piled high with scrolls and papers, his quill poised in his hand and brow furrowed in concentration. The room bustled with activity—servants hurried to and fro, and shrill laughter floated in from outside, where a gathering seemed to be taking place.

“By the King’s beard, where is the ink?” Cromwell muttered, his voice a deep rumble. With a flourish, he dipped the quill into a small inkwell that looked suspiciously like it had been made from a goat’s hoof.

With great care, he began to write on a piece of parchment. The ornate script flowed from his quill, remarkably elegant despite the chaos around him.

“To my dearest friend,” he wrote, brow twitching with the effort of being both eloquent and succinct. “I trust this missive finds you well, though your ears may be ringing from the ruckus outside. We’ve recently triumphed over the King, and while my duties as Lord Protector keep me occupied, I have stolen a moment to compose this note.”

He paused, casting a wary glance around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers. “I must admit, I have developed a curious fondness for a young lady who claims she can commune with spirits. I suspect she may know a thing or two about the secret lives of witches. If you find yourself in town, perhaps we could investigate together? Bring wine. And if you can manage it, a decent snack. One can hardly strategise on an empty stomach.”

Cromwell’s mouth twitched into a wry smile as he added, “P.S. If you happen to encounter Seraphina, do inform her that I’ll return her mirror just as soon as I’m done with my… experiments. I fear she may not appreciate the ‘creative applications’ I’ve discovered for it.”

With a sigh of resignation, he sealed the parchment with an ornate wax stamp shaped like a owl. “Now, where did I see that errant messenger?” he grumbled, scanning the room irritably.

Frella placed the mirror gently back on the table, her heart pounding. She needed to unravel the mysteries linking her to Seraphina and Cromwell. The time for discovery was upon her, and with each passing moment, she felt the call of her ancestors echoing through the very fabric of her being.

But could she untangle the mystery before her fellow witches set off on yet another ill-fated adventure? She would have to make haste.

When Eris arrived at the meeting room, she overheard Malové requesting yet another of those delicious licorice spider. Jeezel sprang to her feet, flashing what looked like a welcoming gesture toward Eris, in fact asking to join her at the treats table.

“She arrived so tense,” Jeezel said, seizing the bowl of licorice spiders. “I was worried she’d pick up that something was off, but the incense you prepared, combined with my sigils, worked like a charm.” She winked. “Now she’s as mellow as a sweet old grandma. And I must say she’s actually enjoying the party.”

“I’m wondering if we didn’t went too far on the relaxing part,” Frella remarked as she joined her sisters at the treats table. “Malové just asked when we’re starting the karaoke.

“Now, that is spooky,” Eris replied, smirking, “but I suppose it’s in keeping with today’s theme. I think the spell she’s under is reacting to our own enchantments. By the way, where is Truella?”

Frella, sighed, slightly uneasy. “She mentioned a leak in the historic artifacts warehouse—or maybe a flood? Hard to tell with all the gurgling sounds in the background. Then the line cut off, and I haven’t been able to reach her since.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to start without her,” said Eris, a hint of concern in her voice. “Echo,” she said to her familiar who just appeared in a rainbow swirl at the mention of its name, “do whatever it takes to reach her, see if she needs our help. She still has with her an essential element for our spell.”

Echo nodded before vanishing just as swiftly as it had arrived, leaving a trail of iridescent light in its wake.

“It’s so beautiful,” said Malové, suddenly appearing behind them and startling the three witches. “I want one too. You’re naughty to leave me alone at the big table, as if I were being punished.” She pouted playfully, her eyes darting toward the array of treats and decorations that had caught her attention.

Jeezel exchanged a quick, amused glance with Eris, who quickly composed herself. It was going to be one of those long meetings.

When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.

Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.

“Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.

Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

“What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.

“Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.

Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”

“They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”

Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.

When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.

Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered  thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.

As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.

When Eris gave Jeezel carte blanche to decorate the meeting room, Frella and Truella looked at her as if she’d handed fireworks to a dragon. They protested immediately, arguing that giving Jeezel that much freedom was like inviting a storm draped in sequins and velvet. After all, Jeezel was a queen diva—a master of flair and excess, ready to transform any ordinary space into a grand stage for her dramatic vision. In their eyes, it would defeat the whole purpose! But Eris raised a firm hand, silencing her sister’s objections.

“Let’s be honest, Malové is no ordinary witch,” she began, addressing Truella, Frella, and even Jeezel, who was still stung by her sisters’ criticism of her decorating skills. “We don’t know how many centuries that witch has been roaming the world, gathering knowledge and sharpening her mind. But what we do know is that she’d detect any concealing spell in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Truella agreed. “I think that’s the smell…”

“You mean based on your last potion experiment?” snorted Frella.

“Girls, focus,” Eris said. “This meeting is long overdue, and we need to conceal the truth-revealing spell’s elements. Jeezel’s flair may be our best distraction. Malové has always dismissed her grandiosity as harmless extravagance, so for once, let’s use that to our advantage.”

While Eris spoke, Jeezel’s brow furrowed as she engaged in an animated dialogue with her inner diva, picturing every details. Frella rolled her eyes subtly, glancing off-camera as though for dramatic effect.

“Isn’t that a bit much for a meeting?” Truella groaned. “You already assigned us topics to prepare. Now we’re adding decorations?”

“You won’t have to lift a finger,” Jeezel declared. “I’ve got it all under control—and I already have everything we need. Here’s my vision: Halloween is coming, so the decor should be both elegant and enchanting. I’ll start by draping the room in velvet curtains in deep purples and midnight blacks—straight from my own bedroom.”

Truella’s jaw dropped, while Jeezel’s grin only widened.

“Oh! I love those,” Frella murmured approvingly.

“Next, delicate cobweb accents with a touch of silver thread to catch the light,” Jeezel continued. “Truella, we’ll need your excavation lamps with a few colored gels. They’ll cast a warm, inviting glow—a perfect mix of relaxation and intrigue, with shadows in just the right places. And for the season, a few glowing pumpkins tucked around the room will complete the scene.”

Jeezel’s inner diva briefly entertained the idea of mystical fog, but she discarded it—after all, this was a meeting, not a sabbat. Instead, she proposed a more subtle touch: “To conceal the spell’s elements, I’ll bring in a few charming critters. Faux ravens perched on shelves, bats hanging from the ceiling…a whimsical, creepy-cute vibe. We’ll adorn them with runes and sigils in an insconpicuous way and Frella can cast a gentle animation spell to make them shift ever so slightly. The movement will be just enough to escape Malové’s notice as she stays focused on the meeting. That way she’ll be oblivious to the spell being woven around her.”

“Are you starting to see where this is going?” Eris asked, looking at her sisters.

Frella nodded, and before Truella could chime in with any objections, Jeezel added, “And no Halloween gathering would be complete without wickedly delightful treats! Picture a grand table with themed snacks and drinks on polished silver trays and cauldrons. Caramel apples, spiced cider, chocolates shaped like magic potions—tempting enough to charm even a disciplined witch.”

“Now you’re talking my language,” Truella admitted, finally warming up to the idea.

“Perfect, then it’s settled,” Eris said, pleased. “You all have your tasks. They’ll help us reveal her hidden agenda and how the spell is influencing her. Truella, you’l handle Historical Artifacts and Lore. Frella, with your talent for connections, you’ll cover Coven Alliances and Mutual Interests. Jeezel, you’re in charge of Telluric and Cosmic Energies—it shouldn’t be hard with your endless videos on the subject. I’ll handle the rest: Magical Incense Innovations, Leadership Philosophy, and Coven Dynamics.”

“If you’re planning on having a baby, you’d better use those droplets fast. That silvery glow? It’s already decaying,” said Jeezel, meticulously selecting twelve golden pheasant feathers from the pile in front of her. She inspected each one carefully, choosing only the finest, most vibrant feathers, free from even the slightest flaw.

Truella snorted. “I’m well aware of the effects of time on matter,” she replied, shifting back in her swivel chair. “I am, after all, an experienced amateur archaeologist. Take a look at this.” She held her hand up closer to the camera, fingers spread.

“I’m not sure what your dirty fingernails are supposed to prove,” said Jeezel, arranging her selected feathers into a fan shape. “That they’re overdue for a manicure? Natural decay has nothing to do with time travel side effects, as you’d know if you watched my YouTube series on the subject.”

“We know all about your videos,” said Eris quickly, stepping in before Jeezel could launch into one of her infamous lectures on the dangers of time travel as seen by her Gran, Linda Pol. “I’m sure those droplets can still be useful in our spell. Cromwell had to navigate treacherous political waters with an impeccable grasp of strategy, manipulation, and the darker facets of power. Those droplets could act as a metaphysical catalyst, adding depth and purpose to the spell.”

“Exactly,” said Truella, tilting her chin up proudly. “A proactive hunch on my part.”

“I get the metaphysical catalyst bit,” said Frella, “but won’t those darker facets blow up in our faces? I mean, wasn’t Cromwell a master of secrets and deception? In the rudest way possible, if you ask me.”

“He could be gentle, too,” Truella murmured, blushing slightly.

“And that’s not even mentioning the spell’s potential to tap into the collective memory of his era,” added Jeezel. “And ‘rude’ isn’t how I’d describe his atrocities and ruthlessness. I covered that in detail in the video series…”

“We know,” Eris cut in. “That’s why we need to craft this spell with precision and include safeguards. Are the fans ready?”

“All set,” said Jeezel, her eyes sparkling with pride as she held up the four finished fans. “One for each of us, crafted with care and magic. They’ll clear the space, sweep away falsehoods, and purge any misleading energies. With these, only pure, unfiltered truth will emerge.”

“I’ll bring the Mystic Mirror I found in that old camphor chest,” said Frella. “Its surface shimmers and reflects the hidden truth of the soul.”

“And I have my unusual but eminently practical container—containing Cromwell’s droplets,” Truella chimed in, holding it up.

“Perfect. Then it’s settled. I’ll send Malove a meeting invitation for tonight,” said Eris, leaning in with a knowing smile. “You all know the place.”

After Truella had gone, happily clutching her carefully contained droplets (in an unusual but eminently practical miniature container, the likes of which he had never before seen), he realised that he should have asked her to tell him when.  When? If he knew when, armed with the knowledge, he could disappear in the nick of time and teleport with Truella to her time in the future, and organise all their paperwork.   He would be in charge of everything, obviously.

The possibilities of being able to time travel began to unfold in his minds eye. He wondered how he had not thus far entertained the idea of taking over a future coven, it made so much more sense than sending reluctant men on tortuous journeys across land and stormy seas to spy for him.

The year 480 AD. It was there hovering in her mind the moment she woke up the morning after Eris had mentioned the DNA spell idea. 480 AD.  But why? And it seemed strangely familiar, as if she’d dreamed of that date before. Mumbling the date over and over, Truella pushed the bed covers back, noted the welcome slight chill of the October morning, and made her way blindly to the kitchen to make coffee. 480 AD.  Why, though?

Eris’s change of tune yesterday about the paperwork had given her a slight inward chuckle, but it was a good sign. And Eris had been right: Truella did like the DNA idea. At first she’d wondered if she would find something containing DNA.  Then she reminded herself that she herself contained DNA available to use. But what was the year 480 AD to do with it?

Taking her steaming mug of coffee outside, Truella sat down under the porch and lit a cigarette. Too late for Romans but then what was next after Romans?  It would have made more sense if it was 1480 AD, when Cromwell was born.

Oh, but what an idea! Yes!  The DNA of Cromwell! She was reminded of the pieces of Hannibals tunic, and the efficacy of that spell.  If they could find a bit of that old tunic, they could surely time travel back to gather some DNA from old Thomas.  Truella giggled, imagining herself appearing in Cromwell’s chamber, armed with a cotton swab. “If you please, my Lord, open wide, this will only take a moment.”

He would rub his eyes, wondering if the fever had returned. What was this unseemly wench doing in here, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lizzie, his dead wife.  “Open wide,” she would say, for all the world as if she was the one giving the orders.  “My lady, if you please to explain your purpose?” he would replied calmly, rather amused at the incomprehensible interlude.

“Well if you must know, we need some of your DNA. Yes, yes, I know you don’t know what that is yet, I’ve come from the future you see, and we know a lot more. Well, that’s not strictly true or I wouldn’t be here now.   We know more about some things, but other things haven’t changed much. It’s the sea of paperwork we’re drowning in. Nobody could have more paperwork than you, my Lord Cromwell, but you have a particularly efficient way of dealing with it.”

“Are you referring to the Tower and the …”

“Gosh, no! No, we don’t plan to execute anyone.  We just need a bit, a tiny bit, of your DNA to use in a spell…”

Suddenly Cromwell understood who this woman was. He didn’t need to call for the man who dealt with postcards from the future: everyone knows that Cromwell never forgets any paperwork he’s ever seen. In the future they called it photographic memory, but of course it wasn’t called that in his time.

“You, my lady, are one of those witches from the future, are you not? And why, pray, would I be willing to assist with witchcraft?”

“Well, why not?” retorted Truella. “You won’t be around to be executed for heresy, you were already..”   She clapped her hand to her mouth.  He didn’t know about that yet, obviously.

Cromwell merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I don’t want to know when,” he said calmly.  He knew his days were numbered.

“Now, there a number of ways we can collect a bit of your DNA, sir, any bodily fluid will do,” Truella said, and then blushed deeply.  Well, why not? she asked herself, and then wondered, What if he hasn’t had a bath for six months?

It was good to be digging again. The relentless heat of the summer over, the days were perfect for excavating the next hole in her garden. It was hard work and slow hacking off bits of earth almost as hard and dry as concrete, but each day the promise of new finds became more tantalizing and encouraged her to keep working at it. There was not much more of the top layer to remove now before Truella could expect to start seeing bits of pottery and whatever else the deep dark earth had to reveal about its past.

Unable to see any particular connecting link to the dig (and Truella was usually good at that), she had become obsessed with Cromwell. Maybe she’d find a postcard from Cromwell; everyone seemed to be getting strange postcards these days. The idea of a postcard from Cromwell had wafted into her mind, but it lingered.  What would he say on a postcard? She could imagine him sanding the ink, the candlelight flickering. Smiling to himself, with a stray thought wafting into his mind that someone centuries from now would find it, and wonder.

“Let them make of that what they will,” he might say, as he handed it to the man in charge of sending postcards to other centuries. “I have one here for you,” the man in charge of the postcards might say by way of reply, “Just arrived. It’s from the future by the look of it, from Ireland.”

Cromwell may take the postcard in his hand with a feeling of satisfaction ~ all information was potentially useful after all, if not in this life, in the next. Time traveling spies, you could say.  He would take a moment to decipher the unfamiliarly written letters in order to read the message. His eyebrows would raise in mild astonishment to see witches sending messages so openly, so shamelessly, so fearlessly! Five hundred years from now, Ireland would be a heathen primitive nest of superstition controlled by the devils strumpets. It may not be perfect in England now, he might think, but we do try to keep some order.  Frella, he said to himself. Frella. What do you look like, Frella? God’s teeth, why didn’t you send me your likeness, a portrait, on the postcard!  For reasons he couldn’t explain, Cromwell couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious witch in Ireland many centuries from now.

The next day dawned gray and drizzly. Frella sat at the small wooden table in her cozy cottage, cradling a steaming mug of pumpkin soup left over from last night’s dinner. Her thoughts swirled around the mysterious postcards and their puzzling implications.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window. Frella turned just in time to see a postcard slip through the slightly ajar window and float softly to the floor. She raced to the window and peered out but there was nobody to be seen.

She bent down to pick up the card. The picture on the front was a haunting image of a labyrinthine garden, overgrown and twisted, with shadows stretching across the path like grasping fingers. Were the shadows moving towards her? Heart racing, she flipped the card over.

In elegant script, the message read: “In the garden of secrets, the past blooms anew. Seek what is hidden beneath the roots.”

A chill ran down Frella’s spine. This card felt different. The picture of the garden resonated deeply, stirring a sense that secrets from her own life were waiting to be unearthed. The air seemed to thrum with potential as she contemplated the image before her.

The chill drizzle felt cold to Truella, and she wondered not for the first time if her overheated drought stricken summer longing for cold and rain would quickly change to a desire for bone warming dry heat as soon as the weather properly changed to autumn.

“Lend me a sweater and a raincoat will you, Frella? I always forget to change before teleporting over here.”

Frella gave her a look that could only be described as nonplussed. Murmuring a short incantation, with a snap of her fingers and an indescribable gesture, the requested garments appeared on Truella’s lap, as if thrown forcefully from the other side of the room.

“Steady on, Frel!”  Gratefully Truella slipped the sweater on and said, “But thanks.  You know what? I forget I’m a witch, that’s the trouble. I keep forgetting I can just magic things up. Honestly, you have no idea…”

“Oh, trust me, I have an idea.”

“..the trouble I go to, doing things I could do in an instant with a spell…”

“Have you only just realised?” Frella smirked.

“Hell no, I remember all the time that I always forget.   How the hell did I end up in a witches coven?”

“That fake resume you concocted when you were dazzled by the allure and the mystery, and jealous that I was in it and not you?”

“Well yes, I know, but I mean, why did Malove hire me? Why am I still here?”

“I can tell you the answer to that!” announced Eris, entering the room with a wide toothy grin.

Mouth agape, Truella leaned forward to hear what Eris had to say next, but at that moment Jeezel spun round the door frame and skidded to a halt in front of the girls, clutching her forehead dramatically.

“Who is sending all the postcards! Every morning this week I’ve had dozens of old postcards in my mailbox, there were so many stuffed in there today one was poking out! No, I can’t read who sent it, I can’t decipher any of the writing on any of them.”

“Where are they sent from? What are the pictures of?” asked Truella, her curiosity aroused.

“Pictures, who cares about the pictures, I want to know who’s sending them!”

“Steady on, Jez.  The pictures might provide clues to the sender and purpose of the card,” Truella said  mildly, raising an eyebrow at Jezeel’s agitated state.  “What’s ruffled your feathers so much about a few postcards?”

“I received a postcard too,” Frella chimed in, causing Jeezel to gasp and clutch her heart. “I wasn’t all melodramatic about it as you though, I thought it was magical and I dunno, had a nice story to it.”

Before Truella had a chance to ask Eris to expound on the previous question, and indeed before anyone got to the bottom of Jeezel’s outburst, Malove strode in with her usual menacing demeanor.   Truella braced herself for tedious profit mongering coercive diatribes to inch their way along the slimy walls of time.

Frella sat at her small kitchen table, sipping chamomile tea and tracing a finger over the worn edges of the mysterious postcard. Her phone buzzed—a message from Truella.

Frella! I found an old book under my table! Never seen it before! Called Me and Minn. Strange, right?

A crease appeared on Frella’s brow as she re-read the message. Didn’t Arona say she was looking for an old book?

Setting her cup down too quickly, Frella splashed tea onto the postcard. “Damn,” she muttered, watching the ink blur. With a flick of her fingers, a cloth floated over from the counter and gently dabbed at the spill. The stain faded as the cloth wiped it away.

Frella leaned back in her chair, staring at the postcard. Some magic was stirring—first the dream, now this.

Weirdo, Truella. I dreamed last night about a girl searching for an old book! Catch up with you and the others this morning and we can discuss!

Finishing her tea, Frella waved her hand, sending the cup and saucer floating to the sink. She stretched and stood. A meeting at the Quadrivium had been called for 10 AM, but first, there were errands. After a quick shower, she got dressed, donned her raincoat, and carefully tucked the postcard into her bag.

Stepping outside, she wheeled her bike onto the damp path. The crisp morning air, misted with drizzle, hinted at a secret just waiting to be uncovered.

What is that book doing under the table?  Truella frowned and bent down, squinting. It was a dark covered old book, with yellowy pages, loose and thick. Wiping the dust off with her hand, she walked over the the window, trying to decipher the faded title. Me and Minn.

The mysterious Mr Minn. Where had she heard that before?

Frella woke with a start. The sun peeked through the curtains of her cottage, softly lighting her room. She lay there quietly trying to hang on to the dream: the bustling fair, the strange cloak-wearing girl with the black cat who said her name was —well she couldn’t remember now—, and even Cedric had made an appearance! Now he was infiltrating her dreams as well! She may need to do a spell for that. As the fog of sleep lifted, the vividness of the dream lingered at the edges of her consciousness and she played it over a few times, wondering what the message was. The fair was months ago, funny that it was coming up in her dreams now.

Her alarm buzzed on the bedside table and a warm tone chimed: “Good morning, Frella. The time is 6:45 a.m. Today’s forecast is mild with a chance of light rain in the morning. Would you like to review today’s tasks?”

Frella snorted and waved her hand in the air, silencing the digital assistant with a flicker of magic. It was far too early for that nonsense. The alarm faded into a soothing melody and the device shifted to Dream Journal mode:  “It looks as though you had a vivid dream. Would you like my help to record it while it’s still fresh?”

Ignoring the prompt, Frella sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet made soft taps on the wooden floor as she walked over to the window. She pulled apart the curtains and opened the window, letting the cool morning air fill the room. Birds called in the distance, and she smiled as she leaned on the windowsill and let the fresh breeze stroke her face.

As she turned away from the window, her eyes fell on the postcard which had arrived in the mail yesterday, still sitting on her dressing table. The edges were slightly worn as if it had travelled a very long way to reach her and the spindly writing was indecipherable even with the help of a decrypting spell. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was somehow connected with her dream. She picked it up and studied it again; did that signature read Arona? Wasn’t that the name of the girl in the dream!