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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.

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!

Shivering, Truella pulled the thin blanket over her head. Colder than a witches tit here, colder in summer than winter at home!  It was no good, she may as well get up and go for a walk to try and warm up.  Poking her head outside Truella gasped and coughed at the chill air. Shapes were becoming discernible in the dim pre dawn light, the other pods, the hedgerow, a couple of looming trees.  Truella rummaged through her bag, hoping to find warm clothes yet knowing she hadn’t packed anything warm enough.   Sighing, her teeth chattering, she pulled on everything she had in layers and pulled the blanket off the bed to use as a cape. With a towel over her head for extra warmth, she ventured out into the Irish morning.

The grass was sodden with dew and Truella’s feet were wet through and icy.  Bracing her shoulders with determination, she forged ahead towards a gate leading into the next field. She struggled for a few minutes with the baler twine holding the gate closed, numb fingers refusing to cooperate.  Cows watched her curiously, slowly munching. One lifted her tail and dropped a steaming splat on the grass, chewing continuously. I don’t think I could eat and do that at the same time. 

Heading off across the field which sloped gently upwards, Treulla picked up her pace, keeping her eyes down to avoid the cow pats.  By the time she reached the oak tree along the top hedge, the sun started to make an appearance over the hill. Warmer from the exercise, she gazed over the countryside. How beautiful it was with the mist in the valleys, and everything so green.

If only it was warmer!

“Are you cold then, is that why you’re decked out like that?  From a distance I thought I was seeing a ghost in a cloak and head shawl!”  The woman smiled at Truella from the other side of the hedgerow. “Sorry, did I startle you?  You’ll get your feet soaked walking in that wet grass, climb over that stile over there, the lane here’s better for a morning walk.”

It sounded like good advice and the woman seemed pleasant enough.  “Are you here for the games too?” Truella asked, readjusting the blanket and towel after navigating the stile.

“Yes, I am. I’m retired, you see,” the woman said with a wide grin.  “It’s a wonderful thing, not that you’d know, you’re much to young.”

“That must be nice,” Truella replied politely. “I sometimes wish I was retired.”

“Oh, my dear!  It’s wonderful!  I haven’t had a job for years, but it’s the strangest thing, now that I’ve officially retired, there’s a marvellous feeling of freedom. I don’t have to do anything.  Well, I didn’t have to do anything before I retired but one always feels one should keep busy, do productive things, be seen to be doing some kind of work to justify ones existance.  Have you seen the old priory?”

“No, only just got here yesterday.”

“You’ll love it, it’s up this path here, follow me.  But now I’ve retired,” the woman continued, “I get up in the morning with a sense of liberation. I can do as little as I want ~ funny thing is that I’ve actually been doing more, but there’s no feeling of obligation, no things to cross off a list. All I’m expected to do as a retired person is tick along, trying not to be much of a bother for as long as I can.”

“I wish I was retired!” exclaimed Truella with feeling.  “I wish I didn’t have to do the cow goddess stall, it’ll be such a bind having to stand there all evening.”  She explained about the coven and the stalls, and the depressing productivity goals.

“But why not get someone else to do the stall for you?”

“It’s such short notice and I don’t know anyone here.  It’s an idea though, maybe someone will turn up.”

“When did you arrive?” asked Truella when they found her in her at her Cloacina booth in faux-fur waterproof boots and a faux-bear-fur cape with a waterproofed silk hood to protect her perfect hairdo from the incessant drizzle. It gave her a look of one of those Fantasy warrior-goddess ready to intervene at the last minute to save her chosen champions from complete destruction by the forces of evil.

“Well, I’ve been there all along,” retorted the glamour witch, moving two little loos in front of the booth closer together. “I’ve been living in Limerick since the start of this story, even if it wasn’t clear where. Granny Linda thinks I’m living in Glamorheaven and Finnley think I’m living in London, but I’m pretty sure it’s Limerick. At least it is in my mind manor,” she said as if for herself. “There!” she said. Her face lit up as she just found the perfect orientation for the loos. “Don’t those miniature loos look cute?”

“Sure,” said Truella. At the same time she looked at Frella as if their friend had gone nut.

“Don’t ask me,” said Frella. “I didn’t make the selection of the goddesses for the olympic set.”

Jeezel took three cups, dipped them into one of the toilet bowl and offered them to her friends to drink.

Truella grimaced.

“I prefer not to drink that early in the morning,” said Frella with a polite smile.

Jeezel lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply before taking a sip. “It’s connected to the purest water source on Earth through a little time sewer spell coupled with a little pump and filter and a nice chime when you throw your worries in. It’s perfectly safe and drinkable sparkling water, and it smells of roses.”

“My gran used to spray rose scent in the bathroom after she used it,” said Truella, cackling nervously.

Frella took the cup, smelled it and continued smiling.

“Anyways, those cuties are for the cleansing prayers,” said Jeezel. “Cleansing and release,” she added pointing her finger up at the banner. “That’s Cloacina’s motto. At least at this booth. And, as I’m sure you asked, I didn’t answer all your messages because I’ve been kept busy with preparing all of those. Here, Truelle, take one of those Sacred Bath Salts. I have two flavors, Moonlight Mist and Sunset Serenity. Take the second one, it’s a blend of Himalayan pink salt and rose petals. It’ll help keep you warm as the salts will absorb the extra humidity, and as an extra it’ll make you think of your gran”, she added with a grin. “As for my friend Frella…”

Truella grabbed the pouch of salts and smelled it. “The smell is not so bad,” she conceded. “And Bubona knows I need their warming qualities,” she said shaking her head to get rid of irritating water drops.

Jeezel then turned to the potion and elixirs section. “No, not purification for Frella, and neither of you need the Lover’s Elixir… Oh! Here it is, take that. A soap made of goat’s milk, honey and calendula oil for radiant skin. And good to keep the hinges perfectly oiled. And as my future gran will say, remember, keeping those hinges oiled is key to avoiding squeaky situations.”

Frella took the soap and chuckled. “Thanks.” She scratched the surface with her nail. “It’s seems good quality. And it smells good. That reminds me I have to prepare my own booth. See you later girls.”

As soon as she left. Truella leaned towards her friend and asked in a conspiratory voice: “Did you know Malove was here?”

“What?”

“Will you stop flirting with that poor boy, Tru! You can’t help yourself can you?” Frella’s  word were softened by the huge smile on her face. “Isn’t this place just grand?”

“Frella! Don’t be sneaking up on a person like that!” Truella gave her friend a hug. “Anyway, you won’t believe it but Malove is going to be here! I mean, talk about unexpected plot twists. And you know she’s not going to be thrilled when she finds out I’ve nabbed her corner pod!” She giggled, albeit a little nervously.

Frella grimaced. “Tru, you’d better be careful. Malove’s not one to take things lightly, especially when it comes to her personal space.”

“Oh don’t worry. It will be fine. Anyway, what about your fancy man? Will he be here doing his important MAMA spy work? I do hope so.  Dear Cedric always brings a certain je ne sais quoi to the scene.” Truella rolled her eyes and smirked.

“Oh you mean tart! And he’s NOT my fancy man but yeah, he is going to be here. You should be glad we’ve got someone on the inside. Those MAMA agents can be pesky devils and they’re bound to be sneaking around a gig like this.”

Truella slept for longer than she intended, indeed, she had not intended to sleep at all, there was too much to do.  Trying to hold on to the fragments of dream recall, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Glancing around the room, she couldn’t immediately remember what she was doing there. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. What was that conversation she’d had before falling alseep? Truella felt dizzy trying to remember. She stood up and started to pace the room, and noticed a letter had been pushed under the bedroom door. She frowned as she bent to pick it up. Nothing was written on the outside, but the envelope had been sealed with a blob of red wax. Truella opened the letter carefully without breaking the seal. A yellowy page was inside, written in Latin.

Ordo Amphibiae-Luciae: pertinebant ad Ordinem Amphibiae-Luciae.

Truella’s Latin was rusty to say the least. She sat back down on the bed struggling to decipher the message.

The Order of Amphibia-Lucia: They belonged to the Order of Amphibia-Lucia. 

Nomen Amphibia-Lucia provenit ex duplici natura: tam terrena quam mundana. Rana facies symbolica est repraesentatio nexus eorum ad aquam, transformationem, et antiqua numina amphibiana.

The name “Amphibia-Lucia” stems from their dual nature: both earthly and otherworldly. The frog face is a symbolic representation of their connection to water, transformation, and ancient amphibian deities. They believe in metamorphosis, much like a tadpole turns into a frog, embodying cycles of death and rebirth These priestesses predated Christianity by eons. Their practices and rituals were about aligning with the cosmic cycles, harnessing planetary energies, and maintaining harmony between the seen and the unseen. They were known to perform rites that involved intricate dances, chants in forgotten tongues, and the use of ancient artifacts that, according to legend, could summon or banish entities from beyond our realm—dragons included.

Tartessus in obscurum, secretissimae sectae, ordo Amphibiae-Luciae, sub terra perrexit, ad litteram. Scientiam suam servaverunt, eam per generationes transeuntes, ritus suos in secretis clausulis sub culturis recentioribus obrutos servaverunt. Christianismus in terram pervasit, sed hae sorores aptatae, antiquas vias obtegunt sub specie hodiernae opinionis systemata superstites vigereque.

 When Tartessos fell into obscurity, its most secretive sect, the Order of Amphibia-Lucia, went underground—literally. They preserved their knowledge, passing it down through generations, maintaining their rituals in secretive enclaves buried beneath newer civilizations. Christianity might’ve swept over the land, but these sisters adapted, cloaking their ancient ways under the guise of more contemporary belief systems to survive and thrive. 

In cellis cellis in ipsum cubiculum illorum claustrorum contextum habemus reliquias ordinis pervetusti, dogmatum ac dogmatum recentioris millennii securos. Hais ex quo saeviunt dii, rudis sacra, et advena mundus.

In the cellars woven into the very bedrock of those cloisters, we have the remnants of an archaic order, unconcerned with dogmas and doctrines of the more recent two millennia. They’re from a time when gods were wilder, rituals were raw, and the world was a stranger.

When the nuns under Hildegarde von Bingen’s influence merged with these ancient priestesses, it wasn’t just a blending of orders but a clash and harmony of traditions. Hildegarde herself, in her visionary wisdom, likely recognized the power and ancient wisdom of the Order of Amphibia-Lucia, choosing to weave their potent rituals into her own esoteric Christian practices.  The frog-faced sisters are no mere relics of an outdated faith. They’re the living embodiment of an ancient, potent lineage that predates and outlasts many of the world’s religions. They’re the keepers of ancient Tartessian magic, lurking in those cellars, waiting for the right time to hop back into the forefront of history.

 

So that was it! But who had pushed the letter under her door? And why was it written in Latin? Had everyone else received a letter?

The obvious place to start with investigations into the history of the Morticians Guild was to question Rufus.  But first she needed to think. Truella made her way to her room, and locked the door.  At least now that Eris was back so soon, Truella was free to let Eris get on with whatever she was doing. After lowering the blinds at the windows, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.  As she started to drift off to sleep, an imaginary conversation ran through her head.

Rufus: “The Morticians’ Guild, originally known as the ‘Necro-Keepers,’ trace their lineage back to ancient Egypt. They were the guardians of rites that ensured the safe passage of souls to the afterlife. Over millennia, they adapted and evolved, absorbing arcane knowledge from various cultures—the Greeks with their Eleusinian Mysteries, the Romans with their burial rites, even the Celtic traditions of Samhain.”

Truella: “That’s fascinating. So, this ancient craft has been handed down through generations?”

Rufus: “Precisely. While Hildegarde von Bingen brought enlightenment and medicinal wisdom to her nuns in the 12th century, the Morticians’ practices were already etched in the annals of history. They operated in silence, often in the shadows, perfecting the skills of embalming, necromancy, and spirit communication.”

Truella: “And what about their presence here, in this coven merger?”

Rufus: “We’ve been called upon at times of great need, when balance must be maintained between the living and the dead. Our presence here isn’t coincidental. The dragons and ancient spirits awaken, and we, the keepers, ensure that not all realms collide irreversibly.”

Truella: “So, would you say the Guild has played a role in significant historical events?”

Rufus: “Indeed. We’ve been the unsung heroes, the silent watchers. From plagues to wars, ensuring the dead find peace and don’t linger to disrupt the world of the living. Our methods may have modernized, but our core purpose remains unchanged. The knowledge, the rituals—they are our legacy.”

Truella: “Thank you, Rufus. That’s more fascinating than a year’s worth of ancient spellbooks.”

Rufus:  “You’re welcome, Truella. Just remember, history isn’t merely dates and names; it’s living through us, weaving its magic continuously.”

“Why has Frella gone so soon?” asked Truella, when the beastly morality prayers were finished. “She was supposed to accompany us down the cellars tonight.  I tell you what,” Truella rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, “This has been the longest day I’ve ever known. And it’s not over yet. Maybe we should leave the exploration of the cellars until tomorrow night.”

“Suits me,” said Zeezel, “I didn’t want to go down there anyway.  The thought of going down there would ruin my evening, and I’ve got a gorgeous little cocktail dress picked out for tonight.”

“Jeezel, ” Eris said warningly, “We’re here on business.”

“Oh, lighten up, Eris! None of us even knows what we’re really here for! One minute it’s a boring merger or even a takeover, the next minute it’s all cloak and dagger mystery, then it’s a morality play, what’s it gonna be next?”

“A Barbara Cartland novel? Or 50 shades of undertakers?” Eris said with scowl.

“You don’t want to go down the cellar either, do you, Eris?” Truella asked, knowing the answer.  “Never mind. You go and say some more prayers with Audrey. Jez, enjoy your evening to the hilt,” Truella wiggled her eyebrows.  “I’ll go on my own.”

The others looked at her open mouthed. “You can’t be serious!”

“She isn’t going on her own,” Eric said darkly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Truella pretended innocence.  Of course she wasn’t going on her own. Rufus would go with her, and she even had an idea to invite Sassafras and Sandra.  “Oh, alright then, I won’t go,” she lied. ”  I’ll wait for you and we’ll go tomorrow night.  But only if Frella comes back so she can come with us.”

Eris wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what Truella was planning. She had to rein Truella in, but how? Suddenly, inspiration struck.

“We’d better go and get ready for dinner,” Eris said, “See you all later in the dining hall.” And with that she stalked out of the room.

As soon as she was out of the door, Eris sprinted up the hallway. She had to get to him before Truella got there.  Crashing into Brother Bartolo as she careered round a corner, she apologised hurriedly and asked if he knew where Rufus was.  Bartolo informed her that he’d seen Rufus by the fountain. Eris resisted the temptation to remark snidely about him needing to cool down.

He was still there when Eris reached the courtyard, sitting on the side of the water feature, trailing his hand in the water and looking gloweringly pensive.  Eris took a deep breath.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked pleasantly, sitting down beside him. “We’re so grateful to you guys for coming to help us out, it’s all quite a lot for us to take in, you know?” Eris smiled disarmingly. “We’d feel so much better if Frella was here with us. We did manage to get her here, but something went wrong and she didn’t stay as long as we hoped she would.  She’s on a mission in Ireland, and couldn’t come over, but Sister Audrey kindly offered to let Frella posess her for 24 hours, and then I don’t know what happened but Frella was called back abruptly to her own body.”  Eris knew she was garbling semi incoherently, which was most unlike her normally, but she thought this approach would appeal.  Rufus seemed to be the type to be a sucker for a damsel in distress.  “If only someone else would offer to let Frella possess his body for 24 hours so that she can come and join us…”

Eris’s little spell must have worked a treat, as Rufus promptly agreed. “I can help you with this. I offer my body for Frella to possess, if you think it will assist you.”

Eris beamed at him. “What a charming gentleman you are!” she gushed, surprisingly both of them as she leaned forward and impulsively kissed his cheek.  “I must go,” she said. Horrified, her face crimson, she fled back inside the cloisters.

The door knob of Truella’s bedroom turned, and then rattled. Sated and sleepy, she ignored it. Then an insistant rapping of knuckles sounded.  Rufus looked at the door, and back to Truella.

“Ignore it, it’s probably the maid,” she said. “But what a time to come, at siesta time.”

The knocking got louder and a voice hissed through the keyhole, “Let me in! Open the bloody door, FFS!”

Frella! What was she doing here?  Truella pulled the sheet around her and padded over to the door and unlocked it.

“About time!” she started to say, opening the door, and then leapt back in astonishment to see Sister Audrey standing there glaring.

Audrey pushed past her, slamming the door behind her and locking it.  “Listen, this is the plan. Oh don’t look so baffled, it’s me, Frella. Audrey offered to let me possess her for 24 hours, it was the quickest way to get here.  Now listen, this is what we’re going to do.”  Audrey/Frella launched into an outline of the plans for exploring the cellars later that night. She had turned to face Truella at the door, and hadn’t noticed Rufus. Quickly, he slid off the bed and hid underneath it.

When Audrey/Frella had finished, she asked “Got any weed? I could do with a quick puff.”  Truella  replied affirmatively.  “Oh and what have we here, what is that mans leather coat doing on your floor? You absolute tart, Truella. You’ve only been here since this morning and you’re at it already!”

This was too much for Rufus, who crawled out from under the bed. “Hold your tongue, woman!” he admonished, while reaching for his shorts.  “And I heard all that,” he added. “And if you’re going down there, I’m coming with you.”

Truella looked at Audrey/Frella helplessly.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” snapped Audrey/Frella.

“I didn’t tell him, you did,” Truella shot back, “You’re the one who barged in here spilling the beans!”

“Well, he may be useful I suppose,” Audrey/Frella said, and stalked out, muttering tart under her breath. Why oh why, did she agree to do this?

“Wait! Look at that one up there!” Truella grabbed Rufus’s arm. “That cloth hanging right up there by the rafters, see it? Have you got a torch, it’s so dark up there.”

Obligingly, Rufus pulled a torch out of his leather coat pocket.  “That looks like…”

“Brother Bartolo!” Truella finished for him in a whisper.  “Why is there an ancient tapestry of him, with all those frog faced nuns?”

Rufus felt dizzy and clutched the bannisters to steady himself. It was all coming back to him in a rush: images and sounds crowded his mind, malodorous wafts assailed his nostrils.

“Why, whatever is the matter?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come, come and sit down in my room.”

“Don’t you remember?” Rufus asked, with a note of desperation in his voice. “You remember now, don’t you?”

“Come,” Truella insisted, tugging his arm. “Not here on the stairs.”

Rufus allowed Truella to lead him to her room, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He was so damn hot in this leather coat.  The memories had first chilled him to the bone, and then a prickly sweat broke out.

Leading him into her room, Truella closed and locked the door behind them.  “You look so hot,” she said softly and reached up to slide the heavy coat from his shoulders.  They were close now, very close.  “Take it off, darling, take it all off. We can talk later.”

Rufus didn’t wait to be asked twice. He slipped out of his clothes quickly as Truella’s dress fell to the floor. She bent down to remove her undergarments, and raised her head slowly. She gasped, not once but twice, the second time when her eyes were level with his manly chest.  The Punic frog amulet! It was identical to the one she had found in her dig.

A terrible thought crossed her mind. Had he stolen it? Or were there two of them?  Were they connected to the frog faced sisters?  But she would think about all that later.

“Darling,” she breathed, “It’s been so long….”

“What? Malové sent you a personal letter? And a golden key! We merely had a memo for the merger,” Truella said, pacing quickly in Jeezel’s bedroom.

“You’ve been swooning over Mr. Dark since we got here,” said Jeezel. “Have you even checked your own things? Maybe you have some kind of message or clue or I don’t know what. But stop pacing like that, you’ll bore a hole in my floor.”

“That’s not your floor,” said Truella with fire in her eyes.

“Girls, stop. That’s not the point,” said Eris, her voice carrying icy breeze of Sweden’s coldest winters. “We don’t even know if that message is from Malové.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jeezel and Truella in unison.

“Yes, what do you mean?” asked a floating glowing orb with Frella’s voice.

Eris brushed a few sparkling dark purple powder from her chest. “Bloody dragon soot,” she muttered. “Well, from what you told us, Silas tried to jinx you when you were discussing about the rituals. Baiting you with the idea that there are amongst or around us forces that would rather see this merger fail. Then, conveniently, handsome Garrett comes to your rescue and warns you about Silas’ evil plot, and talks to you about the very thing Malové supposedly entrusted you with in that letter, and muddying the waters even further with that tale about ancient Punic families.”

“What’s wrong with Punic families,” said Truella.

“Why are you blushing?” asked Jeezel.

“The point is, that it could very well be part of a plot to plant doubts about everyone and everything, so that we make the merger fail ourselves.”

“And then exit the witches from the picture,” said Frella’s glowing voice.

“But who could possibly have hidden the envelope amongst my things without me noticing?” asked Jeezel.

“Who comes and goes into your home?” asked Eris.

“Yes, who?” asked Truella with a sudden renewed interest.

After a few moments of reflection, Jeezel raised her hand to her mouth. “You can’t mean Joe? My fan’s brother who came to do some works for me.”

“I don’t mean anything. But if I recall well, you mentioned you gave him the keys or your home so that he could come do the repairs whenever you’re not there.”

“You gave him your keys?” asked Truella, her eyes wide open.

“But Luminia would have seen him.”

“Well even a familiar needs to go out sometimes.”

“Or maybe after a torrid night, when you’re finally resting,” suggested Truella.

“Ooh! You would love that!” Jeezel said. Then she put the back of her hand on her forehead and moaned: “My brain’s not made for that kind of messy story. I can’t investigate, do the rituals, flirt with the enemy. There are too many things to do and too many possibilities.”

“There, dear. You have us now,” said Eris, still brushing the dragon soot from her dress.

“And I know one who needs to go to the bottom of a chest,” added Truella. “Frella, we need you here.”

“I’m not sure,” Frella said. “I guess someone has to investigate what really happened to Malové. Who knows if that postcard and that love affair are even real? I’ll let you know.”

Silas led Jeezel into a secluded lounge, a hidden gem within the ancient cloister that seemed to be frozen in time. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, mingling with a musty, earthy fragrance with undertones of aged woods.

Jeezel stopped a moment, in awe at the grand tapestries adorning the walls. They depicted scenes of epic battles between dragons and saints, the vibrant threads weaving tales of heroism and divine intervention. The dragons, captured in mid-roar with scales that seemed to shimmer with a life of their own, contrasted starkly agains the faces of the saints, their halo glowing softly in the dim light. Always the sensitive nose, Jeezel detected hints of incense and aged spices absorbed over centuries by the fabric, with a faint trace of mildew lingering on old stones and the faint sweetness of preserved herbs. She shivered.

Silas invited her to seat on one of the high-backed chairs upholstered in deep burgundy velvet that surrounded a massive oak table, carved with runes and symbols of protection. Jeezel frowned at the oddity to find pagan magic in a convent. As she sat the fabric of her gown brushed agains the plush velvet with a delicate sliding sound, like a faint sigh. The flickering flames of candelabras cast dancing shadows across the room, around which an array of curious relics and artifacts were scattered–an astrolabe here, a crystal ball there, and various objects of mystical significance.

Despite being an aficionado of pageants and grand performances, Jeezel couldn’t say she wasn’t impressed. Silas, ever the pillar of calm and wisdom, took a seat at the table, his fingers tracing the runes carved into the wood.

“Jeezel,” he began, his voice a soothing balm against the room’s charged energy, “I know I can trust you. Before we delve into the heart of these rituals, I must tell you something.”

Man! Here we are, she thought. She tensed on her chair.

“There are some people who would rather see the merger fail. They are doing anything in their power to foster such an outcome. We cannot let them win.”

Jeezel’s face tightened and she struggled to maintain her composure. She tapped with her fingers on the table to distract the head mortician’s attention and help her regain a stoic demeanor. Her mind raced weighing the implications. Malové had said that the Crimson Opus wasn’t just any artifact, it was key to immense power and knowledge, something that could tip the scales in their favour. How she regretted at that moment she had not paid enough attention at the merger meeting. Now, Malové was gone, somewhere, and Jeezel wasn’t even sure the postcard she had sent the coven was real. All she knew was that Malové counted on her to find that relic. And for that, she had to step in what appears to be a nest of vipers. She reminded herself she had survived worse competition in the past and still won her trophies with pride.

“Silas,” she said, her voice measured but with an edge of tension, “this complicates things more than I anticipated. We have enough on our hands ensuring the rituals go smoothly without sabotage.” She paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “But we cannot allow these factions to succeed. The merger is crucial for our mutual survival advancement. We’ll need to be vigilant, Silas. Every step we take, every ritual we perform, must be meticulously guarded. And we must identify who these adversaries are, and what they are planning.” She wished Malové would see her in that instant. She craved support from anyone. She looked at Silas, her eyes full of hope he could help. “I have a task from Malové that is of paramount importance,” she started and almost jumped from the chair when her hedgehog amulet almost tased her. A warning. Her mind suddenly found a new clarity. She realized she has been about to tell him about the Crimson Opus. Jeezel noticed the man’s finger was still caressing the runes on the table. Had he been casting a spell on her? She shook her head.

“Those six rituals cannot be compromised. I’ll need your help to ensure that we succeed. We must be prepared to act swiftly and decisively.”

Silas’ hand froze. He nodded. She wasn’t sure there wasn’t some irritation in his voice when he said: “You have my full support, Jeezel. We’ll strengthen our defenses and keep a close watch on any suspicious activities. The stakes are too high for failure.”

Did he mean that he would keep a close eye on her next moves? She’d have to be careful in her search of the Crimson Opus. She realized she needed some help. Malové, you entrusted me with that mission. Then, you’d have to trust me with whom I choose to trust.

“It’s your fault I’m late, Sandra!” Sassafras hissed, adjusting her wimple and throwing a large crucifix around her neck.  “You told me it was witches costumes, I had to run back upstairs to change.”  Missing a step as she rushed down the stairs, Sassafras grabbed the bannister, managing to save herself from a possibly fatal tumble down to the tiled floor below.

“I thought it was! That’s why I’m late too. And anyway you look half witch and half nun in that outfit.” Sandra gripped Sassafras’s wrist.  “Ok, calm down and deep breaths. Demure and collected, remember?  We need to look serious and efficient.”

When they reached the door of the grand reception hall, they stood aside to allow Brother Bartolo to pass, on his way to the kitchen for more refreshments.  He allowed himself a small smile, holding up an empty decanter.  “Crimson Cordial, that’s what she told me to give them. It’s not every day she gives me the key for the cordials cabinet.”

“Not the Crimson Cordial!” the girls gasped in unison. They looked at each other, perplexed. “What is she playing at, Brother?”

“That’s not all,” whispered Brother Bartolo, leaning closer to Sandra, “She’s re animated the Sisters of the Sacred Sepulchre from the crypt.  I’ve seen them wandering around in the cellars, waiting for orders.”

Sandra and Sassafras looked at each other in alarm.  “This is serious.”

“But is it to assist the merger or derail it?”

“Who only knows what goes on behind that prune faced scowl. And why has she invited a team of morticians, eh? Ask yourself that! Morticians!” Sandra said.

“This is too dark for me, I’m off. Tell them I’ve been taken ill, I’m going for a walk in the woods.”

Brother Bartolo barred her way. “Oh no you’re not. You won’t get away with that this time,” he said grimly. “This is too dark for those petty tricks. And you may be needed,” he added cryptically. “All hands on deck, and as many fingers as you like.”

Although not unheard of in Limerick, it had been raining for days and that affected moods. The weather forecast, despite many promises, hadn’t been able to curb the collective melancholy. Jeezel had to resist the temptation to use a spell or two just for an hour of sunshine, but she remembered what Linda Paul would say about meddling with weather patterns. She’d likely take a dramatic pause, her eyes narrowing in theatrical emphasis as she weighed her words carefully.

“Darling, one does not simply tinker with the weather as if it were a mere accessory to one’s outfit. The weather, you see, is a complex symphony conducted by the universe itself. Each raindrop, each gust of wind, each sunbeam—it’s all part of an intricate, celestial score. Tampering with such forces is akin to striking a discordant note in a masterpiece; the repercussions can be chaotic and unpredictable. Mother Nature has a way of setting things right, and trust me, her methods are rarely gentle. Remember the tale of the tempestuous sorcerer who tried to stop a storm and ended up summoning a hurricane? Or that ill-fated witch who thought to banish winter, only to plunge her village into eternal ice?” Her eyes might sparkle with a hint of mischief as she added, “And let’s not forget the fashion disasters! Imagine trying to maintain a perfect coiffure in a sudden downpour you inadvertently summoned. Utterly tragic, darling.” 

Jeezel giggled at the evocation. No, she would not meddle with the intricate weave of weathery, but one little filter spell on her window was innocuous enough to transform the “gloom of June” into a “dawn’s gentle fingers caressing the horizon”. She was standing before her ornate, vintage mirror in a midnight blue gown. The magic morning light was dancing upon the silver filigree, casting ethereal patterns across her boudoir.

Her thoughts meandered through the labyrinth of anticipation and preparation. “A convent,” she mused, “How delightfully austere. A stark contrast to my usual flamboyance.” In her address to the coven and looking specifically at Jeezel with ice cold eyes, Austreberthe had insisted on modesty and temperance. “But then, Austreberthe is not Malové,” Jeezel said, “and even the most demure places need a touch of magic.”

She ran her fingers through her raven locks, contemplating her wardrobe. “Burgundy for modesty and vintage silver lace mantilla for a whisper of enchantment”, she decided. It would strike the perfect balance.

Then, her mind turned to practicalities. The convent, with its storied history and sacred relics, would likely be a trove of ancient magics. She carefully selected a few essential items on her vanity: a vial of protective potion, a small pouch of moon blessed herbs and her favourite amulet in the shape of a silver hedgehog she got from her grand-mother and imbued with protective and clarity spells.

Her eyes fall on the thick file Truella had given each of them the day before. Full of charts and bullet lists about the cloister, questions about history, mug shots and detailed descriptions of the current inhabitants, with (not so) occasional pictures of her own digs and dogs. If Eris had skimmed through it in seconds and started to ask questions, Frella said she would read it before going to bed as it helped with her remembering. Jeezel had said nothing. She had gotten dizzy with too many bullet points and letters. All she could think about was the precious space and weight it would take in her suitcase and in her mind.

Though, there was something different. An envelop stuck between the file and the mahogany wood of the vanity. She took the envelop and opened it. It contained a letter and a small, ornate key, its surface inscribed with runes that glimmered with an otherworldly light. The paper grain was of fine quality. Jeezel recognized Malové’s intricate calligraphy. The paper carried subtle fragrances of sandalwood, jasmine, and bergamot, with a touch of vetiver and ambergris. With each whiff hidden facets were emerging from an apparently simple message.

“Jeezel, my trusted enchantress,” it started, “your journey to the convent in Spain is of utmost importance, more than the others can fathom. Beneath the cloistered serenity of those ancient walls lies a secret long kept from the world—a relic of unparalleled power known as the ‘Crimson Opus.’ It is said to be a manuscript not written with ink, but with the very essence of time itself.”

Your mission is to locate this Crimson Opus. It is guarded by a labyrinth of spells and enchantments designed to deter even the most skilled of seekers. But you, my dear Jeezel, possess the unique aptitude to unravel its mysteries. The convent’s seemingly mundane routines are the veil that conceals its true purpose; a sanctuary for the relic, and a prison for those who seek its power with ill intent.”

“You must be cautious, for the Crimson Opus has a sentience of its own. It will test your resolve, tempt you with visions and promises. Trust in your instincts, and remember, its true power can only be harnessed by those with a pure heart and an unyielding will.”

“The key will guide you to the hidden chamber where the Opus rests. Use it wisely, and under no circumstances let it fall into the wrong hands. You are more than capable, my dear. Don’t mention your mission to anyone. The fate of many may hinge upon your success, but I have no doubt in your abilities. Go forth, and may the ancient forces watch over you.”

Jeezel would have thought of a joke were it not for the mastery with which the message and its hidden layers had been crafted. She thought Malové was enthralled in a passionate romance in Brasil, but something in the scent she had not been able to decipher seemed to suggest the reality was more complex than it seemed. She thought of her friends. Did they all received a similar letter? Whom could she trust when secrecy was mandatory?

She held her hedgehog amulet more tightly, asking for some guidance.

Promontories! It was one thing Truella writing a diary for her, mused Frella, but quite another when she used words like promontory.

So here she was on holiday, supposedly relaxing but unsure of how to commence. Life had been so busy of late with all the parties and conferences Malove had insisted they attend. Frella sat on the edge of the sofa, which extended into a spare bed apparently, and then tentatively eased herself back into the fat cushions.

The Airbnb was on Ireland’s east coast and was especially for witches needing some time out. Of course it wasn’t advertised as such, but Herma, the proprietor, although not a witch herself, was “witch friendly” and carefully vetted all bookings.

Frella had found Herma rather unnerving. She was a large lady who, upon her arrival yesterday evening, had enveloped Frella in a hug which left her gasping for air. Eventually she released Frella and held her at arms length. “You poor wee thing,”she’d said shaking her head. “But just look at the state of you!” There was an alarming gleam in Herma’s eyes and Frella was overpowered for a moment by the smell of apple pie.

“…..a steampunk soirée amongst the witches of Adare Manor!  Picture it, my dear—cogs and corsets, gears and garters!

First, we must set the scene. The manor, that grand old dame Malove will be bedecked with brass and copper, festooned with flickering gaslights that cast a warm, sepia-toned glow upon all the revelry. The air will be thick with the scent of oil and ambition (mentioning no names), and the sound of pistons and valves will accompany the rustle of taffeta skirts.

Now, our witches, those cunning creatures, will be the belles of the ball, their attire a fusion of Victorian elegance and industrial ingenuity. Picture bustled gowns with mechanical embellishments, parasols that double as communication devices, and monocles that can see into the aether!

The pièce de résistance? A grand invention, unveiled at the stroke of midnight—an automaton oracle that will reveal secrets and predict the future with uncanny accuracy, all while puffing steam and sparking with electric life.

And let’s not forget the refreshments! Scones that emit plumes of colored smoke when bitten, and a punch that changes flavor as it circulates through a series of alchemical tubes.

 A spectacle of speculative fiction, a carnival of chronology, a meeting of minds both mystical and mechanical!

 A most enticing invitation—we want all the witches of Adare Manor to be abuzz with anticipation. The steampunk party of the century awaits!”

Spring was there. At 5:57am in the morning, true to her name, Truella had been planting truelles incognito in what appeared to be random flowerbeds in the cities she was passing through. The truelles, she would usually find with the locator spell in sheds around the city and magic them out right into her hands. She loved magic for its efficiency, which really meant there was no need to break in and forage for hours in cramped little rooms.

As she was following a border of plane trees, she chuckled. Believe it or not, she practically invented that spell. At least that’s what her mother used to tell her when she was 6yo and she often wandered alone around the city without mentioning it to anyone. At the time, she had believed her mother. She had bragged about it with her friends at school and pretended she had forgotten all about it like because of a bump on her head. But truth is she had frequent memory losses, which didn’t worry her at the time, and she found it cool to be able to do things and rediscover them later on.

It was an uncle with a dreadfully red moustache, who took pity on her and decided to shatter her dreams of early accomplishments and fame. Was it that same year? Or the next?

Anyway, back to the truelles, she didn’t do it for people to take photos of it and post them to social media, like gawdy Jeez seemed to think, but it was to remind people of the treasures they had buried in those dark little rooms just there in their gardens. How long would it take them to realise that those forgotten tools had disappeared?

Pleased with herself, she noticed a man with a white shirt leaning forward in front of one of the plane trees, his right hand on the bark, two paper bags full of croissants in the other. Frowning, she walked towards him. She was about to ask if he needed help when a strong smell of alcohol made her gag. Then without a warning, the man threw up a red mash in front of him. Truella jumped back, raising the truelle as if it could protect her from any splatter.

“Eww!” She wouldn’t dare saying anything else as opening her mouth could open the gates for her own early toasted cheese fritter. At least the man would not need embalming fluids if he didn’t survive his nocturnal drinking spree.

She cast the truelle in front of the tree and a spell on the man so that he would bury deep the traces of his last meal. She didn’t want the neighbourhood dogs getting drunk after feasting on it.