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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.”

After the postcard craze had passed, Frella returned to Herma’s cottage several times to study the camphor chest. Every day for a week, Herma let her into the living room, where she would sit quietly in front of the chest, sometimes for hours. The wood’s glossy surface would catch the light, warm and rich, like polished honey. Frella would trace the strange curves of the mysterious engravings with her fingers, feeling the subtle dips and rises beneath her touch. The patterns felt ancient, worn smooth in places, yet sharp along certain edges, as if holding onto secrets just out of reach.

Then, as she lifted the heavy lid, a soft creak would break the silence, the hinges groaning as if they hadn’t moved in ages. A burst of cool, earthy fragrance would immediately rise, filling the air with camphor’s sharp, clean scent, mingled with faint hints of aged cedar and spice.

It didn’t take long for Frella to notice that each time she opened the chest, she would find a new object among the old papers and postcards. It was never the same. Once, it was an old brass spyglass; another time, it might be an ornate compass with seven directions marked. Yet another day, she found a teddy bear. By some odd coincidence, each item always seemed to be something she needed in her life at that particular moment.

When Eris informed them that Malove was most likely under a powerful spell, Frella found the mirror. An inscription carved clumsily on its back read, “This Mystic Mirror belongs to Seraphina.” The mirror’s metal was cold, tarnished, and in need of a good polish. Jeezel would have surely raved about the intricate vines of silver and gold, twisting in delicate patterns that seemed to shift with the viewer’s perspective. But what captivated Frella most was the glass itself. It held a faint opalescent sheen, swirling with hints of colors, like a rainbow caught in crystal.

The first time Frella looked into it, she saw, behind her own reflection, an elderly woman with silver hair handing the mirror down to a little girl who looked just like Frella had as a child. The clothes were peculiar, and the room they stood in looked as if it belonged in a fantasy movie. Then the little girl began carefully carving something on the back of the mirror with what looked like a golden chisel. When she finally turned the mirror and looked into it, her reflection replaced Frella’s. She said something, but there was no sound. Frella had the distinct impression that the girl’s lips had formed the words, “We are the same. It’s yours now; you’ll need it soon.” Then she vanished, and Frella’s own reflection reappeared.

Still filled with awe at what just happened, Frella wondered if Seraphina was a long lost ancestor. “Was that chest also yours, Seraphina?” she asked in a whisper to the ghosts of the past.

“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.”

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.”

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.”

Frella opened her eyes. She felt rather woozy and very peculiar and it took her a moment to work out that she was sitting on the camphor chest in Herma’s shed with Herma and that awful Cedric Spellbind looming over her, their faces close and large. Too close. She looked from one anxious expression to the other.

“And what the devil is he doing here?” She nodded towards Cedric.

Cedric straightened himself. “I am here on official business,” he said stiffly. “Investigating this AirBnB for potential Witch Violations. And lucky I turned up when I did because you gave Mrs McCarthy here quite a turn with the way you were carrying on.”

Herma shook her head crossly.” Violations my foot. I told you lot last time your people came sniffing around, there’s none of that carry on here.”

“Why have I got salt all over me?” asked Frella.

Cedric rolled his eyes. “Now THIS, THIS is what I am talking about. SHE,” he pointed at Herma, “threw salt all over you to break the evil spell she said.”

“What nonsense!” said Herma, her face colouring. “But you had gone all odd, sort of not-here like and I couldn’t get any sense out of you.” She considered her hands for a few moments and then raised her head and beamed at Frella. “Why don’t I go and make you a nice cup of tea?” With that, she scurried off.

“Well, you’ve done what you came for. You can go now,” said Frella glaring at Cedric. She stood up and turned pointedly away from him, wondered how much he had seen and hoping she didn’t fall over. She silently cursed the other witches for their crazy shenanigans and desperately hoped that Herma would not get in trouble with the Authorities.

Cedric’s thoughts had taken quite another turn, mostly something about how beautiful the Witch was when she was angry. “Frigella,” he said.

She swung around. “It’s FRELLA,” she hissed.

“Frella …. “ Now it was Cedric’s turn to colour and he looked at the ground, so many thoughts jumbling through his head and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Damn it Man! Spit it out, will you!”

“I just want to say that I know what you are.”

“And what am I exactly?”

Cedric met her gaze. “I know you’re a Witch and I’m not going to turn you in.” He shrugged. “I can’t.”

“And why can’t you, then? Something wrong with you, is there?”

Cedric’s hand reached under his shirt. “Look,” he said. He was holding a small round device. “It’s a listening device. We are supposed to wear them whenever we have a suspected Witch Violation or Interaction.” He threw the device to the ground where it bounced a couple of times. Then—rather dramatically in Frella’s opinion—he stomped on it.

Frella giggled. She couldn’t help herself

“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….”

After everyone got the program for the six rituals, they dispersed. Jeezel observed groups reform and the whereabouts of people. Eris walked alone toward the dark corridors. Truella, Sandra and Sassafras went to the gardens. Rufus followed shortly after, his dark moody eyes showing intense reflections. Jeezel noticed that Bartolo from the convent had been observing the mortician and hurried to catch up with him. Mother Lorena stood as stern as ever in the center of the lobby. She kept cupping her hands around her ears to check if her earpieces were working. Which they weren’t from the irritated look on her face. Silas was in an animated discussion with Austreberthe and the remaining nuns were laughing heartily and running around as if they had overindulged in Sister Sassafras’ hallucinogenic mushroom canapés.

Jeezel decided to go back to the lounge and explore the antiques, maybe see if there were hidden passageways behind those tapestries. She found Garrett waiting for her in the corridor as if he knew what she intended to do. His deep blue eyes seemed to embrace her whole silhouette in a myriad of unspoken emotions, and when they settle on her emerald green eyes, a subtle grin showed his appreciation.

“Don’t look back,” he said, his voice a deep velvet baritone. “Old Silas and Austreberthe are looking at us with a very disapproving look.”

Jeezel couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “And what if they do? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

Garrett’s grin widened. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne– a tantalizing mix of cedarwood and bergamot– mingling with the faint aroma of her own enchanting perfume.

“You intrigue me, Jeezel. More than the rituals, more than any relic or spell.”

Jeezel laughed heartily. Don’t they say keep your enemy close? I have questions for him. And I wouldn’t mind the company while I’m exploring the area? she thought.

“I was about to check for secret passages in the old lounge,” she said. “Would you join me?”

She let him take her hand and guide her toward the lounge. As they entered the heavy scent of aged wood and old books greeted them. Jeezel’s eyes darted to the tapestries lining the walls, each depicting scenes of ancient rituals and forgotten histories.

“Where do you think we should start?” Garrett asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the room.

Jeezel tilted her head, considering the possibilities. “That one,” she said, pointing to a particularly intricate tapestry depicting a moonlit garden. “It looks like it could hide something.” She reached out to the fabric and pulled it aside, revealing a wooden door. She tensed when she noticed lingering traces of cedarwood and bergamot. “Or someone,” she added, turning toward him. “You’ve been here recently, have you not?”

“Direct as ever. Very well. I’m here to protect and help you. You need to be careful with Silas. He has hidden motives.”

Jeezel narrowed her eyes. “And why should I trust you?”

Garrett pulled out his crimson handkerchief from his pocket, revealing a symbol embroidered in gold. Her eyes widened as identical to the one on the key Malové had given her.

“How did you get that?” she asked.

“Malové entrusted me with this,” Garret explained, “to show her chosen allies. I was told to seek you out and offer you my assistance. This symbol matches the one on your key, doesn’t it?”

Jeezel felt the weight of the key in her purse. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even to her friends. She felt even more confused than before. It was possible that Silas would try to divert her attention from him if he was against the merger. And what better way to do than alert her to unknown enemies. The fact that Garrett knew about the key just added a layer of complexity to the situation, but also a layer of excitement. She wondered what game was being played here, and who were the true players.

“Alright, Garrett,” she said, her voice steadying as she added, “I’ll hear you out. But if you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”

He nodded. “Faire enough. Silas isn’t just interested in the failure of the merger; he’s got his own agenda. Something to do with ancient punic artifacts and power that could rival even the Crimson Opus. And he’s not the only one. There are some ancient Punic families that are looking for the same things.”

Jeezel’s heart skipped a beat. If Silas was after the same kind of power, it could jeopardize everything—the merger, her mission, and possibly the balance of power in their world. Jeezle felt she was in way over her head. She had to breathe and connect to her inner Queen’s innate knowledge in order to slide into her role of leader.

“Then, I accept your assistance,” she conceded with a slight node. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you, Garrett. You’ll have to prove your loyalty.”

Garrett folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. For now, let’s just say our interests align. And if we work together, we might just come out of this with everything we need—and more.”

“Then show me where this hidden door lead!”

At the end of the undertakers’ speech, conversations surged, drowning out the 14th-century organ music. Mother Lorena, who seemed to have taken the expression lines to a deeper level, gave imperative angry looks at her nuns who swiftly moved to meet with the witches.

“Hold your beath,” said Eris to Jeezel. “That Mr ash blond hair is coming for you.”

“Sh*t! I don’t have time for that,” said Jeezel looking at the striking young man. Meticulously styled to perfection and a penchant for tailored suits, she knew that kind of dandy, they were more difficult to get rid of than an army of orange slugs after a storm. She stole a champagne flute from Bartolo’s silver tray and flitted with a graceful nonchalance towards the buffet.

“Hi Jeezel! I’m sister Maria. You’re so beautiful,” said a joyful voice. “You want some canapés? I made them myself.”

Jeezel turned and almost moved her hand to her mouth. A young woman wearing the austere yet elegant black habit of the Roman Catholic Church was handing her a plate full of potted meat and pickles toasts. She had chameleon eyes busy looking everywhere except to what was in front of her. The white wimple covering her red hair seemed totally out of place and her face made the strangest contortions as she obviously was trying not to smile.

“Hi, I’m… Jeezel. But you already know that,” she said. The young woman nodded too earnestly and Jeezel suddenly became aware the nuns certainly had files about her and the other witches like the ones Truella gave them. She looked at the greasy canapés and refused politely. She just had time to notice a crimson silk handkerchief in a breast pocket and a flash of ash blond hair closing in.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I just remember, I have to go speak to my friend over there,” Jeezel said noticing Truella with a nun in a Buddhist outfit.

She left the redhead nun with a laugh that twinkled like stardust.

Truella’s friend didn’t seem too happy to have Jeezel barging in on their conversation. She said she was called sister Ananda. Her stained glass painted face didn’t seem to fit her saffron bhikkunis. And the oddest thing was she dominated the conversation, mostly about the diversity of mushrooms she’d been cultivating in the shade of old cellars buried deep in the cloister’s underground tunnels. Truella was sipping her soda, and nodding occasionally. But from what Jeezel could observe, the witch was busy keeping an eye on that tall, dark mortician who certainly looked suspicious.

Young sister Maria hadn’t given up. She joined the conversation with a tray full of what looked like green and pink samosas. Jeezel started to feel like a doe hunted by a pack of relentless beagles.

“You need to try those! Sister Ananda made them for you,” said the young Nun. Her colourful lips showed she had just tasted a few of them.

“At last,” said Garrett with a voice too deep for such a young handsome face, “you’re as difficult to catch as moonlight on the water. Elusive, mesmerizing, and always just out of reach. One moment you’re dazzling us all with your brillance, the next…”

“As usual, you speak too much, Garrett,” said Silas, the oldest of the morticians who just joined the group. The old man’s voice was commanding and his poise projecting an air of unwavering confidence. He had neatly trimmed grey hair and piercing hazel eyes that seem to see right through to the heart of any matter. “May we talk for a moment, dear Jeezel? I think we have some things to discuss.”

“Do we?” she asked, a shiver going up her spine. Her voice sounded uncertain and her heart started beating faster. Did he know about the sacred relic she was looking for? Was he going to ask her on a date too?

“The ritual, dear. The ritual we have to perform together tonight.”

“Oh! Yes, the ritual,” she sighed with relief.

Silas took her hand and they left the group just as Truella was asking a Garrett: “Won’t Rufus join us?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered coldly. But his eyes were full of passion and his heart full of envy as he watched Jeezel  walk away with his mentor in a secluded lounge.

“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.”