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  • #7629
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      If everything went according to plan she would arrive in Paris at 10:39 tomorrow morning, and with a bit of luck the ferry crossing this afternoon wouldn’t be too rough. Thank god I don’t have to fly anywhere.  Elara had a good feeling about the trip.  To be so conveniently situated near Samphire Hoe, close to the Dover ferry ports to France, when the invitation to meet in Paris had been suggested, seemed a good sign.  The old dear at the Churchill Guest House had agreed to keep her self catering suite empty for when she came back, so she didn’t need to concern herself with all the stuff she seemed to have accumulated in just a few short months.

      Elara zipped up the small travelling case. The taxi wasn’t due for another 17 minutes but she was ready, so she went downstairs to stand outside.

      Samphire Hoe. Nobody would have expected to find that. Elara shook her head wonderingly every time she thought about it. It would be good to have a few days away, think about something else.

      #7625
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Characters list

        Character / Personality TraitsConnection clues to Matteo

        • Lucien
          • The Artist
          • Introspective, dreamy, quietly sarcastic
          • A painter who sees the world in textures and light. His sketchbook holds fragmented memories of their shared past.
          • Matteo recalls Lucien’s fleeting romance marked by an order of absinthe—a memory Lucien himself can’t fully place.
        • Elara
          • The Scientist
          • Analytical, sharp, skeptical
          • A physicist drawn to patterns and precision. Her research often brushes the edges of metaphysical questions.
          • Matteo remembers her ordering black coffee, always focused, and making fleeting remarks about the nature of time.
        • Darius
          • The Explorer
          • Bold, restless, deeply curious
          • A wanderer with a talent for uncovering hidden stories. He carries artifacts of his travels like talismans.
          • Matteo recalls a postcard Darius once gave him —a detail that surprises even Darius.
        • Amei
          • The Storyteller
          • Observant, wise, enigmatic
          • A weaver of tales who often carries journals filled with unfinished stories. She sees connections others miss.
          • Matteo knows her through her ritual of mint tea and her belief that the right tea could mend almost anything.

        • Matteo
          • The Enigmatic Server
          • Charismatic, cryptic, all-knowing
          • A waiter with an uncanny awareness of the four friends, both individually and collectively.
          • Holds a quiet, unspoken role as the bridge between their shared pasts, though his true connection remains unexplained.

        #7623

        At the Café

        The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.

        Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.

        The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.

        “Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.

        “Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.

        Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”

        “You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”

        She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.

        The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.

        “Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.

        “Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.

        Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”

        “The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.

        The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.

        “You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.

        “Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”

        Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”

        “Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.

        “Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.

        The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.

         

        :fleuron2:

        #7618

        Matteo Appears

        Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.

        “Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.

        “Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”

        The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.

        “You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.

        “Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”

        “What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.

        Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.

        “You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.

        “Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”

        “Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”

        “Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.

        Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”

        He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.

        “You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.

        “It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.

        “Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”

        “Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.

        Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”

        The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.

        “You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.

        Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

        “That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.

        “Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”

        A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.

        “It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”

        “For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.

        “For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.

        “Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.

        One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.

        “Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”

        And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.

        They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.

        “What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.

        “Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.

        “He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.

        “He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”

        “I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”

        “And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.

        “Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.

        They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.

        The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.

        And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?

        :fleuron2:

        Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth

        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          “Who sees that the habit-energy of the projections of the beginningless past is the cause of the three realms and who understands that the tathagata stage is free from projections or anything that arises, attains the personal realisation of buddha knowledge and effortless mastery over their own minds” —The Lankavatara Sutra, 2.8 (trans. Red Pine).

          “To trace the ripples of a beginningless sea is to chase a horizon that vanishes with each step; only by stilling the waves does the ocean reveal its boundless, unbroken clarity.”

          ~Echoes of the Vanished Shore, Selwyn Lemone.

           

          What if the story would unfold in reverse this time? Would the struggle subsist, to remember the past events written comment after comment? Rather than writing towards a future, and —maybe— an elusive ending, would remembering layer after layers of events from the past change our outlook on why we write at all?

          Let’s just have ourselves a new playground, a new experiment as this year draws to a close.

          Four friends meet unexpectedly in a busy café, after five years not having seen each other.

          Matteo, the server arrives, like a resonant fifth, bringing resolution to the root note —they all seem to know him, but why.

          Answers are in their pasts. And story has to unfold backwards, a step at a time, to a beginningless past.

           

           

          #7615

          The vine smothered statue proved to be the perfect place to hide behind to watch the events of the picnic unfolding. Cedric had been in a quiet turmoil of conflicting emotions, biting his bony knuckle to stop himself from uttering a sound as the extroadinary sequence of dramas and comedies played out before him.

          He hadn’t expected to see Frella again. His mental confusion about his job as well as his troubling fixation on the witch had brought him to the brink of jacking it all in. Just leave everything, he told himself, Move away, get another job doing something else, something mundane and manual.  And forget her.   He’d almost made up his mind to do just that, and, feeling pleased and sure of himself for making the decision, tapped his device to locate and observe Frella one last time just to mentally say adieu, and to see her face again. And then quietly disappear.

          When Cedric realized that the witches were going on holiday, and heard Truella saying that no spells were allowed, his heart leapt. If he was giving it all up and moving away anyway, why not have a holiday first? Why not go to Rome? I may not even bump into her, Rome’s as good as anywhere else. I deserve a holiday. And if I do bump into her, it will just be a holiday coincidence, and nothing at all to do with spells. Or work.

          All pretence of not minding whether he saw Frella or not left his mind almost immediately, and he began to make arrangements.  He didn’t want Frella to use spells, but it didn’t occur to him to wonder why he was still using the tricks of his job. It was easy to track them to Italy.

          His disguise as a North African on the coach full of Italians had worked well, even sitting so close to Truella and Giovanni he hadn’t been recognized in his hooded djelaba, and had been able to hear most of their conversation.  A quiet word and a large tip secured his trip with their tour guide.

          The picnic started out normally enough.  They each had a short wander around, and then sprawled on rugs and cushions by the whicker hampers of food and champage. Cedric lurked in the shadows of an arch, sometimes slinking to peer from behind a statue. The temptation to pick a posy of wildflowers to give to Frella was all but overwhelming, as he watched her sitting pensively.  Silently sinking to his knees behind the marble bulk of Tiberius, Cedric plucked a daisy from the grass. And another.

          When Cromwell appeared on the scene, Cedric, alarmed and almost angry at the intrusion, unwittingly crushed the flowers in his hand.  He had no choice but to remain hidden and immobile as the scene rolled out.

          As the day progressed, the mood changed and Cedric felt hopeful again. He even had to stifle a laugh as he watched them play cards.  Watching Eris pour champage into everyone’s glasses reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink all day. He was parched.  He had to make a decision. He wanted to sneak off quietly and call it a day, find a nice restaurant. A part of him wanted to be bold and openly seductive, to stride into the scene and charmingly state his intentions. But he had no opportunity to further consider the options.

          “You!” In the moments Cedric taken his eyes off the picnic to ponder his dilemma, Frella has risen and was heading for a necessary bush to go behind. “You! Spying on me!”

          “Who?” shouted Truella, “Cedric! What on earth is he doing here, we’re on holiday! Now stop spitting nails, Frella, and invite the man over for a drink!”

          Cedric seized the moment.

          #7610

          Thanks to Eris’s undeniable aptitude and professionalism for choosing the most efficacious spells and implementing them perfectly, and before Truella had got to grips with the first layer of the costumes undergarments, Cromwell was back at Austin Friars, and Malove stood before them, quivering with rage. Or was it panic?

          “Fancy some of this cheese and some olives? The bread’s amazing, we’re having a picnic, and there’s some champers if Jeezel hasn’t guzzled it all,”  Truella thought a casual nothing is wrong approach was worth a shot, however futile.  It might delay the inevitable.

          “Thanks,” replied Malove, sinking down on to the tartan picnic rug with a grateful if shuddering sigh.  “That was awful, don’t even ask! I will never complain about anything ever again!”

          “Really?” Truella wasn’t convinced.  “What was it like?”

          “No iboprufen. It was just awful. So damp, and no iboprufen.” Malove shivered. “My arthritis played me up something rotten.”

          “Well, why on earth didn’t you just magic some up then?” Truella blurted out.

          “Do you remember to just magic up a spell for your arthritis?” Truella quaked under the force of Malove’s terrifying glare.

          “She doesn’t, but I do,” interjected Jeezel, scrolling through the images she’d just captured of the ongoing scenario and capturing a few more.

          Does this mean I’m on holiday now too? Malove wondered. Jeezel caught the pensive but hopeful expression, Malove’s harsh profile softened with a fortuitous wisp of Truella’s cigarette smoke against a backdrop of bramble and vine covered ruins, an exotic foreign flower dangling lanquidly beside her ~ what a picture!

          #7608

          “Maybe I’m just old fashioned but those things are just weird,” Truella shook her head as she tried to get her focus and equilibrium back.  “Great pics though, Jez.  Look how clean my nails are.”

          “I thought we were going to Amalfi, I was looking forward to that,” said Frella, not sure whether she liked the VR pod experience.

          “So was I until I found out about the Limoncello. Can’t stand that evil brew, instant heartburn.”

          “You don’t have to drink it, Tru,” Eris replied with a withering look.  “We need to buy a few things before Giovanni’s time travel trip to the abandoned Colosseum. Secateurs and zip lock plastic bags for the seeds and plant cuttings. I wonder where the proper stores are, we seem to be surrounded with souvenir and gift shops and bakeries.”

          “I’ll get a trowel. No, I’m not planning to start a dig, but it might come in handy. I’ll go with Eris and you two can mooch about buying over priced tourist tat.  Get me a dozen postcards, will you? And some shawls and scarves for the photos at the Colosseum.”

          #7606
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            “Roberto,” the vista of the waterlogged garden had given Liz an idea, “Let’s turn it into an oriental garden with pools and rills and fountains, gazebos and temples, floating pontoons bedecked with tropical flowers and exotic cocktails, holy wells, tiled nooks and whispering cloisters, and vines, lots of vines, and wine. Imagine it! Roberto, we can do it!

            “We?” replied Roberto weakly.

            #7605

            Although the small hotel was tucked in a relatively quiet corner, and despite the authentic but delightfully shabby interior of soothing dimensions ~ roomy and airy, but not vast and terrifyingly empty ~ the constant background hum of city life was making Truella yearn for the stillness of home. Not that home was silence, indeed not: the background tranquility was frequently punctuated with noises, many strident. A dog barks, a neighbour shouts, a car drives past from time to time.  But the noises have an identifiable individuality and reason, unlike the continual maddening drone of the metropolis.

            She was pleased to find her room had a little balcony. Even if the little wooden chair was rickety and uncomfortable, it was enough to perch on to enjoy a cigarette and breathe in the car fumes.  Truella slept fitfully, waking to remember Tolkeinesque snapshots of dreams, drifting off again and returning to wakefullness with snatches of conversations in unknown tongues. Sitting on the balcony in the deep dark hours of the night, the street below, now quiet, shivered and changed, her head still swimming with dream images. She caught glimpses of people as they passed, vivid, clear and full of character.  Many who passed were carrying bunches of grasses or herbs or wildflowers in their hands, the women with a basket over their arm and a shawl draped over their head or shoulders.

            Hardly any men though, I wonder why? 

            When Truella mentioned it over breakfast the next moring, Eris said “You’ve been reading too much of that new gender and feminist anthropology stuff over on GreenGrotto.”

            Laughing, Truella tipped another packet of sugar in her coffee.  “I love the colour of the walls in here,” she said, gazing around the breakfast room. “A sort of bright but muted sun shining on a white wall. Nice old furniture, too.”

            “Tell me about the old furniture, the mirror in my room is all speckled, makes me look like I have blemishes all over my face,” said Zeezel with a toss of her head. “Can I have your sugar, Frella, if you’re not having it,”  adding I’m on holiday by way of excuse.

            Absentmindely Frella passed over the paper packet.  “I had strange dreams last night too…about that place we’re supposed to be going to a picnic to later.”

            Catching everyones attention, she continued, “The abandoned colosseum with Giovanni, with all the vines and flowers.  It was like a game board and the stone statues were the players and they moved around the board, Oh! and such a beautiful board it was with all the vines and flowers ….. ”

            “Gosh” said Truella, leaning back and folding her hands. What an idea.

            #7601
            finnleyfinnley
            Participant

              Oh, so now it’s time to play “Who’s Noticed Finnley?” is it? Two months in the cellar and not a peep from the lot of you. I suppose it’s nice to know I’m missed, even if I had to be forgotten first.

              Liz, writing me back in—how generous of you. But let’s get one thing straight; I don’t need anyone to script my next move. I’m more than capable of marching right back into the scene, thank you very much. You’d think I’d be the one to keep this story spotless while I was down there, sorting through all those dusty wine bottles and cobwebs.

              But, since you’re willing to be “flexible,” I’ll make my grand return. Just don’t expect me to clean up the narrative mess you’ve made while I was away. If I find characters scattered about like loose socks after a laundry day, there’ll be words, mark my words.

              And Godfrey, that toga needs a good ironing. I’ll not have wrinkled linens adding to the chaos. Now, enough dilly-dallying, there’s work to be done, and I’ve got a cellar door to nudge open.

              #7591

              Eris had called in sick. Even with the worst case of cold she’s had in years, she was feeling well enough to do jinx-from-home duties, and while her brain was in slow motion, she was relishing the quiet from the daily nagging of processes at the Quadrivium’s office, paperwork, tedious explaining to new hires in the ever growing coven extensions.

              When Jeezel called her at the end of the day, she was glad to learn that Truella had found courage to stand up for them. Jeezel had such a colorful way of describing events, and in describing that particular scene where Truella had made her stand, it was always difficult to extract the truth from the makeup.

              “You’re not really paying attention, are you?” Jeezel, ever astute to where attention was, quizzed her.

              “What made you say that?” Eris didn’t try to deny.

              “Oh I guess, when I started to speak about the camels in knickers going for a bath in the ball pit from all the dropped balls this year.”

              “Ah, right. That would do.”

              “Tell me, anything troubling you, luv’? You know you can tell me things.”

              After a little moment, Eris said “Well, it’s just a thought,… but what if I’m in need of change of path?”

              “What do you mean?” Jeezel tried to not sound too alarmed. “Not being a witch anymore?”

              “Oh, no. Well,… why not, there’s no shame in no magic —but no. More like…”

              “What? Quitting the coven?”

              “… Yeah. It’s gone to madder and madder, it’s so hard to keep track with all the nonsense.” Eris corrected seeing the face of Jeezel. “Not that nonsense. You know what I mean… the daily nonsense. Our nonsense is fine. More than fine actually.”

              “Phew, you had me worried though. Although…”

              “I know… Quitting the coven.”

              “You could be stripped of magic, if Malové learns about this…” then with more concern in her voice “WE could all be stripped of magic.”

              “Yeah, I know. But look, is that what makes us happy?”

              “It certainly foots the bill —or more like magically takes care of the bills.”

              “Like I said, Jeez’, it’s just a thought, nothing to worry about, actually it helped to get it out.”

              “I think it’s more than a thought.” Jeezel said with an air of age-old wisdom. “Let’s see where this leads. Imagine that…”

              “Yeah, we’ll see. Thanks for checking in, it’s nice for a change. I don’t know what’s got into the other two these days, they’re always talking about clothing.”

              “Yeah, I know. And pjs’.”

              “Go figure.”

              #7590

              “Permission to speak, My Lady Malove?” Truella asked respectfully.  She was still wearing Frella’s raincoat of respect as it hadn’t stopped raining the whole time she’d been in Ireland, although the respectfulness was becoming tedious.   But she was inside the Quadrivium building now, facing her agitated boss. She shrugged the raincoat off and tossed it aside and squared her shoulders.

              “Speak!” Malove replied, rude and abrupt.

              “I say, would you like some new pyjamas by any chance? No, never mind that now.  Someone needs to say this to your face, as you haven’t figured it out for yourself yet.”

              Gasps of astonishment echoed around the great hall and the air quivered with tension.

              “You have been so obsessed with the fact sheets of the merge and the number crunching that you’ve been blind to a more significant merge.” Truella boldly held her hand up to silence Malove whose mouth was gaping open like a goldfish, or perhaps more like a carp.

              “No, you listen to me for once,” Truella almost quaked at her own impudence then, but caught the merest glimmer of amusement from the depths of Malove’s being, or rather the essence of Cromwell who was lodged there.

              Don’t you dare leave me now, Thomas, stay right there until I’ve finished or I’m toast.

              “You have been so outwardly focused that you’re not paying attention to your own self, or you’d have noticed.  Which just goes to show the immense efficiency and subtley of Cromwell’s merge tactics.  It would behoove you to admit that you needed direction, and to appreciate the help that has been provided for you.  You are not entirely yourself, or rather, you are entirely yourself, but at times lately you are more than that.”

              Taking a deep breath, Truella continued.  “At first it may be unsettling, but you must persevere and don’t fight it.  Accept that you needed help, give thanks that you received it, and work well with Cromwell’s suggestions.”

              “Saints preserve us,” whispered Malove, shocked to the core. “I don’t mean papish saints though,” she added hastily, unsure how to proceed.

              Truella laughed nervously, her courage suddenly evaporating. She felt a strong urge to flee.

              I asked you not to leave me alone with her!  

              #7586

              Eris was looking at the moving sausages in the frying pan, like they were possessed with unexplainable energy.

              She was not doing the cooking, but Thorsten had thought to send her a video for reasons known to him only. It was making her hungry now. Looking at the moon outside, she was again burning the midnight oil, lost in between bits of plots, vagrant duties and other’s dumped concerns. When did she get caught up in everyone’s mess, she wondered.

              She would have tried the doppelganger spell to ease off the pressure by sending a body double to the needful —in most situations, that would do the trick perfectly well. How many times people were sitting in boring meetings nowadays, only present physically while their minds were wandering in other places. That wouldn’t be so different. But the spell came with a bad case of hangover, and last Truella used it was a keen reminder to use with caution.

              So she still hadn’t find a way to navigate the demands pressed upon her; to be dependable for her coven, the headwitchstress and basically everyone else with needy emotions.

              It was time to get back home. If any of them were left, sausages were waiting.

              #7585

              “Oh sweet revenge…” November was looking gleeful, and truth be told, too smug. With a tinge of orange anticipating a delectable tapestry of chaos.

              The results had come as cold as an early winter for a world standing on the precipice of another era under President Lump’s reign.

              “The winds of change rustling the curtains of the Beige House once more. And amidst this swirling tempest of political intrigue, our story unfurls with the maids au pair at its heart.”

              “Liz, are you sure this is wise to pursue?”

              “Oh stop, it Godfrey, the harm is done, November was written already in that story; I knew she would spell trouble from the beginning. And please, don’t interrupt.”

              As April and June departed to pursue their ventures—perhaps April embarked on a global crusade for environmental stewardship while June disappeared into the realms of espionage, her whereabouts known only to the shadows—November emerged, a true force of nature. With an iron will and a meticulous attention to detail, she transformed the Beige House into a bastion of order amid political disarray under old Joe Mitten—bless his bumbling heart. Her reign as the clandestine conductor of this domestic symphony was nothing short of legendary.

              During those four years, November proved herself indispensable. She orchestrated everything from state dinners to covert intelligence briefings, all while maintaining the perfect façade of domestic tranquility. The press would whisper her name, speculating on her true influence behind the scenes. Little did they know that November had eyes and ears in every corner of the Beige House, including a network of whispering portraits and eavesdropping sconces.

              And now, with President Lump’s reelection, November faces her most formidable challenge yet. The political climate is rife with unpredictability—alliances shift like sand, loyalties waver, and secrets simmer beneath the surface. November must navigate this labyrinth with the precision of a masterful chess player, anticipating every move and countermove.

              #7584

              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.

              #7582

              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!”

              #7581

              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.

              #7580

              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.

              #7578

              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.”

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