I didn’t know whether to be irritated or relieved when Frella started writing her own holiday diary entries, after asking me to write them. I’d already got the next one planned, and was looking forward to the scenery in Madeira, and here we were in Ireland again.  Grey day, too.  I was hoping to give her the holiday of a lifetime in my next book, The Frolics of Frivolous Frella.

I think I’ll take one day at a time and see what she comes up with next.

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.

Once upon a time, there was a shiftless lazy tart called Frella who couldn’t be bothered to write her own diary, so she asked me, Truella, to do it for her. She was going away on holiday, which she agreed would be a nice rest, but the preliminary preparations such as packing a suitcase were daunting.  It’s a funny thing how witches, accustomed to concocting spells to save the world, rarely remembered to make a spell for themselves to accomplish the more mundane aspects of life, preferring to wallow in the slimy bog of exhaustion while the chores piled up into insurmoutable promontories of little historic acclaim.  Weighed down with the rucksack of needy plants wanting water, decomposing salad and rotten tomatoes requiring assistance to the recycling arrangement, nearly empty (but not quite) bottles of assorted daily hygiene products to keep hair, skin and unmentionable areas sweetly scented,  best bra and knickers requiring laundering, matching socks and assorted garments to cover all possible weather conditions, a selection of energy boosting vitamins and minerals, a magic stone or two just in case, and remedies for possible holiday ailments,  Frella wasted her precious time looking at old drawings and talking about books instead of attending to the things that must be done.

Frella did agree to send hand drawn postcards every day while she was away, while she was relaxing and swanning around at one of the homes in her extensive property portfolio, so all was not lost. That she may be doing this in mismatched socks, climate inappropriate clothing, less than sweetly scented unmentionable areas, and lacking essential energy boosting vitamin intake, was of no concern to the potential recipient.

The next morning, Jeezel woke up in her hot pink satin sheets with no memories of the steampunk party and a headache. Her grand-mother Linda would say it only meant one thing: the aftermath of an evening so fabulous, so wild, and so extravagant that it’s left her with nothing but a hint of a headache and a blank canvas where her memories should be. That steampunk party at Adare Manor must have been an affair for the ages!

Well, Jeezel didn’t remembered about an affair either, but that headache was not just a hint. And her joints? Could that be all that humidity in the tentaculous octobus? That she remembered. As soon as they arrived she got rid of her SlowMeDown boots in the hotel compactor, gagging at the slushy sound. It was just before Eris found that spoiled baby. The tentation had been great, but fortunately Frella took it, fierce like a lioness mother to whom would suggest she gave it to the conciergerie.

An idea popped in between two throbs of her brains. She went straight to her phone and checked her pictures. None were taken after the yellow sodium lamps in the grand salon before dinner. That was unusual of her. She’d check with Truella. She saw her colleague use her camera like an automatic rifle with every meal. She must have taken something of the surrounding.

Jeezel stumbled down in her most glamourous morning attire. The buffet was a cornucopia of every food from every corner of the globe. With no surprise, she found Truella at the French corner, lurking by a decadent spread of cheeses that would make the finest connoisseurs weep with joy and anyone else find shelter in the toilets.

“Such a work of art,” was saying Truella to herself, “a still life begging to be devoured.” The witch licked her lips as she started to cut slimy slices of camembert and other unknown delicacies.

“Do you have any picture of the party last night?”

“What party?” asked Truella, too busy to cut properly a piece of roquefort to look at her friend.

“You mean you don’t remember either?”

“Are you playing tricks on me? I never recall my dreams.”

Baby cries interrupted them. Frigella, the baby in a baby pouch and her aura tinged with the yellow of responsibility was looking very intently at the tables as if in a quest for something critical.

“Have you found the milk,” she asked.

“Nope,” said Jeezel.

“Behind the cloche à fromages,” said Truella still without looking at her friends.

“Thanks.”

Jeezel, followed Frigella.

“Can I see  the pictures of the party on your phone?”

“I wasn’t at the party,” said Frella with nonchalance. “Say hi to aunt Jeezel,” said the witch to the little one.

The throbbing seemed to intensify. Jeezel raised her hand to her forehead and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.  Were all of them under a spell of some sort? She spotted Malové. Alone at her table she was chewing religiously, certainly counting before swallowing. She wouldn’t get anything from the Headwitch, apart from more throbbing headache. Were those balls snail shells in her plate?

“We need to talk with Eris. She would know what happened last night.”

“Sure,” said the other two without paying attention.

“…..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!”

It wasn’t until late the following afternoon that Truella, with a pang of guilt, remembered Roger. Frella grinned sheepishly and said that she had forgotten him too.

“But you know what? Wait, let me show you the tile I bought in Brazil.” Frella trotted off to find her suitcase.

“Look what it says on the bit of paper that came with it:

Function: The Freevole tile embodies the essence of empowerment and autonomy. It serves as a reminder and a guide for those standing at life’s many crossroads, facing decisions that may seem overwhelming. This tile encourages the holder to recognize their inner strength and the ability to choose their path confidently, even when faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges.
At the center of the tile, there is a small vole standing at a crossroads where waters intersect, with dry earth visible behind it. The scene depicts sheets of water overlapping on both sides of the vole, creating a sense of inundation, yet there is an opening ahead, suggesting a path or choice to be made.

We need to backtrack a bit with Roger. Look what it says here:

What that vole hadn’t realized was that he had to backtrack a bit. There was no way ahead or to the sides, but the way out was behind him.

See what I mean?”

Truella squinted at Frella. “What?”

Sighing, Frigella thrust the bit of paper at her friend. “Read the rest of it!”

The Vole: The vole symbolizes the individual facing a decision point or crossroads in life. Its presence suggests vulnerability, but also resilience and adaptability.
Crossing of Waters: The intersection of waters represents the convergence of different paths or possibilities. It symbolizes the complexities and challenges of decision-making, where multiple options overlap and intertwine.
Dry Earth Behind: The dry earth behind the vole symbolizes stability, past experiences, or familiar ground. It represents the foundation upon which decisions are based and serves as a reminder of where one has come from.
Overlap of Drowned Sheets of Water: The drowned sheets of water on both sides signify the potential consequences or risks associated with each choice. They represent the unknown and the possibility of being overwhelmed by circumstances.
Opening Ahead: The opening ahead signifies opportunity, hope, and the possibility of forging a new path. It represents the future and the freedom to make choices that lead to growth and fulfilment.

Families: This tile is aligned with the Vold family, known for their connection to transformation, challenge, and the breaking of old systems to make way for the new. The Vold energy within the Freevole tile emphasizes the importance of facing challenges head-on and using them as opportunities for growth and empowerment.
Significance: The scene depicted on the Freevole tile, with the vole at a crossroads between inundation and dry earth, symbolizes the moments in life where we must make significant choices amidst emotional or situational floods. The waters represent challenges and emotions that may threaten to overwhelm, while the dry earth symbolizes the solid ground of our inner strength and determination. The path ahead, though uncertain, indicates that there is always a way forward, guided by our autonomy and personal power.
As an advice: When encountering the Freevole tile, take it as a sign to pause and reflect on your current crossroads. It urges you to tap into your inner resilience and recognize that you have the power to navigate your life’s journey. The choices before you, while daunting, are opportunities to assert your independence and steer your life according to your true desires and values. Trust in your ability to make decisions that will lead you to your chosen path of fulfillment and growth. Remember, the floods of challenge bring with them the nourishment needed for new beginnings; it is within your power to find the opening and move forward with courage and confidence.
The motif of the Freevole, standing determined and attentive amidst the forces of nature, serves as a potent symbol of the power within each individual to face life’s uncertainties and emerge stronger for having made their own choices.

“Ok so in a nutshell,” Truella replied slowly, “Roger’s crossroads took him to Brazil and ours took us here, and that’s all that needs to be said about it. Right?”

“Exactly!”

It may surprise you, dear reader, to hear the story of Truella and Frella’s childhood at a Derbyshire mill in the early 1800s.  But! I hear you say, how can this be? Read on, dear reader, read on, and all will be revealed.

Tilly, daughter of Everard Mucklewaite, miller of Brightwater Mill, was the youngest of 17 children.  Her older siblings had already married and left home when she was growing up, and her parents were elderly.  She was somewhat spoiled and allowed a free rein, which was unusual for the times, as her parents had long since satisfied the requirements for healthy sons to take over the mill, and well married daughters. She was a lively inquisitive child with a great love of the outdoors and spent her childhood days wandering around the woods and the fields and playing on the banks of the river.   She had a great many imaginary friends and could hear the trees whisper to her, in particular the old weeping willow by the mill pond which she would sit under for hours, deep in conversation with the tree.

Tilly didn’t have any friends of her own age, but as she had never known human child friends, she didn’t feel the loss of it.  Her older sisters used to talk among themselves though, saying she needed to play with other children or she’d never grow up  and get out of her peculiar ways.  Between themselves (for the parents were unconcerned) they sent a letter to an aunt who’d married an Irishman and moved with him to Limerick, asked them to send over a small girl child if they had one spare. As everyone knew, there were always spare girls that parents were happy to get rid of, if at all possible, and by return post came the letter announcing the soon arrival of Flora, who was a similar age to Tilly.

It was a long strange journey for little Flora, and she arrived at her new home shy and bewildered.  The kitchen maid, Lucy, did her best to make her feel comfortable. Tilly ignored her at first, and Everard and his wife Constance were as usual preoccupied with their own age related ailments and increasing senility.

One bright spring day, Lucy noticed Flora gazing wistfully towards the millpond, where Tilly was sitting on the grass underneath the willow tree.

“Go on, child, go and sit with Tilly, she don’t bite, just go and sit awhile by her,” Lucy said, giving Flora a gentle push.  “Here, take this,” she added, handing her two pieces of plum cake wrapped in a blue cloth.

Flora did as she was bid, and slowly approached the shade of the old willow.  As soon as she reached the dangling branches, the tree whispered a welcome to her.  She smiled, and Tilly smiled too, pleased and surprised that the willow has spoken to the shy new girl.

“Can you hear willow too?” Tilly asked, looking greatly pleased. She patted the grass beside her and invited Flora to sit.   Gratefully, and with a welcome sigh, Flora joined her.

Tilly and Flora became inseperable friends over the next months and years, and it was a joy for Tilly to introduce Flora to all the other trees and creatures in their surroundings. They were like two peas in a pod.

Over the years, the willow tree shared it’s secrets with them both.

One summer day, at the suggestion of the willow tree, Tilly and Flora secretly dug a hole, hidden from prying eyes by the long curtain of hanging branches.  They found, among other objects which they kept carefully in an old trunk in the attic, an old book, a grimoire, although they didn’t know it was called a grimoire at the time.  In fact, they were unable to read it, as girls were seldom taught to read in those days.  They secreted the old tome in the trunk in the attic with the other things they’d found.

Eventually the day came when Tilly and Flora were found husbands and had to leave the mill for their new lives. The trunk with its mysterious contents remained in the dusty attic,  and was not seen again until almost 200 years later, when Truella’s parents bought the old mill to renovate it into holiday apartments.  Truella took the trunk for safekeeping.

When she eventually opened it to explore what it contained, it all came flooding back to her, her past life as Tilly the millers daughter, and her friend Flora ~ Flora she knew was Frigella. No wonder Frella had seemed so familiar!

Jeezel was enjoying a glass of champagne, enveloped by mother of pearl foam in a bathtub that was more like a swimming pool for a siren. Her emerald eyes were looking pensively at the reflections on the golden tiles. She was humming along a playlist carefully selected to help her relax and assimilate all the changes in her life.

Despite the fiasco in Brasil, Malove has been keeping them busy with more projects to come. Jeezel had to come up with new workshops for new recruits with the secret purpose of making witchcraft more accepted by the masses. Then, there were those secret missions for which Frigella and herself also had to procure rare and hard to find ingredients. Of course, all that, she could easily handle. Hadn’t she always managed to get back up on her feet every time she trampled on her train during her first beauty contest.

But now, there was Joe. Jeezel took a sip of champagne.

When she found her cottage, the bathroom was in a state not even a mother could love. Numerous cracks running wild like the worst kind of pantyhose mishap, and humidity creeping in like an unwelcome suitor at a drag ball.

When she put up a picture on Flick Flock, it was like blowing the mythic Cornucopia. Her fans came through like the chorus of a drag space opera. Offers poured in, tips, tricks and contacts. But one offer stood out, a brother of a fan near Limerick with hands skilled in construction.

If Jeezel’s got a heart as big as her hair, she didn’t let just anyone past the sequin curtains. Despite her hesitation to let a stranger wander through her abode, even one vouched for by a fan, she also knew when to delegate. With a few clicks of her carefully crafted nails on her phone screen and an appointment was decided. And Joe entered into her life.

He was more an Anthony Tomkin than her usual Brad Pitt or Chris Hemsworth type. But still she was intrigued. As usual, Lumina warned her not to let her artichoke heart be ruffled again. But, thought Jeezel, she was not a child anymore, she was a powerful witch. She gulped the last trace of champagne and rose, emerging from the foam like a newborn Venus.

What could the man possibly do to her that she couldn’t transmute into gold?

The second coming had been anticipated for many years, although few but the most fanatic of the American sects expected it to actually happen, and they, of course, expected it to happen in their own country.  Certainly, nobody expected him to be 30 meters high weighing over 600 tons.  Naturally people were sceptical but when he turned the Rodrigo de Freitas lake into wine,  even the most scientific minds were unable to find an explanation.

“We had better get the hell out of town,” Frigella said, “Before anyone realizes it was our spell to reverse the effects of the termitation honey on Truella.”

“Have I got time to go for a swim in the wine lake first,” asked Jezeel, “I mean, it would be such a shame to miss that once in a lifetime experience, and I’m sure it will do wonders for my complexion.”

“You’re right, it would be a shame to miss it,” agreed Truella, “But are you sure the spell is stable, I don’t want to turn to stone again while I’m swimming.”

“Well, I think we should leave town as soon as possible” Frigella said, her pale forehead wrinking into a little frown.

“Look, Malove isn’t even up yet after stuffing herself with that smoked hippo last night,  if she wakes up before we get back she’ll just think we’ve gone out for coffee.  We’re supposed to be having a little holiday.  Anyway I put some sleeping pills in her portion, she won’t wake up until well after lunch.  We have plenty of time and it’s only two blocks from here. Oh come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Well come on then” Eris said, “But let’s get going. Don’t start doing your makeup Jez, it will all come off in the wine anyway.”

With the carnival in full swing, Truella was finding it hard to focus on everything that was going on. Was this mission more chaotic than usual, or did it seem that way because she wasn’t giving it her full attention?  She hadn’t thought too much about Jezeel not closing the portal.  She was having enough trouble stabilizing her own bilocation spell.

Where was Frigella when she needed her?   And what was going on with that Cedric guy? Truella decided to go in search of her. Frigella was always good at explaining and clarifying things that she hadn’t been paying attention to.

Outside on the pavement, Truella paused to light a cigarette.  The street were a cocophany of raucus banter and gay shreiks, a riot of colour and imagination and Truella stood rapt at the sights and sounds. Such a contrast from her quiet life at home in the garden with only ghosts for company.  In a way Truella was glad that Roger was still missing with the pack of monkeys, rather than leaving him alone at home.

“Aye, look at all them monkey costumes, our Mavis, they’m really good int they, look just like real monkeys,” a chubby Englishwoman in a garish pink outfit said, passing by where Truella was standing.

“That’s because they ARE real monkeys, ya daft cow,” retorted her companion.  “And they’re all following that big fella.”

“Ooh, that big burly chap?” piped up the third woman in the group. “I clocked him right off, come on girls, let’s go after the big boy.”

“Ooh, Sha, what are you like, ya tart.”

As the three women cackled and trotted off after the monkeys, Truella’s peaceful interlude came to an abrupt halt.  What burly man with a pack of monkeys?  Surely not, surely Roger and his monkeys hadn’t entered that portal that Jez forgot to close?

“Are we going down a sewer?” asked Truella as if you’d asked her to put her hand into dragon poop to see why they had diarrhoea. She was wearing the green blouse of a nurse. Jeezel’s thought the colour was almost a match with the witch’s face.

“Don’t be difficult,” said Frigella a bit annoyed.  “You spend most of your free time in a hole as a hobby.” She was readjusting her purple blouse, which seemed to be bit too big for her.

“It’s my hole,” said Truella. “I know what’s in there. It’s got nothing to do with that murky miasma of decayed dreams and digested dinners piling up down there as a testimony of Limerick’s population’s contemplation of their puny lives on their pitiful thrones. And the stench, it cuts through the air, it would make a maggot gag. I tell you, certain portals are best left untraveled. I wonder why Malové has left you in charge of the portal.”

“We won’t go through the sewer,” said Jeezel. “It’s an ancient spell I got from my grand-mother Linda Pol from the time of her Time Travelling drag show. It creates a vortex impervious to any smell. If maggots gag it’ll be because they saw your panties.”

Truella, who had never learned how to hold her tongue, started to open her mouth when Malové arrived. She inspected every witch’s nurse attire and winced at Jeezel’s white blouse that made the tall witch look like one of those nightingale from the 50’s.

“Will you be able to breathe?” she asked. “We don’t want to be stuck here because you fainted before finishing your spell.”

“This is my natural silhouette, whispered Jeezel. The fabric is very stretchy. Anyway, I’m using sigils to cast this spell.”

Truella stopped her snort short when Malové glanced at her own blouse.

“As for you, your words are not the only thing you could iron out.”

Then she gave a nod of appreciation to Frigella and Eris. “Then we’re good to go.”

Jeezel started to draw lines and curves in space above and around the manhole, she looked like a peacock flaunting its feathers. Then she used her orange gloss to draw the one sigil around the manhole and invoked its name. Frigella who was seeing it performed for the first time had the impression Jeezel said “Fern” but she wouldn’t put her hand in a witch’s fire for it. The manhole cover shimmied and shook like it was coming to life. It lifted, hovering with all the grace of a duchess at high tea before sliding aside.

“Et voilà,” said Jeezel with glitter in her eyes. “Who’s first?”

Eris, intrigued by the vortex of glowing and sparkling with all the magical energy coursing through it, jumped right in, not waiting for anyone to answer.

Truella had already left for that monkey hunt in the Mediterranean. Eris had to go back before nightfall, which was quite early at this time of year as she had chosen to live in such a remote place in the midst of a frozen forest. Jeezel only thought it romantic because of the icicles that would form on your eyelashes and brows, making you the perfect avatar for the Snow Queen musical. And Frigella… She said she was tired but from the sight of her aura, she undoubtedly was onto something fishy.

Jeezel looked at her dress. Once a divine creation, it has turned into a disaster. Irremediably stained with soot, it’s foul smell would make any dragon lose their appetite. She felt a mix of sadness and guilt for all the murex that gave their shells for that unique shade of purple she was so proud of.

She wasn’t sure even Teddy Steambolt could muster his magic to save the divine creation. She imagined his eyes widen as saucers when she entered his Palace of Pristine with the lifeless garment in her arms. He would most certainly swoon and gasp at the same time.

“Oh, The tragedy!” he would wail, his high-pitched lament resonating in the cathedral ceiling of his atelier of cleanliness. “What calamity hath befallen this exquisite creation?”

“Teddy, dear,” she would say, “It was indeed a tragedy. I lost seven of my nails and my hair was ruined. You’re the alchemist of cleanliness, you’re my only hope for a miracle.”

And he would take her dress and perform his magic from which it would emerge reborn, and all those murex wouldn’t have lost their home for nothing.

She was about to follow the others when Malové reminded her: “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

A broom and a bucket of black soap were floating on her right.

Her sigh would have made a blue whale blush with envy. Her role tonight would not be the Snow Queen, but Cinderella, another of her favourite diva.

Jeezel pushed open the door of her favourite florist The Enchanted Garden. The clear sound of wind chimes welcomed her. An ever changing melody atuned to earth and water. Flucinda was at the counter serving another client.  She might not be of the flamboyant kind but she knew her way with flowers. Her shop was a botanical wonderland, a cornucopia of color and fragrance that would make Mother Nature herself green with envy. The witch took a moment to breath in. It helped her relax a little.

“Jeezel! How are you dear?” asked Flucinda as the client left with his arms full of red roses. “You’re glowing as always.”

The witch blushed just a little at the compliment. Flucinda’s dark brown eyes were as sharp as those of a silent observation assassin. They darted swiflty over Jeezel’s silhouette, taking mental notes, absorbing the energy, the secrets, the silent dialogues.

“What do you need today?” she asked.

“Petals of a white rose, lavender buds and mint. And a few other things.” She said, handing the florist a list.

“Why don’t you wait in the heart of the Enchanted Garden while I’m preparing all that for you. Water is boiled, I’ll bring you some freshly brewed herbal tea.”

Jeezel felt grateful to her friend. She sat on an ornate stone bench and enjoyed the soft serenade of trickling water from a sparkling fountain and the symphony of scents — delicate jasmine, heady rose, spicy carnation and a hint of sweet lily. It helped sooth her anxiety. She had received a request on Sponsoreons by one of her fans and loyal customer. Apparently the last full moon had pulled the thread on the tightly knit sweater of camaraderie at this poor soul’s job. There appeared to be more drama in that workplace than at at drag queen bingo night when the last sequin-studded handbag is on the line, and the usual symphony of productivity has turned into a cacophony of cattiness and pettiness. Even the smallest of issues were being blown up like a lip injection gone rogue!

She had the perfect spell for it: Concordia. Used to bring harmony and peace, smoothing over the ruffled feathers and frayed edges. It was the divine choice for that case. However, such a potent spell was not to be taken lightly. If it was not crafted with precision, intent and a touch of flair, things could go haywire faster than a wig snatch in a lip-synch battle.

“Here you go,” said Flucinda as she put the silver tray on a smooth rock at the edge of the fountain.

“Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

The teapot was a glamour, as opulent as a bejewelled crown. The steam rising from its beak carried whispers of secrets and spells, bringing out memories of rumours swirling around a backstage pageant. It was in another life.

“Do I smell chamomile, lavender and valerian root?”

“Yes.”

Flucinda poured generously the yellow brew into an intricately carved white porcelain cup. Then added in a smidgeon of honey.

“I know you like it sweet,” she said to the witch before adding a sprinkle of edible silver stars. “Take the time you need. Everything will be at the counter when you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

She took a first sip. It felt like a warm hug in a cup from a dear friend who knows just what you need. And she noticed  a secret ingredient: a twist of lemon balm that gave the brew a citrusy zing. With every following sip, Jeezel felt the anxiety melting away like last season’s contour, leaving her ready to face the spellcasting with vigor and vim.

“And that, my Dear Reader, is why, even to this day, a traffic cone is called a witches hat.”

It was the boy’s favourite bed-time story and Frigella had read it so many times she knew it nearly by heart. She twisted her neck so she could look down on the child; his breathing was soft, the bedside light illuminated long white lashes resting on chubby cheeks. Slowly… silently, she closed the book, switched off the night lamp and edged herself from the bed. She was very keen to log on to the Ritual and see what progress, if any, Eris had made.

The encounter with Truella and Jeezel that afternoon down at the Cabbage had disturbed her. It was not like them … Truella pouting and mutinous, Jeezel swaggering in so full of her own self-importance. And herself! Blushing and snorting and carrying on for no reason when it was her very nature to be composed. They had always worked as a team, the four of them; it was their strength.

Was some powerful magic afoot that had got through their protection? Perhaps Eris had found something. Her nose twitched and she realised she could still smell it, a pungent uneasiness. Like stale smoke.

“Aunt Friggy?”

She sighed. Her brother had made her promise not to use magic on the child but surely just a wee sprinkle of moon dust couldn’t hurt?

“Yes Conor?”

“Are witches true?”

She sat down on the bed.

“What does your Daddy say?” She stroked the child’s yellow-blond hair. Silky, like her own. He looked more like her than he did his own parents with his alabaster skin and eyes that changed colour like the sea. Always watching he was too, as though he was looking to the very heart of a matter. Just like herself. She was sure he had inherited the gift but Lorcon was having none of that nonsense and had told her so in no uncertain terms. The boy would suffer for it in time though. Just like she had when it had been denied.

“He said Conor don’t be so daft.”

Of course he did. Lorcon clung frantically to his normal life with his normal wife. Tonight she was baby-sitting Conor while they went on a normal date night. Still, she should not be so hard on Lorcon; it was a strange upbringing they’d had themselves.

She kissed the boy’s forehead and breathed deeply. The sweet scent of night jasmin washed over her. At least she’d be there for Conor. The thought consoled her.

“Shall I leave the light on for you, Poppet?”

A power move indeed, what a thing to suggest! Truella felt misunderstood again. And all she was trying to do was work out her new spell in such a way that the others would help her with it while assuming it was a necessary addition to the repertoire of the coven. Which indeed it could be, after all.  People were strange, and witches were stranger.

But was it a power thing to be consumed with a passionate hobby, even if it wasn’t on the coven to do list? The power to do her own thing, but still be part of the group? She needed them, she knew that, it was no good thinking she could go it alone, even if it seemed temptingly less complicated.  If only she had a spell to be in two places at once.

Be careful, the voice of Lisia Tattius, her disembodied helper,  whispered in her ear, For such magic requires a balance of the soul.

Are you suggesting my soul doesn’t have the necessary balance? Truella replied, soundlessly of course, but with a visible impatient frown.  Lisia putting a damper on her scheme again with words of caution, it was exasperating at times.

Divided attention can lead to fractures, shattered fragments….

Lisia’s words reminded Truella of the other spell she wanted, and it suddenly occurred to her that Lisia had given her just the clue she needed to convince the others that her spell was a necessary addition and not just a sideline personal whim.

But why would a spell be useful to collect the shattered fragments, if nothing had been shattered and divided in the first place? Of course! It was becoming clear.  One must retrace the sequence of events to the initial fragmentation before proceeding with the recollection of said pieces.

There was a lot more to think about than Truella had intially realized.   And it would be imperative to ensure the new new spells stayed distinctly separate,  because what if the scattered shards started doubling up and appearing in two places at once?  Picturing this possible occurence was enough to give Truella a headache.

“Why are you frowning?” Frigella asked, “Are you even listening to me?  You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“No,” Truella was nothing if not frank, especially with Frigella.  “Not a word, I was thinking about my own stuff.”

“Typical!” her friend snorted, somewhat uncharacteristically, as she was more of a chirruping type.

“Causam invenio ante fragmentorum fragmentorum rursus simul,”  Imperiosus Adiutoremus interjected, with a sly smile.  Imperiosus Adiutoremus, not his real name of course, was an old friend of Truella’s from the days of the Roman Republic in Baetica.   Two millenia stuck in that necropolis until Truella finally succeeded in conjuring his spirit free of his mortal remains (stuck there for eternity thanks to their old adversary Tani, the Iberian sorcerer, and his powerful spells).  It had taken Truella 2176 years and countless lifetimes to reverse that spell, and naturally Imperiosus (or Imp for short) was bound to be eternally grateful.   And Truella welcomed his interruptions, which always made her smile in fond remembrance of their happy days together before that dreadful uprising of the local tribes.  True, he was bossy, even now, but his intentions were always to be helpful.  Lisia Tattius and Imperiosus, now in their ephemeral states,  were often at odds. Lisia took umbrage if Imp’s suggestions contradicted her own, and resented it when Truella favoured Imp over herself. Some things never change.  Lisia had been Truella’s house slave, back in the day, though had always been treated well. Truella had been fond of her and allowed her liberties because she found her impertinence amusing.  Little did she know at the time that she’d be subjected to that for all eternity.  Still, she had her uses. Although it had often seemed like a mistake to teach her to read, for Lisia’s voracious appetite for the written word had made her copiously wordy, but she was useful more often than not and could spout many an eloquent phrase. True, always a pastiche of plagiarism, but not without her own particular panache and perspicacity.