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Mon. November 25th, 10am.

The bell sat on the stool near Lucien’s workbench, its bronze surface polished to a faint glow. He had spent the last ten minutes running a soft cloth over its etched patterns, tracing the curves and grooves he’d never fully understood. It wasn’t the first time he had picked it up, and it wouldn’t be the last. Something about the bell kept him tethered to it, even after all these years. He could still remember the day he’d found it—a cold morning at a flea market in the north of Paris, the stalls cramped and overflowing with gaudy trinkets, antiques, and forgotten relics.

He’d spotted it on a cluttered table, nestled between a rusted lamp and a cracked porcelain dish. As he reached for it, she had appeared, her dark eyes sharp with curiosity and mischief. Éloïse. The bell had been their first conversation, its strange beauty sparking a connection that quickly spiraled into something far more dangerous. Her charm masking the shadows she moved in. Slowly she became the reason he distanced himself from Amei, Elara, and Darius. It hadn’t been intentional, at least not at first. But by the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late.

A sharp knock at the door yanked him from the memory. Lucien’s hand froze mid-polish, the cloth resting against the bell. The knock came again, louder this time, impatient. He knew who it would be, though the name on the patron’s lips changed depending on who was asking. Most called him “Monsieur Renard.” The Fox. A nickname as smooth and calculating as the man himself.

Lucien opened the door, and Monsieur Renard stepped in, his gray suit immaculate and his air of quiet authority as sharp as ever. His eyes swept the studio, frowning as they landed on the unfinished painting on the easel—a lavish banquet scene, rich with silver and velvet.

“Lucien,” Renard said smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence. “I trust you’ll be ready to deliver on this commission.”

Lucien stiffened. “I need more time.”

“Of course,” Renard replied with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We all need something we can’t have. You have until the end of the week. Don’t make her regret recommending you.”

As Renard spoke, his gaze fell on the bell perched on the stool. “What’s this?” he asked, stepping closer. He picked it up, his long and strong fingers brushing the polished surface. “Charming,” he murmured, turning it over. “A flea market find, I suppose?”

Lucien said nothing, his jaw tightening as Renard tipped the bell slightly, the etched patterns catching the faint light from the window. Without care, Renard dropped it back onto the stool, the force of the motion knocking it over. The bell struck the wood with a resonant tone that lingered in the air, low and haunting.

Renard didn’t even glance at it. “You’ve always had a weakness for the past,” he remarked lightly, turning his attention back to the painting. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t disappoint.”

With that, he was gone, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he disappeared down the hall.

Lucien stood in the silence, staring at the bell where it had fallen, its soft tone still reverberating in his mind. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it in his hands. The polished bronze felt warm, almost alive, as if it were vibrating faintly beneath his fingertips. He wrapped it carefully in a piece of linen and placed it inside his suitcase, alongside his sketchbooks and a few hastily folded clothes. The suitcase had been half-packed for weeks, a quiet reflection of his own uncertainty—leaving or staying, running or standing still, he hadn’t known.

Crossing the room, he sat at his desk, staring at the blank paper in front of him. The pen felt heavy in his hand as he began to write: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time!

He paused, rereading the words, then wrote them again and again, folding each note with care. He didn’t know what he expected from his friends—Amei, Elara, Darius—but they were the only ones who might still know him, who might still see something in him worth saving. If there was a way out of the shadows Éloïse and Monsieur Renard had drawn him into, it lay with them.

As he sealed the last envelope, the low tone of the bell still hummed faintly in his memory, echoing like a call he couldn’t ignore.

Amei:

The flat was smaller than she’d remembered when she first viewed it, but it was hers—as long as she could manage the rent. She glanced at her phone to check the time. That guy, Felix, from the hospital would be here soon to see the place. He’d seemed really nice when they’d chatted—just looking for a base while working nearby.

The move had been a necessity; the old house had always felt big, but when Tabitha moved out and Amei’s relationship ended shortly after, the echoes became unbearable. Downsizing had been practical—a good move financially and a fresh start. Or so she kept telling herself.

Unpacking was slow. Some of her larger furniture had gone into storage, and she’d thrown out or donated a lot too. It was truly amazing how much one accumulated. The boxes she’d brought were filled with relics of her life—mostly functional, but also a few cartons of books, carefully wrapped ceramics she couldn’t part with, lengths of fabric she would probably never use but were just so beautiful, unframed art she hadn’t found space for yet, and a stack of notebooks dating back years. She pushed herself up from the floor and stretched, her knees stiff from crouching too long.

As she reached into another box, her hand paused on a photo album. She pulled it out and flipped it open, the pages falling naturally to a picture of her and her friends—Lucien, Elara, Darius, and herself, standing in a loose semicircle outside a weathered door. They were younger, glowing with the easy confidence of people who still believed they had endless time. A bell hung from the lintel above them, ornate and dark, its surface catching the light in the photo. Amei couldn’t remember the context or who had taken the photo, but the sight of it tugged at something deep.

The bell. Why did that stand out?

She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. Lucien had his arm draped around her shoulder, his eyes squinting into the sun. Elara was mid-laugh, her head tilted back, carefree and radiant. Darius stood slightly apart, his gaze intense, as though the photo had captured him mid-thought. They’d all been so close back then. Closer than she’d ever been with anyone since.

The doorbell buzzed, snapping her back to the present. She slipped the photo back in the album and straightened up. Felix was punctual, at least.

It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing.  It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her.  Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right.  It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it.  It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.

In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship.  It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order.  Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.

Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side.  They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes.  They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing.  He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.

If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.

Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill.  Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!”  Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.

“It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much.  A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”

“Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.

“Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”

“Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go.  Like my Bert…”

“Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After 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.

The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.

Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.

As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.

Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.

Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”

Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.

Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements  but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.

As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.

As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.

Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”

The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”

Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”

Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”

Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”

Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”

Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”

Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”

Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.

As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.

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.

What the disgruntled witches of the Quadrivium hadn’t considered was that the witches of the Quintessivium Cloister Crafts weren’t happy about the merger either. They were not happy with their leader either, but had progressed towards a takeover considerably more than the floundering dissatisfied Quadrivium members.  A gaggle of strangers about the place, and the attention of the supervisors during the process of merging, was the last thing they needed at this delicate stage.  Sassafras Bentley in particular was worried, more alarmed than the others, for she had another secret investigation under way as well as the revolt.

Sassafras hadn’t been sleeping well. Not only did she have to cover her tracks from the others and the administration, she now had to ensure none of the nosy witches from the other coven chanced on her preliminary findings.  It had taken so long to get to this stage, and she was at a crucial point of revelation.  But not only did Sassafras have to maintain the utmost secrecy, she had to get her colleagues to help her conceal it ~ but without telling them what it was or why they had to keep it quiet.

It would help if there was someone she could trust to help her. But who? The other witches were a dizzy shallow lot, more interested in showy spells and those tawdry crafts and sales.  The only reason they’d been moved to start a rebellion was because they wanted a bigger slice of the pie: too much was being creamed off by the top brass, and they wanted more attention for themselves, too.  The fact of the matter was that Sassafras had only joined the coven because of the location of the headquarters.  True, she had dabbled in witchcraft, cast a few spells, but in her own way. She didn’t naturally gravitate to team work with all its problems ~ not least, all the other people that one had to put up with.  But it was an extremely useful way for her to fully explore the location, and gave her many opportunities to walk on her own in the woods, ostensibly gathering plants for the spells and potions.

A group from the Quadrivium were expected to come and stay over the weekend.  Sassafras didn’t have much time to hatch a plan, but the urgency was clouding her brain, rendering her incapable of thinking clearly. It was an interruption.  She needed  ~ and wanted ~ to think about the discoveries, not worry about this unsettling development.  Maybe she would just have to play it by ear when they came.

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!

Every conversation stopped and every head turned to the door when Jeezel entered the Faded Cabbage. Her cheeks, round as plums, always gave her a fresh look. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of deep emerald green sparkling with otherworldy wisdom, slowly scanned the room, never looking at anyone in particular but seeing all. Her long ebony locks cascaded down her back, accentuating the mysterious aura that surrounded her. When Jeezel spotted her friends in that dimly lit corner, she pouted. The conversations suddenly started again, questions and rumours about her in every mouth. When she was sure everybody was talking about her, the hint of a smile raised the corner of her lips, as red as the apple that poisoned Snow White. She moved nonchalantly between the tables. The air around her shimmered with magic, leaving an indelible impression on those fortunate enough to be here that day.

Although, as soon as Jeezel entered Truella’s cloaking spell, people forgot all about her and resumed their conversation. She felt a pang of regret and sighed as she let her bottom fall gracefully on the chair. She put her phone on the table and started tapping it with her fingers. Each of them had an intricate silver ring carrying a unique enchantment.

“Jeez, Jeez!” exclaimed Truella. “Do you always have to project that attention-catching spell wherever you go? We need discretion.”

“What’s the purpose of having a beautiful silhouette if nobody’s looking at it?” Jeezel asked looking sideways at a blushing Frigella.

“And boy, stop that noise with your rings, said Truella. It makes me want to puke.”

“And I thought you were all about freedom,” snorted Jeezel.

“My freedom! How many times do I have to repeat? Where were we?” Truella asked rhetorically to Frigella.

A dozen notifications popped up on Jeezel’s phone. She picked it up, counted the likes to her last reality potion spell and started to scroll the replies of her Flick Flock fans.