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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.

Frella opened her mouth to reply, but Eris clapped her hands, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Right, enough lounging. Let’s play a game—something to liven things up.”

“What sort of game?” Truella asked, “Nothing that requires too much energy I trust?”

“A card game.” Eris pulled a small leather pouch from her satchel. She gave it a shake, and a deck of cards flew out, shuffling mid-air before landing neatly in her hands.

Malove smirked. “If it involves hexes, I’m in.”

Eris began to deal the cards with a flourish. Each card shimmered, pulsing faintly with magic as it landed on the rug. “Think strategy, mischief, and a touch of divination. The goal? Outsmart your opponents while dodging whatever surprises the cards throw at you.”

Frella propped herself up on one elbow, eyeing the cards warily. “Define ‘surprises.’”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Eris said with a wink, placing the deck in the centre. “Rules are simple: draw a card, play your move, and handle the consequences. Last witch standing wins.”

“Wins what?” Jeezel asked, lowering her camera.

“The satisfaction of knowing you’re the most cunning witch here.”

“Sounds like my kind of game,” Truella said, drawing the first card. She held it up to reveal a swirling vortex labelled Spell Swap. The card glowed briefly before zipping into Frella’s pile.

Frella blinked. “What just happened?”

“You’ve inherited Truella’s card,” Eris said with a grin. “And a touch of her personality for the next round.”

Frella felt an odd surge of boldness, almost manic. “Alright, my turn!” she declared, her voice sharp and bossy and much louder than she had intended. She snatched a card marked Mystic Reveal and, with a theatrical flick of her hand, unleashed a shimmering projection of her week’s questionable decisions.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cackled. “Why does everyone need to see this?”

It wasn’t long before the game descended into chaos—spells flying, laughter erupting in snorts and shrieks. Eris croaked indignantly from her frog form while Jeezel gleefully documented the mayhem with her camera, which was now a cackling raven perched on her shoulder. Malove scowled beneath a scandalous projection of her own making, and Truella lounged, flicking daisies where her cigarette had been.

Frella smiled, the madness finally something she could embrace. Winning didn’t matter. The chaos had its own pull—wild, reckless, and oddly exhilarating.

Frella stretched out on the tartan rug, staring at the sky, determined to enjoy the surprise holiday. The picnic, the dramatic entrances, the tension crackling between Malove and Truella—it was all so bizarre.

“Do you ever think things through so they make sense?” she asked, tilting her head towards Truella.  “I feel like I’ve stumbled into a play and I don’t know my lines.”

Truella waved her cigarette, the smoke spiralling upwards like a miniature storm cloud. “Bit rude, Frella! Anyway, explanations are notoriously overrated. Life’s way more fun when you go with the flow.”

“Fun?” Frella snorted, glancing at Jeezel, who was snapping photos like a paparazzo. The clicking felt intrusive, like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. “And Jeezel, must you document everything?”

“Of course,” Jeezel replied, eyes glued to her camera. “This is pure gold—Truella playing holiday queen, Malove looking almost…pleasant? Art in motion!”

Frella rolled her eyes, but, deep down, she knew Jeezel wasn’t entirely wrong. The golden light glinting off the champagne bottle, the weathered beauty of the ruins in the background, and the strange but undeniable camaraderie of their mismatched group—there was indeed something picturesque about it all. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the faint hum of insects and the soft rustle of the breeze settle over her. Why couldn’t she just enjoy it?

“Think Cromwell’s plotting revenge?” she asked, breaking the momentary calm.

“Probably,” Truella replied breezily, “He loves that sort of thing. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Do buck up, Frell, you’re being such a bore.”

“You! I never expected to see you here!”  What was Thomas Cromwell doing in the colosseum in the year 1507?  “Oh, of course, you were in Italy…what on earth are you wearing?” Truella asked, in some confusion. Never had she seen such an elaborate codpiece, and nobody else was wearing one.

He took his feathered cap off and ran a hand through his hair.  “I’ve been to the very gates of purgatory trying to get back to Austin Friars, I unintentionally left Malove there.”

“In what year?” Truella was aghast. “How long has she been there? Who is she with? Is she safe?”

“There is no time to lose, how do I make this ~ this ~ thing go where and when I want?”

“Never mind that now, you had better come with us,” Trella was looking around to see where the others were. “We’ll all have to go. What’s the weather like? What are we going to do about clothes?”

“Clothes?” asked Jeezel, sneaking up behind them through some exotic foreign bushes, “Just you leave that to me! I’ve already found a marvellous museum costume shop. Did you get that codpiece there?” she said to Cromwell. ” I saw one in there similar to that, but with less padding.”

“Here you are,” announced Frella, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with her arms draped in costumes. “No time for shopping, so I did a quick spell.”

Why didn’t I think of just doing a spell? Truella wondered, not for the first time.

You never do was the unspoken reply that entered the scene with the appearance of Eris, armed with the approriate spells. “Right then. Here we go.”

“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.”

Jeezel tilted her head, scrutinizing the frame with the practiced eye of a social media sorceress. The lighting was perfect—each flickering hue of orange and blue cast an ethereal glow over the witches’ relaxed forms. It was the kind of aesthetic her followers adored: ancient mysticism meets futuristic chic. The “techno-witch” hashtag would trend for weeks.

She whispered a quick spell under her breath—just a touch of glamour magic to ensure the shadows curved flatteringly across their faces. Never leave it all to filters, she reminded herself. Technology might be powerful, but spells were eternal.

As the camera hovered over Eris, Jeezel panned dramatically, emphasizing the stiff pose that made her friend look like an extra from an undead fashion campaign. “Timeless and terrifying,” Jeezel murmured approvingly. Frella’s melancholic pout came next, her expression so perfectly tragic it might summon a thousand sympathetic comments. #WitchSadGirlAesthetic.

And Truella—oh, Truella. Jeezel stifled a laugh as she zoomed in on the haphazard limbs sprawled across the pod, her fingers angled like she was trying to signal something in a forgotten language. Maybe a plea for help from the gods of symmetry.

“Goddess-tier content,” Jeezel whispered as she adjusted the selfie stick for the final shot: a dramatic sweep across the room, showing the full ambiance of their enchanted retreat. The subtle hum of spells harmonizing with the VR pods’ whirring was audible in the background. She imagined the caption now:

“Modern coven vibes; Ancient spells, virtual worlds, and one unforgettable vacation. #TechnoWitchLife #VacationMagic #TimeTravelGoals”

Perfect. Another masterpiece to feed the algorithm.

With a satisfied smirk, she hit “post” and leaned back into her own pod. Her followers would marvel at the blend of mystique and modernity—and probably try to copy the look themselves. As the first comments rolled in, Jeezel couldn’t help but think, The real magic these days isn’t just in the spells we cast—it’s in the stories we tell.

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.

“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!  

“You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”

Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.

“What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders.  “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”

Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently.  “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”

“You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning.  “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”

As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room.  The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl.  Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her.  She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.

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.

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.

When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.

Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.

“Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.

Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

“What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.

“Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.

Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”

“They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”

Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.

When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.

Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered  thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.

As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.

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.”

The year 480 AD. It was there hovering in her mind the moment she woke up the morning after Eris had mentioned the DNA spell idea. 480 AD.  But why? And it seemed strangely familiar, as if she’d dreamed of that date before. Mumbling the date over and over, Truella pushed the bed covers back, noted the welcome slight chill of the October morning, and made her way blindly to the kitchen to make coffee. 480 AD.  Why, though?

Eris’s change of tune yesterday about the paperwork had given her a slight inward chuckle, but it was a good sign. And Eris had been right: Truella did like the DNA idea. At first she’d wondered if she would find something containing DNA.  Then she reminded herself that she herself contained DNA available to use. But what was the year 480 AD to do with it?

Taking her steaming mug of coffee outside, Truella sat down under the porch and lit a cigarette. Too late for Romans but then what was next after Romans?  It would have made more sense if it was 1480 AD, when Cromwell was born.

Oh, but what an idea! Yes!  The DNA of Cromwell! She was reminded of the pieces of Hannibals tunic, and the efficacy of that spell.  If they could find a bit of that old tunic, they could surely time travel back to gather some DNA from old Thomas.  Truella giggled, imagining herself appearing in Cromwell’s chamber, armed with a cotton swab. “If you please, my Lord, open wide, this will only take a moment.”

He would rub his eyes, wondering if the fever had returned. What was this unseemly wench doing in here, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lizzie, his dead wife.  “Open wide,” she would say, for all the world as if she was the one giving the orders.  “My lady, if you please to explain your purpose?” he would replied calmly, rather amused at the incomprehensible interlude.

“Well if you must know, we need some of your DNA. Yes, yes, I know you don’t know what that is yet, I’ve come from the future you see, and we know a lot more. Well, that’s not strictly true or I wouldn’t be here now.   We know more about some things, but other things haven’t changed much. It’s the sea of paperwork we’re drowning in. Nobody could have more paperwork than you, my Lord Cromwell, but you have a particularly efficient way of dealing with it.”

“Are you referring to the Tower and the …”

“Gosh, no! No, we don’t plan to execute anyone.  We just need a bit, a tiny bit, of your DNA to use in a spell…”

Suddenly Cromwell understood who this woman was. He didn’t need to call for the man who dealt with postcards from the future: everyone knows that Cromwell never forgets any paperwork he’s ever seen. In the future they called it photographic memory, but of course it wasn’t called that in his time.

“You, my lady, are one of those witches from the future, are you not? And why, pray, would I be willing to assist with witchcraft?”

“Well, why not?” retorted Truella. “You won’t be around to be executed for heresy, you were already..”   She clapped her hand to her mouth.  He didn’t know about that yet, obviously.

Cromwell merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I don’t want to know when,” he said calmly.  He knew his days were numbered.

“Now, there a number of ways we can collect a bit of your DNA, sir, any bodily fluid will do,” Truella said, and then blushed deeply.  Well, why not? she asked herself, and then wondered, What if he hasn’t had a bath for six months?

The next day dawned gray and drizzly. Frella sat at the small wooden table in her cozy cottage, cradling a steaming mug of pumpkin soup left over from last night’s dinner. Her thoughts swirled around the mysterious postcards and their puzzling implications.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window. Frella turned just in time to see a postcard slip through the slightly ajar window and float softly to the floor. She raced to the window and peered out but there was nobody to be seen.

She bent down to pick up the card. The picture on the front was a haunting image of a labyrinthine garden, overgrown and twisted, with shadows stretching across the path like grasping fingers. Were the shadows moving towards her? Heart racing, she flipped the card over.

In elegant script, the message read: “In the garden of secrets, the past blooms anew. Seek what is hidden beneath the roots.”

A chill ran down Frella’s spine. This card felt different. The picture of the garden resonated deeply, stirring a sense that secrets from her own life were waiting to be unearthed. The air seemed to thrum with potential as she contemplated the image before her.

The chill drizzle felt cold to Truella, and she wondered not for the first time if her overheated drought stricken summer longing for cold and rain would quickly change to a desire for bone warming dry heat as soon as the weather properly changed to autumn.

“Lend me a sweater and a raincoat will you, Frella? I always forget to change before teleporting over here.”

Frella gave her a look that could only be described as nonplussed. Murmuring a short incantation, with a snap of her fingers and an indescribable gesture, the requested garments appeared on Truella’s lap, as if thrown forcefully from the other side of the room.

“Steady on, Frel!”  Gratefully Truella slipped the sweater on and said, “But thanks.  You know what? I forget I’m a witch, that’s the trouble. I keep forgetting I can just magic things up. Honestly, you have no idea…”

“Oh, trust me, I have an idea.”

“..the trouble I go to, doing things I could do in an instant with a spell…”

“Have you only just realised?” Frella smirked.

“Hell no, I remember all the time that I always forget.   How the hell did I end up in a witches coven?”

“That fake resume you concocted when you were dazzled by the allure and the mystery, and jealous that I was in it and not you?”

“Well yes, I know, but I mean, why did Malove hire me? Why am I still here?”

“I can tell you the answer to that!” announced Eris, entering the room with a wide toothy grin.

Mouth agape, Truella leaned forward to hear what Eris had to say next, but at that moment Jeezel spun round the door frame and skidded to a halt in front of the girls, clutching her forehead dramatically.

“Who is sending all the postcards! Every morning this week I’ve had dozens of old postcards in my mailbox, there were so many stuffed in there today one was poking out! No, I can’t read who sent it, I can’t decipher any of the writing on any of them.”

“Where are they sent from? What are the pictures of?” asked Truella, her curiosity aroused.

“Pictures, who cares about the pictures, I want to know who’s sending them!”

“Steady on, Jez.  The pictures might provide clues to the sender and purpose of the card,” Truella said  mildly, raising an eyebrow at Jezeel’s agitated state.  “What’s ruffled your feathers so much about a few postcards?”

“I received a postcard too,” Frella chimed in, causing Jeezel to gasp and clutch her heart. “I wasn’t all melodramatic about it as you though, I thought it was magical and I dunno, had a nice story to it.”

Before Truella had a chance to ask Eris to expound on the previous question, and indeed before anyone got to the bottom of Jeezel’s outburst, Malove strode in with her usual menacing demeanor.   Truella braced herself for tedious profit mongering coercive diatribes to inch their way along the slimy walls of time.

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.