Search Results for 'run'

Despite her initial misgivings, Truella was looking forward to the weekend at the Cloisters.  It had belatedly come to her attention that another group were joining them for the event, the Mortician’s Guild. She wondered if Austreberthe had bitten off more than she could chew, introducing all these new characters at the same time.  But the more people, the more confusion, the better the opportunities to slip off unnoticed and investigate the grounds.

Truella was the first to arrive.  Before entering the building, she paused under the shade of a towering eucalyptus tree, taking it all in, receptive to the ancient whispers calling from the surrounding forrest.  A nightingale beckoned from the trees beyond one of the terraces, and Truella was irresistably drawn towards it.  Crunching softly on the crisp dry leaves underfoot and squinting in the bright sunlight, a flash of movement caught her eye.   Was it a bear in the woods? Surely not, not so close to habitation.  Truella inched closer, curious, her muscles tense, keyed in readiness to flee. But she was overdramatising, and made a little self deprecating snort of mirth.

The tall man clad in a floor length leather coat heard a snort and paused, wondering how close the wild boar came to the old building. Surely they kept away from people, people were so dangerous.  Pull yourself together, Rufus, old boy, he said to himself.  Why did this place remind him of… well it was no good harking back to that…maybe he should go back inside.  He threw his broad shoulders back and strode out from the cover of the trees, the hem of his coat gathering prickly seeds from the undergrowth.

Truella clapped her hands delightedly, and laughed. “Well look at you, you big bear in the woods, you must be one of the guys from the Mortician’s Guild.”

Rufus spun round, his duster coat flaring open to reveal the crimson satin lining, his face a picture of moody glowering.  Truella was momentarily nonplussed.  Handsome guy, but what an attitude.  But maybe she should not judge too quickly, after all, he probably resented having to come here.  Maybe she could soften him up over the course of the weekend.

“We may as well go in and meet the others. I’m Truella, pleased to meet you,” she said, offering a hand in greeting.  To her surpise, than man took her hand and kissed it. “Rufus, at your service,” he said with a slight bow.  He peered at her and added, “Have we met before? You seem strangely familiar.”

“Why yes, so do you!”  He didn’t, but Truella’s hand was tingling warmly from the kiss and she decided to play along.

Although not unheard of in Limerick, it had been raining for days and that affected moods. The weather forecast, despite many promises, hadn’t been able to curb the collective melancholy. Jeezel had to resist the temptation to use a spell or two just for an hour of sunshine, but she remembered what Linda Paul would say about meddling with weather patterns. She’d likely take a dramatic pause, her eyes narrowing in theatrical emphasis as she weighed her words carefully.

“Darling, one does not simply tinker with the weather as if it were a mere accessory to one’s outfit. The weather, you see, is a complex symphony conducted by the universe itself. Each raindrop, each gust of wind, each sunbeam—it’s all part of an intricate, celestial score. Tampering with such forces is akin to striking a discordant note in a masterpiece; the repercussions can be chaotic and unpredictable. Mother Nature has a way of setting things right, and trust me, her methods are rarely gentle. Remember the tale of the tempestuous sorcerer who tried to stop a storm and ended up summoning a hurricane? Or that ill-fated witch who thought to banish winter, only to plunge her village into eternal ice?” Her eyes might sparkle with a hint of mischief as she added, “And let’s not forget the fashion disasters! Imagine trying to maintain a perfect coiffure in a sudden downpour you inadvertently summoned. Utterly tragic, darling.” 

Jeezel giggled at the evocation. No, she would not meddle with the intricate weave of weathery, but one little filter spell on her window was innocuous enough to transform the “gloom of June” into a “dawn’s gentle fingers caressing the horizon”. She was standing before her ornate, vintage mirror in a midnight blue gown. The magic morning light was dancing upon the silver filigree, casting ethereal patterns across her boudoir.

Her thoughts meandered through the labyrinth of anticipation and preparation. “A convent,” she mused, “How delightfully austere. A stark contrast to my usual flamboyance.” In her address to the coven and looking specifically at Jeezel with ice cold eyes, Austreberthe had insisted on modesty and temperance. “But then, Austreberthe is not Malové,” Jeezel said, “and even the most demure places need a touch of magic.”

She ran her fingers through her raven locks, contemplating her wardrobe. “Burgundy for modesty and vintage silver lace mantilla for a whisper of enchantment”, she decided. It would strike the perfect balance.

Then, her mind turned to practicalities. The convent, with its storied history and sacred relics, would likely be a trove of ancient magics. She carefully selected a few essential items on her vanity: a vial of protective potion, a small pouch of moon blessed herbs and her favourite amulet in the shape of a silver hedgehog she got from her grand-mother and imbued with protective and clarity spells.

Her eyes fall on the thick file Truella had given each of them the day before. Full of charts and bullet lists about the cloister, questions about history, mug shots and detailed descriptions of the current inhabitants, with (not so) occasional pictures of her own digs and dogs. If Eris had skimmed through it in seconds and started to ask questions, Frella said she would read it before going to bed as it helped with her remembering. Jeezel had said nothing. She had gotten dizzy with too many bullet points and letters. All she could think about was the precious space and weight it would take in her suitcase and in her mind.

Though, there was something different. An envelop stuck between the file and the mahogany wood of the vanity. She took the envelop and opened it. It contained a letter and a small, ornate key, its surface inscribed with runes that glimmered with an otherworldly light. The paper grain was of fine quality. Jeezel recognized Malové’s intricate calligraphy. The paper carried subtle fragrances of sandalwood, jasmine, and bergamot, with a touch of vetiver and ambergris. With each whiff hidden facets were emerging from an apparently simple message.

“Jeezel, my trusted enchantress,” it started, “your journey to the convent in Spain is of utmost importance, more than the others can fathom. Beneath the cloistered serenity of those ancient walls lies a secret long kept from the world—a relic of unparalleled power known as the ‘Crimson Opus.’ It is said to be a manuscript not written with ink, but with the very essence of time itself.”

Your mission is to locate this Crimson Opus. It is guarded by a labyrinth of spells and enchantments designed to deter even the most skilled of seekers. But you, my dear Jeezel, possess the unique aptitude to unravel its mysteries. The convent’s seemingly mundane routines are the veil that conceals its true purpose; a sanctuary for the relic, and a prison for those who seek its power with ill intent.”

“You must be cautious, for the Crimson Opus has a sentience of its own. It will test your resolve, tempt you with visions and promises. Trust in your instincts, and remember, its true power can only be harnessed by those with a pure heart and an unyielding will.”

“The key will guide you to the hidden chamber where the Opus rests. Use it wisely, and under no circumstances let it fall into the wrong hands. You are more than capable, my dear. Don’t mention your mission to anyone. The fate of many may hinge upon your success, but I have no doubt in your abilities. Go forth, and may the ancient forces watch over you.”

Jeezel would have thought of a joke were it not for the mastery with which the message and its hidden layers had been crafted. She thought Malové was enthralled in a passionate romance in Brasil, but something in the scent she had not been able to decipher seemed to suggest the reality was more complex than it seemed. She thought of her friends. Did they all received a similar letter? Whom could she trust when secrecy was mandatory?

She held her hedgehog amulet more tightly, asking for some guidance.

Sandra finished her toast, pushed her plate away and stood up.  She wiped her hands on the seat of her baggy linen trousers, and then retied the baler twine holding them up. So Blaen the pain thought she should improve her appearance, did she, the prune-faced troll.  Sandra was quite happy with her own appearance, which she considered to be a statement indicating her lack of interest in appearance.  Lorena Blaen glared at her retreating back as Sandra exited the dining hall with the exaggerated gait of a catwalk model.

Sassafras quickly swallowed the rest of her coffee, and got up to follow Sandra. Catching her up along the cloisters, she asked Sandra if it was a nun’s outfit event or a witches one, or what. It was hard to keep track of the various fronts.

“It’s a witches one this time, it’s a coven visiting. They know we use the nun thing as a cover, I think.  But you know what else?” Sandra lowered her voice, pulling Sassafras closer.  “This isn’t a merger, that coven already bought us out.”

“What?! But…but…but what does that…?”

Sandra shrugged, looking uncharacteristically helpless.

Sassafras squeezed her arm.  “Who else knows? We must tell the others.”

“No!  No, not everyone.”  Sandra admitted that she didn’t know any more than that, and what she did know, she couldn’t say.

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 was unlike Idle to reply to Truella’s email so promply.

Ah, Malové – she’d chase coins even if they were rolling off a cliff, that one. Alright, let’s strategize. You want a summer full of lazy days and fewer cauldrons bubbling with business schemes?  First off, you can’t just hit her with “we need a break.” She’ll give you a lecture longer than the Nile on how “witchcraft never takes a holiday.” You need to catch her where she’s least fortified – in her relentless quest for profit.

Propose a Profitable Diversion: Convince her that giving everyone the summer off will actually increase productivity in the long run. Mention something about “rejuvenating our mystical energies to double our efficiency,” sprinkle some buzzwords in there. But make it tangible – maybe promise an autumn harvest of particularly lucrative spells.

Delegate the Drudgery: See if you can drum up a few apprentices or temporary hires to take over the basic grunt work for the summer. Tell Malové it’s a great opportunity to train new talent while you all focus on higher, strategic endeavors – which, of course, you can conveniently do from a hammock with a cocktail.

Truella thought this was a terrific idea.

Create a Catastrophic Scenario: Paint a picture of a burnout crisis in the coven. Suggest that ongoing stress might lead to mistakes, which could, I dunno, turn a lucrative potion into explosive chaos, unraveling all her precious profits. A summer hiatus could be framed as a preventive measure to avoid such disasters.

Distract with a Bigger Bone: Find a massive project that requires her singular focus – maybe even a solo venture. Get her so engrossed in this grand scheme that she barely notices you’re all slinking off away from the grind. Bonus points if it’s a decoy project you don’t actually care about.

Now there’s an idea, good old Idle’s on form, Truella sighed gratefully.  She made it all sound so easy.

Leverage the Cleaning Conundrum: Remember Finnlee and the manual cleaning? Suggest that you need to undergo a “summer cleaning initiative” to physically and spiritually cleanse the headquarters, and this process “requires” the witches to be away. It’ll appeal to Malové’s practicality and her penchant for a neat, profitable operation.

Emphasize the Carnival’s Aftermath: Play up the importance of digesting the energy you’re about to collect from the Carnival. Frame it as a necessary incubation period – the energies need time to percolate and clarify before being crafted into those procreation-boosting incenses. Also, suggest it’s the perfect time to trial promising new volunteers eager for a taste of witchy life. You’re a clever lot; use whatever mix of these tactics suits your fancy, and don’t forget to sprinkle it all with just the right touch of sincerity and urgency. As long as she buys into the grand scheme, you might just find yourself lounging through summer without a care in the world, at least until Malové sniffs out the next opportunity. So, get plotting, and let’s see if you can keep Malové’s gold-scrying eyes off the coven for a blissfully quiet summer. Need help drafting the message?

It was early morning, too early if you asked some. The fresh dew of Limerick’s morn clinged to the old stones of King John’s castle like a blanket woven from the very essence of dawn. The castle was not to open its doors before 3 hours, yet a most peculiar gathering was waiting at the bottom of the tower closest to the Shannon river.

“6am! Who would wake that early to take a bus?” asked Truella, as fresh as a newly bloomed poppy. She had no time to sleep after a night spent scattering truelles all around the city. “And where are the others?” she fumed, having forgotten about the resplendent undeniable presence she had vowed to embody during that day.

Frigella, leaning against a nearby lamppost, her arms crossed, rolled her eyes. “Jeezel? Malové? Do you even want an answer?” she asked with a wry smile. All busy in her dread of balls, she had forgotten she would have to travel with her friends to go there, and support their lamentations for an entire day before that flucksy party. Her attire was crisp and professional, yet one could glimpse the outlines of various protective talismans beneath the fabric.

Next to them, Eris was gazing at her smartphone, trying not to get the other’s mood affect her own, already at her lowest. A few days ago, she had suggested to Malové it would be more efficient if she could portal directly to Adare manor, yet Malové insisted Eris joined them in Limerick. They had to travel together or it would ruin the shared experience. Who on earth invented team building and group trips?

“Look who’s gracing us with her presence,” said Truella with a snort.

Jeezel was coming. Despite her slow pace and the early hour, she embodied the unexpected grace in a world of vagueness. Clumsy yet elegant, she juggled her belongings — a hatbox, a colorful scarf, and a rather disgruntled cat that had decided her shoulder was its throne. A trail of glitters seemed to follow her every move.

“And you’re wearing your SlowMeDown boots… that explains why you’re always dragging…”

“Oh! Look at us,” said Jeezel, “Four witches, each a unique note in the symphony of existence. Let our hearts beat in unison with the secrets of the universe as we’re getting ready for a magical experience,” she said with a graceful smile.

“Don’t bother, Truelle. You’re not at your best today. Jeez is dancing to a tune she only can hear,” said Frigella.

Seeing her joy was not infectious, Jeezel asked: “Where’s Malové?”

“Maybe she bought a pair of SlowMeDown boots after she saw yours…” snorted Truella.

Jeezel opened her mouth to retort when a loud and nasty gurgle took all the available place in the soundscape. An octobus, with magnificently engineered tentacles, rose from the depth of the Shannon, splashing icy water on the quatuor. Each tentacle, engineered to both awe and serve, extended with a grace that belied its monstrous size, caressing the cobblestones of the bridge with a tender curiosity that was both wild and calculated. The octobus, a pulsing mass of intelligence and charm, settled with a finality that spoke of journeys beginning and ending, of stories waiting to be told. Surrounded by steam, it waited in the silence.

Eris looked an instant at the beast before resuming her search on her phone. Frigella, her arms still crossed and leaning nonchalantly against the lamppost, raised an eyebrow. Those who knew her well could spot the slight widening of her eyes, a rare show of surprise.

“Who put you in charge of the transport again?” asked Truella in a low voice as if she feared to attract the attention of the creature.

“Ouch! I didn’t…”, started Jeezel, trying to unclaw the cat from her shoulders.

“I ordered the Octobus,” said Malové’s in a crisp voice.

Eris startled at the unexpected sound. She hadn’t heard their mentor coming.

“If you had read the memo I sent you last night, you wouldn’t be as surprised. But what did I expect?”

The doors opened with a sound like the release of a deep-sea diver’s breath.

“Get on and take a seat amongst your sisters and brothers witches. We have much to do today.”

With hesitation, the four witches embarked, not merely as travelers but as pioneers of an adventure that trenscended the mundane morning commute. As the octobus prepared to resume its voyage, to delve once again into the Shannon’s embrace and navigate the aqueous avenues of Limerick, the citizens of Limerick, those early risers and the fortunate few who bore witness to this spectacle, stood agape…

“Oh! stop it with your narration and your socials Jeez,” said Truella. “I need to catch up with slumber before we arrive.”

Spring was there. At 5:57am in the morning, true to her name, Truella had been planting truelles incognito in what appeared to be random flowerbeds in the cities she was passing through. The truelles, she would usually find with the locator spell in sheds around the city and magic them out right into her hands. She loved magic for its efficiency, which really meant there was no need to break in and forage for hours in cramped little rooms.

As she was following a border of plane trees, she chuckled. Believe it or not, she practically invented that spell. At least that’s what her mother used to tell her when she was 6yo and she often wandered alone around the city without mentioning it to anyone. At the time, she had believed her mother. She had bragged about it with her friends at school and pretended she had forgotten all about it like because of a bump on her head. But truth is she had frequent memory losses, which didn’t worry her at the time, and she found it cool to be able to do things and rediscover them later on.

It was an uncle with a dreadfully red moustache, who took pity on her and decided to shatter her dreams of early accomplishments and fame. Was it that same year? Or the next?

Anyway, back to the truelles, she didn’t do it for people to take photos of it and post them to social media, like gawdy Jeez seemed to think, but it was to remind people of the treasures they had buried in those dark little rooms just there in their gardens. How long would it take them to realise that those forgotten tools had disappeared?

Pleased with herself, she noticed a man with a white shirt leaning forward in front of one of the plane trees, his right hand on the bark, two paper bags full of croissants in the other. Frowning, she walked towards him. She was about to ask if he needed help when a strong smell of alcohol made her gag. Then without a warning, the man threw up a red mash in front of him. Truella jumped back, raising the truelle as if it could protect her from any splatter.

“Eww!” She wouldn’t dare saying anything else as opening her mouth could open the gates for her own early toasted cheese fritter. At least the man would not need embalming fluids if he didn’t survive his nocturnal drinking spree.

She cast the truelle in front of the tree and a spell on the man so that he would bury deep the traces of his last meal. She didn’t want the neighbourhood dogs getting drunk after feasting on it.

“Oh no, we’re too late!  Look at these photos Jezeel just sent!”

“Well at least Jez is there with her.  Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”

Truella rolled her eyes. “Come ON! Imagine the mess Eris is going to make at breakfast with that trunk!”

“It’s the telephantom!  You know what this mean, don’t you.”  Truella sounded ominous. Frella shook her head.  “It’s Punic magic, and it’s almost impossible to reverse.  You need a piece of Hannibal’s tunic for the spell, and you can imagine the difficulties.”

During the renovations on Brightwater Mill Truella’s parents rented a cottage nearby. It was easier to supervise the builders if they were based in the area, and it would be a nice place for Truella to spend the summer. One of the builders had come over from Ireland and was camping out in the mill kitchen.  He didn’t mind when Truella got in the way while he was working, and indulged her wish to help him. He gave her his smallest trowel and a little bucket of plaster, not minding that he’d have to fix it later. He was paid by the hour after all.

When the builder mentioned that his daughter Frigella was the same age, Truella’s mother had an idea.  Truella needed a little friend to play with, to keep her from distratcing the builders from their work.

And so a few days later, Frigella arrived for the rest of the summer holidays. He father continued to camp out in the mill, and Frigella stayed with Truella.  But even with the new friend to play with, Truella still wanted to plaster the walls with her little trowel.  Frigella didn’t want to stay cooped up all day in the dusty mill with her father keeping an eye on her all day, and suggested that they go and dig a hole somewhere in the garden to find treasure.

Truella carried the little trowel around with her everywhere she went that summer, and Frigella started to call her Trowel.  Truella retaliated by calling her friend Fridge Jelly, saying what a silly name it was.  It wasn’t until she burst into tears that Truella felt remorseful and kindly asked Frigella what she would like to be called, but it had to be something that didn’t remind Truella of fridges and jellys. Frigella admitted that she’s always hated the G in her name and would quite like to be called Frella instead.   Truella replied that she didn’t mind being called Trowel though, in fact she quite liked it.

The girls spent many school summer holidays together over the years, but it wasn’t until Truella was older and staying in one of the apartments with a boyfriend that she found the trunk in the attic.  She put it in the boot of the car without opening it. She only had the weekend with the new guy and there were other activities on the agenda, after all.  Work and other events occupied her when she returned home, and the trunk was put in a closet and forgotten.

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?

Truella ordered another round of drinks and some more peanuts and then went to the toilets. When she got back to the table on the sidewalk, Roger’s glass was empty and the peanuts had been eaten but there was no sign of Roger. Truella assumed that he’d also gone to the toilets, but after a quarter of an hour and he hadn’t returned, she asked the waiter to check on him.  The waiter returned and informed her that nobody was in the mens toilet, and then a woman on the next table said that she’d noticed Truella’s friend making strange noises and that he had wandered off up the road.

“What kind of strange noises? And which way did he go?”

“Well, to be honest, monkey noises. He sounded like a chimpanzee,” the woman replied, looking a little embarrassed.  “And he went that way,” she said, pointing towards where the monkeys had been trampolining on the shop awnings just down the road.

Truella looked in the direction she was pointing.  “But where are the monkeys now?”

“Well,” the woman replied looking even more embarrassed, “They all followed your friend down the road.  I don’t know where they are now.”

Truella took a hasty gulp of her drink, stood up and called the waiter over and asked for the bill.   Without waiting for her change she ran down the street calling Rogers name.  It crossed her mind that a locating spell would have been useful but she didn’t have time for that.  Instead she asked some passers by where the monkeys were now.

The young couple turned and pointed behind them.  “They all ran down that way, right down the middle of the road, crazy it was, stopped all the traffic. And they were all running after that big man!”

Truella started running in that direction and then stopped, gasping. It was no good, she’d never catch them up.  Slowly she walked back to her car, wondering what to do next.

Cedric peered through the peephole in his newspaper. He’d have recognised that bogwitch anywhere. Drat that blonde one grabbing her arm, he’d have been able to catch her red handed and arrest her.

Cedric was ambitious.  He’d been working for MAMA for thirty years as an agent and wanted a promotion, a nice cushy office job where he could sit in comfort dishing out orders.  He’d had enough of traipsing round the countryside and sitting in draughty pubs in the back of beyond and felt it was high time that the Ministry for the Abolition of the Magical Arts recognised his potential as a leader.

Who was that blonde one anyway? Another bogwitch no doubt, covens springing up everywhere these days, defying proper law and order, it was an outrage.  She hadn’t seemed too happy to see that old tart Aggie, though. Maybe there was a rift between covens that he could exploit for his own ends.  Cedric decided to keep an eye on her, perhaps mislead her into thinking he was on her side.  It gave him a frisson of pleasure to think how clever he would look when he made his report.

Frigella her name was, Cedric heard Aggie ask her why she was rushing off.

“Gottta run, I’m babysitting. And just you behave yourself Aggie, I told you, we don’t do things like that around here. It’s witches like you that give us all a bad name.”

Cedric rolled his newspaper up and pulled his deerstalker hat low over his eyes and followed Frigella out onto the street.

Impressed with Finnlee’s spirited outburst, Truella realised she’d barely noticed the cleaning lady and felt ashamed.  The required daily  appearances that the dictatorial Malove insisted upon rankled her, occupying her attention so that the cleanliness or otherwise of the premises went unnoticed.  She made up her mind to seek Finnlee out and befriend her, treat her as an equal, draw her into her confidence. Besides, that confident no nonsense approach could come in handy for any staff uprisings.  Not that any staff uprising were planned, she mentally added, quickly cloaking her thoughts in case any had leaked out.

Malove spun round and shot her a piercing look and Truella quailed a little, momentarily, but then squared her shoulders and impudently stared back.  Malove raised an eyebrow and returned to addressing the witches.

After what seemed like an eternity the meeting was over. Truella planned to seek Finnlee out and invite her for a brew at the Faded Cabbage but  Frigella approached her, looking a bit sheepish, and asked if she could have a word in private about a personal matter.

They strolled together towards the little park opposite, and once out of earshot of the others, Frigella came straight to the point.

“Can my cousin come and stay with you for a bit? The thing is, he’s got himself into a spot of bother and needs to disappear for a bit, if you know what I mean.  He’s a big strong lad, and I’m sure he’d be willing to give you a hand with all that digging…”

Truella didn’t hesitate. “But of course, Frigella, send him over! He won’t be the first person on the run to come and stay, and probably won’t be the last.”

“The thing is he’s a bit sandwich short of a picnic, you know, not a full bag of shopping…”

“What, does he eat a lot? I don’t do much cooking…”

“No, no, well yes, he does have a good appetite, but that’s not what I meant. He’s a bit simple, but heart of gold. He’s from the other side of the family and our side never had much to do with them, but I always had a soft spot for him.”

” A simpleton might be a refreshing change from all the over complicated people, send him over! What’s his name?”

“Roger. Roger Goodall.”

Roger!  The name rang a bell.  It wasn’t until much later that Truella realized she should have asked what Roger was on the run for.