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Adjusting the crimson silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, Garrett swanned into the reception hall, his piercing pale blue eyes scanning the room.  The walls were hung with colourful but faded tapestries, shabby enough to be genuinely ancient.  The furniture was heavy and blackened with age, but it was the floor that caught his critical eye. In the centre of the old terracotta tiles floor was a mosaic, mostly hidden under a large conference table.  Garret was no expert on Roman mosaics but it looked like the real deal. He would return to this room later for a closer inspection, he could hardly go crawling under the table now.  It was a mercy, at least, that the ancient building hadn’t been decked out in ghastly modern furnishings as so many charming old hotels were these days.

He turned his attention to the few occupants.  A ravishing raven haired beauty had just wafted in from the covered cloister beyond the open doors.  Her silver mantilla shone in the sunlight slanting down into the courtyard for a moment, for all the world looking like an angelic medieval halo.  As she slippped into the shadows the halo vanished, her ebony tresses showing beneath the gauzy lace.  She settled herself in a low armchair, smoothing the burgundy folds of her gown. Garrett watched, spellbound. What an enchantress!  Perhaps this weekend wouldn’t be such a bore, after all.

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.

Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.

Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.

Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.

Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.

Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.

In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.

Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.

Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.

A little unwilling to proceed, and privately wishing she was back on the comfy sofa with the fat cushions, Frella took a moment to center herself. She reminded herself that being a witch was a high calling and often what we need will find us. It sounded like a lot of Malove’s baloney to be honest but she took a deep breath and muttered a few words of wisdom from Lemone, which often worked better than any spell:

“The key to unlocking mysteries is often found within, where the mind meets the heart.”

“You wait here, Herma,” said Frella holding a warning hand in the air. “I don’t know what magic this is yet but I sense something amiss from that shed.”

Frella approached the ominous shed with caution but renewed determination. The shed door creaked open without resistance and she saw the chest immediately though it was piled on top with boxes. After carefully removing the boxes and putting them to one side, she examined the chest looking for any inscriptions or hidden compartments that might give a clue to its origins. She sensed the camphor chest was from a very old witch family and therefore may contain protective spells and traps. Best to proceed with caution.

She went to the shed door and waved at Herma, shouting for her to go and get some salt. While she waited for Herma’s return, she examined the chest further. It had a lock, but no obvious key; clearly a bit of witchy ingenuity was going to be required. A simple unlocking spell might suffice, or if spells fail, perhaps Herma knows an old trick or two for picking locks!

Herma returned with the salt and Frella sprinkled it liberally on the chest, chanting a protective charm to ward off any nefarious spells. “There,“ she said with satisfaction. “Fingers crossed that ought to do it.”

The chest seemed strangely willing to reveal its secrets for the simplest of opening spells worked. Once it was opened, they sifted carefully through its contents, mostly old documents and letters, looking for anything which might hold the answer to the postcard.

“Look for anything bird-related—feathers, sketches … “ instructed Frella.

“By golly!” cried Herma triumphantly holding up a postcard. “It’s the same one!”.

As the crow flies, the Airbnb was about 500 meters from Herma’s cottage. Frella had been too exhausted yesterday to appreciate how pretty the mossy brick path was, lined either side with a profusion of colourful flowers. But was it really just yesterday, she wondered? So much had happened back at the coven — as recounted in a relentless flow of messages from Truella. Time was a funny beast.

As they walked the winding path, Herma explained that, many years ago now, the prior owner of the cottage had left behind a number of his belongings with the promise he would return for them as soon as he was settled. “But the blighter never did come back and I never heard from him again.” She stopped just short of the gate to her cottage and waved an arm towards a big old shed with a tractor parked outside and a couple of sheep grazing contentedly. “We stuck his stuff in there in the end when he didn’t come back. I know there’s a camphor chest — it nearly broke my back — but I don’t know what’s in it. Do you think that might be it?”

Unfortunately Frella was distracted from replying right away by another volley of messages from Truella with the latest mind boggling developments.

“What’s so bad about the Middle Ages, Eris?” asked Truella, bridling. “I’ve been saying all along, we need to return to our roots, get back to the real thing, ditch the modern corporate world that has nothing to do with witchcraft.”

“It won’t be all lutes and jesters, you know,” Frella said with a frown. “I think you’re romanticising it.  They did all sorts of dreadful things for money, even back then.”

“Gorgeous pointy hats though, Frell, and richly embroidered gowns and robes, men in tights and pointy shoes….”

Eris glared at Jez. “Who’s romanticising now?  You’re forgetting the rank smell of unwashed bodies, the foul rotten food..”

“We’re not literally going back in time!” Truella said in exasperation. “Just adopting a different outlook, we can still wash for Flove’s sake!  I don’t like the sound of Austreberthe though,” she added.  “Sounds like a character out of a 1940’s German coven of the worst possible sort.”

“That’s a step too far, Truella,” Frella gasped. “You can’t say things like that about people, especially your superiors.”

“What do you mean can’t, I just did,” Truella retorted hotly. “And that right there is the problem, can’t you see? Nobody is superior! Anyway, how do we know Malove appointed her? Maybe she’s just seized the opportunity, a chancer in a power vacuum, and here you all are, just drooling at the opportunity to kowtow to yet another old dragon past her sell by date.”

“You’ll end up in the stocks on the village green, you will, being pelted with tomatos by the peasants, if she hears you.”  Jez was examining her nails. “Did they have nail varnish in the Middle Ages?”

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?

Sure I’ll help you, said Frella and Herma smiled gratefully.

“You’re a dear.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a postcard and waved it at Frella. “It’s my eyes, I can’t  make it out, all scrawled it is.”

Frella reached for the card. On the front was a silhouette drawing of a blackbird on a tree branch. She turned the card over and studied it closely. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said at last. “I think it is written in code.” She held the card to her nose and a prickly, spicy smell just about overpowered her. It was achingly sad and sweet and nostalgic and a great lump formed in her chest.

Herma leaned over and patted her knee gently. “What is it?”

Frella gave herself a little shake. “Camphor,” she said at last. “Is there a camphor chest somewhere? I think it’s the key to this.”

“Business!” Truella spat the word out. “Always business, always about money.”

“It’s the way of the world, Tru,” Eris said in a futile attempt to mollify Truella. “Try and fit in a bit.”

“Fit in? Fit in? Fit in to what? Squeeze into one of Jeezel’s cocktail dresses? A lung crushing basque? Lie down flat like a dollar bill and get squashed into a pile of dirty paper notes like the rest of them? I don’t want to fit in.”

“But it’s the only way, you know it is,” Eris entreated. “Please try and see some sense.”

“Sense? Sense?  What sense? Common sense? A sense of adventure? A sense of wonder? A sense of the sensational? A sense of sensitivity? A sense of senselessness?”

Eris sighed deeply. “You’re not making sense. And what’s more, you haven’t made any scents for ages either.  How do you expect to manage on your own without the coven?”

“Eris,”  Truella said with an equally profound sigh,”You misunderstand me. I don’t wish to leave the coven, I wish to change it. It’s gone wrong, horribly wrong. We’re supposed to change the world for the better, not kowtow to this dreadful modern scourge. We need to return to our roots, our true calling.  What has happened to us all? Meek grovelling subservient money grubbing towers of the line, that’s what! It’s a disgrace!”

“How are you going to pay your electricity bill then, without any of that ghastly currency?”

“I am a WITCH! I should be able to magic up the light! We all should! Not pissing around making smelly unguents to pander to the faux enlightened!  Enlightened! hah! What a word for the huddled masses who can’t even summon up enough magic to illuminate a light bulb.  Why aren’t we working on free electricity? huh? Answer me that!”

“Ok then, I’ll report back to Malove that you’re working on a free electricty spell, shall I?”  Eris was becoming exasperated.

“You do that!” Truella stormed angrily, annoyed at having her superior motives ridiculed.  “But I suggest you have a long hard think about what I’ve said. And you can tell the others that. And not only that,” she added,  “Tell them to start work on a magic money spell.  It’s utterly beyond me how a coven of witches, constantly strapped for cash, hasn’t considered the all too obvious solution of simply magicking up a pile of banknotes. Or even easier, digits on a screen. Digits on a screen, that’s all it is!”

Eris was forced to admit that this was a very good point.

“Think, Eris,” Truella gave her friends arm a gentle squeeze, relieved that she was starting to see some sense. “If we perfect the money magic spell, and share it widely ~ for free, of course, no need to charge anyone for it after all! ~ the hoarders can bury themselves under mountains of money without depriving anyone else of any essentials.  It’s a game changer, Eris. It would be Change, with a capital C. Real Change.”

Eris looked doubtful. “But…”

“And ask yourself why you hesitate.” And with that Truella flounced off, back to her dig, leaving a perplexed Eris in a fog of confusion.

“Good morning.” Truella started nervously. “Good morning!” she repeated in a more confident tone, remembering her intention, as she scanned all the attentive faces in the audience.

“You are gathered here, my friends, colleagues and competetive others,  to hear me talk about new sales channels, market studies, double digit growth, and all the rest of it.  But I am not going to talk about that. I am a witch, not a business woman.  I am an amateur archaeologist, not a business woman.  And I am not a competetive witch.” she added, glaring pointedly at some of the witches in the audience. “And I know nothing about sales and marketing.”

“I am an honest witch! A straightforward well meaning witch with a desire to help others, and that has little to do with marketing and digits, double or otherwise.  My words of widsom to you all this day is this: this coven has taken a destructive turn, and it’s time to return to our roots. The timeless duty of the naturally helpful community member with special skills. Not the self serving profit and sales motivated capitalist modern witchery that we see here, with these modern money and time wasting conferences.”

Frella glanced worriedly at Malove, whose face was puce with rage.  Truella had avoided looking in the direction of Malove but Frella’s movement caught her eye, and she faltered for a moment before continuing.

“I’m here to tell you, it’s time to take direct action and strike until the leaders of this shambolic institution return to proper and honourable witchy ways.”

A few gasps were heard in the audience, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Then Eris started to clap, quietly and slowly at first but then louder. Others started joining in.  Eris and Jez stood up, raising their hands above their heads to clap loudly.  Frella remained seated with the baby on her lap, although she held the baby’s hands and patted them together in a show of solidarity.  With that, the baby turned into a seal and soon slithered off Frella’s lap and humped off to find the ornamental lake.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have spells to do for the needy ~ for free, as a good witch should.” And with that Truella flounced out of the conference room.

An unexpected result (or was it an intentional one?) of the octobus ride was a profound appreciation for the arrival at the destination.  Not one of the witches had been truly looking forward to the event, but when they entered the building they were deeply grateful for the smooth hard floors and walls and sharp minimalism, if that is what the sparse clean decor was called.

“This place is sorely in need of some steampunk hats,” remarked Truella.  “And some Victorian clothes.”

“Beats the hell out of that gross octobus, though,” Jezeel said, who was swanning grandly around the large entrance foyer, her boots making a neat thud rather than a revolting sucking sound.

“I rather like it,” said Frella, “Steampunk hats wouldn’t fit in here at all. Are you sure that party is being held here?”  For a moment, she felt a ray of hope.  She was feeling that it might be possible to remain unnoticed and unbothered in the vast clean space if she sat somewhere looking serenely vacant and unapproachable.

Spotting the shiny black grand piano in the corner, Jezeel glided majestically over to it and hopped onto the back of it, striking a glamourous pose.  Naturally everyone took flattering photos of her as was expected.

Eris had rushed off to find a lavatory, and eventually emerged holding a strange awkward bundle.

“What on earth is that and where did you find it?” Frella noticed the look of alarm on Eris’s face.  Truella was still taking photos of Jez from various angles, much to Jezreel’s delight.

“What does it bloody look like!” Eris said in an exasperated tone, “It’s a baby, someone left it in the loo!  Go and ask at the desk, find out who lost a baby. I think it’s nappy needs changing.”

Frella went off to ask, returning shortly with surprising news.  “There is nobody checked in here with a baby, Eris. Nobody knows whose it is.  Here, give it to me, the poor thing.”

Eris handed over the smelly bundle gratefully.

I can stay in my room with this baby, Frella thought, It will be the perfect excuse not to go to the party.

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.

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.