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Darius: A Map of People

June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

“Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

“Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

“Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

“Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

“Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

“Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

“Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

From Decay to Birth: a Map of Paths and Connections

7. Darius’s Encounter (November 2024)

Moments before the reunion with Lucien and his friends, Darius was wandering the bouquinistes along the Seine when he spotted this particular map among a stack of old prints. The design struck him immediately—the spirals, the loops, the faint shimmer of indigo against yellowed paper.

He purchased it without hesitation. As he would examine it more closely, he would notice faint marks along the edges—creases that had come from a vineyard pin, and a smudge of red dust, from Catalonia.

When the bouquiniste had mentioned that the map had come from a traveler passing through, Darius had felt a strange familiarity. It wasn’t the map itself but the echoes of its journey— quiet connections he couldn’t yet place.

 

6. Matteo’s Discovery (near Avignon, Spring 2024)

The office at the edge of the vineyard was a ruin, its beams sagging and its walls cracked. Matteo had wandered in during a quiet afternoon, drawn by the promise of shade and a moment of solitude.

His eyes scanned the room—a rusted typewriter, ledgers crumbling into dust, and a paper pinned to the wall, its edges curling with age. Matteo stepped closer, pulling the pin free and unfolding what turned out to be a map.

Its lines twisted and looped in ways that seemed deliberate yet impossible to follow. Matteo traced one path with his finger, feeling the faint grooves where the ink had sunk into the paper. Something about it unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.

Days later, while sharing a drink with a traveler at the local inn, Matteo showed him the map.

“It’s beautiful,” the traveler said, running his hand over the faded indigo lines. “But it doesn’t belong here.”

Matteo nodded. “Take it, then. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”

The traveler left with the map that night, and Matteo returned to the vineyard, feeling lighter somehow.

 

5. From Hand to Hand (1995–2024)

By the time Matteo found it in the spring of 2024, the map had long been forgotten, its intricate lines dulled by dust and time.

2012: A vineyard owner near Avignon purchased it at an estate sale, pinning it to the wall of his office without much thought.

2001: A collector in Marseille framed it in her study, claiming it was a lost artifact of a secret cartographer society, though she later sold it when funds ran low.

1997: A scholar in Barcelona traded an old atlas for it, drawn to its artistry but unable to decipher its purpose.

The map had passed through many hands over the previous three decades and each owner puzzling over, and finally adding their own meaning to its lines.

 

4. The Artist (1995)

The mapmaker was a recluse, known only as Almadora to the handful of people who bought her work. Living in a sunlit attic in Girona, she spent her days tracing intricate patterns onto paper, claiming to chart not geography but connections.

“I don’t map what is,” she once told a curious buyer. “I map what could be.”

In 1995, Almadora began work on the labyrinthine map. She used a pale paper from Girona and indigo ink from India, layering lines that seemed to twist and spiral outward endlessly. The map wasn’t signed, nor did it bear any explanations. When it was finished, Almadora sold it to a passing merchant for a handful of coins, its journey into the world beginning quietly, without ceremony.

 

3. The Ink (1990s)

The ink came from a different path altogether. Indigo plants, or aviri, grown on Kongarapattu, were harvested, fermented, and dried into cakes of pigment. The process was ancient, perfected over centuries, and the resulting hue was so rich it seemed to vibrate with unexplored depth.

From the harbour of Pondicherry, this particular batch of indigo made its way to an artisan in Girona, who mixed it with oils and resins to create a striking ink. Its journey intersected with Amei’s much later, when remnants of the same batch were used to dye textiles she would work with as a designer. But in the mid-1990s, it served a singular purpose: to bring a recluse artist’s vision to life.

 

2. The Paper (1980)

The tree bore laughter and countless other sounds of nature and passer-by’s arguments for years, a sturdy presence, unwavering in a sea of shifting lives. Even after the farmhouse was sold, long after the sisters had grown apart, the tree remained. But time is merciless, even to the strongest roots.

By 1979, battered by storms and neglect, the great tree cracked and fell, its once-proud form reduced to timber for a nearby mill.

The tree’s journey didn’t end in the mill; it transformed. Its wood was stripped, pulped, and pressed into paper. Some sheets were coarse and rough, destined for everyday use. But a few, including one particularly smooth and pale sheet, were set aside as high-quality stock for specialized buyers.

This sheet traveled south to Catalonia, where it sat in a shop in Girona for years, its surface untouched but full of potential. By the time the artist found it in the mid-1990s, it had already begun to yellow at the edges, carrying the faint scent of age.

 

1. The Seed (1950s)

It began in a forgotten corner of Kent, where a seed took root beneath a patch of open sky. The tree grew tall and sprawling over decades, its branches a canopy for birds and children alike. By 1961, it had become the centerpiece of the small farmhouse where two young sisters, Vanessa and Elara, played beneath its shade.

“Elara, you’re too slow!” Vanessa called, her voice sharp with mock impatience. Elara, only six years old, trailed behind, clutching a wooden stick she used to scratch shapes into the dirt. “I’m making a map!” she announced, her curls bouncing as she ran to catch up.

Vanessa rolled her eyes, already halfway up the tree’s lowest branch. “You and your maps. You think you’re going somewhere?”

The Bell’s Moment: Paris, Summer 2024 – Olympic Games

The bell was dangling unassumingly from the side pocket of a sports bag, its small brass frame swinging lightly with the jostle of the crowd. The bag belonged to an American tourist, a middle-aged man in a rumpled USA Basketball T-shirt, hustling through the Olympic complex with his family in tow. They were here to cheer for his niece, a rising star on the team, and the bell—a strange little heirloom from his grandmother—had been an afterthought, clipped to the bag for luck. It seemed to fit right in with the bright chaos of the Games, blending into the swirl of flags, chants, and the hum of summer excitement.

1st Ring of the Bell: Matteo

The vineyard was quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves. Matteo leaned against the tractor, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“You’ve done good work,” the supervisor said, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. “We’ll be finishing this batch by Friday.”

Matteo nodded. “And after that?”

The older man shrugged. “Some go north, some go south. You? You’ve got that look—like you already know where you’re headed.”

Matteo offered a half-smile, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d felt the tug for days, like a thread pulling him toward something undefined. The idea of returning to Paris had slipped into his thoughts quietly, as if it had been waiting for the right moment.

When his phone buzzed later that evening with a job offer to do renovation work in Paris, it wasn’t a surprise. He poured himself a small glass of wine, toasting the stars overhead.

Somewhere, miles away, the bell rang its first note.

2nd Ring of the Bell: Darius

In a shaded square in Barcelona, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the echo of a street performer’s flamenco guitar. Darius sprawled on a wrought-iron bench, his leather-bound journal open on his lap. He sketched absentmindedly, the lines of a temple taking shape on the page.

A man wearing a scarf of brilliant orange sat down beside him, his energy magnetic. “You’re an artist,” the man said without preamble, his voice carrying the cadence of Kolkata.

“Sometimes,” Darius replied, his pen still moving.

“Then you should come to India,” the man said, grinning. “There’s art everywhere. In the streets, in the temples, even in the food.”

Darius chuckled. “You recruiting me?”

“India doesn’t need recruiters,” the man replied. “It calls people when it’s time.”

The bell rang again in Paris, its chime faint and melodic, as Darius scribbled the words “India, autumn” in the corner of his page.

3rd Ring of the Bell: Elara

The crowd at CERN’s conference hall buzzed as physicists exchanged ideas, voices overlapping like equations scribbled on whiteboards. Elara sat at a corner table, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through her messages.

The voicemail notification glared at her, and she tapped it reluctantly.

“Elara, it’s Florian. I… I’m sorry to tell you this over a message, but your mother passed away last night.”

Her coffee cup trembled slightly as she set it down.

Her relationship with her mother had been fraught, full of alternating period of silences and angry reunions, and had settled lately into careful politeness that masked deeper fractures. Years of therapy had softened the edges of her resentment but hadn’t erased it. She had come to accept that they would never truly understand each other, but the finality of death still struck her with a peculiar weight.

Her mother had been living alone in Montrouge, France, refusing to leave the little house Elara had begged her to sell for years. They had drifted apart, their conversations perfunctory and strained, like the ritual of winding a clock that no longer worked.

She would have to travel to Montrouge for the funeral arrangements.

In that moment, the bell in Les Reliques rang a third time.

4th Ring of the Bell: Lucien

The train to Lausanne glided through fields of dried up sunflowers, too early for the season, but the heat had been relentless. He could imagine the golden blooms swaying with a cracking sound in the summer breeze. Lucien stared out the window, the strap of his duffel bag wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Paris had been suffocating. The tourists swarmed the city like ants, turning every café into a photo opportunity and every quiet street into a backdrop. He hadn’t needed much convincing to take his friend up on the offer of a temporary studio in Lausanne.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook. The pages were filled with half-finished drawings, but one in particular caught his eye: a simple doorway with an ornate bell hanging above it.

He didn’t remember drawing it, but the image felt familiar, like a memory from a dream.

The bell rang again in Paris, its resonance threading through the quiet hum of the train.

5th Ring of the Bell: …. Tabitha

In the courtyard of her university residence, Tabitha swung lazily in a hammock, her phone propped precariously on her chest.

“Goa, huh?” one of her friends asked, leaning against the tree holding up the hammock. “Think your mum will freak out?”

“She’ll probably worry herself into knots,” Tabitha replied, laughing. “But she won’t say no. She’s good at the whole supportive parent thing. Or at least pretending to be.”

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Pretending?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love her,” Tabitha said. “But she’s got her own stuff. You know, things she never really talks about. I think it’s why she works so much. Keeps her distracted.”

The bell rang faintly in Paris, though neither of them could hear it.

“Maybe you should tell her to come with you,” the friend suggested.

Tabitha grinned. “Now that would be a trip.”

Last Ring: The Pawn

It was now sitting on the counter at Les Reliques. Its brass surface gleamed faintly in the dim shop light, polished by the waves of time. Small and unassuming, its ring held something inexplicably magnetic.

Time seemed to settle heavily around it. In the heat of the Olympic summer, it rang six times. Each chime marked a moment that mattered, though none of the characters whose lives it touched understood why. Not yet.

“Where’d you get this?” the shopkeeper asked as the American tourist placed it down.

“It was my grandma’s,” he said, shrugging. “She said it was lucky. I just think it’s old.”

The shopkeeper ran her fingers over the brass surface, her expression unreadable. “And you’re selling it?”

“Need cash to get tickets for the USA basketball game tomorrow,” the man replied. “Quarterfinals. You follow basketball?”

“Not anymore,” the shopkeeper murmured, handing him a stack of bills.

The bell rang softly as she placed it on the velvet cloth, its sound settling into the space like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

And so it sat, quiet but full of presence, waiting for someone to claim it maybe months later, drawn by invisible threads woven through the magnetic field of lives, indifferent to the heat and chaos of the Parisian streets.

At the Café

The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.

Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.

The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.

“Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.

“Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.

Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”

“You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”

She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.

The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.

“Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.

“Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.

Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”

“The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.

The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.

“You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.

“Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”

Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”

“Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.

“Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.

The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.

 

“Oh sweet revenge…” November was looking gleeful, and truth be told, too smug. With a tinge of orange anticipating a delectable tapestry of chaos.

The results had come as cold as an early winter for a world standing on the precipice of another era under President Lump’s reign.

“The winds of change rustling the curtains of the Beige House once more. And amidst this swirling tempest of political intrigue, our story unfurls with the maids au pair at its heart.”

“Liz, are you sure this is wise to pursue?”

“Oh stop, it Godfrey, the harm is done, November was written already in that story; I knew she would spell trouble from the beginning. And please, don’t interrupt.”

As April and June departed to pursue their ventures—perhaps April embarked on a global crusade for environmental stewardship while June disappeared into the realms of espionage, her whereabouts known only to the shadows—November emerged, a true force of nature. With an iron will and a meticulous attention to detail, she transformed the Beige House into a bastion of order amid political disarray under old Joe Mitten—bless his bumbling heart. Her reign as the clandestine conductor of this domestic symphony was nothing short of legendary.

During those four years, November proved herself indispensable. She orchestrated everything from state dinners to covert intelligence briefings, all while maintaining the perfect façade of domestic tranquility. The press would whisper her name, speculating on her true influence behind the scenes. Little did they know that November had eyes and ears in every corner of the Beige House, including a network of whispering portraits and eavesdropping sconces.

And now, with President Lump’s reelection, November faces her most formidable challenge yet. The political climate is rife with unpredictability—alliances shift like sand, loyalties waver, and secrets simmer beneath the surface. November must navigate this labyrinth with the precision of a masterful chess player, anticipating every move and countermove.

The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.

She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.

The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.

Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.

As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.

Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.

Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.

“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:

“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”

She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.

As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.

Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.

“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”

The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.

The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.

Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.

“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.

As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.

“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”

Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.

Audrey came to herself rather unexpectedly in the middle of the Choir ritual with all the witches and nuns finishing the Canticle from the Psalms of Saint Frogustus.

Luckily for the coven, her sudden gasp for air could have easily passed as a croak or one of the ribbit amens that went with the background aaah and oohs.

“I think something wrong happened to your friend.” she whispered to Jeezel who had been enjoying the unlikely singing. It was already the third ritual done in six, and it had been mostly enjoyable.

Eris whispered in turn as the grand croaking finale started with loud gong banging by Mother Lorena chanting “leaps of faithe, ye, leaps of faithe”.

“What do you mean? Is Frella alright?”

“Something came in the background, but when our minds disconnected, she felt more annoyed than anything… and to be honest maybe a bit… flustered, how to say…” she became red as Saint Frogustus’ hand tips. “Randy is the word you say?”

“Damn it Jeezel, have you done anything?”

“Why you ask me?” Jeezel felt offended. “You haven’t taken into account the strawberry full moon, that’s all.”

“There’s only one potent counter-spell to this situation…” Audrey said. “We should pray to Saint Frigdona saint patroness of unwavering commitment to upholding the sanctity of boundaries and the virtues of righteousness, even in the face of the most enticing temptations!”

“Jeeze, don’t go all religious like this.” a glowing Truella finally said. “I was for one, quite enjoying all that croaking. Dear Rufus told me there is a reason to this ritual! Get that: giant dragon-eating frogs! Dra-gon-frig-ging-eat-ing-frogs! That’s why the famous nuns were revered!”

Eris and Jeezel looked at each other with that puzzled look unequivocally meaning “she’s lost her marbles”.

In the silent moment of the last gong sound droning out, they sighed in unison, turning to Audrey. “How is this Frigdona prayer going already?”

As Frigella, deep in her investigation of Herma’s cottage, meticulously examined the chest’s contents looking for potential clues missed at first glance that could explain more about the postcard, with its distinctive stamp featuring an ear of maize, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

“By the gods, not that interloper again,” she muttered under her breath, sensing the familiar prickling at the back of her neck. She knew Cedric’s gaze all too well—part curiosity, part menace. The young witch hunter was like a moth to a flame, drawn to the coven’s mysteries and, more specifically, to Frella herself, for reasons that likely perplexed even him.

Herma, oblivious to the undercurrents, continued to sift through the chest with Frella. As the silence thickened, Frella’s mind wandered to the last encounter with Cedric. His naïve bravado was almost laughable, yet there he was, lurking in the shadows, ever the novice hunter out of his depth.

“Careful, Herma,” Frella warned with a sharp glance at the window. “We may have an unwelcome observer. This certain Cedric Spellbind has a knack for being where he shouldn’t.”

Herma chuckled, dismissing the tension with a wave. “Him? A mere boy chasing phantoms. He won’t bother us.”

Frella wasn’t so sure. Spellbind’s persistence was a nettlesome thorn, yet she knew how to handle such a busybody. For now, she would focus on the task at hand, but a mental note was made: keep an eye on Cedric. He was, after all, as unpredictable as the spring winds that brought them here far too early.

Austreberthe Baltherbridge, interim CEO of Quadrivium Emporium.

A unassuming small stature yet mentally imposing witch accountant, head of finance witch, known for her meticulous financial acumen, strategic mind, and quiet mildly bossy yet unwavering leadership. Balances deference with authority, ensuring economic stability amidst magical enterprises. She is tidy and strict, middle aged, round figure, and valkyriesque.

“Do you know who that Everone is?” Jeezel whispered to Eris.

“Shtt,” she silenced Jeezel worried that some creative inspiration sparked into existence yet another character into their swirling adventure.

The ancient stone walls of the Cloisters resonated with the hum of anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of incense barely covering musky dogs’ fart undertones, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh parchment eaten away by centuries of neglect. Illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns sparkling chaotically like a toddler’s magic candle at its birthday, the grand hall was prepared for an unprecedented gathering of minds and traditions.

While all the attendants were fumbling around, grasping at the finger foods and chitchatting while things were getting ready, Eris was reminded of the scene of the deal’s signature between the two sisterhoods unlikely brought together.

Few weeks before, under a great deal of secrecy, Malové, Austreberthe, and Lorena had convened in the cloister’s grand hall, the gothic arches echoing their words. Before she signed, Lorena had stated rather grandiloquently, with a voice firm and unwavering. “We are a nunnery dedicated to craftsmanship and spiritual devotion. This merger must respect our traditions.”
Austreberthe, ever the pragmatist, replied, “And we bring innovation and magical prowess. Together, we can create something greater than the sum of our parts.”
The undertaker’s spokesman, Garrett, had interjected with a charming smile, “Consider us the matchmakers of this unlikely union. We promise not to leave you at the altar.”
That’s were he’d started to spell out the numbingly long Strategic Integration Plan to build mutual understanding of the mission and a framework for collaboration. 

Eris sighed at the memory. That would require yet a great deal of joint workshops and collaborative sessions — something that would be the key to facilitate new product developments and innovation. Interestingly, Malové at the time had suggested for Jeezel to lead with Silas the integration rituals designed to symbolically and spiritually unite the groups. She’d had always had a soft spot for our Jeezel, but that seemed unprecedented to want to put her to task on something as delicate. Maybe there was another plan in motion, she would have to trust Malové’s foresight and let it play out.

As the heavy oak doors creaked open, a hush fell over the assembled witches, nuns and the undertakers. Mother Lorena Blaen stepped forward. Her presence was commanding, her eyes sharp and scrutinising. She wore the traditional garb of her order, but her demeanour was anything but traditional.

“Welcome, everyone,” Lorena began, her voice echoing through the hallowed halls. “Or should I say, welcome to the heart of tradition and innovation, where ancient craftsmanship meets arcane mastery.”

She paused, letting her words sink in, before continuing. “You stand at the threshold of the Quintessivium Cloister Crafts, a sanctuary where every stitch is a prayer, every garment a humble display of our deepest devotion. But today, we are not just nuns and witches, morticians and mystics. Today, we are the architects of a new era.”

Truella yawned at the speech, not without waving like a schoolgirl at the tall Rufus guy, while Lorena was presenting a few of the nuns, ready to model in various fashionable nun’s garbs for their latest midsummer fashion show.

Lorena’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of pride and determination as she turned back to the visitors. “Together, we shall transcend the boundaries of faith and magic. With the guidance of the Morticians’ Guild—Garrett, Rufus, Silas, and Nemo—we will forge a new path, one that honors our past while embracing the future.”

Garrett, ever the showman, gave a theatrical bow. “We’re here to ensure this union is as seamless as a well-tailored shroud, my dear Lorena.” Rufus, standing silent and vigilant, offered a nod of agreement. Silas, with his grandfatherly smile, added, “We bring centuries of wisdom to this endeavor. Trust in the old ways, and we shall succeed.” Nemo, with his characteristic smirk, couldn’t resist a final quip. “And if things go awry, well, we have ways of making them… interesting.”