Page 11 of Rewitched

“Mum, tell me. What am I supposed to have done with my life? And I don’t mean that in my usual existential crisis kind of way. In a magical way. What is Selcouth expecting of me? Should I have used magic to do something special by now?”

“It’s not a case of a checklist, darling,” Bonnie said. “The trial isn’t a clear-cut test with right or wrong answers. It’s a feeling, an instinct. The trial examines how the real Belle lets magic exist within her, how you allow it to flourish and trust it to guide your life. It’s a gift, but it comes with responsibility, and this is just to prove that you can look after it.”

The very dead cactus caught Belle’s eye again. In reality, when was the last time she’d used her powers for anything more exciting than…quick caffeinated drinks? Did conjuring a last-minute Friday night table at the nice Italian up the road count?

“You’ve lived fifteen years as a non-wicche and fifteen years as a witch now,” Bonnie continued. “They only want to check that your powers aren’t being held by you for nothing.”

Belle bristled at that. “Surely they’re mine to keep and do with as I wish.”

“Of course they’re yours. But the privilege of retaining them has to be earned fairly. There is only a finite amount of magic in this world, after all.”

Belle dusted away a rogue spark of her own powers, which was sitting alone on the kitchen countertop, left over from when she’d reversed the little patch of mould on the bread that morning.

“I basically just make a lot of long-distance drinks while I’m lying down.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. You create wonderful magic on a daily basis, probably without even realising. You’re talented and bright and fabulous. You have nothing to worry about.”

Belle couldn’t help but feel, not for the first time, that her mother’s unwavering confidence in her abilities was perhaps misplaced. “Nothing to worry about…” She repeated dubiously, wrapping the phone cord in a complicated cat’s cradle.

“You’ve embraced it all as I taught you, and as your nan did, too. She was so proud of you.” Bonnie’s voice caught, wavered.

Belle glanced back at her bookshelf and chewed the inside of her cheek until she could taste a faint tang of blood.

“I know you, Belle. You always do anything and everything to the best of your ability, magic or non-magic. In thunder, lightning or in rain. You’ll tick all of their silly coven boxes, sweetheart, and your manifests will shine through. I have every faith in you, always do.”

Manifests? Suddenly, the Christopher problem, the burn-out problem, the life purpose problem, the perpetually single problem—all felt like distant, insignificant baby hiccups. Jinx flipped over onto her front and retched up a slug-like hairball with grotesque sound effects. Absolutely, suitably magical.

While her mum chatted on, now something about quiche in between shouts at the dog, Belle stretched on her tiptoes and pulled the thick leather-bound grimoire from the top shelf. Across the cover, she saw the star illustration that she’d recognised on the envelope. That was where she knew it from.

Selcouth Coven Grimoire: A Witch’s Counsel for Endarkenment.

Under its own weight, the book fell to the floor with a thud. Belle froze, spun to the door across the way, prayed the noise didn’t wake Ariadne, but a quick snuffling and a snore indicated otherwise. Belle traced the etched title with her finger, carved deeply into the timeworn violet leather, and heaved the book open over the carpet. A fine cloud of dust plumed from its pages.

“Daily Rituals, Practice of…, Dragon Ownership, Safety Regarding…, Draught Brewing, Beginners Guide…, Elixir Lore…, EquiWitch Trial. Here it is. Wow, I should have read this…well, fifteen years ago.”

“I promise, petal, you’ll be fine. You are my daughter, magic runs through us like a river through a mountain. Show them the real Belle. I’m just sorry I’m not allowed to be there to watch you sock it to them.”

Bonnie revelled in her supernatural abilities and was, without question, born to be a witch. Her cottage in the quiet northern town where Belle had grown up was enveloped in wild flowers and grasses, a pocket haven of flora and fauna, each carefully cultivated for her passion: Earth Sorcery. Neighbours simply thought her to be a slightly eccentric green-fingered lady. But she spent her days in a small greenhouse at the end of her garden, Wolfie for company, brewing spells of protection, hope and appeasement for others. Her abilities were something of a whispered legend around the town and would often bring neighbours, superstitious mostly through desperation, knocking with trays of flapjacks or bunches of tulips in exchange for a moment of her time and a bath-friendly mix of her latest for luck, a tea blend for attraction or a lotion specifically for confidence.

Belle’s father had left a long time ago, two strong-willed witches too much for him to handle, and Bonnie had always been certain that her daughter would follow in her footsteps. That Belle would find solace like she had in the potions, elixirs, draughts and tinctures. The joy and art of magic—always the beauty of it rather than the power.

But, of course, the modern witching world wasn’t how it was when she had been a girl. Whenever she’d asked about Belle’s progress with magic, Belle reassured her that she’d get round to it just as soon as something else more pressing was out of the way. Friends, exams, deadlines, dates, trips, work…

Belle found the paragraph in the grimoire that she needed. Ending their call after something about a risotto recipe and someone from school that Bonnie had bumped into at the supermarket, Belle knocked the phone receiver to her forehead. All she’d wanted to do to celebrate the final precious evening of her twenties was eat pizza, watch a film and get an early night. But here she was plummeting into an abyss of contemplation on her own pointless existence and her stupid, selfish waste of powerful potential for her entire adult life.

Thirty was everything she’d been warned about.

With crossed legs, she flipped through the long-neglected pages. Her early study of magic had been diligent, excited and eager. Then, over time, it had dwindled. Nightly became weekly, weekly turned to fortnightly, often to sometimes to rarely. Belle couldn’t remember the last instance that she’d dedicated any kind of time to her own potential.

With vague recall, she studied the pages covered in painstakingly detailed illustrations sketched in ghostly black and brown.

EquiWitch Trial, The

On a thirtieth celebration of life in the non-wicche realm, all wicchefolk are bound to undergo the EquiWitch trial, with strictly no exceptions to be made through nepotism or otherwise. This examination, metaphysical in its decision, delves thoroughly and intimately through manifest viewing into the personal history of the magic holder, beginning at the conception of their powers on their fifteenth celebration of life through to present day. This passage of time is known as the endarkenment process, and such an assessment brings endarkenment to completion and conclusion. An exact balance of one’s experience, action, perception and truth will be taken into account to judge whether the witch is deemed worthy by their coven of maintaining their sacred power and position in the world of sorcery.

If successful in passing their EquiWitch trial, and in having proven themselves to be suitably pragmatic, shrewd, courageous and bold for the coven, the magic holder will be granted permission to keep their powers until their final mortal breath. If unsuccessful, and deemed unworthy, the magic holder will be stripped of their powers with immediate effect and the magic returned to Selcouth. (See Expellation Ceremony on page 439.)

The words lit up amber across the pale pages as if to only emphasise her lack of the aforementioned qualities. Sinking against the sofa, Belle pointed her forefinger at the flame of a candle burning on the fireplace. Feeling the familiar comforting warmth that filled her whole body when she was holding a spell at the end of her fingertip, she made the small flame dance, hypnotising herself into deep thought as she contemplated what she would, could, should do about this whole mess.