Page 12 of Rewitched

Casting any magic—even this tiny, insignificant spell—felt like a tender, caressing swell. The feeling spread like melted butter on warm bread from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. It was like covering uncertain spring seeds in sun-drenched earth. Like nourishing soup in the winter. A hot water bottle wrapped around cold toes. It felt good. Come to think of it, it felt right. One of the only things in her life that did feel entirely right.

What did the coven expect a girl in her twenties (still…just…currently twenty-nine, thanks) to be doing with this kind of power when residing in an uneventful, overpriced borough of the non-wicche world? Was she supposed to be creating earth-shattering magical fusion from her two-bedroom flat? She had to go to work. She had bills to pay and friends to hold on to, relationships to attempt, decisions to second-guess, imposter syndrome to fight…The fairly certain knowledge that she was about to brutally disappoint her mother, having already thus far failed to find a dashing husband or produce an adorable babbling heir, was the cherry on top of the cauldron.

A memory burst into Belle’s mind. The candle went out with a breathy puff the moment her focus snapped to an immediate pinpoint. She quickly flipped back to the first leaf-thin page, which she remembered writing on shortly after receiving her powers on her fifteenth birthday. The book was inked with one important question, asking its holder, What do you hope this new blessing of magic means for you, witch?

Underneath, in a faint and ghostly string of pencil letters now faded with time, her fifteen-year-old self had written, To be special. To like myself and be confident. To be happy.

Belle felt an ache in her chest, raw with sadness and affection for that young girl. But the ache also brought with it a brilliant clarity.

She had to pass the trial.

Not just for her mother or her grandmother. She had to do this for herself, too. For herself more than anything, actually. For reasons unbeknownst to her, complicated histories, rites of passage, all the women who came before her, the universe had decided that magic was a fate to bless upon her all those years ago. Her magic was the glue that strung everything else together, like a fine stretch of honey clinging to every other fibre of her, joining the dots that growing up and growing older had drawn in more definite ink. This was something precious. A treasure of glass and gold, buried in sand but glinting in sunlight, waiting to be uncovered and held tightly in her palm.

These powers weren’t to become a memory, wasted and abandoned. Magic was meant to be hers, and for the first time, Belle would fight to prove it.

4

Forgotten Gifts

BELLE BLACKTHORN WAS officially thirty. It had happened. Before yesterday’s events, she had expected to wake up either one of two ways on her milestone morning. With her birthday sunrise, she might feel surprisingly at peace, quietly confident and hopeful about a new decade of possibility. Or (she had tried to tell herself that it would be a reasonable feeling) she would wake up and find that it had somewhat crept up on her, the disappointment that her life was meandering off in directions that her younger self hadn’t hoped for.

Instead, thirty was neither of the two. Belle’s mind was entirely elsewhere after a night of staring at the ceiling with heavy, gritty eyes, feeling a sickly mix of determination and dread over her looming EquiWitch trial. She squinted against the brightness bleeding through the curtains and was stirred by a tap on her bedroom door.

It started with a gentle whisper. “Belle…Belle…Are you awake?” A pause. Then a vigorous shake of the handle with a rattle. “Are you awake? Belle?” Ariadne bellowed.

Belle’s pointing finger gestured in mid-air to unlock the door, peering out from the duvet pulled up to her nose.

“Sorry, I’m dead,” Belle groaned, shoving a pillow over her head.

“That’s the spirit. Happy birthday!” Ari barged into the room unceremoniously and belted out the song in her strong northern accent so loudly that Belle was pretty sure the neighbours would be round to complain. Again.

Ariadne stood with her long, lanky arms outstretched, laden with a selection of pink balloons tied around her wrists. Wedged under her armpits and between the legs of her dungarees was a selection of oddly shaped gifts and what looked worryingly like a birthday cake shoved into a Tupperware, a birthday banner wrapped around her shoulders like a scarf. She looked ridiculous, joy personified. Belle couldn’t help but snort at the pandemonium of balanced birthday goods.

“You’re actually thirty. What the hell is happening?” Ariadne said with an enormous grin, shuffling forwards so that presents fell from between her legs like a strange birth.

“I cannot believe this curse is upon me. I thought the gods would hear my cries.” Belle stretched her forearm over her face in mock despair, the feeling of being cursed hitting far more realistically than her friend could possibly realise. Was Selcouth into curses now? Maybe that’s what was happening, just a friendly coven curse.

“I have to say that as your extremely young and sprightly looking friend…”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you are also hitting this decrepit milestone in a mere matter of weeks.”

Belle gestured for her friend to join her. Ari dumped everything on the floor with her usual inelegant flair, balloons still attached awkwardly to her arms. A trailing number 3 bashed Belle right in the face before almost garrotting her.

“Are you decent under there? Any roguish gentlemen stashed away? Let me in, woman.” Ari and balloons climbed under the duvet next to Belle, seizing the covers for herself. Belle wiggled along the mattress to make room.

“No gentlemen, roguish or otherwise. Just Jinx.”

“My joining you in a new decade may soon be true,” Ariadne lamented. “But for now, I am going to enjoy the fact that I am your extremely young hot friend in her twenties, and you are my withering old crone in her thirties.” She wrapped Belle in her enthusiastic, double-armed hug that always came with a smell of sweet vanilla conditioner from her curly hair and a comforting extra squeeze at the end.

The unpleasant feeling of impending doom faded, just for a moment.

“My favourite crone, though, so it’s fine. How are you feeling?” Ari asked, grabbing the cushions to shove behind her after tying the balloons to the bed-frame. “Do you feel different? Older and wiser?”

“I currently feel hungry and in dire need of caffeine, so I’m not sure all that much has changed as I cross the bridge into old age.”

Belle, wrapped in her blanket shroud, hair up in a slightly mad-looking bun, reluctantly got up to trudge to the kitchen to make two cups of coffee. She had been dreading this moment since last night, when she double-checked the finer details of the letter. She prepared herself for the inevitable volume of Ari’s reaction and seized her chance as she splashed in the milk, calling back to the bedroom.

“I have news that you’re not gonna like and must preface it by saying please don’t kill me.”