Page 17 of Rewitched

She knew it wasn’t Ariadne. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick, a spell. She knew that voice laced with so much poison and hatred did not, could not, ever belong to her best person. The girl she’d grown alongside, from seed to tree, two intertwining branches blooming in parallel through decades of shared seasons.

This Ariadne was not hers. It spoke with a knife edge, a monster that echoed deepest, darkest thoughts Belle never dared to dwell on, if only to protect herself.

But on it went, the furious hatred.

“You never think of anybody but yourself. You never cared about me, not really. You think you’re special with this…whatever it is. This magic. But you can’t even control it. You don’t share it, you shut it away, so what’s even the point? You don’t know what you’re doing, about anything, ever. You’re such a mess.”

Tears flowed uncontrollably, wetting and warming Belle’s burning cheeks.

“You’re strange, you’re selfish. A burden. And you chose all of this over me.”

“I never would, never, ever, Ari. I would always choose you.”

Remain of mind. Remain of mind. It’s not real.

“You’re unlovable.”

“I know this isn’t real. You’re not real!”

Then came magic.

Pure, unhindered magic. Flooding from her fingertips so that the space filled with light, so suddenly bright it was blinding against her eyelids. It cascaded around her, billowing satin, the warm arm of a friend swooping in to hold her up.

Candescence rushed through her veins, the warmth like a bathtub filling, rising, flooding then overflowing. Golden sparks flew in ribbons of sunshine. And slowly but definitely surely, the solid stone in front of her began to liquidate. It melted. For a moment Belle thought that her tears were playing tricks on her vision. But the sandstone rippled in shades of dove and fawn and ivory around her, turning to watery reflects. The solid wall became a rolling waterfall in front of her.

A thunderclap boomed against the waterfall, shuddering every part of her body as a lightning bolt struck in brilliance. It sent a mighty soaking tidal wave through the tiny space on a gust of bullish wind. The force of water knocked her to the floor and washed the tower of sand away. With it went the waterfall. In its place, a grand floor-to-ceiling velvet curtain the colour of dark silver adorned with bronze rope tassels hung in front of Belle.

She slumped against the solid wall still behind her and gulped down the clean, fresh air in greedy mouthfuls. Shoving her wet hair out of her face, she untangled herself from the swell of velvet and reached out on hands and knees to move the heavy curtain aside. Whatever waited on the other side was welcome, because it couldn’t be worse than the hell that she’d just fought her way through.

She furiously wiped away the tears clinging to her eyelashes. She had saved herself, remained of mind. Just about. She had found the way.

For fate foretold. This was Hecate House.

7

The Gowden Sisters

“AH. GOT THERE in the end, I see. Some might say stale, uninspired, predictable…And who doesn’t strive for stale when armed with infinite magical possibility.”

In front of Belle stood a rather formidable-looking woman. Belle scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, her limbs screaming with exhaustion.

“Ultimately successful, I suppose,” the woman’s drawl continued. Her lips were pursed as though she could smell something particularly displeasing lingering on someone’s shoe. “Others tend to favour something altogether more impressive, you understand. Astral projection, bending elements, mythical creatures—you know, something with a little more pomp and production. Always appreciated after a long morning; these EquiWitch trials are such tiresome work.”

The woman sounded bored and lowered her disapproving stare to admire her own long fingernails, sharp and polished to a crimson reflect. “It got you here in one piece, I dare say. Although judging by the sight of you, I may take back that observation.”

A shock of silver-grey hair against the woman’s complexion reminded Belle of bare, bleached parchment. It was coiffured elegantly underneath the brim of her coven hat, with a single victory curl furled with immaculate, measured precision. She bore razor-sharp cheekbones that stretched up to her temples and wine-coloured lipstick made for a dramatic ghostly contrast.

Belle swallowed down the embarrassment of being chastised, a mixture of mortification and fury that left her unsure how to respond.

“Oh, right, well…Sorry about that. Sorry for keeping you waiting. I think I did just nearly die, but all right.”

The woman raised one sharp angled eyebrow in scepticism. “We are not in the business of murder, Ms. Blackthorn.”

“Marvellous. Glad to hear it. Just a healthy dollop of torture instead, is it?” Belle asked, shaking out the water from her sleeves.

The woman pointedly brushed a droplet from her lapel. “One only experiences the full tests of Hecate House if one isn’t quick enough to produce astute magic,” the woman snipped, as though it were entirely obvious.

“Tests? You call that a test?” Belle said, gesturing back at the curtain behind her. “I’m pretty sure I just went through an exorcism.”