Page 18 of Rewitched

Belle’s scorn was caught off guard as she glimpsed the unwelcome sight of herself in an enormously tall gilded mirror across the entryway. To say she looked feral would be a tender compliment. Her skin was red and blotchy from the hysterical tears. Wet, sticky sand clung to every inch of her soaked dress and cloak, she could even feel it between her toes. Her hair hung in damp, knotted rat-tails. Her legs weakened underneath her as she stood, pure adrenaline having flushed everything else away.

The woman glanced across to meet her eyes in the reflection and looked Belle up and down in the mirror. With a barely perceptible but distinctly disdainful flick of the wrist, along with an unguarded eye roll, the woman quickly cast a spell that left Belle immaculately clean and freshly pressed. She felt a welcome warmth flood her body again from top to bottom, more revived and awake than she’d felt for years. As though she’d woken up from the best sleep ever and eaten the most filling meal.

“Thank you,” Belle muttered. “The quick trip to hell and back was a nice touch. Who doesn’t love a bit of drama?” she said, straightening her shoulders.

“A bit…A bit of drama?” the woman said, enunciating purposefully. “I can only assume you are referring to the sacred Selcouth ritual of facing your most intimate fears to push your magic to its limits to commence an endarkenment ceremony?”

Belle gulped. “That’s the one. It was…great. Now that I think about it, I mean. Enjoyed it, actually.”

The woman’s arms fell into a firm condemning fold.

“Sorry to have disappointed you thus far, Ms. Blackthorn. Did you expect passing from realm to realm to be a quick hop-skip? What were you expecting would be involved in a process so aptly named as endarkenment? A sleepover, buttered popcorn, a bouncy castle? We can arrange a face painter for your next visit, should it be to your liking.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Belle clipped back, blushing. Reluctantly, she considered that the woman may have a point. Endarkenment was so far what it said on the tin.

“Although any thought of a further visit is perhaps presumptuous,” the woman said. A painfully awkward moment of silence and eye contact passed. The woman widened her eyes expectantly.

“Oh. Right. I’m…” Belle offered out her hand.

“Belladonna Blackthorn, yes. You’re also rather late.”

Was this woman for real? Moments ago, Belle had stared death, nightmares, her own personal hell itself in the face—and, she might add, battered it into submission. Eventually. Yet here she was, this lady, concerned about a slight delay?

“I’m dreadfully sorry about that. All of the, you know, demon voices, sinking sand”—she reeled them off on her fingers—“thinking I was about to expire inside a stone broom cupboard, my loved ones declaring their undying hatred for me. Torture does dreadfully get in the way of things. Let alone how awful the trains are at the moment.”

“Just the”—the woman consulted a pocket watch from the inside of her cloak—“nineteen and a half minutes of lateness, though. We thank you for that courtesy. A remarkably organised record for the Blackthorn family.”

Belle let out a snort but quickly realised it was the wrong response.

“It’s no wonder the house decided to deliver a lateness punishment for your arrival. You have no one to blame but yourself, Ms. Blackthorn.”

“That”—Belle gestured a thumb back to the chamber—“was all for being late?”

“I would assume so, judging by the sand that was decorating your eyebrows,” she replied as though Belle were entirely foolish not to know, “you faced the hourglass hex. Hecate House does not take kindly to poor timekeeping. It’s a perfectly reasonable addition to the process.”

“Of course. Nothing says ‘perfectly reasonable’ like death by quicksand.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Be glad that you remembered your coven uniform. Caught on a bad day, the house has been known to turn one’s clothes to dust for incorrect attire, which has made for some rather unfortunate arrival scenes.”

Belle couldn’t hide the horror on her face.

“And the rest of it? The traumatising ghostly apparitions and voices? Which hex was that?”

“No hex. Delivered as standard on first visit to the house,” the woman said dismissively. “A revered tradition for any wicchefolk of Selcouth thirsty for the chance to prove themselves worthy.”

In a gesture of reluctant, optimistic truce, Belle sighed and reached out to shake the woman’s hand again. She offered a smile to try and reset their introduction in the humour of their ridiculous meeting. A fraction of a second too slow to be considered polite, the other witch returned the gesture, offering slim, sharp fingers. Each was adorned with an ornate silver ring, all embossed with rich, dark stones and jewels. The one on her index finger, Belle noticed, bore a streak of glass swirled with misty smoke—a sooth stone.

“I am sorry for the wait,” Belle said. “I think this means the only way is up.”

“You haven’t changed a bit since we last saw you fifteen years ago. And you look so like your mother.”

It was not a comment delivered with affection or nostalgia. The woman’s icy blue eyes looked Belle up and down with brazen dislike. Belle pretended to ignore the frost and smiled still but couldn’t stop herself from blushing. She clutched her hands onto her bag straps to stop them hanging awkwardly at her sides.

“I don’t think I caught your name?” Belle asked. “Although I feel like I remember your face. I guess that would be from my endarkenment debut all those years ago.”

With a quick turn of her wrist, the woman produced a parchment which unfurled smoothly in a sprinkle of sparks, along with a plumed black quill. Both levitated importantly next to her, then sailed gracefully towards Belle to tap at her chest.

“Sign this,” the woman said, ignoring Belle’s request completely.