Page 22 of Rewitched

Morena practically snarled at Belle’s delivery, ruining the rhythm of her own, but continued her speech with added vigour. “It is a fact of magical life, as proven and evidenced through history, that witches, warlocks or wicchefolk will be challenged by their co-existence with non-wicche society.”

“Hear, hear,” the jury echoed in ceremonial manner.

“The monotonous world of the non-wicche will strive to crush, to beat and to flatten the magic out of any soul who deigns to explore or reveal their own power.”

“Hear, hear,” they chanted again.

This seemed a little much to Belle. It was only working with Christopher, really, which ever left her feeling particularly crushed, beaten or flattened. The rest was okay. Witches clearly enjoyed a bit of show more than she’d ever realised, perhaps a fair compromise for spending most of their lives hiding their magic.

A deep, dark crimson red overcame the last of the light in the room, and Morena’s shockingly pale complexion glowed translucent against it.

“The non-wicche people, oblivious to the potential for wonder that surrounds them, fear wildness. They fear the power that our proud and present kind represent. They see in us what they cannot and never will see in themselves. Ashamed and bitter, knowing that their own magic could never, and will never, dare to show itself.”

Belle’s brow furrowed.

“Within them, magic withers. Within us, it shines.”

“Hear, hear,” the jury echoed again.

Belle thought of her friends. She would argue that they each had their own version of magic to share with the world. She wasn’t sure that they should be considered ashamed or bitter. As a witch who mixed in the non-wicche world, she couldn’t help but bristle at the criticism of those whom she loved. Neither Bonnie nor her grandmother had ever expressed sentiment like it, never attempted to divide the two sides of life.

Morena, looking satisfied with her performance, cast a quick hand over the scroll at her side, which re-rolled itself up tightly and vanished.

“You don’t half commit to that, Mor. Very good.” Bronwyn gave her sister a quick round of applause as the lights rose.

Belle swallowed a snort.

“If you’re not going to do it by the book, Bronwyn, then it’s not worth doing at all,” Morena hissed, her lips so firmly pursed together that her dark lipstick disappeared.

Again, Bronwyn ignored her. “Belle, if you’re ready, poppet, we’ll begin your manifests. Let’s get those out of the way, and then we’ll be done and dusted with this palaver. And you can get home to enjoy the rest of your birthday. Have you got a cake? I’m always partial to those caterpillar—”

“Is this really the time?” Morena snapped.

“Oh, and I’ve got my sooth stone here,” Belle said, fumbling at the pin on her strap, struggling to unhook the clasp with nervous fingers.

She approached the podium and reached up to hand it over to Bronwyn, who took it in the palm of her hand. Belle could have sworn the elder witch inhaled a tense breath as she took it, her eyes fixed on the small stone. Belle noticed what must have been Bronwyn’s own stone sitting on the end of a chain around her neck, misted grey behind the glass.

“I don’t know much about this little thing,” Belle said fondly. “Is it important?”

“Important? Oh, well, perhaps…” Bronwyn’s voice trailed off as she examined it gingerly.

“Do I need it for the—what do you call them—manifests?”

Morena let out a cutting bark of a laugh, startling Bronwyn. There was a disconcerting murmuring amongst the jury, who began to shuffle and fidget. To Belle’s shame, the words “clueless” and “foolish” distinctly simmered above the whispers.

“No matter, Ms. Blackthorn. This historic and prestigious moment is clearly no concern of yours. Never bothered to memorise the grimoire, I take it? Otherwise you’d know that a sooth stone plays a sacred part in the final moments of endarkenment rites. I dare say, not something you need to worry about. Perhaps we should forget this whole ceremony. I truly haven’t the patience for this today.” Morena viciously massaged her temples.

“Oh, Mor, please,” Bronwyn tutted. “Don’t pretend that you have any patience at all, today or any other day.”

“I think I have, in fact, been very patient while you both prattle on with—”

“You’re about as patient as a lion cub getting its claws clipped. And you’re nowhere near as cute or fluffy, so you can’t get away with it, I’m afraid.”

“Bronwyn, I warned you that this would not run smooth.” Morena’s temper flared. “There is quite clearly no natural witchery exhibiting from Ms. Blackthorn. No skill of note has shown itself, no preternatural instinct developed—”

“Madame Sage and Madame Sage.” A deep gravelly voice boomed from the jury and echoed across the books that lined the walls, making both the sisters and Belle jump in unison, as well as several jury members. The lights and the pendulum were snapped from the spell’s effects, returning to normal.

The man who Bronwyn had introduced earlier as Caspar rose confidently from the first seat of pews on the left. Thick silver-streaked locs reached down to his elbows against his cloak, which he’d paired with a burgundy suit. His handsome aged face seemed irked by their bickering, but his poise remained positively regal, calming. He was evidently well practiced at intercepting Gowden squabbles.