Page 34 of Rewitched

“Yes and no. Got a bit of a mind of its own, this thing, by way of complex, historical enchantments. Legend goes that the pages of the Selcouth grimoire will accept contributions written in raven black ink that are valuable and true magic lessons to benefit the coven. The grimoire itself decides what can remain within its pages as coven lore, some form of twisted, ancient sorcery that even I don’t fully understand, love. Everything in here is valuable and necessary.”

“And the one I have at home?” Belle asked, curious. “The copy that’s presented when a coven member is given their magic, I mean. It’s the same version?”

“It’s an abridged almanac that everyone is given, but yes. Yours will update itself when this big old lump decides a new lesson is worthy. Doesn’t happen often, mind. Plenty of our suggestions have been rejected over the years. The rest of you have the handy pocket-sized version.”

Belle thought back to her own grimoire, which would require the world’s largest pocket to be transportable anywhere.

“Sort of a witch’s bread and butter,” Bronwyn added.

Mr. Ricci reappeared with a giant mug of milky tea and two plates of crumpets glazed with burnished blackberry jam. He delivered the order unceremoniously and gave a side-eye to the giant book that Belle’s menus were attempting to disguise.

“I won’t ask,” he grunted in his endearingly strong accent, and promptly walked away.

Belle gave him an apologetic and grateful half-smile.

The pages of the grimoire were chaotic, dirty and well thumbed, folded every which way. Not all of them were even attached to the spine anymore, and all were filled with notes, quick jottings, thoughts of witches past, all tied together through time. The edges of the binding were frayed, the golden embossing long worn away and chipped into shards on the cover. The words on the original pages were intricately inked in dark, detailed calligraphy barely decipherable to a modern reader. Belle wondered whether it was even a known language. The margins were richly coloured with jewel-shaded borders, side by side with sketched illustrations that reminded Belle of da Vinci’s anatomical studies, eerie but beautiful still.

“Surely the grimoire is just going to tell us what we already know about my disaster of a trial. I might as well have come into my EquiWitch with a rabbit in a hat and done ‘Izzy whizzy, let’s get busy.’ ”

“Izzy who, love? Oh, cursed capers, where is it?”

Bronwyn was barely listening, lost in deciphering the mess of helter-skelter scrawls and loose leaves of papers, hunting for something in particular. Belle dropped her crumpet when her sage let out a sudden shriek.

“Good gladioli and graveyards! The divil dance on it. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I told you! I knew I’d seen something…Look, Belle, look. Ha ha, ho ho, hee hee!” The high witch sprang to her feet and did a little jig from one foot to the other.

Belle lunged over the table for the scratchy lace of ink that Bronwyn was, for some reason, so thrilled to have discovered. In tiny writing, barely legible and scrawled into the margins like a footnote, was a passage that must have been somebody’s afterthought. A rushed addition, but written down in raven black ink and evidently accepted by the omnipotent book.

In the extraordinary circumstance that a jury stands divided on the outcome of an EquiWitch trial, the wicchefolk in favour of preserving the membership may put forth a suitable and unbiased mentor from the venerable archives guarded within Hecate House, if said trial should fall in the hallowed month of Winterfylleth (October).

For the duration of the month until Halloween falls, this figure may ready their student to complete six challenges, created by the esteemed coven grimoire for recompense. All six challenges, reflecting the fundamental branches of magic, must be completed to the grimoire’s satisfaction. Adequate success in each branch shall be indicated to student and mentor when the paired allegory within the grimoire lights to an amber glow. A second hearing shall be held and a final verdict given on the night of All Hallows’ Eve to decide whether the subject shall retain their neglected or maltreated magical abilities.

Refer to Hecate House Ossuary for the available guardian archive.

The two witches looked at each other, one in confusion and one in unmistakable triumph.

“There’s always an answer to every problem,” Bronwyn murmured quietly, a glint in her eye.

“A mentor for October? Until Halloween?” Belle turned, wide-eyed. “That’s…Well, that’s actually perfect. Can it be you? I would love if it could be you. Or at least, please can it not be Morena?”

Bronwyn chuckled as she closed the book, leaning on it with her elbows and lacing her fingers together. “As much as I would love to be your teacher, I cannot. As coven sage, my position holds too much influence to be considered unbiased. Fortunately, the same does also go for Morena.”

She reached out to Belle and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.

“In fact, we may find this tricky,” she added thoughtfully. “Any coven member present at your trial has to be ruled out. They saw your manifests and will have already formed opinions. Your mother, of course, also cannot be rightfully unbiased. That leaves us with anyone who may have been absent, ill or otherwise engaged.”

Belle chewed at the inside of her cheek as Bronwyn rattled through her thoughts out loud.

“But we’ll have a little look-see at the register. The courtroom was rather full yesterday. But maybe someone’s got the runs or at least the sniffles. There’s bound to be some wonderful wicche name who we can call upon. Let’s see, with this loophole in mind, we have twenty-nine moons remaining for a mentorship…Of course, this will require you to return with me to Hecate House.”

Belle frowned, then jumped up from her seat. “Give me five minutes to check that Monica can cover for me. Stay here, have some more tea. Please, do not do any more magic. And please, do not drink the Jitter Bug espresso, it’s enough to wire a normal person for a week, so I’m unsure what it would do to…well, to a woman like yourself.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, the floor disappeared from under Belle’s boots, dropping out from beneath her like a trapdoor, and a forceful feeling encased her whole body, like being whipped up inside a vacuum cleaner.

Bronwyn had transferred them both in an instant to what seemed to be her own space within Hecate House. While Caspar’s office had the opulent feeling of classic luxury and professional academia, the sage witch’s looked remarkably like a living room: terracotta textured wallpaper with stencilled grapes along the border, chintz floral armchairs in bold apricot-and-green patterns, and chunky wooden shelving adorned with magic memorabilia, including several plastic pumpkins, even more plush ones with happy little faces and small ceramic ghosts.

Bronwyn’s office also played host to an extensive collection of Clairvoyancy tools, the array of equipment and paraphernalia revealing her specialism. Scrying mirrors in various gilded frames on every surface, crystal balls of all sizes, corked bottles stuffed with shards of pastel-coloured crystals and dustings of herbs. The room felt chaotic but cosy in its clutter. A patterned rug was placed underneath a table bearing a brightly filled fruit bowl. The mouse that had perched happily in Bronwyn’s pocket hopped down from its home in her cloak and began nibbling contentedly on the side of a peach.

“There, now. Turns out you’re a good companion for a swift transference spell, too. Staying calm under magical transference isn’t easy. Although you do look a bit green.”