Page 38 of Rewitched

When they finally reached the end of the archive, Bronwyn clutched just one solitary card.

Belle reached for it. “Are they still kicking? Can I take a look?”

Bronwyn hurriedly stashed the card in her cloak pocket. “This one should have been removed a long time ago. I’ve only kept it with me so Sybil can make sure he’s stricken for good.”

“Who is it?” Belle asked.

“Trust me, Belle,” Bronwyn said, uncharacteristically stern. “You do not want this person as a mentor. Bloody Sybil needs to update things more than once a century. Remind me to tell her—”

“Bronwyn, please.”

The witches locked eyes.

“I need to make this work,” Belle said, panic in her voice again. “Otherwise, that’s it. Like you said, we don’t have a Plan C. I’m going to lose my magic.” Saying it aloud again felt terrible. “Whoever it is, they can’t be that bad. If they’re a member of Selcouth and they’re technically still alive, then I’ll take it. In fact, I’m not even too bothered about the last part. I’m open to the undead at this point, now that I’ve seen the ossuary. They have a great eye for interiors.”

The elder witch paused for a moment. She hesitated, poised to say more, but something changed her mind. Bronwyn sighed and pulled the card from her pocket. She took a long look at the photograph, examining the face in the picture. “Artorius Day.”

Belle glanced down at the photograph on the card as Bronwyn offered it to her. In tones of sepia brown was a young man with dark eyes, slightly too big ears and a lost look.

“Oh, that’s him all right. Categorically the most good-for-nothing weasel of a warlock to have ever stumbled his way into this coven.”

Belle was surprised to hear the hard tone in Bronwyn’s voice. Artorius Day, like a rabbit in headlights, seemed to stare straight back at her from his photograph. His hair stuck up all over the place, as though he’d quickly dragged his fingers through it the moment the camera captured him. His round face was covered with a healthy smattering of freckles. Whether it was the lost expression or the fact that this warlock was her last hope, Belle found herself instantly warming to him.

“Not who I would have chosen in a million years, Belle. But like you say, this may be your last chance, and this is what the universe seems to have presented to us in its infinite wisdom.”

“The universe seems to like keeping me on my toes at the moment. Can you tell me more about him?”

Bronwyn gave a resigned sigh. “I think we’re going to need some more tea.”

13

Cauldron of Fire

“WHAT I AM about to tell you is widely known but rarely discussed.”

Back in her office, Bronwyn leaned towards Belle in the armchair opposite, the mouse in her pocket hopping up to her shoulder and burying itself in her wiry hair.

“It is a story which has brought great shame to this coven for many years. It is the ink-blot on our proud history, and there are many folk around here”—Bronwyn gestured to the door—“who would not approve of me passing on this tale to you. Selcouth tries to forget it ever happened, but there’s no scorning history. And I would never leave you to make any decision like this without having all of the facts presented to you, dear. The truth always outs in this coven.”

“I appreciate that,” Belle said. The cold of the ossuary had chilled her, and she inhaled the sweet scent of honey gratefully as she sipped her tea. “But how bad can he be?”

“Artorius Day is a villain. A warlock with blood on his hands.”

Belle choked on scalding hot tea. “Bad, then.”

“The blood of a respected, much-loved high warlock of this coven, no less. Selcouth can forgive many things. But it cannot forgive magic with evil at its heart.”

A BOY, SMALL for his age at fifteen years old, stood between a cauldron bigger than him and an older brother even bigger again. Savaric had grown to over six feet tall, and the boy had concluded the only logical explanation was that he was secretly part giant. Maybe an unknown uncle or a grandfather somewhere up the family tree. More than a decade younger than Savaric and constantly overshadowed by his impressive magical achievements, the boy struggled to walk the tightrope between envy and admiration towards his older brother. By the minute, it changed from one to the other—hatred, then adoration. Adoration. Hatred.

“Sav, look, look. It’s turning, it’s turning!”

With brown eyes and ears that he still hoped to grow into, the boy leaned over and gazed in awe at a complex, rich potion that had been steeping for the last seven days straight. The brothers had checked on it fastidiously since their work began, waking up through the night with the changing patterns of the moon risings. They had monitored its progress with unwavering determination to ensure their creation was developing exactly as planned.

“Artorius, calm down. Don’t get your face too close. Mother will kill me if it does any damage to you.”

Savaric dashed over to his side and plunged a rusty ladle deep into the concoction. He dragged it through the sludgy mix in laborious clockwise motions.

“This stuff will be bubbling any minute now, and you don’t want to see what happens if it touches any part of your skin. Scales wouldn’t be a handsome look on you, lad.”