Page 46 of Rewitched

“Hmm?”

“The magic. Having your powers reinstated after all this time.”

“Back in my…Oh! Yes, very good. Rather a novelty, of course.”

Artorius prised open the tin to reveal four fairy cakes encased in pastel-coloured papers, looking altogether squashed and sorry for themselves.

“I beg your pardon, Belle. The fairies at the bottom of the garden would be most ashamed of me, embarrassing their delicacy like this.” Belle suppressed further questions, only adding more to the pile every moment that passed. “Perhaps past their best, but nothing that a little magic can’t fix.” Artorius lifted a cake into his palm, hovered his fingers just above it for a moment and unfurled them to reveal a fluffier, perfect version with a rainbow of hundreds and thousands set in sticky icing. “Freshly baked today.” He winked at Belle and handed her the snack.

“Now, that is worthwhile magic.”

“I respect the art of powerful witchcraft to the utmost, especially when it comes to reviving stale snacks.” He busied himself, carefully peeled away the paper like he was uncovering a treasure and raised his fairy cake. “To your birthday. To new friends. And the adventure of self-discovery.”

Belle bit into the golden lightness and felt the sweetness squash between her teeth. The familiar taste took her back to evenings at her grandmother’s house after school. Sugar and blankets and TV and armchairs.

“Frogs and martens! The grand tour!” Artorius leapt from his seat with surprising amounts of energy. “I’m a little out of practice when it comes to being the host with the most. Please, Belle, do come with me and I’ll show you around.”

She followed behind Artorius as he showed her the rest of his home. A ramshackle but cosy living room sat at the front of the house. Shag carpets. Two armchairs. Worn upholstery, brash floral patterns clashing dramatically with everything else in the room. A small boxy television that didn’t seem to ever be switched off and showed a picture that flickered with the wind speed. Every surface possible bore a cream-coloured doily, which Artorius proudly informed Belle that he’d crocheted himself. It was comfortable and inviting but frozen in the past, pulled together by someone who’d tried their best to hold on to a sense of home. The fireplace, constantly roaring and (Belle suspected, magically) stoked, helped a great deal.

A study of sorts lay behind it, less a place of work and more a jumble sale, mere hints of a desk buried under piles of documents and discarded reference texts. It felt like what would be an accurate physical representation of all of the knowledge within an old warlock’s mind, spilling out in a clutter of loose pages and scribbled paper under an array of glass paperweights. Belle cupped her hand against the back window and peered out into the thick black London night. She could make out the silhouette of a wildly overgrown garden lying in wait. Thickets, brambles and weeds knitted themselves together, droplets of rainwater caught in the moonlight like gemstones.

Up the creaking stairs, Artorius’s bedroom sat at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and next to a bathroom with a slightly alarming avocado-green colour scheme. A second winding spiral staircase towered in one corner of the landing, which Artorius explained led up to the attic.

“For us to visit another night. And best to not head up there without me. It’s a room that can be unpredictable, to say the least.”

“That’s a bit ominous.”

Artorius didn’t respond, either unhearing or pretending to be.

“We merely make our acquaintances tonight, Belle. Of course, our limited moons are precious, but I also think that it’s important to begin with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

Artorius had insisted on escorting Belle to the end of the path as she headed out with the moon hanging high and heavy. They had to stop several times as he made various exclamations at plants poking their heads through the ground of his front garden and to give a quick scratch behind the ears to a fox who seemed to be a faithful friend. Maybe even a familiar.

“This one stops by most nights for dinner,” Artorius explained. “Although I can’t tell you how marvellous it is to have a little human company again.”

Their meeting could not have been further from what Belle had anticipated. It seemed impossible that this man, so kind and gentle, could be the same figure that Bronwyn had spoken of with such loathing in her voice.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” she said. Something compelled her honesty, and she felt the need to share it. “I actually have a weirdly good feeling about this, something I haven’t felt for a while.” She sounded as surprised as she felt.

Artorius politely lifted his pink hat to Belle. With a grateful nod, she headed down the broken driveway. She turned back to lock the gate, expecting the old man to have vanished back inside. Instead, she found that he remained, a few rogue sparks of magic lingering around him like biscuit crumbs, to wave his hat the whole way behind her until she turned the corner.

16

A Warlock’s Home

SCOOPING A BLOB of whipped cream from mug to mouth, Belle bounced back against the booth as she missed her aim, spilling onto the thigh of her jeans. Cursing under her breath (not an actual curse—she wasn’t one to meddle with those), she frantically rubbed at it with a serviette while using her elbow to keep the page of the grimoire open. She heard a stool across the table scrape backwards as Ariadne plonked herself down unannounced.

“Finally, here you are. I thought you might have been out with Mr. Magical when you rolled in late last night, and then I couldn’t find you all day to grill you. But of course, giant book and an equally giant coffee. Should have guessed.”

“Huh? Oh, right.” Belle threw her arms over the grimoire, quickly dashing it underneath her jacket on the seat. With sleep not wishing to linger past sunrise, she had followed her nose towards the caffeine and spent almost the entire day cooped up at their usual table, bent double over the pages in front of her, curious as to whether the EquiWitch challenges would make themselves known in the grimoire. They hadn’t.

“He’s more of an evenings and nights visit kind of guy,” Belle said. “I do not mean it like that! He…works a lot,” she continued hastily as Ariadne danced her eyebrows suggestively.

Mr. Ricci appeared to deliver Ariadne’s Americano (cold milk on the side) and slid two plates onto their table from the crook of his arm.

“Some cinnamon rolls for my best customers. Most sane people have stopped with the caffeine by this time of day. They’re yours if you’re hungry,” he muttered, always gruff but secretly kind and generous with the leftover pastries. Once, he’d stood behind the counter for almost half an hour, drying the mugs with a rag while Belle cried about how she had no idea what she was doing with her life after a terrible day at Christopher’s beck and call.

“No one knows, girl. If they say they do, they lie,” he’d said matter-of-factly, sliding a shiny cherry Danish across the countertop for her woes.