Page 48 of Rewitched

“Why don’t you ask him to come to ours? I’ll be good. Or I can make myself scarce for a few hours,” Ariadne answered her look.

“Thanks, but it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s only going to be for a few weeks.”

“You’ve put a time limit on this thing already? That doesn’t sound particularly healthy.”

“It’s not that. I’ve decided to give it the month and see what happens. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But I want to give it the time that it deserves.”

Ariadne sighed. “Just try and put yourself first, okay? Please? You’re crap at it.”

“This time I am. I really am. It’s something I need to do. Now, can we talk about something else?”

“Yes, but only because I can tell you’re tired and you’ll probably cry otherwise.”

“It’s likely.”

BACK IN HER bedroom, Belle hunched over so acutely that her nose was almost touching her folded ankles, her spine resembling the posture of a prawn. The grimoire sprawled in front of her across the rug. It was nearly time to head to Quill Lane, with just a few final minutes to remind herself of the task ahead.

In spindly letters, the book spelt out the basics: the six branches of magic to explore during her mentorship, each one feeling more challenging and distinctly failable than the last.

Luckily, with Jinx refusing to sit anywhere other than draped across her legs and currently purring euphorically, she considered that the first, Animal Affinity, was a probable done deal. Her familiar for over ten years, the link was one of the strongest in her life.

“Actually, Jinx, I can probably thank you for not being thrown out of Hecate House sooner,” she told the cat as she absent-mindedly stroked her tiny soft chin.

Earth Sorcery was next, Bonnie’s distinct area of expertise and specialist art. Belle felt reasonably confident that a refresh of the craft would bring back what was once a fairly solid understanding of natural ingredients, the power of the earth itself, the qualities it could wield in the right hands. It was a relief, as she pulled at the early saplings of learning buried somewhere deep in the earth of her mind, to feel memories already unfurl small green leaves.

When was the last time she’d actually learned something or challenged herself? She was surprised to feel a tingle of excitement brush her spine at the thought.

Incantation, of course. Spells, enchantments, charms, the branch she used on a daily basis, even if only in their most humble, unadventurous form. She could see potential there, but it was a vast subject, the challenges limitless. Nonetheless, three out of six branches that weren’t entirely starting from scratch. Those weren’t terrible odds.

She turned the next page of the grimoire to be met with the branches which would require most of her attention. Alchemy, or potion practice. She’d barely dipped her toes into these artful waters and, even worse, this branch came loaded with a…complicated history for Artorius.

Clairvoyancy was fifth, the connection to the mind and harnessing the power of it. Premonition, meditation, telepathy, divination, spiritual contact. Notoriously challenging and certainly the most visionary, but one of the most rewarding powers to harness. Apparently.

A brisk October wind breathed through the open window and blew the page aside to the next. The grimoire reminding her, all by itself, of the sheer size of the challenge that lay ahead. Sixth and finally, the book revealed, came Necromancy. Communication with the dead.

QUILL LANE WAS damp and drizzly when Belle stepped off the bus, treading carefully over a blanket of slippery leaves. Arriving back at the house, she was struck by the finer details that she hadn’t noticed yesterday. The smattering of blackberries tangled in bushes that lined the front window. The deep cherry red tree that reclined over the driveway in a sweep of shyness. The fox had returned, just as Artorius said, and was curled up in a perfect amber circle in a corner of the front garden. He opened one eye drowsily to see who’d interrupted but quickly nuzzled back down into his leaf quilt.

Following her arrival, which Artorius seemed entirely surprised and thrilled about—“I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you again, I fretted all day that I may not have been a welcoming enough host”—he had plied her with strong tea and wedges of toast buttered so thickly that pools of sunny yellow sat on the bread.

She was surprised when, afterwards, he led her to the top of the house, to the “unpredictable” attic that he had specifically warned her not to enter yesterday.

“I was nervous to show you. But after much deliberation, I think we are best to dive in together with both feet. This is where the magic happens, as they say. In my case, you understand, I do mean that entirely literally.”

The moment his palm rested over the brass door handle, it unlocked with a soft click and a fizzle of sparks.

As a witch who liked to keep her own tricks and tools hidden from prying eyes, it had only occurred to Belle over their tea and toast that the house seemed to be largely void of signs of a magical existence. It made sense, given that he had been stripped of his powers until now, although it was clear that he enjoyed researching his magical heritage, magical theory and the like. The decor was a little eccentric and rough around the edges, but there were no spell books or almanacs that she’d noticed. No rogue wands lying around or undisguised potion ingredients. No cauldrons perched on the draining rack. Just carriage clocks, commemorative china plates on stands, a small statue of a flamenco dancer that read “Minorca 1979” on the mantelpiece.

But it was now apparent that every sign that Artorius Day was something of the supernatural persuasion had been stored up in this attic room. It was a glittering treasure trove bathed in silver moonlight, alive with every possible strange and unusual ingredient lining the eaves. Shelf upon shelf of apothecary jars, bottles and vials in every shape and size and shade made up his collection. They stood in vast numbers, a patchwork of glass as they captured the outside moonlight and inked it in new colours. Peeling labels in scratchy lettering had been carefully assigned to them all. Each one was stoppered tightly with a cork, an ornate lid, or simply stuffed with rolled-up newspaper to make do in a hurry.

Amongst stacks of books piled in every corner were tons of haphazard cardboard boxes, all full and scattered across the floor, much like a promising jumble sale. Old-fashioned suitcases and trunks, too, some filled with cauldrons like Russian dolls, ranging from pocket-sized to the biggest at the centre of the room in front of Artorius, who had instantly busied himself with what looked to be a pot of snail shells. A beautiful brass telescope was pointed to the sky at the window, and next to it, to Belle’s amazement and admiration, a full orrery, gracefully spinning on its own heliocentric orbit, to show the motions of the planets and moons. Selections of crystals, wax-sealed jars and discarded tarot cards. The perfectly preserved skeleton of some kind of small winged beast. A rainbow of candles, scattered tapestries and carpets, not to mention a lot of objects that Belle failed to recognise. Everything in sight glinted with a faint sprinkle of magic, like a dusting of icing sugar that caught in the thin, watercoloured light.

“This is beautiful,” Belle marvelled.

A few bigger objects remained unseen, splattered dust sheets thrown over their hulking forms. A tall, sagging armchair was angled next to Artorius, evidently his thinking spot of choice. Things whirred soothingly, buzzed quietly and floated peacefully all around her, igniting every sense as though the room itself was alive with possibility. It was truly a wonder. An inventor’s workshop, a magician’s box of tricks, a collector’s cabinet of curiosities. A warlock’s home.

“Oh, do you think so? It’s not much. Everything that I’ve accumulated over the years, with no particular rhyme or reason. Not that I could use any of it, of course…” Artorius hurried to reassure her. “But I suppose many people collect things that remind them of the past. Nostalgia is a powerful thing.”

“Why do you keep everything hidden up here? You could fill your whole house with wonderful things.”