Page 49 of Rewitched

“I’m a private man. Unwanted attention is not something I seek. And it’s important that you create a space like this for yourself, Belle. It doesn’t have to be a whole attic. But all wicchefolk need their own altar dedicated to practice of the craft. ‘Altar’ makes it sound rather fancy, but it’s just a personal space of one’s own. And this is mine,” Artorius said, gesturing proudly.

“Again, not that any of it is in active use,” he swiftly corrected himself. “Only my studies through my non-wicche life. Merely curiosities that I like to peruse to remind me of…of the magic of it all, I suppose.” His expression turned watery for a moment before snapping back into consciousness.

“Besides, I dare say the neighbours already think I’m mad enough. The last thing I need is for one of them to come knocking and find me dabbling in the eye of newt jar, looking for a juicy one. Mr. Nuttall next door is already convinced I’m a lunatic.”

Belle thought to herself that Mr. Nuttall must have seen and heard some things from 8 Quill Lane over the years and probably had a good case for his point.

Night pushed its way through the attic eaves to mark their first lesson, and Belle sat studiously as Artorius embarked on a refresher course on magical theory, the cornerstone of what made a successful spell of any kind.

“Vision, courage, tenacity. Plus benevolence, for good measure,” Artorius repeated, rapping his knuckles at each of the points on a levitating pyramid that he’d crafted from magic, counting off the qualities as he went. “And I have no doubt in my mind that you possess each one in abundance.”

It was odd. She hadn’t felt this particular kind of contentment for a long while—it reminded her of time spent with a beloved grandparent. An abundant love, with no conditions put upon it. Unwavering belief and support and admiration, as though she were a precious thing. It had been years since she’d lost her, but that presence was something that she missed every day since Alvina had passed away, her magic returning back to Selcouth. The years without her had softened the grief, worn it down to a bluntness. It was no longer sharp or stabbing or severe. Instead, it was as though a silk scarf was knotted around her chest, permanent and solid but existing tenderly, tugging her backwards with a gentle pull every now and again with news or stories that she wished she could share.

Perhaps not to the same extent, but Artorius’s words plucked at the nostalgic chord of that beloved company. Unwittingly, her hand reached for the warm familiarity of her sooth stone.

As though someone had opened the sash window with a sudden force, Belle felt a shiver travel from the top of her spine, a current along each vertebra like dominos. A biting breeze spun through the gaps in the window frame. The musty smell of the attic, like crisp old pages and tobacco, filled her nose as it picked up on the wind. Her gaze was snatched towards her grimoire resting on a music stand. The pages swiftly began to fly, whipped up in the frenzied wind that left Belle pushing hair from her face and Artorius clinging to his pink hat. It dropped as suddenly as it had begun, and the grimoire seemed to settle on the page that it desired. The pair shared a hesitant glance before Belle rushed to approach the book, seizing the leather cover in her hands.

It had been opened to a page that she had certainly never found before, and she wondered whether it had even previously been a part of her grimoire. Artorius followed and peered around her side on his tiptoes.

The title of the page simply read Incantation and was followed by an inked paragraph.

Conviction in thy words must hold,

Speak a truth that’s brave and bold.

Be thy assured all shall be well,

A fortune magic cannot tell.

So to prove good thine incantation,

Rewrite the mind’s own dark narration.

Spirit, soul and spell to start,

Summon that which is thine heart.

“What is it with magic and undecipherable, unhelpful poetry?” Belle sighed.

Artorius grinned. “And so begins your first grimoire challenge.”

17

Incantation

“BRILLIANT, BRILLIANT! ONTO our next task. Unless…crikey, liver and onions—’tis almost morning! Belle, I have kept you so many hours. You must get some sleep. The effects of new magic practice can be exhausting.”

Belle did feel wiped. The fifth moon had been a brutal one. She’d arrived tired but heartened by a confident start with incantations. After two nights of successful incantation in many of its forms, Belle had seemingly exhausted most options in Artorius’s house, animating, manifesting and transferring so much chaos that it now resembled a museum run by a madman. Artorius was unbothered by the mess and thrilled by the progress, while Belle was caffeinating so much that she could feel her eyelashes vibrating. A personal triumphant highlight had been the notoriously tricky Vividus Animo incantation, bestowing real life to the inanimate. To her own surprise, she had successfully enchanted the small flamenco dancer from Artorius’s mantelpiece, much to his delight, and animated an overcoat, which he’d thoroughly enjoyed as a waltzing partner during their snack break. Minor chaos ensued when the statue then began instructing Artorius and the overcoat in their own flamenco routine.

Tonight had seen the pair jump to another huge task: magical transference, effectively teleporting from one space to another. It was magic that she’d been determined to perfect as a teenager but had given up on after a while, neither patience nor the motion sickness really her forte, along with a characteristic frustration when she didn’t prove to be instantly successful at something. The craft of transference was often painful and bruising, leaving joints relentlessly bashed and limbs overstretched like overworked dough.

Aided transference with a grip on Artorius’s skinny forearm had proved fine. She’d managed that successfully in and out of Hecate House, too. But that only served to make smooth solo transference (or the lack of it) even more infuriating. After hours of failed attempts, Belle had almost managed a solo transference from kitchen to attic and back again. Nearly, but for some reason, she couldn’t seem to manage it while retaining both shoes. Now, her temples were throbbing with a constant eye-splitting pulse, and her new-found confidence was suffering.

“Our first real hiccup in proceedings!” Artorius exclaimed with confusing glee, as though the failure itself was a milestone to mark. “No matter, Belle. We shall but return to it with added vim and vigour in a few moons time. Now, as I said, you should head home and get some sleep.”

Belle, so exhausted from the constant presence of magic flooding her system, simply looked at him despairingly.

“Let’s try one last thing, we should end on a good note,” she suggested, pushing down her shoulders to try and ease the solidifying tension.