Page 61 of Rewitched

“So we wait.”

Artorius gave a single relieved nod. “We wait.”

BELLE REFUSED TO leave the attic. According to Artorius, it made the most sense that when (carefully selected rather than “if”) Bonnie managed to break free from the bind, she would escape to the same spot from which she had vanished. Remaining loyally by her side into the wee hours of the morning, Wolfie lay with her head on her front paws, stretched out alongside Belle, occasionally sharing her distress with a strained mournful howl at the moon in the window. Artorius ventured downstairs only once—to make a pot of tea and to collect his knitting to pass the stretch of time.

Belle sat cross-legged on the floor. Her back ached and her eyes were strained from staring at the same spot. But she wouldn’t move. Instead she sat, rubbing at her face, biting at the inside of her cheeks, digging her thumbnail into the grooves of the floorboards. As another hour came and went, she picked at a loose thread on the hem of her jumper.

Pearly moonlight leaked through the round window in the attic eaves. Belle adjusted her shoulders. The weight of the day was dragging her whole body down like an iron anchor. Just as her eyes began to close, the creaking grandfather clock hidden under a dust-sheet suddenly chimed three times, stirring her.

“Witching hour,” Artorius muttered under his breath, the first thing either of them had spoken aloud for hours.

A flicker against the floorboards.

A dash of light.

Another.

“Mum,” Belle whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

Bonnie. Finally, she reappeared with a gasp and collapsed in a heap on the floorboards, the fabric of her dress billowing in a plume. It felt like slow motion in Belle’s eyes. Wolfie hurtled towards her. Artorius rushed to rise from his armchair, dropping his knitting to the floor in a clatter of needles. Belle, swallowing a sob, scrambled to her mother’s side.

Belle dragged her mother to Artorius’s armchair while he provided blankets, chocolate biscuits and frilly pillows for propping. Eventually, by the time the sun came up in a rosy glow, a faint colour had returned to Bonnie’s cheeks. Initially careful to avoid overwhelming her, Belle was now full of questions that wouldn’t keep.

Bonnie shook her head, wincing at the movement.

“I couldn’t see anything or anyone, love. Just darkness. Pitch black. Blacker than darkness. I knew that it was magic dragging me away from you, and…it’s so hard to describe. As though it were tearing me from where I wanted to be. They kept ripping me away. Away from you.”

She took a careful sip of tea. “I could barely breathe, like a hand was pushing me underwater and holding me there. And the sound…someone screaming with rage inside my own head. Whoever it was, they were furious that I fought against whatever they were trying to do.”

Artorius was pottering around in his scuffed slippers, attempting to build the attic back together again with swift motions of magic. “Subfuror Incantare,” he muttered, before turning to the witches. “It is incontrovertible. Darkness, fear, emptiness…the theft of joy and hope. All signs point to stolen, manipulated magic.”

Belle felt as though her brain were spinning on its axis. She held her head in both hands to steady herself. “This cannot be happening. Are we wrapped up with some kind of…of villain?”

Artorius gently cleared his throat to interrupt. “Belle, I must confess…”

Her stomach plummeted. It couldn’t be.

“I was trying to ignore it,” he went on. “I thought I was being overzealous with my concerns. The failed protection circles…”

“The what?” Bonnie interrupted with concern.

“It’s just a thing, Mum.” Belle waved a dismissive hand.

“The signs in the sky, I dismissed it all as coincidence. But magic doesn’t lie. It seems beyond doubt…”

“Please don’t say it.”

“You may indeed be in danger.”

Belle tried to force a laugh. “Oh, so I have my own personal baddy to fight now?”

“Ms. Blackthorn, I do not jest. And I am reluctant to add,” Artorius continued, worry etched into his wrinkles, “we are evidently dallying with something or someone who wishes you and your mother not be on this path together. It is most strange indeed.”

Belle chewed at the inside of her cheek, thinking. “It’s someone in the coven, then?”

“Possibly.” Artorius considered. “Although at this point, someone outside of Selcouth is equally as likely. Perhaps another coven, farther afield. Or independent wicchefolk, for that matter. It could be anyone.”

“Brilliant. That narrows it down.”