Page 62 of Rewitched

“We can only hope their spell strength is exhausted, at least for a time, from your mother putting up such a brave fight.”

Bonnie gave him a weak but proud smile. It didn’t linger. “Here I am, causing more problems for you when you’ve already got enough on your plate.”

“It’s fine, Mum. Stop flapping,” Belle said as she adjusted the cushion behind Bonnie’s head.

“Don’t make a fuss, love. I just need to get home, get back to my stores so I can start thinking about the best way to look after you.” Bonnie attempted to raise herself out of the chair.

Belle gave her mum an incredulous look. “Are you mad, woman? You’re not going anywhere, you must be joking. You can barely hold yourself up.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Will you sit down? Transference is out of the question. There is no way.”

Artorius interrupted their gentle bickering. “I should be delighted to play host to you until you are satisfactorily recovered, Ms. Blackthorn. And dear Wolfie, of course.”

Bonnie nodded in reluctant acceptance.

“There are plenty of rooms,” he went on. “You are welcome to stay as long as is required. There is safety in numbers, after all.”

“Thank you, Mr. Day.”

“Nonsense, it will be the honour of my life.”

Monica was perfectly understanding when Belle called Lunar to let them know that her mother had taken ill and that she would be absent for a few days.

Christopher was less patient. “Is there no one else who can step in, though? She’d be best in hospital, then you can come to the shop. You drive me bloody mad, Blackthorn, but things will go to pot without you here.”

It felt good to say no to him.

THE SMALL POSITIVE of the whole “Mum nearly drowning in a dark abyss of Subfuror Incantare” incident was that Belle and Artorius found themselves diving into a whole new branch of magic earlier than anticipated. With her main goal now to see Bonnie restored to health, a healing potion was first on Belle’s list to conquer.

The Alchemy title page of the grimoire was illustrated with plump cauldrons in silver and oyster grey, laced with ivy and a million different bottles shaped like jewels on the page. Belle noted that Artorius’s own ancient Alchemy books were all covered in smatterings of potions in every shade, like a particularly messy chef and their favourite recipe books. He explained that the measuring and accuracy of potion making had been something he had practiced in the name of science over the years, even without his magic.

Boil and blend, stoke flame and cinder,

A timid choice would merely hinder.

Grab for new and grasp it tightly,

Consider what leaves trace brightly.

It shall not do to shrink nor settle,

Thistle, milkweed, purslane, nettle.

Chase with valour that which calls,

Thrice brew, benevolence in all.

“Three benevolent potions, that seems plain enough,” Artorius read, as though it were blindingly obvious. “We shall of course begin with a draught to encourage your mother’s healing, aid in speeding up the process as best we can. Of course, magic cannot work miracles or fully heal any ailment. Such magic only displaces misfortune to another. But perhaps some ginger root powder, a sugar cube or two…”

He wandered off to peruse his shelves of endlessly packed ingredients, reaching for a vial whenever it caught his eye, while simultaneously referring to a copy of Brewing and Stewing with an extremely glamorous witch brandishing a ladle on the cover.

“The practice of potion brewing is one of finesse and concentration. Although a flair for creativity is also welcome to the science,” Artorius said, pacing busily back and forth. “Healing, healing…” he muttered, adjusting his repaired glasses.

Belle shot him an unimpressed side-eye and grabbed a toffee from the bowl of sweets that Artorius had provided for class. He’d learned early on that her brain seemed to function better when it was given a little treat every once in a while. The ruby red wrapper rustled with static between her fingers.

“Is there not just an exact recipe we can follow? To make it as efficient as possible?” Belle surged forwards to catch a glass mason jar that was teetering on the edge of a shelf while Artorius haphazardly handed her container after container, each packed with something more unappealing-looking than the last.