Page 93 of Rewitched

“This is new magic to you and me alike, Belle. I cannot bestow any prior experience. Rune, I suspect you’ve dabbled in the art of Necromancy once or twice? You look the sort.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think it’s the coat,” Belle said, gesturing to his signature long leather jacket.

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Arty shushed them while he placed an array of black, white and navy blue candles around them.

In Belle’s lap lay a small pile of seemingly random items, but each held an important meaning. She’d cut a handful of pale pink roses from the garden, always her grandmother’s favourites and always blooming through the trellises of her garden before she’d grown too old to take proper care of them anymore. A delicate china teacup that she’d been particularly picky over, never one to drink her tea from anything so clunky as a mug. Belle had summoned it from her mother’s dresser at home, hoping that Bonnie wouldn’t notice until she could explain properly. A gold lipstick tube that she’d saved when they cleaned out Alvina’s house. And finally, her glasses, which Belle hadn’t really known why she so desperately wanted to keep in the end. They just felt far too intrinsic a part of her grandmother to ever let go of.

“Any last-minute words of wisdom?” Belle asked, stretching out the sides of her neck and dropping her shoulders, adjusting her seated position.

“Keep it simple. This kind of magic relies on heart far more than head. Refer back to that previous summoning spell created in your Incantation lessons to avoid complication. It works under the same principles, especially while the veil is paper thin.”

“Will I just be able to…talk to her, as if she were here?”

“All being well, yes. Of course, this does rely on the deceased wanting to be in attendance, but we can safely assume from your grandmother’s dabbling with Praesentia Pretego that she will.”

“How do we know that this isn’t going to take some awful turn?” Rune asked sceptically. “Everything else significant that you’ve used your magic for recently, there’s been…interference, to say the least.”

Artorius shook his head. “This kind of magic comes with a certain amount of privacy around it. They—the sisters, that is—won’t even know that this is taking place, they won’t have the time or the foresight to affect it.”

It was reassuring news. “In fact, I suspect you’ll have more success if you undertake this one as a solo endeavour, my dear. Come along, young man.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I should probably oversee—”

“I have a little sherry in the cart.” Artorius waved, dismissing Rune’s retaliation as he rose unsteadily. “You can tell me all about your intentions towards Belladonna here while we indulge.”

It worked like a charm.

“Intentions? Artorius, you have got some bloody nerve…” Rune shot up and quickly exited the room behind the old warlock to argue his corner, snicking the door shut after him.

She was alone. Belle held her breath as she cast a finger towards the selection of candles that Artorius had left, lighting them in a flash of small fires. She didn’t allow herself to overthink, didn’t allow herself to question the possibilities. She had never needed anything so much as she did in that moment.

Chanting in a low whisper, with only a few tweaks, the words of her previous transference came to her naturally. Supernaturally.

Grandmother of mine, I call to join here,

Wherever you are, journey to near.

Company precious, spirit so strong,

Appear to me now, a love everlong.

And before she could stop herself, against the quiet rippling breeze that plumed the curtains: “Please, please, Nan. I need you. Are you there?”

An air of spectral, silvery movement, as though breathing warmth into cold night air, swayed so faintly that Belle rubbed her eyelids. Airy glimmers, an apparition of barely there presence, crept into her surface of consciousness and sight. And there she was. Her grandmother, her silhouette made of a veil so delicate and impossibly fragile, it seemed an invisible, beautiful silk.

“Hello, my love.”

She was just as Belle loved to remember her. When her childhood had woven them so preciously together by walking to the park, by baking flapjacks and by playing horses on a rolled-up duvet cover. Neatly curled hair no matter the time of day. A lilac cardigan that she’d knitted herself, a floral collared blouse smartly pressed underneath. Painted shell-pink nails and the scent. It was the first thing to hit Belle when Alvina’s spirit appeared, before she could register even seeing her, being here with her. The scent of bluebells and clean laundry, faint flowers from always being in the garden. Belle clasped one hand over her mouth and the other on top of that. Her heart broke and mended a million times over, all at once.

“Oh, darling, don’t cry. There’s a good girl. Here, dry those eyes, petal.”

Alvina’s spirit reached out and offered a delicate scalloped handkerchief through the air for her tears. Belle held back, not wanting to find that touching her grandmother’s hand brought coldness or emptiness. But as her fingers closed around it, it felt as real, as tangible and solid, as the items already clasped tightly in her hand.

“I can feel it…Does this mean I can hug you?”

Alvina laughed softly. There it was, the sound she remembered. “Of course, darling. How I’ve missed hugging my girl.”