Page 2 of Uncharmed

Annie held the door as Olive left clutching the little box. A damp fog yawned out across the early night, coating the cobbled street with a misty rain that fizzed on contact with the cold air. ‘Any time you need to talk, Ol, I’m always here.’

Olive paused for a second to wrap a hand around Annie’s. ‘You’re a real diamond, Annie. What would we all do without you?’ She shook her hand tightly and sincerely. ‘I’ll see you in the week, duck.’

Annie snicked the brass bolt shut and, with a deep breath, leaned her forehead against the front door. The conversation with Olive had been heavy; heartbreak and loss and sadness clung to the tips of her fingers, tingling against her magic like opposing forces. But Annie only allowed herself a second of quiet to swallow it down.

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the cafe and wiped a rogue smear of chocolate from the back of her hand onto the hem of her apron that still hung untied around her. She was a little short for time considering she still needed to close down for the night, freshen up, then make her way to the restaurant . . . Annie’s mouth twitched into the slightest grimace as she ran through her nightly to-do list, but in the blink of an eye, the smile returned. Luckily, her specialism in Incantation had always lent itself well to transformative magic.

She picked up speed on her way to the back room, gliding the cafe’s billowy curtains along the brass rails as she passed. A cascade of pink magic fell as they closed. A couple of remaining cups, saucers and plates left by satisfied customers soared through the air as Annie passed by with a flick of her hand, soaking themselves in a sink of warm water, before shaking off like a wet dog and sliding back onto the wooden shelves. A mop wrung itself around a soapy bucket, before twirling its way across the floor like a ballroom dancer, leaving frothy bubbles in its wake. The chairs shuffled neatly under the tables as the tablecloths shimmied to shake themselves down. This was another reason it was often easier to close up without Faye and Pari: Annie’s magic could lend a keen, quick hand when she was alone.

The small room to the rear of the bakery functioned as a storeroom, staff room and dressing room all at once for their team of three. The space was, at any given time, covered in Faye’s endless stacks of music magazines and DIY mixtapes recorded from the radio. Or Pari’s impressive and extensive graveyard of craft projects, each of which she would grow an obsession with and entirely lose interest in three weeks later. September had been spent making tiny clay animals, which were now perched on every possible surface like little pastel-coloured gobstoppers. It was cosy, mismatched and chaotic, much like their combination of personalities as a trio. But Annie couldn’t resist sending a nudge of magic across the room to at least tidy up as she passed the armchairs, alphabetizing mixtapes and colour-coding miniature clay bunnies.

Her own little corner was separate. Behind the pretty antique dressing screen, Annie tapped her chin thoughtfully. She gazed at the rail of clothes before her and scrolled her magic through the row of dresses, each fresh and fluffed for this exact purpose. Faye and Pari always laughed affectionately at her makeshift dressing room. ‘I wouldn’t trust anyone other than Annie Wildwood to keep pink silk and vintage organza next to tubs of dark chocolate spread,’ Pari had recently pointed out.

The pink dress tonight. Well, the slightly paler shade of pink dress. There were four of them, all lined up on velvet coat hangers from light to dark on the dress rail, with high heels placed underneath each one. Each pair had been gently enchanted with Calceus Commodus to be extra comfortable – the higher the heel, the more the spell kicked in to pleasantly numb her toes. She was proud of that handiwork; gradual magic was a tricky talent to keep fixed in place. Important, though. Who had time for aching feet to ruin an outfit?

With a quick flick of a wrist to summon her magic, smudges of whipped cream, buttercream, miscellaneous-but-equally-delicious cream all vanished, leaving Annie somehow even more immaculate than before. The pale dress with a ruffle around the skirt glided from its hanger to the dressing mannequin, to be styled with the appropriate accessories. Satisfied with her choices, another subtle gesture of magic traded her hot-pink Celeste overalls for the mannequin’s night-time ensemble. Her apron swooped by the strings to hang itself on the door and the wooden spoon that she’d wedged in her back pocket at some point flew back to the kitchen like a paper aeroplane.

Annie glanced at the mirror, a beautiful gilded piece that had been her mother’s. She could immediately see Cressida Wildwood preening in front of it, memories from childhood rippling in the glass. Her mother would always be adding more hairspray or admiring some form of luxurious accessory while Annie was wrapped around the doorframe, unnoticed. She would watch and yearn in secret, supposed to be asleep while her mother and father got ready for their evening out. She wondered where they were going each night, so mysterious and glamorous, her father slipping a proud arm around her mother when she finally declared that she was ready. The mirror was a reminder, now that she was in on the secret, of how far she’d come and everything that had been left behind.

An entirely unnecessary smooth of her hair, a cautious check of her clinking bracelets, a quick practice of her smile. It looked genuine. Whispers of faint magic clung to her skin with a glitter. Andromeda Wildwood simply adored being a witch. Not only did it come in handy multiple times a day, woven through each element of her life like a golden thread, but it was such a cute look for her. Being a witch was bright and fun – and Annie loved to be both of those things for everybody.

She took a second to steel herself, a final glance in the mirror to check that everything was just as it should be. It was. It always was. Her heart thumped a little louder, as though it wanted to be noticed, to remind her it was still beating.

She whispered under her breath: ‘Perfect.’

Chapter Two

ROSES ARE RED

The restaurant was all overhead lighting and not nearly enough crusty bread with butter for Annie’s liking. Anywhere that didn’t take their bread seriously was not the place for her. Her mind wandered with longing to her Celeste rosemary loaf, the crystals of special salt scattered across the golden crust. She made the topping herself, the salt shards chipped away from charged citrine, the sunshine stone and clear quartz for a sprinkle of good fortune. Eating bread was always a good idea, but an even better one when it was lucky.

Her own luck for the evening seemed to have expired rapidly. Annie had found herself sitting opposite Cedric Reuben and his very enthusiastically lacquered hair. She had spent half the evening unable to take her eyes off it, so pale blond and shiny that it looked as if it was made of plastic, like a doll. It literally reflected the candlelight. Annie wondered whether it would make a hollow noise if she knocked on the top and did her absolute level best to resist finding out. She had listened patiently as he spoke at length about his influential father, the supermodel ex-girlfriends. He paused a fraction too long to hear her laugh at his jokes and he’d talked a lot about hedge funds, but Annie knew nothing about gardening. Even her stubborn optimism was struggling. He hadn’t asked her a single question, other than an empty ‘yeah, you?’ every once in a while. She’d nodded and smiled for most of the conversation.

Not that it really mattered. She’d never have offered up anything like the truth to Cedric anyway, but it would have been nice to have the opportunity to use her favourite versions on him.

Her girlfriends were determined to play matchmaker and had been excited about this one, so Annie had dared to let herself be the tiniest bit optimistic. They had turned it into some kind of game over the years, hunting down (allegedly) eligible bachelors for her – although their definition of the term was one that she didn’t fully understand. If she could have sped up time to escape the company she’d found herself sitting across from, she would have. But she certainly wasn’t one to meddle with the rules against bending time, rewinding the past or speeding through the future. Time manipulation was strictly against coven rules and she had a stellar reputation among London’s wicchefolk to uphold. It definitely wasn’t worth the risk of messing with the non-wicche realm’s time structure to escape a bad date. Was it . . .?

But sending one man’s personal timepiece temporarily haywire, like a simple battery malfunction? That felt okay.

‘You’re so mysterious,’ Cedric crooned at her, with a smug smile that edged to one side.

Dire dates called for desperate measures and she had to act if she wanted to get home with enough time for The Spell. Her spell.

Resting her chin on her right hand, Annie barely batted an eyelash (or no more than usual, anyway) as she swilled her glass of rosé to cover the movement towards Cedric’s watch. A delicate cord of pale sparks flew from her fingers, scattering themselves across the table like rolled dice. Fortunately, magic required a reasonable amount of imagination to be visibly seen by a non-wicche, and men such as Cedric had less than none of that to put to use. The hands of his watch suddenly picked up speed, winding forwards three hours on the platinum face, and Annie continued her routine. She lifted her glass to politely cover a yawn. Right on cue, Cedric was encouraged to glance at his watch and she saw his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘What on earth . . .’ He blinked, dumbstruck. ‘I can’t believe it . . .’

‘Time flies, doesn’t it? I’d better get going.’ She beamed at him, her best side directly in his eyeline. She didn’t even have to consider these movements any more, they just happened of their own accord after so many years – a combination of magic and muscle memory.

‘I swear we just got here. We’re only two glasses down. We’ll miss the oysters,’ Cedric said, baffled. He gave her a frustrated bottom-lip pout, which made her feel slightly queasy. ‘Do you really have to go?’

The man could barely hide his desperation, stumbling as he shot to his feet. As she daintily slid out of the booth, Annie almost felt bad for him. Then she recalled the last hour of her life, which could have been spent doing something infinitely more helpful or productive or successful, instead of blankly smiling at this insufferable man. She willed the last remaining dregs of her patience to the surface and felt the spell – her deepest, longest-running, innermost enchantment – bubble brightly beneath her skin. She plucked determinedly at the positive, patient thoughts that strung themselves together like a paper chain.

He meant well. Surely. People usually did.

‘Sorry,’ she giggled, to a tune that was apologetic and light. She picked up her clutch from the table, along with the single red rose that Cedric had arrived with. ‘I can’t tell you what a wonderful time I’ve had. Really. We’ll do it again some time.’

‘Tomorrow?’ He swallowed, voice breaking like a teenager.