Page 25 of Uncharmed

Maeve only blinked hard and her dark eyebrows stitched themselves together in a crease.

‘Now, let me take attendance,’ Annie continued importantly, conjuring a clipboard. ‘Maeve Cadmus?’

Maeve glanced around the room. ‘Are we expecting someone else?’ she asked, stony-faced.

‘Well . . . no, but you can never be too prepared. So, I suppose you’re present!’ She gave the list of one single name a perfunctory tick with her fluffiest pen and smoothed out her skirt as she cleared her throat. ‘And you can call me Miss Wildwood.’

‘But I’ve been calling you Annie this whole time.’

Annie’s smile jerked a fraction. ‘Well, alright then.’

As always, her magic had been in its upmost element when she’d conjured the outfit – a pink pinafore dress covered in a sweet print of various magical shapes – tarot cards and crystals and cat faces – with an immaculate white shirt and a pink tie underneath for a little professionalism. In her patent pink heels, she approached Maeve’s desk.

‘Can you consciously summon your magic yet, Maeve? Or does it still just sort of, appear, when it wants to?’

‘Of course I can,’ Maeve said sulkily, as though Annie were silly to even ask. The two witches simultaneously moved to summon their magic, Annie raising her wrist to create a small flourish, Maeve squeezing her hand together in a fist before bursting her fingers open to send out a stream of sparks. Magic was accommodating that way – happy to oblige and bend at will to any gesture that a witch, warlock or wicche might be drawn to at fifteen years old. Annie had always thought it interesting how the choice seemed to reveal a lot about the wicchefolk themselves – whether they were bold or shy, expressive or subtle by nature. Maeve’s bursting palm suggested a slightly frantic but determined approach, which Annie could definitely work with.

‘An old friend of my mother’s who . . . yes, perhaps was eventually exposed as a rather nefarious character, determined to raise an army of vampires to his whim, but I always thought his personal choice of simply raising his left eyebrow to knit a spell was a very smooth selection. In fact, on reflection, that choice should probably have been a villainous red flag to the coven from the outset . . .’ Annie rambled.

‘He sounds cool. Can’t he teach me?’

‘Anyway, look at you, magic on demand. Off to a wonderful start!’ Annie carried on, determinedly ignoring the stream of snark. ‘Now, I know you were very interested in Incantation, so . . .’

‘I told you, Necromancy,’ Maeve whined, her head falling back to stare at the ceiling.

‘. . . So a little transfigurative practice sounds like it could see us right, don’t you think? I thought we’d start with some basic enchantment, with a touch of girly sparkle. After all, what’s magic without sparkle?’

‘Unbelievable,’ Maeve grumbled, folding her arms emphatically.

‘Thank you! I thought perhaps we’d begin with something inspired by some of the most precious, celebrated magic of all time.’

At that, Maeve’s ears pricked up. ‘Well, alright . . . now we’re talking,’ she said, surprised. But her excitement quickly waned when Annie gestured to two large, fat pumpkins that she’d gathered (with a lot of struggle) from the garden, almost tumbling backwards into the stream when she lifted them. Maeve slumped back down into her seat in a huff.

‘You’re about to tell me we’re putting my extraordinary, otherworldly powers to good use by making vegetable soup, aren’t you?’

Annie simply gave her an excitable wink. With a flutter of her left hand, one of the pumpkins began to transform from bright orange to a paler, almost crystal-like surface. The sprout changed from natural to metallic, twisting into an elegant swirl. Finally four spindled wheels popped from beneath the pumpkin, along with a heart-shaped window on either side of what was now a small, finely crafted carriage. Annie gave a delighted ‘yay!’

Maeve simply sniffed.

‘You don’t like it?’ Annie asked, dejected.

‘I’m not really one for princesses,’ Maeve shrugged. ‘But my transfigurative magic worked okay yesterday . . . Alright, let me have a go, then.’

‘Excellent! I love your enthusiasm,’ Annie chirped, returning to Maeve’s side so that she could attempt to give some further guidance.

‘Now, you’ll need to recite the spell verbally while you cast, seeing as you’re new to all of this. Once you’ve performed it perfectly, your witchcraft will be able to recall the spell silently in the future. But, for now, we need a very clear and succinct “Puella Magi Iter”. That recitation refers to a girl’s magical journey – you see how that sums the spell up nicely? It’s all about personal intention. Do you think you can remember that?’

Maeve blew her hair out of her face and pushed up her glasses determinedly, glaring at Annie. Annie cleared her throat and shuffled a little as she tuned into the emotions that began to cloud the air above them. Irritation, a spark of anger. She cursed herself for taking the wrong tone.

‘Puell . . . What was it again?’ Maeve asked.

‘Make sure you’re . . . Not quite, more like . . . You must hold out your leading magic hand as you speak,’ Annie interrupted, noticing Maeve’s hand was off target. ‘Are you concentrating properly? Focusing on guiding your powers towards the object as you . . .’

‘I am, look! I’m pointing, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, but it’s not . . .’ Annie leaned across Maeve and held her arm up at the slightest, most fractionally different angle. The spell tuned in sharply to more unrest in the air. Impatience, resentment, a roughly bristled pride that felt like an electric shock . . .

‘That’s exactly what I just did!’ Maeve shrugged off Annie’s hand with a shove. ‘Let me—’