Page 2 of Disenchanted

“Quite,” Sage said, with a pleased snap of her fingers. A correct answer always cheered her up. “The village is a stellar example of the Aesthetic Movement. An emphasis on the importance of visual beauty and quality of traditional craftsmanship, rather than practicality alone. If you’ll look—”

“Is this a spot where Cloak and Dagger was filmed?” a male voice shouted from somewhere near the back of the group. He sniffed loudly. “It’s the chimney sweep’s house from episode seventeen, isn’t it?”

Sage sighed. There was always one. “Can’t say I’ve ever watched it, sir.” She thumbed her brow impatiently and leaned against her broomstick. “I’m not much one for television. I prefer the company of a good book.”

“And what about the first performance of Levi Jenkins with the Skidoos?” said his friend, who was dressed in an alarming amount of light denim. “When do we go and see inside the social club? I’ve dreamed about it since I was a boy.”

“Any time you like, sir. Although I certainly won’t be joining you, so off you pop. Far be it from me to stand in the way of boyhood dreams.”

“But…”

“For any of the aforementioned points of interest, you should have booked on to the Port Sylvan Magical Media Walking Tour, sir. As you may have begun to suspect,” she said, pushing up her wire-framed glasses, “I am no oracle of knowledge when it comes to popular culture, whether from this decade or that of half a century ago.”

He looked confused. “But this is the magical tour, isn’t it?”

Sage gave an exhale so emphatic that she could practically see the cloud of smoke plume in front of her own face. Every. Single. Time.

“This is the Magical Heritage of Port Sylvan Walking Tour, sir. I have told my…tenacious colleague time and time again that his insistence on naming his tour so closely to my own was one of his worst ideas to date. And trust me, that is really saying something. But he refuses to take any notice, so here I am, explaining his slapdash error once again.”

Casimir managed to strike a balance as the most brilliantly intelligent idiot she had ever come across, and, worse still, he seemed to absolutely revel in that title whenever she reminded him of the fact. It always earned her one of his infuriating lopsided grins that reminded her of a golden retriever rolling over and getting a tummy rub. At least this was further evidence of his idiocy to present when she returned to the museum later.

The man’s shoulders sagged with disappointment, as did a few others among the crowd. “Oh…Gotcha. I did wonder why you were dressed like that to talk about the Skidoos…” He trailed off, scratching his head. “What with your little black pot and stuff.”

Sage cast a look down at her attire. “I simply consider this look to be en vogue, sir.” The plastic cape gave a dramatic ripple in the breeze, catching static around her cream blouse and long purple skirt, while the novelty container of tips hanging from her satchel clinked a few coins together. “And I believe the word you are looking for is ‘cauldron.’ ”

She huffed the same annoying red ringlet out of her face once again, then spun on the spot to continue shepherding her group, the majority of whom had clearly intended to be elsewhere. She refused to be disheartened, but her already meagre cash tips withered in her mind’s eye. Casimir would be placed on hot-drink duty for the foreseeable as revenge.

“Not to worry,” one of the men offered as the group followed behind. “My wife likes all that witchy stuff, don’t you, love?”

Their lack of enthusiasm was nothing new. Most of Sage’s job involved fighting a losing battle with the British public, who were generally rather terrible at showing outward enthusiasm for anything.

But the success of each tour hung on this next moment. If she couldn’t snare them with this part, then they were officially a lost cause. Gathering the group at the steps of the Founders’ Memorial Fountain, she summoned them closer. Water tumbling from the fountain slipped onwards into the stream that wound through the town, flowing towards the rose gardens with a gentle, soothing sound. Everything was softened by the autumn sunshine: a smattering of birdsong above against pockets of blue sky and the rustle of crisp leaves crunching underfoot. Port Sylvan was peaceful enough for even Sage to acknowledge those sorts of things. The sleepy town certainly had a colourful history, but nothing particularly of note ever happened there anymore. It was one of the reasons that Sage rarely left it.

“History will always twist and change depending on the eye it’s viewed from, but at least the base events usually remain indisputable—things proven in black and white, attached to numbers and dates and timelines. But here in Port Sylvan, even so-called fact oftentimes goes hand in hand with something altogether more…intangible.” Sage slowed her tone, holding unflinching eye contact for longer than was perhaps necessary. She enjoyed the awkward shuffling it earned. “Today it is those moments that we shall delve into—moments in this town’s past where there is a certain haze that blurs the proven. One that makes our brows furrow and our minds ask, ‘Surely not?’ Can anyone tell me what phenomenon I might be referring to?”

Sage was surprised that it was one of the mortified teenage girls, of all people, who answered.

“Magic,” the girl said quietly.

“Quite,” Sage replied. Her fingertips tingled in camaraderie to the call. She determinedly ignored it.

There was often just one guest on each tour who truly seemed to click with the subject, but that alone was enough to steel Sage’s resolve. It was why she persevered with the tour, week in and week out. Sharing knowledge with an eager recipient was what had always sparked Sage’s soul; she loved to ignite academic curiosity.

“Our journey today will reveal just how steeped in magic Port Sylvan has always been. Of course, there are plenty of plainer historical gems to explore, if you’d prefer. The blacksmith, the old fire station, the church…All are notable. But the revelations that stay with us the longest are the stranger ones—often fascinating, sometimes chilling, always uncanny.”

Any lingering chit-chat had paused. Silence had fallen over the group. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing to listen to her. Finally, the guests’ attention was held in the palm of her hand, a feeling that never failed to startle her and prove unexpectedly addictive.

“This town’s magical reputation is most commonly attributed to one Miss Lilara Mournfell. I wonder whether any of you have heard of her before?” Sage glanced at the teenager, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of recognition. Predictably, everyone else looked clueless. “Lilara is a well-known character of fascination to those of us who have an interest in strangeness. A woman who, legend has it, was a real-life witch.”

A few gratifying gasps came in response.

“So, it’s for real?” the girl breathed, awestruck.

“Quite.” Sage nodded at her. “Port Sylvan records declare that Miss Mournfell was not only a figure of the supernatural, but one who did the unthinkable and banished her own magic. Forever. Turning her back on the sacred powers that had been celestially bestowed on her.”

A few brows furrowed and Mrs. Williams raised her hand before asking timidly, “Why on earth would she do that?”

“Lilara was the sort of figure rarely remembered by history,” Sage said. “She was a woman, for one, but a woman of selflessness above all else, known for her integrity, quiet bravery and careful consideration. Refusing to be taken in by her magic’s allure, she recognized the danger that strange, supernatural powers could pose in a world where uniqueness is not always welcome.”