Page 3 of Disenchanted

Mrs. Williams laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about all of that. I should think magical powers would be rather good. Think how quickly I could get the ironing done!”

Sage shrugged theatrically. Although, in truth, she knew the answer better than anyone. “Perhaps real magic, while it may sound like a dream, is in reality something that can never quite be trusted.”

A flash of inky blue-black tore across her vision. The sound of a squeaking door hinge. The scrape of heavy wood on floorboards. Quiet laughter from her siblings somewhere downstairs. A silence when there should have been more.

Her magic strained underneath her fingernails and Sage pulled herself back to the present.

“While there is much dispute and many unknowns around the exact circumstances of her decision, old tales of townsfolk insist that Lilara stripped the magic from her soul to ensure the safety of Port Sylvan, above all else. An unfathomable, selfless sacrifice for a witch facing the darkest of days.” Sage slowed her tone once again and leaned in closer. “Census records, deeds and journals of the time tell us that Lilara fled the town soon after her sacrifice. The noble daughter of the founding family quickly discovered that she was no longer welcome by the community that she had tried to protect, once her true identity as a sorceress was revealed and news spread.” Sage brandished her broomstick in a way that felt suitably dramatic, maybe even menacing, with any luck.

“But, as legend has it, the presence of a once-real witch was enough to entrap this town forever. Rather ironically, the story goes that Lilara’s magic remained behind long after her. Haunting us here, holding Port Sylvan in its thrall, determined that it would not forsake the witch that it rightfully belonged to. Noted theories claim that a web of her sequestered magic remains below our feet, eternally loyal and true in case of her return. Port Sylvan, the very meaning of spellbound.”

In a very satisfying turn of fate, which gave Sage great, macabre pleasure, a jet-black crow swooped down at that moment and landed on the ridge of the fountain to her left. The bird gave an enthusiastic caw, which sounded suitably sinister against the peaceful surroundings.

“Quite,” she replied to him with a nod, before turning back to her audience. “Whether you believe magic to be true or not, there have been endless tales of strange, inexplicable goings-on—not to mention equally strange, inexplicable women—throughout local history ever since.”

She gave the group a rare smile. “All in the past, of course.”

2

Witch Way?

Port Sylvan was a town with many weird and wonderful connections to the supernatural. Despite its gentle beauty, the place held a poised, arcane feel that Sage had always found irresistibly sharpening to her senses. It was her hometown, the place she had grown up in. She had abandoned it during her teenage years when she needed to discover the sensation of starting again, only to return to its familiarity when it graciously called her back years later. To her, the place was bricked with memories—both precious and painful.

That the local history entwined with her studies and research helped too, of course. Port Sylvan boasted endless ties to interesting figures: gatherings of women, underage mothers, unwed spinsters, nurses, sisters, divorcees…all of whom raised sparks of suspicion in their communities in one way or another.

Not least was the one very real witch of the modern age who walked among the locals, but that revelation remained firmly off Sage’s script.

“Lilara was the daughter of Lord and Lady Mournfell, important figures in local history as descendants of the town’s original founders. The family lived an elegant life at Pridian Manor, which you may have spotted among the more rural outskirts if you took the train here today. While little is known of Lilara’s private life, the lack of public information is evidence in itself to suggest that her parents were not proud of their only daughter, nor her unusual choices. Lilara is recorded to have mingled with lowly townsfolk, for example. She made unaccompanied visits to the bookshop and sent fresh bread deliveries to local tenant cottages. One thing we do know for certain of Lilara’s personal life is that she was a keen letter writer, as were many women of her time. In the handful that remain within the ledgers of Port Sylvan, Lilara writes to a friend that she was ‘uneasy with the power’ resting upon her shoulders and how ‘the town could fall.’ Of course, more strait-laced, mainstream historians assume that she was referring to her future as lady of the manor—wielding local authority, control over common lands, the vast wealth that came with it—an almost impossible role for an unmarried woman to fulfil back then. They believe that her main concern must have been finding a husband to take over her responsibilities. But, after years of studying Lilara closely, my colleague and I interpret the confession…differently.”

“You think she meant power like…magic,” the teenage girl said breathlessly. “She was really scared of it?”

Sage gave a slow nod in response. “Not necessarily scared, but certain. Lilara understood the true weight of witchery as being far more than just a handful of sparkles and knew what could befall those she cherished at the hands of it. She disappears from all records after she fled. Her sacrifice was a smart and selfless one to protect her neighbours, her friends, her parents…”

The crow cawed again, echoing in the silence.

One man scoffed, breaking the trance that Lilara’s story often created among tourists. He seemed momentarily baffled by his own fascination. “Bloody fairy stories,” he laughed.

Sage stared back boldly, one eyebrow cocked. “Before fairy tales were fiction, they were formed from folk’s strangest truths, sir. Full of teachings, all of them.”

That shut him up. He looked suitably chastised and Sage gave a knowing wink to the teenage girl, then spun to continue her walk.

Sage’s well-trodden route around Port Sylvan, walked come rain or shine every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at twelve p.m. precisely, began at the dell and headed through the village to the beautiful rose gardens in the middle of town, surrounding the renowned Equinox Gallery and its art. The flowers were slowing with the season, the first breath of cold creeping in and turning them all gradually from crimson to coffee-brown, brittle at the edges of their curling petals.

It was a trail Sage could normally walk with her eyes closed. But in recent weeks she had been doing her level best to deny the way things had become a fraction more…unpredictable. It would appear that today would be one of those exasperating, impossible days.

She had suspected as much when the foam on top of her morning cappuccino had tipped over like a tidal wave all down her front, although she’d crossly insisted that it was just her own inane clumsiness. But then there’d been the heavy archive door slamming shut—all by itself—when she got cross with her colleague Casimir and didn’t want to hear another word of his nonsense. The lights had flickered on and off all morning, shadows stretching into crooked shapes between the exhibits. She’d suggested to Casimir that it was probably just your standard haunting. Nothing wrong with that in a historic town—good for business if anything, and absolutely nothing to do with her.

But there’d been many other small and faintly sinister-feeling signs of late too. All the way through October so far, almost every day—small indications, just enough to make the collar of her shirt itch. Items kept tumbling from shelves. Every cat she encountered seemed to stare at her, even more intensely than usual. Her bookmarks had been regularly jumping from the right page to a random one. And, worst of all, when she had found herself alone in the candlelit archive the night before, with only her research and ink pen for company, Sage could have sworn she’d sensed an unfamiliar twitch in the most deeply forged, dormant roots of her own magic.

The final straw had come earlier, when she realized that the croutons in her soup had inadvertently transformed into mini marshmallows. She’d been in a foul mood ever since.

Sage felt frustration and fury bubble at the pit of her stomach as an entire rosebush came out in full, fresh bloom the moment she passed by. She could only glance from the corner of her eye in mild horror and pray that no one else noticed how each new bud unfurled and blossomed unseasonably. As if by magic.

The stuff was utterly incorrigible.

Sage hastily distracted the tour group with some overzealous excitement for a pair of ducks landing with a splash in the now distant fountain. Thankfully, they all reached for their cameras. She breathed a sigh of relief, hitting out angrily at a red rose to send a rain of petals to the ground.

The month of October was known for being thoroughly unpredictable when it came to all things magical; a witch never knew what might be lying in wait on the approach to Halloween. And it was clear from all the weeks of mishaps that her magic was putting up a fight as her most dreaded season rolled in.