Page 34 of Disenchanted

Laurel squeezed her sister’s hand. “What if this spell of hers is to show you all of its possibilities and wonder? What if it’s to prove that magic really is for you? To stop you making the terrible sacrifice that she once did?”

Sage shook her head. It went against everything she had ever believed in. Everything she’d ever admired and respected Lilara so deeply for. “There’s no way. All of this…It’s not a celebration; it’s risky. It’s dangerous. She knew that.”

“Joy isn’t dangerous, Sage,” Laurel said, tucking her sister’s hair behind her ear. “I’m sad that you think that way.”

“I didn’t say anything about joy,” Sage said with another eye-roll.

“But that’s what magic is,” Laurel said with an encouraging nod and a delighted glint in her eye. “Everything that’s happened so far, everything it’s showing you. I’m always telling you, whimsy is what matters in life, when it comes down to it. Whimsy isn’t weakness or weirdness. It’s joy. Plain and simple.”

Sage frowned. As much as she trusted her own instincts, she couldn’t ignore the people closest to her. All three of them were intelligent, usually reasonable and she always respected their opinions. She turned to Robin, who was never one to get carried away with giddiness. “What do you think?”

He looked thoughtful before the slightest of side smiles started to creep in, crinkling his blue eyes. “I think maybe it’s time to try another way, Sage. It goes without saying that you won’t take any notice of us, but I know you will take notice of Lilara Mournfell,” he said, giving jazz hands to her name. “You always have done. This must be what she wants for you, right? To celebrate your magic in a way that she never could.”

“So, you’re genuinely telling me I should…embrace all of this chaos?” Sage tried her best to keep her voice steady and not sound entirely horrified.

“Like snuggling a feral kitten,” Casimir said.

“But I…I can’t. I don’t think I even know how to do that,” she said. The last part came out a little more quietly. Her cheeks flared at the confession.

“We’ll help you!” Laurel said, growing in excitement. “You never let us help you with anything. But this? Chaos and fun, I can absolutely do,” she added with a grin.

Robin leaned closer across the circle. “She’s right, Sage. It’s about time you let us do something useful. Since we lost Mum and Dad, I don’t think you’ve lived a single day of relaxed, simple happiness—never just had a laugh. You’ve spent more than long enough beating yourself up for something that was not your fault. Like I said, maybe this is your sign that now’s the time to try another way,” he said with an encouraging nod and a pat on her arm.

Sage was utterly mortified to feel a few rogue tears pool on her lower lashes. They made it sound so easy, but how could she ever truly let go? It was a quiet but bright thought that she could live her life another way, the idea shimmering like the first glint of sunlight on untouched snow. The possibility frightened her: that she should permit magic to play without hesitation, let her fingers move without flinching, exist without constant worry. That she should trust magic.

She scowled even more determinedly than before to make the tears go away.

“Oh, fine!” She crossed her arms to indicate that the discussion was over. “I suppose you should just start to call me…Silly Sage or something equally ghastly.”

Casimir grimaced. “We’ll workshop it.”

14

Cattitude

As darkness folded over Port Sylvan the following evening, no further spell progress seemed to have been sparked, thankfully, but sleep was still low on Sage’s list of priorities. She was determined to make progress in their understanding of the type of magic at play. While she had begrudgingly agreed to let the spell play out, she could still attempt to find ways to minimize its havoc. Admittedly, she was also a fraction concerned about the possibilities of sleep and fairy tales; she absolutely did not have time for any kind of endless nap, as appealing as that sounded. There were absolutely no princes in the local area to wake her from an eternal slumber. It would all be incredibly inconvenient.

In reluctant compromise to appease her loved ones, Sage had decided to treat this inconvenient turn of events as some kind of…last hurrah. Not that she had ever been one for hurrah of any kind. It was all very well and good that her brother and sister had declared it time to try living more joyfully, growing alongside magic rather than against it, but that didn’t change how she felt about her powers, the coven or her grand plans to leave magic behind without their knowledge or input.

If she was honest, the prospect of someone else’s powers holding her own dark magic by the hand and taking charge of matters for a little while was also too tempting to refuse. She was tired. So tired. It had been a long time since she had rested from the incessant responsibility. She reasoned that it was temporary, like checking her magic into a kind, considerate nursery for a while, relinquishing care just long enough for twelve charms to play out, a lesson to be learned, the spell to end. Then it would be business as usual, and she would swiftly return to her banishment research.

So, while Sage had warily agreed to trust Lilara’s divine plan for the moment—after all, she had always relied on her—she certainly did not trust the coven.

There was no denying that something within her—this alleged connection between witches that she had read about before—could sense them taking gradual steps closer. The feeling of being hunted, tracked and searched for clung to her. She remained more determined than ever to avoid their gaze. If magic insisted on being acknowledged in this inconvenient way, then she would put it to good use. There had to be some kind of concealment spell that she could turn to her advantage.

As she nestled on the couch by the fire, surrounded by reams of notes, books and papers covering every surface under soft candlelight, Sage had to admit that, although she wasn’t remotely enjoying the spell, at least a tiny portion of her might have been enjoying this small part of the circumstances. Her mind was alight in a way that it had not been for some time. There was something about writing, reading and studying at night that soothed her soul. The sound of her ink pen scratching against paper. The smoky crackling of the fireplace. The soft snores of Mal snoozing by her side. He was taking up the majority of the couch space, despite being such a small creature, and Sage had edged herself into less than a quarter while he sprawled out greedily. This was how it had always been between them; it was, in fact, a great privilege to have a little less room to stretch out when a tiny animal had decided that the safest place to sleep was beside you.

A newly spoken, fully formed incantation was not something that Sage had permitted herself to partake in since she was fifteen years old. She had only ever called on the smallest of repeated magics that she had tried and tested in the early days before. But after speaking to Laurel, Robin and Casimir about the book’s suspected purpose and their insistence that it was for the better, Sage had dared herself to believe that…well, perhaps they might be right. There was a certain amount of sense to the theory, even if it made her skin crawl to admit it. The cherry on top of the cauldron, which she could happily accept, was that it gave her a very valid and reasonable excuse to learn a new, intentional incantation for the first time in years. The prospect had her abuzz with curiosity.

If she were to allow the spell to unravel properly, to find out what Lilara was really trying to teach her about witchery, then it stood to reason that Sage should ensure that the coven did not interrupt its flow. Having cross-referenced evidence of successful enchantments that encouraged secrecy—disappearing objects, vanished items, lips forbidden to speak on certain topics—Sage had settled on Absconditus Arcanus Latibulum. A rather niche spell, she had to admit. It was reported—in an old, tatty copy of Merillo’s Chronicle of Truths Untold—to have held a house in Cornwall under a magical glimmer of concealment. The witch inside had used the spell once a month for six decades to hide the existence of her powers from everyone around her. Keeping such magic from prying eyes had allowed her to live out a peaceful life running a magical cattery and safe house, with thirty-eight stray cats and a donkey for company and nobody nosing into her business. Sage wholeheartedly trusted the magic of a woman who had made such a sensible decision for herself.

It was settled. A steady beat of determination thumping in her chest, Sage approached the fireplace. An owl hooted softly outside the window. She smiled despite herself into the collar of her pyjamas. Her heart fluttered with hope. Then came a crackle. It might have been the flames dancing around one another in anticipation, sensing that purposeful magic was about to unfold, or it could have been her own powers sparking at the ends of her fingertips at the funny feeling of a spell brewing—willingly. For the first time in many years, Sage cleared her throat and dared herself to cast with permission, maybe even something like pride.

“Absconditus…Arcanus…Latibulum.” She sniffed. “If you please.”

The spell flew from her left index finger and into the flames, sending a rush of burgundy sparks and rich red embers soaring up the chimney and into the black night air. It would appear that it had worked perfectly on the first attempt.

“Quite.”