Page 5 of Disenchanted

“How are we, folks? I hope Sage here is giving you a good show. I know better than anyone that she can be rather frightening, but don’t be too scared of her. She saves the worst of her spells for me.”

Sage’s scowl curdled and she stared determinedly at the group in front of her, refusing to look up and give him the attention he thrived on. But it was too late; they had all turned their gazes upwards to meet his and were evidently enamoured by the romantic balcony interruption. He always had that maddening effect on people.

“Is this part of the performance?” a woman asked excitedly.

“Performance?” Sage glared. “Madam, I’ve studied these matters for the majority of my life to bring you acutely researched—”

“Dreadfully sorry to interrupt, folks,” the perpetual interruption of her life went on. He took a few strides along the length of the bridge before swinging gracefully around the end pillar to descend onto the top step. “It’s only that I need to borrow your dazzling host for just a tick.” He sauntered down the wide sandstone steps, hands casually sunk into his pockets.

There were few things in this world that could be guaranteed, especially for a witch. But Casimir Everald appearing at the most inconvenient moment possible was one of those rare certainties.

“For all the bloody stars…” Sage muttered to the sky, willing herself to find one final crumb of patience for the man who constantly stole away each and every one of them. He was her best friend and her biggest headache, usually at the very same time.

Casimir addressed the enthralled group like a showman, with a sincere hand on heart and a small bow. “I promise to return her to you as soon as I can.”

Sage sighed flatly in defeat. “One moment, please,” she said to the group. She clicked off her microphone before scooping up her long skirt and her cape to traipse down the pathway and meet him halfway up the stairs of the bridge. She stopped on the step below him and peered up, furious.

“My favourite thing about our relationship is that you’re always so pleased to see me, Specs.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly.

“See! Your natural, personable warmth is exactly what I’m talking about. Lovely hat, that one,” Cas said. He lifted the edge of the brim and bent slightly at the knees, lowering himself to meet her eyes with his own. “I always forget how much it suits you.”

She batted his hand away. “Stop it. I’ve got sixteen paying guests waiting down there. Either tell me what’s wrong or bugger off, will you? I’m sure there’s nothing so important or urgent that you need to interrupt a tour.”

“Well, that’s just it, you see. There’s a bit of an emergency back at HQ. The place really does fall apart as soon as you set foot outside of it.”

Sage felt her heart stutter and stall. An emergency? The archive. Her research.

“What is it? What did you do?”

“Me? Always the accusations,” Casimir replied in mock offence.

“Cas! Is the work okay?” Her mind raced with possibilities. Her magic running amok, leaving a trail of flame and fury behind it. It had been feeling more and more out of control in recent days. Something terrible must have happened after she left. She had let something slip. She would never forgive herself if—

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Casimir said, nonchalant as ever. “Everything’s fine in that department.”

Sage clutched her chest. The back room of the museum was where every single book, scroll, page and scrap of a lifetime of research was stored away. Two lifetimes, if Casimir’s contributions were to be included. Hundreds of boxes of files and notes and papers, essays and articles, sources and antiquities. There was far too much riding on it for her ever to lose a single word, each scribbling carefully catalogued and cross-referenced just in case it should ever be required. “What is it, then?” she asked, her heart rate still heightened.

“I just wondered if you knew where all the biscuits had gone? I think we may be all out, but I swear we only bought some the other day. You know, the posh jammy ones?”

Sage thundered, so cross that she actually stamped a foot against the sandstone steps. She gave Casimir a quick shove. “You interrupted my tour to ask me where the bloody biscuits are? Of all the brazen…”

Casimir threw his hands up in innocent protest. “Oi, watch the costume, will you? More of these white shirts come out of my pay cheque than I care to admit. I can’t afford another one this month.”

The costume in question was a flouncy white shirt, always with the sleeves pushed up, and dark close-fitting trousers tucked into riding boots. It was entirely self-prescribed. Casimir insisted it was necessary for his own tour to be in an authentic 1800s costume for Cloak and Dagger fans, but Sage was convinced that it was just because he knew he looked, well, dashing in it. She had overheard enough guests tell him as much, and she could barely prevent her eyes rolling somewhere far north each time they did.

Casimir shrugged the billowing fabric back onto his shoulders and dusted down the front where she’d pushed him. He sighed pitifully. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cause alarm. I suppose I’ll just pop to the shop on the way back, then.”

“No, you won’t. Because your version of ‘pop to the shop’ involves disappearing completely for hours on end, bumping into some friend or other, and leaving me to run the place without so much as a moment’s notice. And we’ve got the school trip to prepare for. Why aren’t you checking the gift shop stock? Do we have enough bendy rulers? You know how many bloody bendy rulers we get through on a school trip, especially…”

She promptly stopped unravelling when Casimir’s hands moved to hold her firmly by the shoulders. It was his go-to technique to calm her down, and, frustratingly, it always worked. Sage had given up trying to pretend it didn’t.

“Oh, Specs, come on. Why the bad mood?” Cas said, unhurried and peering under her hat again. “I know you’re a bit frazzled at the moment, but look around. It’s October, can’t you feel the magic of it all? It’s our speciality.”

At that, he took her hand and spun her around on the spot, making her cloak parachute in a way that felt utterly mortifying in front of their captive audience, and her plastic cauldron of coins jangled loudly against her microphone box. Sage shook out of his grasp and put her hands on her hips, determined to remain cross with him. It was a battle that she regularly fought and lost.

“You are a moron,” she said, unable to stifle a small, incredulous snort. “Go. And I’m not telling you where my biscuit stash is. You’ll only raid it.”