Page 87 of Disenchanted

Obviously, the existing exhibition could not remain the tribute to Lilara Mournfell that it had been. Casimir had been ready to scrub any mention of her name from the records and came perilously close to flushing her charm chain down the toilet. Sage had managed to wrestle it from him by distracting him with a kiss. He had declared the battle as entirely unfair, but she had grown rather fond of the thing. She continued to wear it as a reminder of all they had defeated together.

“We’re academics, Casimir,” Sage reminded him, starting her checks of the newly arranged Spirits and Hauntings cabinets before they opened to the public. “We do not and we cannot ignore the facts. This was her home, as much as any of the other wondrous women across our records. Her magic was powerful and impressive and important. You don’t have to forgive her, but I certainly won’t pretend that it never happened, and neither should you.”

Sage knew that she was well within her rights to hate Lilara. But her bitter change and villainous decisions had come from such sadness, a desperation to bring someone onto her side, to feel less alone. It was a feeling Sage related to acutely.

Their only difference was that Sage had given true magic the time it needed to reveal itself to her. The stuff was shy for some folks. She knew that she could easily have made very different decisions. She had felt herself on that same precipice before and patience had never exactly been her strongest suit. It was a miracle that she had managed to find it within herself, and maybe it was only because she had more to lose than Lilara ever did that she had managed it.

Magic had never turned its back on her, even when she rejected it so determinedly. It had just known to be patient with her. And she had never abandoned it either, not really. Her studies had probably been a subconscious choice to stay close to witchcraft all along.

Sage took one last glimpse at her reflection in the gilded mirror and righted her pointed witch’s hat to the proper, smart angle. This one was not made of plastic, and it did not rustle in that mortifying static way against her curls. This was her official coven uniform, tall and with a wide brim that she actually thought was quite becoming. It made her look suitably intimidating—a look she very much enjoyed.

“I still think my hat was better,” Casimir said into her hair as he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “I miss it every day. This one just isn’t cutting it,” he said, referring to the new, giant pirate hat that was part of his flamboyant Halloween costume.

“You’re just jealous that I get a cloak and you don’t,” Sage said. She adjusted the silver fastening which met the collar of her blouse and billowed out the plum-coloured, floor-length velvet. She wasn’t normally one to be flash; that was Casimir’s territory. But the way that the delicate constellation embroidery caught the golden spotlights of the museum gave her a little girlish thrill each time. It was a vast upgrade from her old walking tour costume.

“You’re right, I am jealous. Remind me to mention it to Arty again. It’s criminal that I don’t get to wear one. I could really help them rebrand,” he said, kissing the side of her head.

“You two are so cute! I’ll never get over it,” Laurel squealed.

Sage scowled at her sister, the mere idea of being “so cute” quite repellent.

“I know she was completely crazy and we all nearly died, but Lilara did us a favour, really,” Laurel said cheerfully. “It’s true!” she insisted when everyone shot her daggers across the museum. “You two wouldn’t have gotten over yourselves, for one thing. And she really helped me out with the perfect idea for my next book.”

Sage scoffed at Laurel’s giddiness but then found herself not entirely disagreeing. “I won’t be sending her flowers, but she did help me learn a few things. Namely, that I’m not the villain after all, which is, you know, good news.”

“Not a villain, just strangely haunted,” Robin added sincerely.

“Strangely haunted!” Robin’s five-year-old daughter, Emily, dressed as a robot, shrieked as he tugged her up onto his shoulders, while Ashley, three years old and dressed as a worm, squealed in return.

“That’s my Specs,” Casimir said, pulling her into his shoulder.

“Why anyone would want to purposefully add more cobwebs to a place, I’m certain I’ll never understand.” A new voice emerged as its owner stepped out of the archive, looking thoroughly confused as she brandished a bundle of fluffy white string. “They’re pernickety enough to keep at bay at the best of times. This modern world continues to amaze me.”

Seeing as she had vowed that she owed her a big favour, Sage’s one final request to the coven had been regarding Maggie’s destiny. Selcouth, like most magical establishments, had a hard and fast rule that magic could not be used to bring back the dead. It was simply asking for trouble and never, ever ended well.

But, after much consideration from Arty, they were in talks with several covens across Europe to trial a rather efficient ticketing system, which allowed willing and enthusiastic ghosts to pass freely, at requested times, back through the veil to visit loved ones. Malevolent haunting was strictly not permitted. Sage had discussed the possibility with Maggie, who had seemed reluctant at first, keen to return to the embrace of her long-lost loved ones and take a well-earned eternal rest.

But then Robin had come round for tea, bringing her a bouquet of thanks for her part in saving them all, and she’d had a suspiciously sudden change of heart.

Sage had sighed. “You must be bloody joking, you two.”

It was going to be a tricky task, bringing Maggs up to speed with the trappings of modern life in the outside world for her scheduled visits, now that she was free from the house, but Rob seemed more than keen to help her in her plight. He was blushing fiercely and she was blushing greyly, while he tried to explain to her how the lights in Ashley’s trainers worked. The girls were Maggie’s biggest fans.

“When you have quite finished canoodling,” Sage said, leering at them but trying not to smile, “I think we’re almost there. I’m not sure there’s a single inch of this place that isn’t covered in frankly hideous decorations,” she said, crossing her arms.

But for once, she didn’t say it grumpily. It was triumphant, if anything. She was rather proud of the ghastly and highly flammable haunted house display that had exploded around her. It was as though Halloween had vomited on the place, and, yes, it was really rather fun.

“I think we might need a few more fairy lights, Laur.” She startled. The words had escaped her before she knew it. This newfound whimsy was going to take a while to get used to. But she had time, and time would pass regardless.

Sage took a deep breath, preparing herself to open the doors to begin the town’s celebrations. The irony did not escape her, the way that she had spent her whole life dreading this exact possibility. She had almost lost herself to avoiding it at all costs—this overt combination of joy and proud, celebrated magic.

But it would be over in a matter of hours, so she should grab the chance while she could.

She knew it now. Joy wasn’t supposed to be kept hold of for long. It glimmered and glittered for us all. Blink and you’d miss it. Warm water running through cold fingers, a blackberry bursting in your mouth, hysterical laughter that turns into breathless, achy gasps with a friend. Joy was never forever, but the knowledge that it would come again soon was enough to keep going until then. Whimsy was not irresponsibility; it shaped everything.

Sage could be all those things: serious and a storyteller, well-read and wild. Sage would always be looking, always waiting for the glint.

“All right, open the doors,” she groaned, a shy smirk tugging her face as she reached for her shabby old broomstick. That was the one part of her tour outfit that had not been given an upgrade from Selcouth. She would have to enquire as to the possibility when she visited next week, to discuss her new role as researcher.

A barrage of squealing children burst through the doors in a colourful smear of face paint and stickiness, their shouts and laughter filling the museum from top to bottom.

“I’m a wizard,” one little boy said, bundling over to Sage in a cloak that was too long for him. He grinned up at her in an alarmingly purple hat. It was not historically accurate.

“Technically, you’re a warlock,” Sage said matter-of-factly with a scowl, pushing up her glasses in disapproval.

“Am I?” he replied, bewildered and impressed by her. “All right. What are you?”

A wide grin burst out unwittingly across her cheeks. “Me? I’m a witch. And I’m very, very magical.”