Page 4 of Board Games and Broomsticks

For a long while, Nyssa let herself glide onwards, away from the bustling city and the surrounding towns. She hadn’t really had a destination in mind.

At least, she thought she hadn’t. But when the towns began to give way to the vast expanse of the sea, and the familiar shape of an island she’d left long ago appeared on the horizon, Nyssa realized where her heart had been leading her.

Nyssa saw her grandmother’s face. Could almost feel her hands stroking her hair as she explained why she’d chosen to settle in Nighthaven after refusing several covens’ invitations decades before. Nighthaven isn’t just a town, it’s a refuge. A place where all magical folk can seek a calmer, more authentic life.

Nyssa snorted at the irony. If there was an ideal place for a burnt-out witch to spend some time, it was here.

Nyssa swooped low over the Irish Sea, almost skimming the waves with her feet as the sky slowly brightened above her. Breathing in the salty air as she climbed higher once more, she recalled the first time she’d visited Nighthaven as a young girl, bundled on to the back of her mother’s broom to be dropped off for the summer. The tingling sense of anticipation as the island’s magic grew stronger, drawing them in. The wards around Nighthaven, ancient magic which had been put in place long before history was kept, concealed it entirely from non-magic folk, preserving it as one of the last purely magic realms in this world.

To Nyssa’s surprise, the wards let her through without much resistance, recognizing her even after all these years. She felt the slight pressure against her temples, heard her ears pop, and then a serenity washed over her as the background hum of electricity was silenced. Nyssa always forgot how loud it was when she was on the mainland until she passed through into Nighthaven, where a combination of the wards and the ley lines beneath the island meant electrical devices didn’t work. It brought a sense of peace, a stillness to the air that Nyssa hadn’t realized she’d been craving during her time in London.

She hovered above the canopy of the vast forest which filled much of the island, gazing out across the place she had once called home. Beyond the treeline, Nyssa could see the colourful, twisting streets of Nighthaven, her magic-sharpened senses allowing her to see the town below with more detail than the average human. The most built-up part of Nighthaven covered much of the island’s eastern side. The town square, where Nyssa had attended the weekly market with her grandmother, was surrounded by various shops and cafés, each built around the wishing well at the square’s centre, constructed on a sacred spring that Nyssa’s grandmother had always insisted brought Nighthaven good fortune.

To the south was the main residential area, where narrow white townhouses lined lantern-lit cobblestone streets. It was just as beautiful as Nyssa remembered; but it was the sight of the sprawling countryside to the north and west, where various estates stood out amid the trees and the small lakes, that truly made Nyssa’s heart soar.

The memories of running through those trees, of catching fireflies beside the lake closest to her grandmother’s cottage, were so visceral Nyssa could almost smell the musky scent of earth before it rained. Instinctively, she began to fly west, to the spot where the forest thinned and the largest lake on the island lay. Towards Hawthorne Cottage.

Her breath caught as she took in the familiar thatched roof, now in far more disrepair than it had been when Nyssa had left. Made entirely of thick chunks of white stone and two storeys high, the sides of the cottage had been overtaken by creeping ivy. Somehow, the wooden porch which wrapped around the cottage was still intact, though Nyssa could see several places in need of patching-up and reinforcing. The wall that surrounded the building and its garden was crumbling in more places than Nyssa could count, while overgrown grass and shrubbery now covered the cobbled garden path from the gate to the steps leading to the front door.

Nyssa glided slowly across the lake, steering her broom gently downwards until she landed softly next to the old garden gate, her feet touching down just as Nyx let out a curious, sleepy trill.

Nyx stood up in her basket, her tiny nose lifted as she sniffed at the air.

‘You recognize this place too, huh?’ Nyssa smiled, scratching behind her familiar’s ear.

Nyx had been six months when Nyssa left the cottage, and her grandmother, behind. Back then, the garden had been one of Nyssa’s favourite places, a lush lawn filled with all sorts of plants and herbs, a greenhouse that would shimmer in the sunlight, and a small brook leading to the larger nearby lake. Now, Nyssa could hardly see anything beneath the thick, unruly weeds. Nyx, too, seemed rather unimpressed with the garden’s current state, for she lifted her tail in the air, narrowed her eyes, and bumped her head against Nyssa’s hand.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Nyssa said, running her fingers over Nyx’s silky fur, ‘a lot has changed.’

If she were honest with herself, she’d never really expected to come back here. Not after the way things had been left with her grandma. Even after she’d received the news of Lisabeth Hawthorne’s passing six months ago, along with the deed to the country cottage, Nyssa hadn’t considered returning. Her place was – and always had been – with the coven.

Until now.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips. She could picture her grandmother standing on the rickety old porch, her long silver-streaked hair flying in the breeze, as she told Nyssa that one day she’d wake up and realize there was more to life – to magic – than the coven would ever let her believe.

Tears pricked at Nyssa’s eyes. For the first time, she wished her grandmother’s words were true. That being suspended from her position didn’t mean the future she’d always envisioned for herself was at risk of being taken away for good.

Nyssa was snapped out of her silent musings by Nyx jumping from the broom and disappearing into the tall grass, only to reappear once more on the front porch to claw at the large, white front doors. Overhead, the sky was starting to thicken with clouds that promised the heavy showers Nighthaven was famous for.

‘All right, all right,’ Nyssa sighed when Nyx let out a particularly impatient yowl, fur bristling at the quickly strengthening breeze, ‘I’m coming.’

She flew over the rest of the garden and pulled up just outside the front door, where she slotted her broom into the holder her grandmother had had handcrafted one summer. Nyssa didn’t need to look for any kind of key – the deed to the cottage had declared that the home had been magically left to her and her alone, and so would only open at Nyssa’s touch.

Something bubbled in Nyssa’s chest as she wrapped her fingers around the brass door handle. It was the feeling she used to get as a child when her grandma would let her help with a spell or potion: an apprehension that was both excitement and fear all at once. The sensation was only made stronger when the faint scent of her grandma’s magic – honey sweet like apples after they’d been baked with just a hint of cinnamon – filled the air and the door gave way with a soft click.

The spell, having served its purpose, broke with a rush of air that felt like a breath of relief. And as Nyssa stepped over the threshold, the lingering scent of her grandma’s magic – of her presence – seemed to wrap around her, as if in recognition.

As if it were welcoming her home.

Entering her grandmother’s cottage was like stepping back in time.

Nyssa had spent most of the morning simply trailing around the cottage, from room to room, like some sort of unmoored spirit forced to wander through the memories of her childhood over and over again. The kitchen was still cluttered with various copper pots and pans, the ceiling still adorned with dried herbs Nyssa had once helped her grandmother forage. The living room was still filled with mismatched furniture and cushions made by Lisabeth Hawthorne’s skilled hands, and Nyssa’s old doll’s house was still tucked away in the far corner, next to the window seat where her old blanket and Nyx’s favoured cushion still sat. The more Nyssa searched, the more remnants of her old life she found. Toys and books she hadn’t touched in years. Clothing she’d long outgrown and never thought she’d see again. Even her old bedroom looked untouched by time. The walls were still the same dark purple she’d begged her grandmother to paint them, and the bed was still covered in her old, worn sun-and-moon blanket.

Nyssa had honestly expected all traces of her to have been erased. Lisabeth Hawthorne was sentimental, yes, but after the way Nyssa had acted before she’d left, her grandma honestly would have had every right to throw all of Nyssa’s belongings into a particularly fierce fire.

‘Why didn’t you?’ Nyssa asked her grandma absently, trailing a finger over the dusty windowsill. In the early-morning sunlight, the dust particles looked like dancing specks of light, and Nyx absently pawed at the ones closest to her before jumping up on to the blanket, circling three times, and curling into a ball.

Normally, such a sight would have alleviated Nyssa’s steadily worsening mood. Instead, it conjured the memory of a much smaller Nyx in the exact same position. Of Nyssa, aged sixteen, standing in this very spot, hands on her hips and tears pricking her eyes, as her grandma stood at the threshold of her room.