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‘Ouch!’
‘Any word from Mark? Another fifteen texts per hour and invites to The Crab Shack?’
Susie smiled smugly. ‘Not so much as a DM. And he’s not been back to the pub. We sent him deep inside his shell, Temperance Molland. We are a right pair of crafty witches.’ She put her hand out, down by her knees, for a congratulatory high five.
‘Amazing. So we’re safe – the village is safe?’
Susie narrowed her eyes, looking out at the impossibly blue sky over the sea. ‘Not necessarily. I might have taken the wind out of Mark’s sails, but Beston aren’t the only developers out there. We need to keep our eyes open. The Parish Council are doing their best but . . . they need help.’ She put her fists to her hips.
‘We’re not going to have to cast on all their clothes, are we?!’
‘No, you tit!’ Susie laughed. ‘I’m going to join them! Join the council. Add my skills in the non-magical way. Distribute leaflets and rant about things on Facebook. Get my Boomer on.’
‘Oh my God!’ Temperance choked on her laughter.
‘What?!’
‘There you were, saying you’re not looking for long-term commitments and in the next breath you’re on the Parish Council? Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for it. I love that you’re throwing yourself into something. It’s just . . . new. Good for you, Suse.’
‘It is good for me, isn’t it? I’m going to get us both a scoop of honeycomb to celebrate, seeing as mum can’t needle us for having ice cream before lunch.’
Temperance smiled. ‘I’m pretty sure she hasn’t done that since we both left school, but OK. I’ll have a waffle cone, please.’
She settled on the towel again, pulling her sunglasses down from the top of her head and grounding herself in the sounds of East Prawle: the low rumble of a distant tractor engine, the seagulls ever-watchful for a dropped chip to swoop on, laughter and happy shrieking from the gardens of the pastel-coloured holiday cottages.
The twitch of doom still hovered around the edges of her mind, as it had ever since that bonfire on the beach with Stevie and Susie, but she decided that could wait for the morning. She needed chilling time. She needed deep breaths. To switch off. To relax.
The brambles cut into her face as she pushed through the woods, the splice of lightning suddenly turning the whole world white. She could hear them shouting – pleading – for help, just ahead. She had to keep going. Thunder. Rain pouring down her cheeks. And in her nose the acrid smell of burnt leaves, burnt flower buds. The wildflowers. The wildflowers were nearly all gone. She had to get to them. To put it all right.
***
From: [email protected]
Re: Help again! PLEASE
Temperance – describe to me exactly what this beanie looked like. I’m very serious.
F x
Temperance sipped her first coffee of the day, frowning at the laptop screen. Why was F so concerned about her beanie? She typed out a reply with one hand, the other still wrapped around her mug.
From: [email protected]
Re: Help again! PLEASE
It’s one my mum knitted for me when I was a kid. It has these big, chunky bobbles all around it, in a cable pattern. Miraculously, it still fits and I keep it around for emergency Devon downpours in the winter or, as it turns out, late night beach spell-casting . . .
Temperance had started frying some eggs a few minutes later when her laptop pinged with a reply.
From: [email protected]
Re: Help again! PLEASE
