Chapter 16 A Warlock’s Home

16

A Warlock's Home

SCOOPING A BLOB of whipped cream from mug to mouth, Belle bounced back against the booth as she missed her aim, spilling onto the thigh of her jeans. Cursing under her breath (not an actual curse—she wasn't one to meddle with those), she frantically rubbed at it with a serviette while using her elbow to keep the page of the grimoire open. She heard a stool across the table scrape backwards as Ariadne plonked herself down unannounced.

"Finally, here you are. I thought you might have been out with Mr.Magical when you rolled in late last night, and then I couldn't find you all day to grill you. But of course, giant book and an equally giant coffee. Should have guessed."

"Huh? Oh, right." Belle threw her arms over the grimoire, quickly dashing it underneath her jacket on the seat. With sleep not wishing to linger past sunrise, she had followed her nose towards the caffeine and spent almost the entire day cooped up at their usual table, bent double over the pages in front of her, curious as to whether the EquiWitch challenges would make themselves known in the grimoire. They hadn't.

"He's more of an evenings and nights visit kind of guy," Belle said. "I do not mean it like that! He…works a lot," she continued hastily as Ariadne danced her eyebrows suggestively.

Mr.Ricci appeared to deliver Ariadne's Americano (cold milk on the side) and slid two plates onto their table from the crook of his arm.

"Some cinnamon rolls for my best customers. Most sane people have stopped with the caffeine by this time of day. They're yours if you're hungry," he muttered, always gruff but secretly kind and generous with the leftover pastries. Once, he'd stood behind the counter for almost half an hour, drying the mugs with a rag while Belle cried about how she had no idea what she was doing with her life after a terrible day at Christopher's beck and call.

"No one knows, girl. If they say they do, they lie," he'd said matter-of-factly, sliding a shiny cherry Danish across the countertop for her woes.

"I love him as if he were my own father," Ari said sincerely as Mr.Ricci headed back to the counter. She added a few drops of milk from the small jug. "In fact, probably more. Fancy that new Halloween film tonight? There's a midnight showing."

Now that their initial meeting was out of the way, Belle's lessons with Artorius were to properly begin that coming night. Her nerves were shot, so she'd been attempting to distract herself with reading up, but the feeling had been made entirely worse by all the caffeine. She could already see the slightest scratch of a crescent moon in punctures between the café shutters, silver and misted in the dark late afternoon. By sheer luck it was a new moon: the perfect time to begin anew, to embrace a fresh start.

"Can't," Belle said reluctantly.

Ariadne gave her a disgusted look. "I knew this day would come, and yet I did not expect it so soon. Belle, you cannot abandon me in singledom. I forbid it. You can't leave me in solo spinsterhood."

"I promise it's not like that. We took a solemn vow to grow old and become haunted beldams together while everyone else gets happily married and has delightful chubby babies. I respect the vow."

"And don't you forget it. Matching warts, waist-length grey hair, clacking spinning wheels, the lot."

"It was sealed in blood," Belle said. "I take it very seriously."

"I don't know, I feel treason in my bones. Two nights in a row sounds pretty ‘reformed spinster' to me."

"And that is precisely why you have commitment issues with everyone but me," Belle said, snapping her chocolate flake in half to offer out, as was the rule.

"I'm actually so happy for you. This feels kind of exciting. I think I want you to meet someone more than you do. But if Mr.Magical is keeping you out every night until the wee hours of the morning, I should at least know his real name. What if he murders you and I have to come and avenge your death?" Ari asked, chocolate crumbling over the table.

"Why are you so obsessed with avenging my death?"

"Because we are in love. So go on, what's his name, then?"

Belle chewed at the inside of her lip. She could not offer up the name Artorius. For one, it was synonymous now with a smiley old man, and it felt wrong on many, many levels. For two, it was a name that Ariadne would rip to absolute shreds.

"Rune." Not much better. She presented it as an answer before she could stop herself.

"Pardon?" Ariadne attempted to keep a straight face. "Rune? That's not a name, that's a noise."

"You're being rude."

Ari snorted. "You are dating a man…who is called Rune."

Belle nodded indignantly, spinning her coffee cup in an attempt to appear nonchalant. Where did that come from? His was the first face that popped into her head. She instantly regretted the impulsive answer. Ariadne pushed again.

"Rune? As in those little stones with symbols on them. As in ‘room' but not. As in ‘rhymes with spoon.' As in ‘the Rune in spoon stays mainly on the ploon'?"

"The ploon? You had me until the ploon."

"Is he a son of Gloin?"

"Shut up, please." Belle folded her arms on the tabletop. "I think it's, like, German or something," she muttered under her breath. Why she was getting so defensive, she wasn't quite sure.

"I can't believe the man who's finally going to steal you from my grasp is named…Rune. I'll never get over this. He had better be alarmingly hot." Ariadne was no longer even trying to stifle her laughter and cackled loudly.

"Did you want a cinnamon roll?"

"Don't change the subject. Where do you find these men?"

"They seem to find me all by themselves," Belle said grimly, rummaging for her purse.

"It must be serious, though? With Rune ." Ariadne bit her tongue, emphasising the name while ripping off a chunk of sticky cinnamon dough. "You're sneaking in way past your bedtime, cancelling our plans for him, and you look like you haven't slept in months. No offence."

"Wow, thank you for that."

"Sorry, but it's true. You can't keep this up. Working all day, then spending all of your nights at his place, travelling back to ours, begin again, repeat. It's ridiculous. Why is he making you do all of the work?"

Belle raised an eyebrow. "You can buy me more caffeine if it makes you feel better."

"Why don't you ask him to come to ours? I'll be good. Or I can make myself scarce for a few hours," Ariadne answered her look.

"Thanks, but it's fine. I'm fine. It's only going to be for a few weeks."

"You've put a time limit on this thing already? That doesn't sound particularly healthy."

"It's not that. I've decided to give it the month and see what happens. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, it doesn't. But I want to give it the time that it deserves."

Ariadne sighed. "Just try and put yourself first, okay? Please? You're crap at it."

"This time I am. I really am. It's something I need to do. Now, can we talk about something else?"

"Yes, but only because I can tell you're tired and you'll probably cry otherwise."

"It's likely."

BACK IN HER bedroom, Belle hunched over so acutely that her nose was almost touching her folded ankles, her spine resembling the posture of a prawn. The grimoire sprawled in front of her across the rug. It was nearly time to head to Quill Lane, with just a few final minutes to remind herself of the task ahead.

In spindly letters, the book spelt out the basics: the six branches of magic to explore during her mentorship, each one feeling more challenging and distinctly failable than the last.

Luckily, with Jinx refusing to sit anywhere other than draped across her legs and currently purring euphorically, she considered that the first, Animal Affinity, was a probable done deal. Her familiar for over ten years, the link was one of the strongest in her life.

"Actually, Jinx, I can probably thank you for not being thrown out of Hecate House sooner," she told the cat as she absent-mindedly stroked her tiny soft chin.

Earth Sorcery was next, Bonnie's distinct area of expertise and specialist art. Belle felt reasonably confident that a refresh of the craft would bring back what was once a fairly solid understanding of natural ingredients, the power of the earth itself, the qualities it could wield in the right hands. It was a relief, as she pulled at the early saplings of learning buried somewhere deep in the earth of her mind, to feel memories already unfurl small green leaves.

When was the last time she'd actually learned something or challenged herself? She was surprised to feel a tingle of excitement brush her spine at the thought.

Incantation, of course. Spells, enchantments, charms, the branch she used on a daily basis, even if only in their most humble, unadventurous form. She could see potential there, but it was a vast subject, the challenges limitless. Nonetheless, three out of six branches that weren't entirely starting from scratch. Those weren't terrible odds.

She turned the next page of the grimoire to be met with the branches which would require most of her attention. Alchemy, or potion practice. She'd barely dipped her toes into these artful waters and, even worse, this branch came loaded with a…complicated history for Artorius.

Clairvoyancy was fifth, the connection to the mind and harnessing the power of it. Premonition, meditation, telepathy, divination, spiritual contact. Notoriously challenging and certainly the most visionary, but one of the most rewarding powers to harness. Apparently.

A brisk October wind breathed through the open window and blew the page aside to the next. The grimoire reminding her, all by itself, of the sheer size of the challenge that lay ahead. Sixth and finally, the book revealed, came Necromancy. Communication with the dead.

QUILL LANE WAS damp and drizzly when Belle stepped off the bus, treading carefully over a blanket of slippery leaves. Arriving back at the house, she was struck by the finer details that she hadn't noticed yesterday. The smattering of blackberries tangled in bushes that lined the front window. The deep cherry red tree that reclined over the driveway in a sweep of shyness. The fox had returned, just as Artorius said, and was curled up in a perfect amber circle in a corner of the front garden. He opened one eye drowsily to see who'd interrupted but quickly nuzzled back down into his leaf quilt.

Following her arrival, which Artorius seemed entirely surprised and thrilled about—"I wasn't sure I'd be seeing you again, I fretted all day that I may not have been a welcoming enough host"—he had plied her with strong tea and wedges of toast buttered so thickly that pools of sunny yellow sat on the bread.

She was surprised when, afterwards, he led her to the top of the house, to the "unpredictable" attic that he had specifically warned her not to enter yesterday.

"I was nervous to show you. But after much deliberation, I think we are best to dive in together with both feet. This is where the magic happens, as they say. In my case, you understand, I do mean that entirely literally."

The moment his palm rested over the brass door handle, it unlocked with a soft click and a fizzle of sparks.

As a witch who liked to keep her own tricks and tools hidden from prying eyes, it had only occurred to Belle over their tea and toast that the house seemed to be largely void of signs of a magical existence. It made sense, given that he had been stripped of his powers until now, although it was clear that he enjoyed researching his magical heritage, magical theory and the like. The decor was a little eccentric and rough around the edges, but there were no spell books or almanacs that she'd noticed. No rogue wands lying around or undisguised potion ingredients. No cauldrons perched on the draining rack. Just carriage clocks, commemorative china plates on stands, a small statue of a flamenco dancer that read "Minorca 1979" on the mantelpiece.

But it was now apparent that every sign that Artorius Day was something of the supernatural persuasion had been stored up in this attic room. It was a glittering treasure trove bathed in silver moonlight, alive with every possible strange and unusual ingredient lining the eaves. Shelf upon shelf of apothecary jars, bottles and vials in every shape and size and shade made up his collection. They stood in vast numbers, a patchwork of glass as they captured the outside moonlight and inked it in new colours. Peeling labels in scratchy lettering had been carefully assigned to them all. Each one was stoppered tightly with a cork, an ornate lid, or simply stuffed with rolled-up newspaper to make do in a hurry.

Amongst stacks of books piled in every corner were tons of haphazard cardboard boxes, all full and scattered across the floor, much like a promising jumble sale. Old-fashioned suitcases and trunks, too, some filled with cauldrons like Russian dolls, ranging from pocket-sized to the biggest at the centre of the room in front of Artorius, who had instantly busied himself with what looked to be a pot of snail shells. A beautiful brass telescope was pointed to the sky at the window, and next to it, to Belle's amazement and admiration, a full orrery, gracefully spinning on its own heliocentric orbit, to show the motions of the planets and moons. Selections of crystals, wax-sealed jars and discarded tarot cards. The perfectly preserved skeleton of some kind of small winged beast. A rainbow of candles, scattered tapestries and carpets, not to mention a lot of objects that Belle failed to recognise. Everything in sight glinted with a faint sprinkle of magic, like a dusting of icing sugar that caught in the thin, watercoloured light.

"This is beautiful," Belle marvelled.

A few bigger objects remained unseen, splattered dust sheets thrown over their hulking forms. A tall, sagging armchair was angled next to Artorius, evidently his thinking spot of choice. Things whirred soothingly, buzzed quietly and floated peacefully all around her, igniting every sense as though the room itself was alive with possibility. It was truly a wonder. An inventor's workshop, a magician's box of tricks, a collector's cabinet of curiosities. A warlock's home.

"Oh, do you think so? It's not much. Everything that I've accumulated over the years, with no particular rhyme or reason. Not that I could use any of it, of course…" Artorius hurried to reassure her. "But I suppose many people collect things that remind them of the past. Nostalgia is a powerful thing."

"Why do you keep everything hidden up here? You could fill your whole house with wonderful things."

"I'm a private man. Unwanted attention is not something I seek. And it's important that you create a space like this for yourself, Belle. It doesn't have to be a whole attic. But all wicchefolk need their own altar dedicated to practice of the craft. ‘Altar' makes it sound rather fancy, but it's just a personal space of one's own. And this is mine," Artorius said, gesturing proudly.

"Again, not that any of it is in active use," he swiftly corrected himself. "Only my studies through my non-wicche life. Merely curiosities that I like to peruse to remind me of…of the magic of it all, I suppose." His expression turned watery for a moment before snapping back into consciousness.

"Besides, I dare say the neighbours already think I'm mad enough. The last thing I need is for one of them to come knocking and find me dabbling in the eye of newt jar, looking for a juicy one. Mr.Nuttall next door is already convinced I'm a lunatic."

Belle thought to herself that Mr.Nuttall must have seen and heard some things from 8 Quill Lane over the years and probably had a good case for his point.

Night pushed its way through the attic eaves to mark their first lesson, and Belle sat studiously as Artorius embarked on a refresher course on magical theory, the cornerstone of what made a successful spell of any kind.

"Vision, courage, tenacity. Plus benevolence, for good measure," Artorius repeated, rapping his knuckles at each of the points on a levitating pyramid that he'd crafted from magic, counting off the qualities as he went. "And I have no doubt in my mind that you possess each one in abundance."

It was odd. She hadn't felt this particular kind of contentment for a long while—it reminded her of time spent with a beloved grandparent. An abundant love, with no conditions put upon it. Unwavering belief and support and admiration, as though she were a precious thing. It had been years since she'd lost her, but that presence was something that she missed every day since Alvina had passed away, her magic returning back to Selcouth. The years without her had softened the grief, worn it down to a bluntness. It was no longer sharp or stabbing or severe. Instead, it was as though a silk scarf was knotted around her chest, permanent and solid but existing tenderly, tugging her backwards with a gentle pull every now and again with news or stories that she wished she could share.

Perhaps not to the same extent, but Artorius's words plucked at the nostalgic chord of that beloved company. Unwittingly, her hand reached for the warm familiarity of her sooth stone.

As though someone had opened the sash window with a sudden force, Belle felt a shiver travel from the top of her spine, a current along each vertebra like dominos. A biting breeze spun through the gaps in the window frame. The musty smell of the attic, like crisp old pages and tobacco, filled her nose as it picked up on the wind. Her gaze was snatched towards her grimoire resting on a music stand. The pages swiftly began to fly, whipped up in the frenzied wind that left Belle pushing hair from her face and Artorius clinging to his pink hat. It dropped as suddenly as it had begun, and the grimoire seemed to settle on the page that it desired. The pair shared a hesitant glance before Belle rushed to approach the book, seizing the leather cover in her hands.

It had been opened to a page that she had certainly never found before, and she wondered whether it had even previously been a part of her grimoire. Artorius followed and peered around her side on his tiptoes.

The title of the page simply read Incantation and was followed by an inked paragraph.

Conviction in thy words must hold,

Speak a truth that's brave and bold.

Be thy assured all shall be well,

A fortune magic cannot tell.

So to prove good thine incantation,

Rewrite the mind's own dark narration.

Spirit, soul and spell to start,

Summon that which is thine heart.

"What is it with magic and undecipherable, unhelpful poetry?" Belle sighed.

Artorius grinned. "And so begins your first grimoire challenge."