Chapter 3 The Unexpected Invitation

3

The Unexpected Invitation

ARIADNE PULLED AT her slice of pizza, wrapping the strings of melted cheese around a finger while they entirely ignored the Halloween film that they'd spent a considerable amount of time selecting.

"So leave." She was always so matter of fact, so logical, that it came across as harsh if you weren't familiar with Ariadne's heart of gold. "I keep telling you. You could get another job so easily."

"How about vampire's wife? Tiny frog in a forest dwelling? Seductive keeper of the underworld in a ghostly wedding dress?"

"All of the above." Ariadne nodded. "Anywhere would be lucky to have you."

"Why should I leave, though? I love Lunar. It's special. I just don't like being taken advantage of over and over by a man who is a walking midlife crisis, has no talent that I've ever witnessed other than an impressive skill for ruining joy and yet earns double what I do while accepting all the credit for…" Belle chewed and swallowed. "Wow, I should leave."

"Thank you. Now we just need to find you something that's worthy of your time and general excellence."

"You think I'm much more excellent than I actually am," Belle said, dipping a crust.

"Well, of course I do. I'm your best friend. I believe you are a perfectly excellent idiot."

"And I you."

Excellence had once been something that both the girls considered a given. Growing up with slightly terrifying determination, they had both been certain that the curse of ordinary would simply never happen to them. It wasn't meant to be that way. But time changed things and brought a dose of reality with it.

On paper, Ariadne had ticked the boxes of "successful" a little more effectively. People took her seriously, working in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and swanky free lunches from which she regularly snuck extras home for tea. Healing from a long-term relationship that had simply faded through no one's fault, she was even testing the ghastly waters of online dating for the first time in over a decade, unexpectedly embracing it, finding all new facets of herself. Belle was constantly in awe of the way her friend grabbed plot twists by the lapels and always found the excitement in them.

"You've been talking for so long about buying the shop from Violet, I don't understand why you won't just go for it. It's what you've always wanted. And she must be getting on for—what?—197 years old now. She'd be grateful for it," Ari said, picking off a piece of pineapple.

"She does keep telling me that I made a big mistake, to just say the word," Belle admitted.

"There you go."

"I know, I know. It's just terrifying. If I'm in charge and blow it and the shop goes under, I lose everything. I've plugged so many years into getting to this point. Imagine if the dream job isn't the dream, that I picked the wrong thing. So much could go wrong," Belle said, ripping pizza from crust. "It's not the right time."

"It's never the right time. Ever. If you're waiting for all of the stars and planets to align before you make decisions that'll make you happier, you'll be waiting forever."

Belle sighed. "I'm so behind already. We're supposed to be leading empires and bringing down the patriarchy by now. It was on the calendar for last week."

"I told you, I had that epiphany. We're past the point of having to think we can take over the world. We can just exist happily if we want to. As long as it pays the bills. And you would be happy, which is really all that matters. You could be spending your days recommending fiction to old people in your own bookshop, reading stories to sticky-fingered kids, stressing over barely making ends meet but loving the quiet day to day. That's the dream right there, Belle."

Belle gave a thoughtful "Hmm." What would happen if she really did allow herself to seize it with both hands? She always felt embarrassed when she was confronted by her own cowardice like this, but the fact was that it was less disappointing and much less painful to refuse to give your heart and soul to any one thing for fear of an imperfect result.

"It's just about breaking the spell," Ariadne added. Belle sniffed under her breath at the irony. "Ow! What the…? Oh look, you dropped a birthday card." Ariadne yanked a slightly crumpled black envelope from between the sofa cushions, where it had surreptitiously tapped a sharp corner of itself against the back of her arm to interrupt. "If that has cash in it, then it's now rightfully mine." She closed the pizza box and placed it on the patterned rug.

Maybe it wasn't a totally failing spell. Thankfully, only Belle noticed in that moment how the handwriting shone with a distinctly magical glint: Tonitru, Fulgur, Pluvia.

SEPTEMBER NIGHTS HAD been drizzly and dark in London, the storm from yesterday leaving petrichor stuck to the streets and the sky, but tonight was exceptionally still. Everything outside seemed to be waiting with a held breath. The moon sat silver like a milk top.

Ariadne slunk off to bed once the movie had finished, taking the final piece of pizza for luck. Belle knew that touching wood, salt over the shoulder, rabbit feet and wishing on eyelashes were all well and good, but the best results she'd had with luck-related magic always came from their own bizarre, superstitious inventions. The final piece of pizza had long ago become a talisman between the two of them.

Since her mystery visitor at Lunar yesterday, Belle had been doing her level best to pretend that the whole encounter had never happened. With the chaos of the day, it had been easy to ignore. But once Ari uncovered the letter, Belle spent the rest of the evening sitting on her hands, attempting to focus on the television, her gaze practically boring a hole through the paper. Who on earth (boldly assuming they were even of this plane) had been in touch from Selcouth, and why? She had no magical contacts, no colleagues or friends or wizened old mentors to speak of.

Only when Ari was fast asleep and snoring at rhythm through her door did Belle allow herself to finally reach for the envelope. She curled her feet up underneath her and adjusted Jinx on her lap, pulling the blanket closer as a chill wove itself through the notches of her spine. The silver star on the stamp felt distantly familiar, lingering in the back of her mind like a dream.

Maybe Selcouth was sending birthday cards now, although that would make mystery man's insistence on delivery a little overblown. This one was a milestone birthday, or so everyone kept reminding her with dramatic knowing looks. Belle blew her hair out of her eyes and lifted the deep purple seal. A stack of pale papers tumbled into her lap from an intricate fold, and as her eyes scanned the letter, each word lit with a warm glow perfectly in time with her reading. Magical texts tended to do that, words illuminating like fireflies trapped in amber when met by the eyes of a witch.

Ms.Belladonna Blackthorn,

An abundance of the happiest returns on your thirtieth Orbital Completion.

"Happy Birthday…probably would have been fine," she muttered before reading on.

In accordance with the ancient and binding rules of Selcouth, which claims you by birthright, it is with much pleasure and pride we inform you that you will soon complete your inaugural Hecate House visit for the EquiWitch trial hearing and manifest assessment.

Saturday, October 1, 11:30 ante meridiem

Hecate House, Highgate Cemetery, London

All witches, warlocks and wicchefolk between must adhere to the EquiWitch trial to suitably mark their equal years of non-wicche existence versus years of holding sacred sorcery powers. Following your hearing, a jury of Selcouth's esteemed membership will conclude whether you have behaved with suitable mysticism and fervour since said sacred powers were first instated.

The overwhelming majority of wicchefolk pass their trial and assessment with flying technicolours. However, in the unlikely outcome that your esteemed power is agreed to stand as underused, abused or entirely neglected altogether, your magic will be regretfully removed with immediate effect and returned to Selcouth.

Please bring with you to your hearing your bestowed sooth stone for the Selcouth endarkenment presentation in Hecate House courtroom following the (assumed) successful hearing.

With all the best on your thirtieth birthday! Cheers!

In thunder, lightning and in rain,

Caspar Strix

United Kingdom Coven Balancer

Tonitru, Fulgur, Pluvia

Disclaimer: Selcouth will not be held responsible for feelings of fatigue and lethargy following magic removal on possible expellation. We politely request that all witch familiars are left at home following the infamous toad incident of 1962. Your cooperation is well appreciated.

Belle gazed blankly at the letter, looking at the words elegantly inked on the paper. They seemed to loop themselves into one big tangled knot as she read them again. And again.

Your magic will be regretfully removed with immediate effect.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Belle stared at the unfurled papers, chewing relentlessly at a cuticle until it bled. Obviously, this didn't mean what it appeared to mean. It couldn't. Could it? She willed her mind to slow down, but her nervous system said otherwise. October 1 was tomorrow. Her first thought was that her birthday plans were almost certainly ruined. But a larger feeling of pure, burdensome dread began to brew up through her insides, an awful, anxious dismay bristling across every nerve ending like a wire broom.

She threw off the blanket and jumped up from the sofa. Jinx, disrupted from her nap, slunk away in a sulk to find an alternative bed. Belle shot to the phone and quickly made a call. The same call she always made whenever there was a major, minor or medium crisis unfolding in her life.

"Pick up. Pick up…" She was grateful to hear a click as the ringing stopped, followed by a lot of noisy fumbling at the other end. "Hi, Mum."

"Hello, love. So glad you called, didn't want to interrupt. I'm out with the dog to collect my moonwater, and I've lost my glasses again somewhere in the woods, so the signal might not be great."

"What do your glasses have to do with the signal? No, that's not the point. Mum, I've had this letter…" Belle was interrupted by a triumphant cheer from her mother.

"Oh, it came? I'm so relieved, mainly so that I don't have to keep the secret anymore. You wouldn't believe how many times I've nearly spilled. More to the point, I can't believe I'm old enough to have a daughter reaching the EquiWitch. Oh no, Wolfie, bad girl. Don't eat that…"

Belle sighed. She loved her mother more than life, but talking to Bonnie Blackthorn on the phone sometimes felt like a trial in itself: one that tested for levels of superhuman patience and stoic mental stability.

"Listen a sec, Mum. What is this? It's got to be a mistake." Belle turned the letter over again, as though expecting the message to have changed in the last few seconds to something that made sense.

"Darling, it's in the book," Bonnie said casually.

Belle steadied herself against the wall, appreciating the coolness on her clammy palms. "The book? This cannot be happening."

"Besides," Bonnie continued breezily, seemingly not overly concerned about her daughter's unfolding breakdown at the other end, "elders of the coven aren't allowed to tell you about it. As much as I might have wanted to, we can't interfere. We can't push you to be doing special things with your magic. The EquiWitch is supposed to be a nice surprise, a party of sorts for celebrating your powers having blossomed in full. You can't have your mad mother being all embarrassing and pushy about it, nagging you…Oh, Wolfie, put that down."

"A subtle shove in the right direction might have been nice," Belle said.

"And how would I do that without being seen to be ‘meddling, guiding or assisting your witchery and discovery,' hmm? As the book specifically dictates against."

"I don't know, Mum…Maybe an ‘Oh, hello, Belle. Any plans for your birthday? Have you got a cake? And have you done a bit of reading up about the fact you're about to be inexplicably stripped of all of your magic and cast out into the dark abyss of nothingness?' Something along those lines." She spoke in an emphatic whisper so as not to wake Ariadne, but Belle could hear herself getting more frantic.

"Belle, it's the law of Selcouth. The law of every coven across the world. You must be left alone to explore your own endarkenment. From the minute you left home and were no longer considered to be learning under my roof, I had to take a step back, let you out into the world. And this is the final stage of it all. You can't be guided through it, told how to make magic your own. Endarkenment is your journey to embark on, your responsibility, for the young witch to discover herself."

In the distance, Wolfie barked with enthusiasm. Likely at an unsuspecting duck, which the enormous hairy Irish hound, her mother's familiar, had something of a penchant for.

"Wolfie, leave that poor duck alone," Bonnie continued, confirming Belle's suspicions. "The fifteen years of the endarkenment journey are about you and your powers growing, how they both blend together naturally. The process of finding yourself in the magic. Getting into the groovy groove of things…"

Bonnie was attempting to calm her daughter, but words like "endarkenment," "finding yourself" and "groovy" were not helping. Belle gave a resigned sigh, tapping her head against the wall. Her mother carried on anyway in between calls for Wolfie, who had a habit of sprinting off into the woods and returning from the bracken with something furry carried carefully in her chops. Thanks to Wolfie's ability to track down injured creatures, Bonnie consistently had her greenhouse full of recovering, blanket-wrapped squirrels, hedgehogs, baby badgers and birds while she charmed them back to full health with her arsenal of curative concoctions.

"I tried to drop some subtle hints, keep reminding you to pick up the grimoire once in a while, but—Wolfie!—I kept forgetting until after I hung up. And I wrote a note on the fridge to remind myself to remind you of the consequences, and I started, but then there was all that business with the cobwebs in my big bottle of eel scales on the top shelf, and…Wolfie, there you are! Oh, stop harassing the ducks, will you?"

Belle wedged the phone between her head and shoulder, wrapping the spiral cord like a finger trap. "So, this is really happening?" Her voice cracked. "I'm going to lose my magic?" The uneasy brewing in the pit of her stomach swilled. She felt a little light-headed.

"No, Belle, you are not. Of course you're not. You're an extremely capable witch," Bonnie said matter-of-factly. "I take it you didn't see it mentioned in the book, then? You haven't had a little read recently?"

Belle could tell her mother was trying as hard as possible to sound airy and unbothered, not judgemental or concerned, which in turn always made her sound entirely judgemental and acutely concerned. The book she was referring to was looming in the corner of Belle's eyeline. If it had been a person, it would have waggled its fingers and raised a captious eyebrow.

Of course, she had not read the book.

In fact, she'd barely touched the book for several years, and it stood ominously in the corner of the bookshelf now like a neglected beast grown too big and too dangerous to touch the longer it was left alone. Belle had always told Ariadne it was a poetry anthology from university. In actuality, it was the sacred grimoire of her coven, but that would have been a more complicated conversation.

"I…must have skipped that chapter," Belle said, lying through her teeth. Better than disappointing her mother.

She tore her regretful gaze away from the grimoire to grasp at her last ounce of balanced logical thought. She needed to get off the phone as quickly as possible to silently stew in her own despair. Her mother's advice was always welcome—until it wasn't.

"But it's fine, it will be fine. So fine, Mum. My life is obviously…suitably magical."

Belle glanced over at Jinx, whose back leg was currently in the air at a right angle while she washed in a very unladylike way on top of a pile of Jim's overtime sheets. To the left, an empty sharing packet of crisps that she and Ari had demolished the night before sat amidst a selection of tea-stained mugs. To the right was a cactus that had possibly started rotting. How they'd managed to kill an unkillable plant, even with an assortment of floral magic available to her, she wasn't entirely sure.

"What exactly does the coven expect from me, though?"

Belle heard the line muffle loudly again, followed by a distant swear from her mum and a noise that she recognised to be the sound of an active spell. Like TV static but more focused, like the crack of a whip.

"Sorry, love. Tried to siphon off a little moonwater and dropped my phone straight into the pond. Bloody mobile telephones. Think I've managed to save it with a quick Exsarcio Electri . Although if you hear any muddy-sounding splashing on the line, I might have to turn it off and on again."

"Mum, tell me. What am I supposed to have done with my life? And I don't mean that in my usual existential crisis kind of way. In a magical way. What is Selcouth expecting of me? Should I have used magic to do something special by now?"

"It's not a case of a checklist, darling," Bonnie said. "The trial isn't a clear-cut test with right or wrong answers. It's a feeling, an instinct. The trial examines how the real Belle lets magic exist within her, how you allow it to flourish and trust it to guide your life. It's a gift, but it comes with responsibility, and this is just to prove that you can look after it."

The very dead cactus caught Belle's eye again. In reality, when was the last time she'd used her powers for anything more exciting than…quick caffeinated drinks? Did conjuring a last-minute Friday night table at the nice Italian up the road count?

"You've lived fifteen years as a non-wicche and fifteen years as a witch now," Bonnie continued. "They only want to check that your powers aren't being held by you for nothing."

Belle bristled at that. "Surely they're mine to keep and do with as I wish."

"Of course they're yours. But the privilege of retaining them has to be earned fairly. There is only a finite amount of magic in this world, after all."

Belle dusted away a rogue spark of her own powers, which was sitting alone on the kitchen countertop, left over from when she'd reversed the little patch of mould on the bread that morning.

"I basically just make a lot of long-distance drinks while I'm lying down."

"Don't be silly, darling. You create wonderful magic on a daily basis, probably without even realising. You're talented and bright and fabulous. You have nothing to worry about."

Belle couldn't help but feel, not for the first time, that her mother's unwavering confidence in her abilities was perhaps misplaced. "Nothing to worry about…" She repeated dubiously, wrapping the phone cord in a complicated cat's cradle.

"You've embraced it all as I taught you, and as your nan did, too. She was so proud of you." Bonnie's voice caught, wavered.

Belle glanced back at her bookshelf and chewed the inside of her cheek until she could taste a faint tang of blood.

"I know you, Belle. You always do anything and everything to the best of your ability, magic or non-magic. In thunder, lightning or in rain. You'll tick all of their silly coven boxes, sweetheart, and your manifests will shine through. I have every faith in you, always do."

Manifests? Suddenly, the Christopher problem, the burn-out problem, the life purpose problem, the perpetually single problem—all felt like distant, insignificant baby hiccups. Jinx flipped over onto her front and retched up a slug-like hairball with grotesque sound effects. Absolutely, suitably magical.

While her mum chatted on, now something about quiche in between shouts at the dog, Belle stretched on her tiptoes and pulled the thick leather-bound grimoire from the top shelf. Across the cover, she saw the star illustration that she'd recognised on the envelope. That was where she knew it from .

Selcouth Coven Grimoire: A Witch ' s Counsel for Endarkenment.

Under its own weight, the book fell to the floor with a thud. Belle froze, spun to the door across the way, prayed the noise didn't wake Ariadne, but a quick snuffling and a snore indicated otherwise. Belle traced the etched title with her finger, carved deeply into the timeworn violet leather, and heaved the book open over the carpet. A fine cloud of dust plumed from its pages.

"Daily Rituals, Practice of…, Dragon Ownership, Safety Regarding…, Draught Brewing, Beginners Guide…, Elixir Lore…, EquiWitch Trial. Here it is. Wow, I should have read this…well, fifteen years ago."

"I promise, petal, you'll be fine. You are my daughter, magic runs through us like a river through a mountain. Show them the real Belle. I'm just sorry I'm not allowed to be there to watch you sock it to them."

Bonnie revelled in her supernatural abilities and was, without question, born to be a witch. Her cottage in the quiet northern town where Belle had grown up was enveloped in wild flowers and grasses, a pocket haven of flora and fauna, each carefully cultivated for her passion: Earth Sorcery. Neighbours simply thought her to be a slightly eccentric green-fingered lady. But she spent her days in a small greenhouse at the end of her garden, Wolfie for company, brewing spells of protection, hope and appeasement for others. Her abilities were something of a whispered legend around the town and would often bring neighbours, superstitious mostly through desperation, knocking with trays of flapjacks or bunches of tulips in exchange for a moment of her time and a bath-friendly mix of her latest for luck, a tea blend for attraction or a lotion specifically for confidence.

Belle's father had left a long time ago, two strong-willed witches too much for him to handle, and Bonnie had always been certain that her daughter would follow in her footsteps. That Belle would find solace like she had in the potions, elixirs, draughts and tinctures. The joy and art of magic—always the beauty of it rather than the power.

But, of course, the modern witching world wasn't how it was when she had been a girl. Whenever she'd asked about Belle's progress with magic, Belle reassured her that she'd get round to it just as soon as something else more pressing was out of the way. Friends, exams, deadlines, dates, trips, work…

Belle found the paragraph in the grimoire that she needed. Ending their call after something about a risotto recipe and someone from school that Bonnie had bumped into at the supermarket, Belle knocked the phone receiver to her forehead. All she'd wanted to do to celebrate the final precious evening of her twenties was eat pizza, watch a film and get an early night. But here she was plummeting into an abyss of contemplation on her own pointless existence and her stupid, selfish waste of powerful potential for her entire adult life.

Thirty was everything she'd been warned about.

With crossed legs, she flipped through the long-neglected pages. Her early study of magic had been diligent, excited and eager. Then, over time, it had dwindled. Nightly became weekly, weekly turned to fortnightly, often to sometimes to rarely. Belle couldn't remember the last instance that she'd dedicated any kind of time to her own potential.

With vague recall, she studied the pages covered in painstakingly detailed illustrations sketched in ghostly black and brown.

EquiWitch Trial, The

On a thirtieth celebration of life in the non-wicche realm, all wicchefolk are bound to undergo the EquiWitch trial, with strictly no exceptions to be made through nepotism or otherwise. This examination, metaphysical in its decision, delves thoroughly and intimately through manifest viewing into the personal history of the magic holder, beginning at the conception of their powers on their fifteenth celebration of life through to present day. This passage of time is known as the endarkenment process, and such an assessment brings endarkenment to completion and conclusion. An exact balance of one's experience, action, perception and truth will be taken into account to judge whether the witch is deemed worthy by their coven of maintaining their sacred power and position in the world of sorcery.

If successful in passing their EquiWitch trial, and in having proven themselves to be suitably pragmatic, shrewd, courageous and bold for the coven, the magic holder will be granted permission to keep their powers until their final mortal breath. If unsuccessful, and deemed unworthy, the magic holder will be stripped of their powers with immediate effect and the magic returned to Selcouth. (See Expellation Ceremony on page 439.)

The words lit up amber across the pale pages as if to only emphasise her lack of the aforementioned qualities. Sinking against the sofa, Belle pointed her forefinger at the flame of a candle burning on the fireplace. Feeling the familiar comforting warmth that filled her whole body when she was holding a spell at the end of her fingertip, she made the small flame dance, hypnotising herself into deep thought as she contemplated what she would, could, should do about this whole mess.

Casting any magic—even this tiny, insignificant spell—felt like a tender, caressing swell. The feeling spread like melted butter on warm bread from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. It was like covering uncertain spring seeds in sun-drenched earth. Like nourishing soup in the winter. A hot water bottle wrapped around cold toes. It felt good. Come to think of it, it felt right. One of the only things in her life that did feel entirely right.

What did the coven expect a girl in her twenties (still…just… currently twenty-nine, thanks) to be doing with this kind of power when residing in an uneventful, overpriced borough of the non-wicche world? Was she supposed to be creating earth-shattering magical fusion from her two-bedroom flat? She had to go to work. She had bills to pay and friends to hold on to, relationships to attempt, decisions to second-guess, imposter syndrome to fight…The fairly certain knowledge that she was about to brutally disappoint her mother, having already thus far failed to find a dashing husband or produce an adorable babbling heir, was the cherry on top of the cauldron.

A memory burst into Belle's mind. The candle went out with a breathy puff the moment her focus snapped to an immediate pinpoint. She quickly flipped back to the first leaf-thin page, which she remembered writing on shortly after receiving her powers on her fifteenth birthday. The book was inked with one important question, asking its holder, What do you hope this new blessing of magic means for you, witch?

Underneath, in a faint and ghostly string of pencil letters now faded with time, her fifteen-year-old self had written, To be special. To like myself and be confident. To be happy.

Belle felt an ache in her chest, raw with sadness and affection for that young girl. But the ache also brought with it a brilliant clarity.

She had to pass the trial.

Not just for her mother or her grandmother. She had to do this for herself, too. For herself more than anything, actually. For reasons unbeknownst to her, complicated histories, rites of passage, all the women who came before her, the universe had decided that magic was a fate to bless upon her all those years ago. Her magic was the glue that strung everything else together, like a fine stretch of honey clinging to every other fibre of her, joining the dots that growing up and growing older had drawn in more definite ink. This was something precious. A treasure of glass and gold, buried in sand but glinting in sunlight, waiting to be uncovered and held tightly in her palm.

These powers weren't to become a memory, wasted and abandoned. Magic was meant to be hers, and for the first time, Belle would fight to prove it.