Spellbound: Witch's Kiss, #2

Chapter One

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I

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A heavy fist hammered on the door.

Organa Silverstrand froze beside the hearth, poker in hand. A fire blazed within. In the midst of burning bedsheets, it was not an opportune time for a visitor.

She sighed and put aside the poker. Not Petunia Dinkle! Organa had stumbled into her that morning while shopping for a goat horn to add to her Ram-Bam-Shazam shaving cream, still in the testing stages. If Ernest Dinkle wanted to remove that springy, pesky hair for once and for all, her new formulation would be just the thing. But if Petunia was relieved to run into Organa, it was not because of Ernest’s interest in depilatory creams.

Rather, the woman had developed a rash on a particularly sensitive part of her anatomy, due to her husband’s use of Silverstrand’s Prickly Moonlit Cucumber Juice™. Or so the woman said, hurling an apple at Organa’s head.

A quick spell to soften the impact meant Organa had not been bruised. Unfortunately, the spell also resulted in both women being splattered by a fine spray of apple sauce.

And whether Ernest Dinkle had used more than the recommended dose of Silverstrand’s Prickly Moonlit Cucumber Juice™ — or one of the formula’s ingredients had gone off — Organa was unable to say. And being unable to say, she had little advice for Petunia, except to take a salt bath. And light a candle and eat some chocolates, because such things soothed the spirit when one’s intimate life was tainted by a rash.

As such, Petunia Dinkle had stormed across the village square, unsatisfied by her encounter with Organa. Perhaps she had returned now with a whole barrel of apples.

The fist hammered again and Organa jumped, dropping the poker. It clattered on the hearthstones.

Hellfire! she cursed. No way she could pretend to not be home, now. Well, God and Magog, Organa said to the tower’s resident rooks, roosting in their nest built between the bricks, Petunia and her apple will be disappointed yet again. I have no intention of answering the door.

Gog’s gaze settled on her and he snapped his beak. Caw!

Don’t give me the stinky eye, Organa said. I’m too busy housecleaning to answer the door. Which wasn’t entirely true, as a Clean Sweep spell had already done most of the work. But there was something very satisfying in tending to the bed sheets herself. She rammed the poker into the grate again, stuffing the folds of fabric into the smouldering flames. Smoke billowed into the room and Organa doubled over, coughing.

The banging intensified. 

Organa? a male voice called. Are you all right?

Organa put a hand on the wall as she caught her breath. Not Petunia. But most definitely someone who could not be ignored. She stomped across the parlour, unlocked the front door, and swung it wide.

What do you want?

Sheriff Victor Griffin stood in the rain, water pouring from the brim of his hat onto the bridge of his nose, where it dripped from the tip onto the toes of his boots. His riding cloak was soaked, drenching his shoulders. He looked every bit a drowned cat. Organa shuddered. Dreadful creatures.

Fire, he mumbled, remaining motionless but for a single finger pointing towards her hearth. Flames licked up the front of the chimney and an ember lay smoking on the stone floor. She hadn’t expected that much left-over magic on the bedsheets. It was highly flammable to say the least. And at this rate, her tower would be hosting a bonfire by midnight. Although she’d never heard of an indoor bonfire.

I wouldn’t worry about it, she said, waving her hand to disperse the smoke coiling out the front door. Must be something wrong with the chimney.

Victor glanced up and a stream of water cascaded off the brim of his hat and slopped down his back. He shivered, then said, Unlikely. I examined the integrity and cleanliness of your chimney pipes last month, and everything seemed in order. He peered over her shoulder into the parlour, filling with smoke. Possibly something wrong with the fuel. What are you burning? Wet wood?

As Organa couldn’t very well admit her bedsheets were stained by wet and wood, she said, You examined my chimney pipes? She leaned out onto the stoop and looked up at the roof of the tower. It was three storeys tall. Had the man no fear of heights?

She sighed and stepped back into the tower. It was not the first time the sheriff had interrupted her house-cleaning. She crossed her arms and studied him, tapping her toe. Maybe she should send him away. After all, she was burning evidence. And Victor had a way of detecting the truth. Especially when Organa was intent on hiding it.

With a shadow of impatience on his face, Victor adjusted the black patch over his left eye. So can I come in? I’d like to warm myself by the fire. Seeing as it’s so robust.

Organa softened. Poor Victor. How wet he was. And she couldn’t deny she was happy to see him, even if she had spent the past two weeks in a whirlwind love affair.

She stood aside. As you will, she said, breaking the Latch-Key Spell that otherwise forbid entry to the tower.

Victor stepped over the threshold, his dripping clothes forming a puddle on the floor.

Thanks for the warm welcome, he grumbled, stripping off his sodden cloak and passing it to her.

Organa threw it in the direction of the stone wall, where — with uncanny accuracy — it hooked a peg and hung itself to dry.

No wonder you’re smoking out the place, Victor said, investigating the inferno inside the fireplace. You’ve got more fuel stuffed into the grate than there are merry men in Nottingham. He took a seat in the chair made of antlers. Ah, my bones will warm in minutes. But next time, he said, waggling his finger at her, less wood.

She gave a tight smile. Will do. Now what can I do for you, Sheriff? She walked through her parlour to the kitchen, and opened one of the cupboards. A rows of glass jars glinted in the firelight. If you need a vial of Silverstrand Pickle Polisher™ or Silverstrand Rootin’ Tootin’ Anti-Bad Breath Dilutin’ Solution™, need I remind you, I do not see clients prior to dusk?

I think you know why I’m here, Organa, Victor said, moving his boots closer to the fire. But every time I stepped foot near your front-door, those damn ravens flew at me, screeching blue murder. I swear one has it out for me. He adjusted his patch and muttered, I think it means to peck out my right eye.

Organa bit her lip and said nothing. The sheriff was correct. Until she’d called them back to their nest that morning, Gog and Magog had stood watch on the door-stoop. Charged with announcing unwanted visitors, the pair of living gargoyles had chased away visitors of any kind (customers included) lest they discover the injured highwayman. Whom the sheriff himself had installed in her bed, she might add.

And as if he had read her mind, he asked, "So where is Thaddeus Crowne?"

Fartbuckle. Why he’d have to bring up the highwayman? She was doing her damnedest to forget all about him and his wily ways — hence, the burning of her bed-sheets. And so far, she’d managed to pass ten seconds without thinking about his lingering kisses and lingering hands and —

Organa plastered an innocent smile on her face as she used a pair of tongs to reach into the pantry and extract a silky spider’s egg she was helping to hatch. So no Bad Breath Dilutin’?

My breath, the sheriff sniffed, is perfectly acceptable.

Organa made a sound in her throat. She didn’t like to admit when the sheriff was right, but she couldn’t argue that his breath often smelled rather pleasant. Of honey and brumbleberry, to be exact. She should know: she made his tea most nights of the week. She looked him up in the eye and said, Did you not get my message?

Victor dug into his breast pocket for a crumpled piece of parchment. It appeared to have been handled a great deal. You mean this one? That your pesky bird dropped at my house an hour ago?

Ka-kaw! Magog warbled.

Organa grunted, hoping that her preoccupation with placing the spider egg into a china teapot would indicate she was not interested in discussing Thaddeus Crowne. She’d said everything she had to say in that epistle to the sheriff. She put her eye close to the egg sack, looking for a sign it had incubated enough.

Your message explained very little, the sheriff went on, rising from his chair and pacing before the fire. Organa cut her eyes at him and he said, Allow me to refresh your memory.

Organa blew out a sigh. Why couldn’t Victor let bygones be bygones? Annoyed, she flicked her fingernail against the spider’s egg.

It burst open. Hundreds of tiny spiders poured out of the egg sack. Or was it thousands?

Bat shit, she cursed, trying to gather them in her palms. She hadn’t yet prepared the other ingredients for the spell.

Victor continued to glower at the letter in his hands. He cleared his throat and read:

"Dearest Victor,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and merry spirits. I write to inform you that your prisoner, the outlaw known as Thaddeus Crowne, fled the tower last night.

Yours truly, Organa Rosemary Silverstrand

p.s. I was not harmed during his escape.

p.p.s. I have no knowledge of the ingrate’s current whereabouts.

p.p.p.s. So don’t bother asking!"

Victor folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. At what time, pray tell, did this dramatic escape occur?

Organa shrugged, grabbing a pansy-painted tea cup from her tea cupboard. Some time around midnight? In truth, Thaddeus had departed at sun-up, the hours of the night having been spent in one another’s arms. But best to let the sheriff think that many miles — and hours — lay between him and Thaddeus.

Well, which way did he go?

Organa scowled. How am I supposed to know? He snuck out while I was sleeping.

She bit her lip again, hoping Victor wouldn’t detect the lie. He hadn’t so much left while she was sleeping, but while he was sleeping.

In broad daylight? Victor scoffed, resettling in the chair, An unlikely story, Organa, considering you keep graveyard hours. Would not the highwayman flee under the cover of darkness? In which case, you — conducting your business — would have borne witness.

Organa narrowed her eyes. How dare he speak to her with suspicion in his voice? She might have plenty to hide, but it was for the Victor’s own good. Perhaps a cup of tea would distract him from his interrogation. She’d prepare his favourite, an especially black brew made of lamb’s root and hickory.

Organa plucked the teapot from her workbench. A stream of spiders was crawling out the spout. She overturned the teapot and gave it a shake. Already the damned things were the size of small pebbles. But then, spiny orb spiders were known to grow at an exceptionally speedy rate to an exceptionally large size.

Organa dumped a handful of dried tea leaves into the pot and crossed to the fireplace to fetch some water. She donned an oven mitt and reached past the licking flames to unhook the kettle. Then she poured the roiling, boiling water into the tea pot.

Here, she said, thrusting the pansy teacup into the sheriff’s hands. She then filled it with tea, poured a second cup for herself, and dropped into the rocking chair.

As Victor sipped, he leaned his head back against a pair of antlers. "Well, can’t win