Disenchanted
Chapter 1 Once upon a Time
Once upon a Time
When the heavy leather-bound cover of a fairy-tale book falls open, a reader unfamiliar with true magic may think they know precisely what is to be found inside.
To those who read no deeper than the familiar words inked on the page, the ones you have revisited time and time again, it is simply a gilded world of riches.
One of jewel-coloured tapestries and golden crowns.
One of roaring beasts and fleeing damsels, romantic rescue waiting proudly at the end of it all.
It is a shiny place of temptation and beauty, towering and glittered, where good is always good and wicked is always wicked.
But only the most magical of heart know that, crucially, aside from all the shining swords and gnarled villains, so many of the best and beloved fairy tales begin simply with a girl.
Often, she finds herself alone, facing danger.
Shoved from the warmth and safety of home, our heroine bravely sets out and soon sees her deepest fears proven real.
She is forced to take the winding path that leads to the dark forest ahead, and all she knows is that she must find her way through.
There is hurt and loss woven through the words of a fairy tale, but what begins with nightmares and loneliness soon becomes the forging of a fire.
Because a fairy-tale heroine holds something precious inside her: a glimmer of the strongest gold that pushes her onwards as though she has no other choice.
It is a determination, despite it all, to exist in joy and to love with abandon—a rare sort of power that few possess, but one that will always outwit the worst of monsters.
She will bravely craft her own happy ending, whether peasant, princess, mother or wild selkie.
Sometimes, the girl may even be a witch.
“Have I got the Williams family here?” Sage called impatiently, craning her neck to peer over the small crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the dell.
A couple of whispers passed between groups, each guest looking more and more like they regretted every decision that had led them to this moment.
Sage couldn’t help but relate as she shoved the enormous brim of her hat up and out of the way, blew a stubborn ringlet out of her eyeline and juggled her broomstick in one hand with the clipboard in the other.
“Williams family?” she shouted, louder this time and accompanied by an eye-roll, which she should perhaps have kept under wraps.
It was not entirely professional—as professional as one could be, anyway, while wearing a head microphone that was running out of batteries, clipped to a supermarket cloak containing so much plastic that she was fairly likely to burst into flames at any given moment.
As if that wasn’t something a witch had to worry about at the best of times.
A man and woman came power-walking around the corner, followed at a distance by two teenage daughters, who had clearly been victims of bribery for their participation in something as mortifying as a historical walking tour.
“Williams, I take it?” Sage asked. “Very good of you to join us.” She meant for the last part to come out quieter than it did.
“So sorry we’re late. We kept getting distracted along the way,” the jolly woman replied, tinkling an apologetic wave to the rest of the tour group. “It really is such a pretty place, isn’t it? Did anyone see the dahlia pots round the corner? Remarkable blooms…”
Sage did not look up from her clipboard as she ticked off the final names on her register. “I doubt the others have managed to find those yet. Unfortunately, we’ve all spent rather a long time waiting on this corner for a gaggle of latecomers.”
The little postcards of tour feedback often mentioned that the host was somewhat “brusque,” “snippy,” “sarcastic”…
even “terrifying” once. She kept that last one under a magnet on the fridge for general life inspiration.
But Sage defied anyone to work directly with the general public and not lose their politeness, if not also some portion of their will to live.
She slipped the lid back onto her pen and the clipboard into her satchel before giving her head microphone a tap. The speaker gave a piercing electrical whine, and she scowled at the winces that it earned.
“Blasted thing,” she muttered.
“Gonna give us a tune, are you, love?” Mr. Williams asked with a grin, gesturing to her head mic in an attempt to lighten spirits, which Sage deemed somewhat unnecessary.
Spirits seemed perfectly adequate as they were.
All guests were quiet, polite, ready to learn.
This was a historical walking tour; it wasn’t meant to be fun.
She simply shot him a look so withering that he blushed and took a clear step backwards.
“Since we are finally all assembled, let’s begin. My name is Sage Hemlock. And you”—she steeled herself for the next part, as she had to do every time—“are officially my academy witches in training.”
As always, the line earned a half-hearted cheer from the more willing participants in the group and an uncomfortable grimace from anyone under the age of thirty.
Sage carried on regardless. “My coven, so to speak. Eager students, all waiting with bated breath to embark on a journey of discovery through the compelling histories of this famous—or perhaps infamous—town of Port Sylvan.”
She had been conducting the witchy walking tour around her town for a long time.
Over the years, she had attempted other more serious scholarly scripts, but she had been forced to accept—at the insistence of her colleague—that an (insufferably) perky approach was the only one that actually attracted any customers and brought in much-needed funds for the town museum.
Her delivery had withered into a sort of dubious deadpan dialogue that felt as though it was making her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
The irony caught unnaturally in her throat as her own magic stayed strangled in its constant itchy fight against her fingertips.
“Now, come. Let us gather our broomsticks.” Sage brandished her own broom, a Halloween prop that had seen better days, “and stalk out into the night.” It had just gone twelve p.m. “Prepare for new realms of mysticism and wonder, to discover your fate and confront which witch may be waiting for us around the corner.”
A faint cough came from someone at the back.
The scripted frivolity would give her a hernia one day.
Somewhere between straight-faced and scowling, Sage threw out the corner of her cape so that the plastic sheet billowed around her ankles, earning a lacklustre round of applause as she stalked off, and the group obediently followed.
At least the introductions were over. Now only fifty minutes remained before she could stalk back to the museum, return to their cluttered yet cosy archive and continue poring over her precious research in peace.
Until tomorrow’s tour, anyway. Not to mention the school group that was booked in at two o’clock on Friday.
But that was a whole different kettle of hell for Sage to ward off later down the line.
She cleared her head of longing thoughts, mostly revolving around a cup of tea and a few squares of chocolate enjoyed in dark, dusty silence, and marched onwards.
“Our historic one hundred and thirty acres of Port Sylvan is home to more than nine hundred Grade II–listed Arts and Crafts buildings, as well as beautiful parkland and gardens that any hedge witch would be proud to say she cast her magic over.” Sage swallowed down her dignity and glanced up at the overcast October sky for strength.
The mid-month was proving pretty, at least. Velvety clouds hung heavily, like dollops of thick clotted cream coated with tea-stained, cold autumn sunlight.
“Centuries ago, the village went from the founders’ daydream to a reality that housed the workers of the local soap factory in its earliest days.
Sounds rather pragmatic, doesn’t it? But—” Sage stopped abruptly, halting on one of the most picturesque, flower-filled corners that always brought out the cameras.
The crowd collided like dominoes and fumbled to take photos.
“Mrs. Williams, perhaps you’d be so kind as to indulge us in your thoughts.
Again. What was the first thing you noticed about Port Sylvan on your visit today? ”
Sage peered at the culprit with a withering look that—she reflected when an alarmed squeak came from Mrs. Williams—was perhaps a fraction too harsh for lunchtime.
Reluctantly, Sage changed her expression to what she hoped was a more reassuring smile.
By the look on the lady’s face, it was more frightening than encouraging. She often had that effect on people.
“Oh, well, it’s all just rather pretty, isn’t it?” Mrs. Williams stuttered, tucking her silver-streaked bob behind her ear. “All the black-and-white buildings, the railway around the bend, the stream, the white gazebo and the flowers…It looks like an illustration from a storybook.”
“Quite,” Sage said, with a pleased snap of her fingers. A correct answer always cheered her up. “The village is a stellar example of the Aesthetic Movement. An emphasis on the importance of visual beauty and quality of traditional craftsmanship, rather than practicality alone. If you’ll look—”
“Is this a spot where Cloak and Dagger was filmed?” a male voice shouted from somewhere near the back of the group. He sniffed loudly. “It’s the chimney sweep’s house from episode seventeen, isn’t it?”
Sage sighed. There was always one. “Can’t say I’ve ever watched it, sir.” She thumbed her brow impatiently and leaned against her broomstick. “I’m not much one for television. I prefer the company of a good book.”
“And what about the first performance of Levi Jenkins with the Skidoos?” said his friend, who was dressed in an alarming amount of light denim. “When do we go and see inside the social club? I’ve dreamed about it since I was a boy.”