Chapter 2 Witch Way? #2
The entire route on her Magical Heritage of Port Sylvan Walking Tour was lined with the signature charming cottages of the town, which earned various oohs and ahhs along the way, but the typical tourist spots were not the purpose of Sage’s endeavours—more of a necessary footnote than anything else.
She briefly waved them past the Equinox Gallery, the jewel of the town with its impressive gilded and domed roof.
Then the towering Lyceum, blushing red brick smiling prettily against the blue sky, and the Dapple Grey, one of the oldest pubs in Northern England.
It was the more alternative locations that Sage always focused on.
“Here we find the place that marked the final sighting of curious Lucille Pottinglee,” Sage explained when they reached the cobbled alleyway behind the pub.
Per her research, she went on to reveal how the poor woman vanished shortly after the last of her seven children had flown the nest. “Lucille declared that she had had enough. Worked too hard. She longed for nothing but a peaceful life of contentment and sleep. A cat with bushy eyebrows that looked alarmingly like Lucille’s own moved into her home a week later, the feline quite content to enjoy a quiet life all by itself. ”
They crossed the street to Ada and Cliff’s Apricot Cottage B&B, where an old-fashioned brick well stood between flower beds of orange pansies.
“Covered now for health-and-safety purposes, of course, after young Harriet Moss tumbled down while singing into the echo. But on foggy nights under a full moon, recent photographs still show the silhouette of a girl perched on the edge, asking for someone to join her song.”
The group laughed awkwardly, unsure whether they were supposed to be taking the whole thing seriously or not.
A career of magical academia within one of England’s most notoriously magical locations was admittedly an odd choice for a witch who was intent on having nothing to do with her own magic.
And Sage, a distinctly determined person in all ways, had never been so determined about anything in her life.
But to her, it made perfect, logical sense.
This way, she could keep control over something that often felt completely and utterly out of her control.
This way, magic was formulaic and factual.
She could lock it between the pages of the books she pored over, hold it between the loops of her lettering and afterwards tidy it away into neat boxes as fact.
Sage understood magic via concepts and methods and laws, reasonings and theories and examples.
She could expertly handle her knowledge on the subject and had devoted her life to doing so with a specialist, most invested interest in the lore of magical banishment.
When it came to putting her own powers into practice, however, Sage would have absolutely nothing to do with the infernal stuff.
Magic had brought her nothing but sadness—so much sadness—along with the deepest regret and a feeling of isolation that had shaped her into who she was today.
Which, in truth, was someone she didn’t always like very much.
Once, in that woman’s place, there had been a girl who loved magic with her whole heart.
She had gazed up at the moon and watched in awe as it changed its skirts from full to sweeping crescent.
She had stumbled through the garden barefoot, stuck her tongue out in the snow, collected feathers and snail shells like gemstones to be placed in neat lines on her bedroom shelf.
She had loved ribbons in her hair and all things fluffy.
She had lost herself to stories and imagination and dreamlike possibility.
There had been a time in her life when wonder had led the way.
But then it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong and Sage’s guard had remained firmly up, in all ways, ever since.
So far, it had worked rather well. As a lone, weird witch, Sage had slipped by entirely unnoticed for almost fifteen years—half of her life and every day since her magic had materialized.
The coven (for her studies had led her to conclude long ago that there was indeed somewhere, some form of a coven) had never come knocking.
So far, she had been spared from that, at least.
Now it hopefully wouldn’t be long until Sage could finally stop listening out for the footsteps she had dreaded following her for so many years.
Thirty minutes into the tour and Sage’s frequented route had led them in a loop back down through the dell. The path beneath the red sandstone bridge, covered in a confetti scatter of toffee-coloured leaves, painted the perfect backdrop to her case study of Agatha Pinch.
“Agatha’s husband, a notorious town drunk—which certainly didn’t help his argument—insisted that his wife had been able to transfer to any time or place when she walked beneath the arch of this very bridge.
A fascinating prospect, defying the very fabric of time and its supposed continuum,” Sage told the group.
“You’re telling us that all these mad stories are…real? You’re serious?” Mr. Williams asked with a bewildered expression.
“Quite serious,” Sage said curtly. “I am a scholar, Mr. Williams. An almost unrivalled expert in the study of magic, both theoretical and evidential, with a focus on Port Sylvan as a historically supernatural location.”
“Right, right…” He nodded. “But still, you are joking, aren’t you?”
“I rarely joke, Mr. Williams.” Sage sniffed.
“However, if you are a man who requires cold, hard proof over the mere word of a female academic who has devoted the past twelve years of her life to the subject, you might check Agatha’s exhibition cabinet at the museum.
You’ll find a bunch of dried wildflowers, tied with a blue ribbon, that sat on Agatha’s mantelpiece for decades—wildflowers known to grow natively only in Salem, Massachusetts.
Strange, don’t you think? One day, Agatha was spotted—”
It was then that Sage was, regrettably, interrupted.
“I’m not sure I remember seeing such a good-looking group as this one today. Sage Hemlock, are you boring our poor, unsuspecting visitors again?”
A scowl immediately slapped itself across her face. What in all the transcendental realms did he want now?