Chapter 14 Cattitude
Cattitude
As darkness folded over Port Sylvan the following evening, no further spell progress seemed to have been sparked, thankfully, but sleep was still low on Sage’s list of priorities.
She was determined to make progress in their understanding of the type of magic at play.
While she had begrudgingly agreed to let the spell play out, she could still attempt to find ways to minimize its havoc.
Admittedly, she was also a fraction concerned about the possibilities of sleep and fairy tales; she absolutely did not have time for any kind of endless nap, as appealing as that sounded.
There were absolutely no princes in the local area to wake her from an eternal slumber.
It would all be incredibly inconvenient.
In reluctant compromise to appease her loved ones, Sage had decided to treat this inconvenient turn of events as some kind of…
last hurrah. Not that she had ever been one for hurrah of any kind.
It was all very well and good that her brother and sister had declared it time to try living more joyfully, growing alongside magic rather than against it, but that didn’t change how she felt about her powers, the coven or her grand plans to leave magic behind without their knowledge or input.
If she was honest, the prospect of someone else’s powers holding her own dark magic by the hand and taking charge of matters for a little while was also too tempting to refuse.
She was tired. So tired. It had been a long time since she had rested from the incessant responsibility.
She reasoned that it was temporary, like checking her magic into a kind, considerate nursery for a while, relinquishing care just long enough for twelve charms to play out, a lesson to be learned, the spell to end.
Then it would be business as usual, and she would swiftly return to her banishment research.
So, while Sage had warily agreed to trust Lilara’s divine plan for the moment—after all, she had always relied on her—she certainly did not trust the coven.
There was no denying that something within her—this alleged connection between witches that she had read about before—could sense them taking gradual steps closer.
The feeling of being hunted, tracked and searched for clung to her.
She remained more determined than ever to avoid their gaze.
If magic insisted on being acknowledged in this inconvenient way, then she would put it to good use.
There had to be some kind of concealment spell that she could turn to her advantage.
As she nestled on the couch by the fire, surrounded by reams of notes, books and papers covering every surface under soft candlelight, Sage had to admit that, although she wasn’t remotely enjoying the spell, at least a tiny portion of her might have been enjoying this small part of the circumstances.
Her mind was alight in a way that it had not been for some time.
There was something about writing, reading and studying at night that soothed her soul.
The sound of her ink pen scratching against paper.
The smoky crackling of the fireplace. The soft snores of Mal snoozing by her side.
He was taking up the majority of the couch space, despite being such a small creature, and Sage had edged herself into less than a quarter while he sprawled out greedily.
This was how it had always been between them; it was, in fact, a great privilege to have a little less room to stretch out when a tiny animal had decided that the safest place to sleep was beside you.
A newly spoken, fully formed incantation was not something that Sage had permitted herself to partake in since she was fifteen years old.
She had only ever called on the smallest of repeated magics that she had tried and tested in the early days before.
But after speaking to Laurel, Robin and Casimir about the book’s suspected purpose and their insistence that it was for the better, Sage had dared herself to believe that…
well, perhaps they might be right. There was a certain amount of sense to the theory, even if it made her skin crawl to admit it.
The cherry on top of the cauldron, which she could happily accept, was that it gave her a very valid and reasonable excuse to learn a new, intentional incantation for the first time in years.
The prospect had her abuzz with curiosity.
If she were to allow the spell to unravel properly, to find out what Lilara was really trying to teach her about witchery, then it stood to reason that Sage should ensure that the coven did not interrupt its flow.
Having cross-referenced evidence of successful enchantments that encouraged secrecy—disappearing objects, vanished items, lips forbidden to speak on certain topics—Sage had settled on Absconditus Arcanus Latibulum.
A rather niche spell, she had to admit. It was reported—in an old, tatty copy of Merillo’s Chronicle of Truths Untold—to have held a house in Cornwall under a magical glimmer of concealment.
The witch inside had used the spell once a month for six decades to hide the existence of her powers from everyone around her.
Keeping such magic from prying eyes had allowed her to live out a peaceful life running a magical cattery and safe house, with thirty-eight stray cats and a donkey for company and nobody nosing into her business.
Sage wholeheartedly trusted the magic of a woman who had made such a sensible decision for herself.
It was settled. A steady beat of determination thumping in her chest, Sage approached the fireplace.
An owl hooted softly outside the window.
She smiled despite herself into the collar of her pyjamas.
Her heart fluttered with hope. Then came a crackle.
It might have been the flames dancing around one another in anticipation, sensing that purposeful magic was about to unfold, or it could have been her own powers sparking at the ends of her fingertips at the funny feeling of a spell brewing—willingly.
For the first time in many years, Sage cleared her throat and dared herself to cast with permission, maybe even something like pride.
“Absconditus…Arcanus…Latibulum.” She sniffed. “If you please.”
The spell flew from her left index finger and into the flames, sending a rush of burgundy sparks and rich red embers soaring up the chimney and into the black night air. It would appear that it had worked perfectly on the first attempt.
“Quite.”
She could have imagined it, but Sage was fairly certain that the air wobbled a little, as though a protective bubble had slipped over the town.
Some kind of sensation was stretching its way around the entirety of Port Sylvan.
The image of a dust sheet thrown over a precious antique heirloom came to mind, and Sage found justification in imagining it as such.
That was how it felt, keeping the town protected from view for a short time, just while she and Casimir came to understand Lilara’s magic a little more.
It was for the good of everyone, as well as for research.
She rushed to jot down the finer details of the spell in her notebook before she could forget them.
She dotted her sentence extra decisively.
That was it—so simple and quick—but she had bought herself crucial time and safety.
Magic within Port Sylvan would be fully concealed from anyone outside of it and, crucially, from the coven.
Sage had permitted herself a tiny taste of freedom, surrendering an inch of her vice-like control to explore other possibilities and simply see what might be.
An entirely unpermitted giggle of excitement burst from her.
She rolled her own eyes at it but returned to the sofa smirking.
She hadn’t given it much, but offering her magic just an inch of her heart was proving somewhat agreeable.
A surprising and unfamiliar feeling of gentle contentment breathed out of her in a soft sigh. It was peaceful.
Then Mal had a hairball.
Sage’s cat leapt from the sofa in a sudden jerking motion, sending a pile of papers skidding in his wake.
And as anyone who has ever witnessed a cat yacking up a hairball can attest, it was quite the mood killer.
Sage paused her writing to make sure that her familiar was okay, as his little ginger body jerked into an upwards arch, then down again, followed by a hideous hacking noise that always made her shudder and the arrival of what could only be described as a wet, hairy slug straight onto the living-room floor.
His little white boots leapt back from it and he smacked his lips together.
“When you’ve quite finished, Mal,” she muttered to herself, rising from the sofa.
“I’d like to see you do it more gracefully.”
Sage tumbled straight back into the soft seat. The light had almost gone from the handful of melting candles. The fire was beginning to fade. The room was dark and the hour was late. She yanked her glasses away and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Too much coffee.”
She rose again from the sofa and took a few steps towards Mal, giving him a pitying scritch behind the ears before padding over to the kitchen to get a cloth.
“My poor boy.” It was probably time to admit defeat.
She had encouraged Maggie to go and relax hours ago, so she would quickly clean up, lock the doors and go to bed.
“Oh, well, if you’re going to the fridge…”
Sage’s head spun so quickly that she smacked it on the shelf beside her. “Ow! Blasted…” Stars burst across her vision as she rubbed where it hurt. She peered through the darkness. There it was again. A male voice.
She stiffened. “Who’s there?”
“Maggie put some kippers to the side. I absolutely promise that she said they were for me and categorically not for your breakfast tomorrow.”
Sage shrieked.
“What? Ask her if you don’t believe me.”