Chapter 35 Beyond the Archway
Beyond the Archway
An earthy, sooty scent was noticeable as soon as they made their way through the door, and Sage was struck by how familiar it was. Past the fragrant, herbal perfume of brewing potion, it smelled just like the morning after the autumn festival bonfire.
Sage and Casimir found themselves in what seemed to be the foyer, with towering stone walls and richly coloured rugs underfoot.
After so much time inside the darkness of the labyrinth, the torches fastened at intervals along the walls gave such a warm, inviting light that Sage had to squint against them while her eyes adjusted.
“Hello?” she called shyly, clearing her throat. There was no one around. Casimir clicked the door shut quietly behind them as she took a couple more cautious steps further into the hall.
“Anyone?” Casimir tried, sauntering behind her.
When only silence greeted them, he sniffed.
“No? Suit yourselves, then. Don’t all rush on our account.
Honestly, how many unexplained, fantastical doors do they send into enchanted labyrinths for an uncharted witch and an incredibly handsome…
What do you prefer? ‘Mortal’? I refuse to go for ‘common’ or ‘ungifted,’ although ‘sublunary’ sounds rather good… ”
“You’re a non-wicche,” Sage said quietly, but her voice waned. Her attention had been stolen by a revelation that took her breath away. At the end of the foyer was a grand archway, and an inscription reading “Hecate House” was carved in large, serif lettering along its whole form.
“Well, I’ll be…” Casimir’s voice dwindled too, for once entirely lost for words.
It was real.
She had come across vague, poetic writings of such a place but had never imagined that it might actually be real.
That the coven of lore not only existed but was indeed established and celebrated enough to warrant a beautiful, bewitching headquarters such as this.
Sage chanced a few further steps, feeling Casimir’s hand at her lower back, encouraging her on.
They were most likely underground somewhere, judging by the lack of windows.
Incredibly intricate carvings of stars and moons, planets and constellations were all embedded into the stretches of bleached stone that towered above, and Sage was surprised to feel a sense of distinct calm drape itself over her shoulders the closer she got to the archway, as though there may have been a welcoming, warm enchantment laced about the place.
It wasn’t just having Casimir at her side that was helping her onwards.
Some form of benevolent magic in the air was settling her nerves.
The other overwhelming sensation Sage could no longer ignore was the way that each of her senses was utterly alight, in a way that she had never experienced before.
A trail of goose bumps lingered along her arms—perhaps still chilly from the snowy labyrinth—but it felt more unique than that.
She licked her lips at a strange taste that filled her mouth too, one that she had sensed a few times recently—something sweet but palpably metallic.
And sharpest of all was the definite pricking of her thumbs, as well as her ears.
The tips of them tingled like static, as if in recognition.
Her magic was practically singing. It was as though her innermost make-up, that undeniable part of her which she was finally allowing into the light, was reacting to the presence of other… witches.
More of them. Perhaps even many of them.
Casimir bent down a fraction to whisper in her ear. “Knock ’em dead, Specs.”
Sage steeled herself, inhaling a little more of the soothing enchantment in the air.
She was encouraged by the happiness that her own magic radiated in response.
It gave the strangest, sparkling giggle beneath her skin, and the slightest of excited smiles twitched at her lips at the sensation.
With Casimir only a few steps behind, she marched beneath the archway.
What greeted them was…unexpected.
In the centre of an enormous high-walled round room, with various doors leading from it, two older people were locked in what appeared to be a very intense discussion about drapery.
“You don’t think the red is a bit…festive?”
A woman with a blue polka-dot scarf tied haphazardly around her light brown curls, along with what appeared to be a sprig of garden greenery tucked behind her ear, was standing with hands on hips.
She was gazing up at huge swags of crimson velvet strung along the round room, a space which stretched up into an impressive domed ceiling.
Sage did a double take; it looked just like the main room of the Equinox Gallery flipped on its head and thrown into a different dimension.
Maybe it was. She wouldn’t be all that surprised if she’d stepped into some kind of alternative realm to get here, wherever they were.
In fact, that would make considerable sense, if this was now something like a wicche-based realm.
“Nonsense! I think it’s rather jolly. Who doesn’t love Christmas!
Actually, you may have a point; most wicche have done all of their celebrating by then, haven’t they?
” An old man stood next to the woman, a foot shorter than her, even with the interesting addition of a huge pink pom-pom on top of his woolly hat.
He threw his arms up in approval and looked absolutely delighted about the interiors choice.
“Besides, after the couple of years this place has had, it could do with a bit of extra merriment. Wonderful. I’d say this calls for a slice of that apple and cinnamon tart that—”
Sage cleared her throat.
The two people turned their heads to her. Sage flushed furiously. The woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, while the old man’s expression changed to one of pleasant curiosity as he gave a little “Ohhh?”
The woman squeaked. “Arty, you said you’d refreshed and re-knitted the concealment enchantments last week!”
“And I did, Bonnie! I did!” the old man said, waggling his finger at Bonnie. “I told you, I checked all of those miserable old punishment curses were still a thing of the past, and I made sure there wasn’t a single unpredictable entryway lingering from the old approach. Don’t doubt me, young lady.”
Bonnie tutted at him but gave Sage a kind smile as she pottered over.
“Not to worry, love. We take much more kindly to non-wicches stumbling across the headquarters than we used to when…well, when the place was under different management, let’s put it that way.
” She placed an arm around Sage’s shoulders and tried to guide her back the way they’d just come.
“Nothing that a hot cup of memory tea won’t solve. ”
“But I’m not a non-wicche,” Sage said shyly.
Bonnie paused. “Sorry, love?”
“I’m not a…non-wicche? Interesting terminology; we were just discussing the matter, my colleague and I.
I’ve seen ‘non-magic’ used in some texts, ‘mortals’ in others, ‘omninatural’ once or twice.
My colleague, Mr. Casimir Everald here, has several other suggestions, but is there a generally agreed-upon term?
Anyway, I suppose now’s not the time for semantics.
I…” Sage shook her head, trying her best to keep her thoughts in order.
“Enough of my infernal faffing. To be blunt, I’m a witch. ”
Bonnie smiled politely, then gave an almost imperceptible twitch of her nose in Sage’s direction. She turned back to Arty, her look of bewilderment obvious. “Arty, can I borrow you? Excuse us, love. I’ve got a bit of a cold, so won’t be at my best for this.”
The old man looked delighted at the prospect and tottered over.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, beaming at Sage as he took her hand for himself and shook it thoroughly before turning to Casimir, who had hung back a few paces.
“And you, sonny. Why don’t you come on over?
No need to stand on ceremony. Bonnie certainly doesn’t bite, and I only do if you deserve it, which you do not appear to. ” He chuckled again.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, sir,” Casimir said. “Would you mind telling us what or, I dare say, where—”
But the old man held up a hand to shush him.
Bonnie was muttering quietly to Arty, but Sage managed to make out the words: “I might be mistaken, but…”
Arty made another of his curious “ohhh?” sounds.
“Please do excuse me for one moment, my dear,” he said to Sage.
“It’s nothing personal, you understand. Only, a witch, warlock or wicche will always be able to note the natural scent of another…
” He gave a much more enthusiastic, theatrical series of sniffs in Sage’s general vicinity.
She recoiled. These people were very odd.
“Well, blow me down with a feather,” the old man whispered, eyes wide.
Sage reasoned that she probably could in fact blow him down with a feather.
He was very frail-looking, and tufts of silver-grey hair stuck out at rather odd angles from underneath his pink hat.
His glasses magnified his brown eyes to the size of dinner plates. “She is an’ all.”
Bonnie gasped. “But how did we miss you, poppet? Have you just moved here? Have you been with an international coven? Did you summon an entryway for yourself on purpose or…”
Sage shook her head, shuffling uncomfortably under all the attention, even though she got the feeling that both of these people were actually rather nice.
She was mostly just baffled by the expectation versus reality that she was experiencing.
This was not quite the looming, intimidating force that she had spent a lifetime fearing.
“Sage, are you okay?” Casimir asked protectively.