by H. Y. Hanna
“How to reverse the revenge spell,” said Evie anxiously.
“Oh… yeah,” said Caitlyn, realising guiltily that she had forgotten all about the chicken situation with Nadia and her friends.
“We’ve tried everything,” said Evie with a sigh, casting a despairing eye over the piles of books around them. “We’ve looked in every book and parchment I could think of—and Pomona even managed to get online to do some Googling!—but we still can’t work out how to break a revenge spell.”
“You know, I keep telling you: we should just leave them as chickens forever,” said Pomona with a wicked gleam in her eye.
“You’re not serious,” said Caitlyn, frowning at her.
Instead of agreeing, Pomona rubbed her hands with relish, the gleam in her eye turning malicious. “Just think,” she murmured. “Being forced to lay eggs every day… or maybe even being slaughtered and then ending up in someone’s pot—”
“Pomona!” Caitlyn stared at her, slightly shocked. She hoped that the American girl was joking—her cousin did have a black sense of humour sometimes—but something in Pomona’s voice made her uneasy. It was almost as if her cousin relished the real possibility of Nadia and her friends’ suffering; as if she derived a malicious enjoyment from the thought of their agony…
Pomona gave an unrepentant shrug and subsided back onto her elbows on the floor. As she did so, the light from Evie’s bedside lamp caught and reflected off something at her throat. It’s that hideous necklace, Caitlyn realised with a sinking heart, eyeing the black diamond choker around her cousin’s neck. She hadn’t noticed it when she walked in—probably because it had been concealed by the upright collar of Pomona’s trendy fitted shirt—and she’d almost hoped that her cousin might have abandoned it. But now she saw that the black gemstone was still very much a favourite. It lay glittering with a sinister light at her cousin’s throat and she noticed Pomona stroking it unconsciously every so often.
It’s just a stone, nothing more, Caitlyn reminded herself. And the less fuss I make of it, the sooner Pomona will hopefully tire of it and abandon it for a new accessory. Taking a deep breath, she said to Evie:
“I still don’t understand why you can’t try the ‘Undo’ spell as well?”
“But I don’t know exactly how I cast the spell, so I can’t really ‘undo’ it or reverse it,” Evie explained forlornly. “I mean, I know what I was trying to do, but it wasn’t what ended up happening. I never intended to turn them into chickens! So there must have been something… something ‘extra’ in there, but I don’t know what it is.”
Pomona nodded to one of the books spread open before them. “Why don’t we try this one? It says you can break a spell by burning the spell remnants and saying an incantation to cancel out the energy of the original spell.”
“Yes, but we don’t have any remnants to burn,” Evie pointed out. “I didn’t use herbs or special objects to cast the spell, so I don’t have any ‘remnants’ to destroy.”
“Evie, why don’t you just ask for help?” Caitlyn suggested gently. “I’m sure Aunt Bertha will understand if you—”
“No!” Evie shook her head vehemently. “No, we can’t tell Mum! She’ll be so furious if she knows that I was dabbling in black magic!”
“But we’ve got to do something,” insisted Caitlyn. “We don’t know how long they were supposed to be gone on their camping trip. What if their mothers start missing them and the police start searching for them?” She glanced at Evie’s stubborn expression, then said, “Okay, if we can’t go to your mother, what about Grandma? Maybe we can pretend it’s general curiosity—you know, like, I was asking you how to reverse spells, and you didn’t know, so we turned to her. She doesn’t have to know the real reason we’re asking.”
“She’ll know,” said Evie with a gulp. “Grandma always knows.”
Caitlyn had to agree. The Widow Mags seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing when you were lying to her—those old eyes rarely missed anything.
“Just give me a bit more time, please?” Evie pleaded. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out by tomorrow. Nadia was only supposed to have left yesterday and I’m sure you’d normally camp for at least two or three days, so nobody is going to miss them for a while. If I haven’t figured out anything by tomorrow, I promise I’ll tell Mum everything.”
Caitlyn sighed. “All right. But I’m going to ask for help,” she said, standing up decisively. “I’m not going on this date with green hair!”
She was relieved to see that the shop had emptied of customers when she returned outside. Bertha was busily stacking candles on a shelf and she looked up in surprise when Caitlyn approached to sheepishly explain what had happened to her hair colour.
“You can fix it, can’t you?” she asked, looking hopefully at her aunt. “You know how to reverse the spell completely, don’t you?”
Bertha frowned. “Well, if you’ve already tried to undo the spell and that didn’t work, then that means that the change is too deeply embedded to be easily undone.”
“You mean… I’m stuck with green hair?” Caitlyn cried.
Bertha smiled. “No, no, it just means that you won’t be able to restore it in one go. You’ll have to wash the magic out slowly.”
“Wash it out?”
Bertha nodded. “With some Clarifying Charmpoo, especially formulated to wash out the magic from old spells.” She bustled towards the counter and rummaged in the cupboard underneath. “I don’t use it often—the last time was when Evie tried to bewitch her hair straight for her sixteenth birthday and ended up turning it into angel-hair spaghetti instead—but I should still have a bottle somewhere… Ah! Here it is!” She straightened with a small glass bottle in her hand.
Caitlyn took the bottle and uncorked it, sniffing experimentally, then recoiling in disgust. The dark brown liquid inside reeked with a pungent odour that had heavy overtones of cow manure. “Ugh! It smells gross!”
“Charmpoos usually do, dear,” said Bertha placidly. “But nothing is as effective for expunging remnants of magic. Make sure you rinse thoroughly, although you might find that the smell lingers a bit.”
Fantastic, thought Caitlyn as she retreated to the bathroom, clutching the bottle. She could either meet James with lurid green hair or smelling of poo… great choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Caitlyn smoothed her dress down nervously as she stood by the door to Bewitched by Chocolate and looked down the darkened lane. James would be arriving any minute now and she felt sick with nerves. She glanced at her reflection in the shop window, checking again to see if there was any green left in her hair. There might still have been a very faint sheen of lime, but overall her hair seemed to have been restored to its natural vivid red. Bertha’s Clarifying Charmpoo seemed to have worked; it also—Caitlyn repressed a shudder—seemed to have left an aroma of cow poo around her head. No matter how much she had rinsed and no matter how much perfume and deodorant Pomona had doused her with, they hadn’t been able to completely remove the smell.
“It’s not too bad if you don’t get too close. All that perfume does sort of mask it,” Pomona had said, sniffing Caitlyn critically as she put the finishing touches to her make-up. “But you know, James might smell something when he tries to kiss you—”
“He’s… he’s not going to kiss me!” stammered Caitlyn, going hot and cold at the thought. “I mean, I won’t let him get close to me.”
Pomona rolled her eyes. “Caitlyn! It’s a date, for crying out loud! Getting him to kiss you is the whole point!” She put her hands on her hips and heaved an impatient sigh. “I think you should just tell him, you know.”
“No!” said Caitlyn, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t tell him!”
“Why not? James is a nice guy—I’m sure he’d understand.”
“Pomie, I can’t! Can you imagine me telling James this story about seeing Louise and making up a camouflage spell so I can look like a tree and spy on her… and then not being abl
e to reverse the spell properly so I was left with green hair… and so I used Bertha’s magical poo shampoo to wash the spell out… but that left a weird smell…” She shook her head in despair. “He’d never believe such a crazy, convoluted story! He didn’t believe me the other night and that was just a simple stretching spell gone wrong… You should have seen his face. It was awful. He looked so… so sceptical! Like he didn’t believe me but was just being polite and humouring me.”
Pomona frowned. “But I still think if you explained it to him—”
“Pomie, think about it! Imagine if you didn’t believe in magic and you met someone who smelled funny and they told you this crazy story as the reason… would you believe them? Or would you think they’re just trying to cover up an embarrassing personal problem? And James has always been into scientific explanations for everything. Well, if there’s a bad smell, he would never believe that it’s because of some crazy story about magic gone wrong—he’d think it was due to a practical reason, like… like B.O. or… or—oh my God—what if he thinks I have flatulence?” Caitlyn clasped her face in horror.
“Okay, okay…” said Pomona, putting her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I suppose, if you put it like that…”
“Maybe I should cancel,” said Caitlyn wildly. “I’ll… I’ll just tell him I’m not feeling well and reschedule the dinner for another day, when I’m not smelling of cow manure!”
But when she had called James at the Manor and tried to cry off, he had sounded so concerned at her “sudden illness” that Caitlyn had been alarmed that he would rush over immediately to see her anyway. She had hastily changed her tune and assured him that she wasn’t feeling as bad as she’d thought, and would meet him as arranged at eight o’clock.
Now Caitlyn licked her lips nervously as she saw a tall male figure appear at the end of the lane and stride towards her. James looked remarkably handsome and dashing in a military-style wool coat, with a grey cashmere scarf around his neck.
His eyes glowed as he gazed at her. “You look beautiful,” he said softly.
“Th-thank you,” said Caitlyn, nervously smoothing her dress. It was a present that Pomona had brought her from one of the top boutiques in London, and while it was more glamorous than anything she would have chosen herself, she had to admit that her cousin had a great eye for what would look good. The soft woollen fabric draped over her body and hugged her curves in all the right places, even managing somehow to turn her pear-shaped figure into a virtue. Pomona had also bought her a matching short cloak in a deep forest-green, which brought out the fiery crimson of her hair. Her cousin had also done her make-up, expertly highlighting Caitlyn’s hazel eyes and giving her skin a warm, golden glow. Caitlyn would have felt wonderfully glamorous and sexy—if it hadn’t been for the Eau de Manure which lingered around her head…
James was still looking at her, his eyes warm with admiration, and he moved suddenly, leaning in as if to kiss her on the cheek. Caitlyn gave a squeak of alarm and darted sideways, leaving him bending over empty air. He stopped short and straightened again, looking startled and confused.
“Uh… are those for me?” blurted Caitlyn, seeing the dainty bouquet of flowers he was holding. She snatched it out of his hands and buried her nose in them. “Oh, they’re beautiful! Thank you so much! I can’t believe you found such gorgeous blooms this late in autumn, although I suppose they grow them indoors in greenhouses these days, don’t they, so you can get flowers all year round, or maybe they fly them in from overseas? It’s really amazing what you can get these days—bananas in winter and pumpkins in spring…” she gabbled manically.
“Er… I’m glad you like them.” James gave her an uncertain look, then offered his arm in a charmingly old-fashioned gesture. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve parked the Land Rover in the village green, as it’s hard getting it down these narrow lanes… Would you be all right walking back there?”
“Oh, of course not—I don’t mind at all. I’ve got my cloak and it’s not that cold,” said Caitlyn, holding up the cloak draped over one arm.
“Here, let me help you with that,” said James gallantly.
He stepped towards her, his strong fingers taking hold of the cloak, and Caitlyn felt him lean close to drape it around her shoulders. She panicked and twisted away from his hands, backing away from him as she hastily rearranged the cloak.
“Th-thank you,” she said breathlessly, trying to ignore the bewildered look on his face. “Um… shall we go?” she added brightly, then began marching up the lane without him.
James blinked, then hurried after her, although he had to practically run to keep up with her. Caitlyn sighed inwardly; she would have loved to take James’s arm and enjoy a romantic stroll with him through the winding cobbled lanes of the village, but that would have meant that she would be walking close beside him, and if the breeze blew the wrong way…
She managed to keep slightly ahead of him all the way to the Land Rover and, once in the passenger seat, she quickly rolled down her window, terrified that the smell of manure would start to be noticeable in the close confines of the car.
“It’s… er… such a lovely evening… isn’t it? Wonderful to get some fresh air, don’t you think?” she said with a nervous laugh, trying to ignore the fact that it was a chilly autumn night and completely dark outside—hardly the sort of weather to have your windows down while driving!
James gave her another strange look but he started the car without comment. Glancing at his stoic countenance as they drove out of the village with the wind whipping in through the open window and cold air stinging their eyes, Caitlyn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She decided that for once, she was grateful for his British reserve and “stiff upper lip”. He was obviously puzzled by her odd behaviour but inbred politeness made him follow her cue and pretend that everything was normal.
Thankfully, the restaurant wasn’t too far away and they arrived slightly wind-blown but none the worse for wear. Caitlyn was terrified that they would be seated in a “cosy” booth, but when the maître d’ led them to their seats, she was relieved to see that it was a large square table, covered with a white tablecloth and laid out with gleaming china and silver cutlery. Then her heart sank as she saw that the places were set next to each other, at ninety-degrees, on adjoining sides of the table, rather than facing each other on opposite sides.
“Er… wouldn’t it be better to sit opposite each other, so that we can talk more easily?” she asked.
The maître d’ was a tall, thin man with a dour face and haughty manner, and he looked affronted at her comment. “All our tables are set this way, madam.”
He gestured around the dining room. Caitlyn saw that he was right—the place was filled with couples who were all sitting cosily next to each other, on adjoining sides of each table. In fact, many were leaning as close as possible, their heads together and their hands clasped. Her cheeks reddened.
“Of course, we can rearrange the table if madam wishes,” said the maître d’ stiffly.
“Oh… er… no, no… this is fine,” said Caitlyn with a nervous laugh.
She was relieved when the maître d’ held out her chair—preventing James from another of his customary “gentlemanly” gestures—but she stiffened as the man leaned close to push the chair in for her. He paused. Caitlyn shot him an anxious look. Was he sniffing? She saw the nostrils in his pointed nose flare slightly.
“Thank you,” she said quickly, yanking the chair forwards herself and hoping that he would move away.
“You’re welcome, madam,” he responded in a supercilious tone. To Caitlyn’s dismay, he remained beside her, making a great show of lifting her napkin from the table, flicking it open, and then laying it across her lap. He leaned close again as he did so and, once more, he paused and sniffed loudly.
Oh God. Caitlyn wanted to shrivel up and die as she saw James watching them quizzically.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
The maître d�
�� straightened and Caitlyn flushed under his accusing gaze. He sniffed loudly once more, then said, “Not at all, sir,” and stalked away.
Caitlyn breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed slightly. Then she realised that she was still too close to James for comfort and hastily scooted her chair sideways, as far away from him as possible. He turned his head and she realised that he had noticed her movement. She caught the flash of hurt puzzlement in his eyes.
“Caitlyn… is everything all right?” James asked, frowning. “You seem a bit—”
“Oh, yes, everything is fine! Um… this is a lovely restaurant,” said Caitlyn quickly, gesturing to the room around them. It wasn’t quite the grand establishment she had expected: although elegant and luxuriously furnished, the restaurant was small and intimate, housed in a seventeenth-century coaching inn and decorated in muted earth tones that lent the place a quiet sophistication.
James leaned back, his frown fading as he looked around. “Yes, they specialise in fine dining based on the best seasonal produce, often including wild-foraged food. I’d heard that you’d been doing some foraging in the forest with the Widow Mags and I thought you might enjoy tasting some dishes created from ‘the best of Britain’s wild larder’—as they say on the menu,” he said, grinning.
Caitlyn felt a rush of love for him. It was so thoughtful of James, as usual. She was grateful that the conversation about the restaurant seemed to have eased the tension slightly, and they fell into a companionable silence as they opened the menus and perused the offerings.
“Gosh, I don’t know what to choose,” said Caitlyn at last. “Everything sounds delicious… Roast grouse with wild blackberries and port wine jus… Aylesbury duck with windfall apples, grilled wild mushrooms and herb salad… Slow-cooked Gloucestershire Old Spot pork belly with wild fennel and crackling… Oh! And the desserts! Plum tart with nettle sorbet… White peach and chocolate cannelloni with amaretto ice cream…”
James laughed. “Have it all.”