Baker's Coven

by Nancy Warren

  It looked like a small and long-forgotten version of Stonehenge. I’d been to the famous stone circle, of course, as a tourist, but since living here, I’d discovered there were stone circles all over the British Isles. Some in better repair than others.

  This one had a decent-size head stone and a rough circle of stones, some fallen over, some so badly weathered by time and the elements that they were like half-melted snowmen. Gaps showed where stones had once been.

  “The local people used to take the stone and break it up to build houses and fences and things,” Elspeth told me in a low voice. She shook her head. “They had no respect for the traditions and the old ways. It’s much better now. These circles are protected by law.” She sighed. “Still, the damage is done.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t even know this was here. No one’s mentioned it, either.”

  “Sometimes we only notice the things we’re already looking for,” she said cryptically, with a small smile playing around her lips. “Brace yourself, Poppy, you’re about to meet some of the Broomewode Coven. You must take an oath of secrecy, but try to keep your countenance, dear. You may be surprised by what you see.”

  I took a deep breath as Elspeth led me into the center of the circle, where a group of women had gathered.

  “Good evening. I think some of you already know Poppy Wilkinson.”

  I felt my mouth drop open as Eve grinned back at me. To her right was the old woman who had called me Valerie in the pub last week, and her daughter, who raised her hand in hello. And I recognized one of the cooks from Broomewode Hall who’d been chopping up vegetables when I’d visited Katie Donegal. I shook my head in disbelief.

  In total, there were eight women and one man, some of whom I’d never seen before. Were they all witches? Or was a magic circle just people interested in magic and spells and not those who’d been born witches? Why, oh why hadn’t I asked Elspeth more questions before we got here?

  Each of the witches came forward and took my hands, whispering welcome and each of them saying, “Blessed Be.” I had always felt so different, growing up an only child, the girl who started life in an apple box, and with the unfortunate trick of seeing the dearly departed—after they’d departed. But now, within this strange circle of stones, overlooked by the heavy moon, as these women and man came forward, offering me welcome, I felt for the first time as though I belonged.

  Someone emerged from another path, and when she grew closer, I recognized Susan Bentley. She stared straight ahead, not seeming to focus on anything in particular. It was a lot like how she’d looked down at her tea earlier, as if in a trance. Was Susan part of the coven, too? It was fair to say that my mind was blown.

  I was no longer the center of attention. The women who’d already greeted me now went to offer support to the new widow, while the few who still wanted to greet me did so and then moved on to comfort Susan Bentley. Now I knew what she’d meant when she said she had sisters in the area. Of course. I stood back, partly because I was brand new but also because I wasn’t convinced Susan Bentley was as much a grieving widow as she pretended. Where did Reg the artisan blacksmith fit into all of this? A guy who forged iron as a hobby must be pretty strong. Certainly strong enough to knock over a beehive and drag an unwilling allergy sufferer to his death.

  I was even more shocked when Jonathon strode into the circle. I felt the rustle of emotion and suspected he hadn’t been expected or wasn’t as familiar to them as Elspeth.

  Eve fetched two cloth shopping bags she’d left beside the head stone and from them drew large candles. She began to place them in a circle within the stones. When she was done, she looked to Elspeth, who invited us all to enter the circle. Then, with a graceful gesture, she made a circling motion with her outstretched finger, and each of the candles sprang to light.

  Even though there was a slight breeze blowing, the wicks burned with a steady flame.

  I really wanted to sit down, put my head between my knees and wait for reality to return.

  “Sisters and brothers, we are gathered here tonight to create good energy and form a sacred space to provide our dear sister Susan Bentley magical protection and aid her dear departed husband, Arnold Bentley, in his journey to the other side.”

  Elspeth reached out and took my hand and that of the woman next to her. Everyone followed suit, and we made a ring. A gentle ripple of electricity fizzed in my hand and sent waves up into one arm and then out of the other. I had a sudden rush of compassion for Susan, as if her pain was now mine and it was me who was in mourning. The witches closed their eyes, and I felt my own lashes fluttering on my cheeks, too.

  Elspeth began to speak again, but this time it was in a language I didn’t understand. It sounded ancient and yet familiar, as if I’d heard it somewhere before but the memory had escaped me. The women joined Elspeth now, echoing her words in a slow chant that rippled through the circle like a murmur. I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw him.

  In the middle of the circle, hovering in what had been an empty space just moments before, was the flickering outline of a man. He was tall and slender, wearing a brown robe, possibly a cassock, like monks wear, and he was smiling at me like I was an old friend. It was like a hologram, beamed in from another place. Was I hallucinating? I couldn’t stop staring. The man nodded again before disappearing.

  I swallowed hard and looked about the circle. The women all had their eyes closed, and Susan was weeping silently. I had absolutely no idea what I had just seen. But I did know one thing for sure: That man had known me—was he here for Susan Bentley, or was he here for me?

  Chapter 11

  When my alarm screeched at seven-thirty a.m., I groaned. How could it be morning already? I’d barely got to bed at dawn. I rolled over, and there was a disgruntled meow. Gateau scrambled from my feet and rearranged herself at the bottom of the bed. She must have slipped back in during the night. Today was the final challenge in this week’s baking contest. A pretty important day. But I couldn’t focus on cakes. I was trying to process what had happened last night.

  Elspeth had whisked me away again after the ceremony. When I asked who everyone was and if they were all witches, too, she told me that we’d have a proper chat after filming today. I had no choice but to be patient. In hindsight, what I really should have asked for was a deep sleep potion. I’d woken up in fits and starts for the few hours I had to sleep, the events of the weekend playing out in surrealistic dreams, with odd fragments of bodies and wild splashes of color.

  I dragged my weary body to the bathroom, still groggy and perplexed. I jumped in the shower and tried to mentally prepare myself to get out of the magic world and back into baking.

  I dressed quickly and made my way downstairs to breakfast.

  The dining room was already buzzing. I went straight to the buffet table and heaped my plate with sourdough toast, little pats of butter and mini raspberry jams, and a bowl of Greek yogurt with fresh berries. A steaming cup of strong black coffee, and I was starting to feel like a human again.

  Sadly, the same could not be said for Hamish. He coughed his way through breakfast. I had no idea how he could breathe properly, let alone conjure up a show-stopping cake. But that gave me an idea: What if I could help Hamish out with a spell of some kind to nuke that nasty cold? I’d speak to Elspeth before filming began.

  I sat next to Florence and Maggie, avoiding the spare chairs around Hamish, and the four of us chattered about our recipes. I liked how we’d made a little group, and I had a hard time remembering that my new friends were actually my competition. I’d have to find some fighting spirit inside me when we got inside the tent.

  I was about to head to my room to brush my teeth when Elspeth walked in. She greeted the bakers with a smile and inquired how everyone had slept. She looked radiant, like she’d had twelve hours’ sleep.

  When no one was looking, Elspeth pressed something into my hand under the table. “Here,” she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I made
this for Hamish last night, the poor lamb. It’s a special tonic. A few reviving herbs and a little pinch of something else.” She glanced around as though worried a camera might be on her. “I can’t be seen helping any contestants, but if you give him one of these to dose himself, Hamish’s symptoms should disappear within the hour. Tell him it’s a recipe your great aunt used to give you when you were a child. Just add it to a glass of water.” Before I could reply, she’d walked away.

  I opened my hand to see two small glass vials filled with a greenish liquid. I held it up to the light, wondering what magic it contained, when Hamish looked over curiously, I said. “Ah, this is for you,” I said, handing him one of the vials. “It’s my great aunt’s cure-all cold medicine. Just mix it with water. It always worked wonders for me. I thought you’d need it for today.”

  “Oh, Poppy, how kind,” he said, blowing his nose for the fifth time that morning. “What’s in it?”

  “Just a blend of special herbs and my magic touch,” I added, not able to help myself.

  He poured himself a glass of water and tipped the contents of the vial into its midst. The green liquid swirled and turned a beautiful emerald color. He drank the lot down. “Here’s hoping.”

  Hamish glanced behind me. “I hope I haven’t passed this thing on to a helpless stranger.”

  I craned my neck in the direction he indicated, and was surprised to see Bob Fielding, the tire salesman, looking pretty dejected. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck and was bundled up in a navy cable knit jumper, and he was shivering. I was astonished. How could anyone be that cold when I was sitting here in a thin top and was perfectly warm? I decided to go and speak with him and offer my second vial of tonic.

  “Um, excuse me,” I said, feeling rather British. “But I couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a bad cold. My friend Hamish—we’re on the baking show—well, he has a terrible cold too, and I made him this.” I stuck out the vial of green liquid. “It’s an old family tonic for colds. It really helps.”

  The man looked surprised but gave me a crooked smile. He didn’t look as sick as Hamish, but there was still something peaky about his face. “How kind, thank you.” He didn’t reach for it, so maybe he thought drinking green liquid out of an unlabeled bottle provided by a complete stranger was a bad idea. I gave him what I hoped was a trustworthy smile. “I’m Poppy Wilkinson.”

  “I’m Bob Fielding. I sell top-of-the-line tires. Was that your Land Rover out in the parking lot?”

  I put the vial on the table and chuckled. “No. Mine’s the sad, tiny blue car. And I bought tires for it last year.” When they were deeply discounted.

  “Well, when you win the challenge, get famous and upgrade your car to something splashy, give me a call.” He passed me a business card.

  Here was the opening I’d been looking for. Up close, he looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. His brown hair had threads of gray at the temples, and his skin was mottled red from his cold. “I’m guessing it wasn’t me you came to see.”

  He shook his head. “I met with Lord Frome, in fact. He’s bought a lovely set of tires for his car and a set for his wife. I’m just waiting until Monday for the check.”

  Did the Earl of Frome really not have internet banking? Or was he so tight for money that he had to go to the bank to figure out how to buy the tires. Eve had said he was too poor to buy tires, but she’d also suggested that he and the missus spent more than they earned. Buying overpriced tires seemed in keeping.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for this.” Then, while I watched, he poured a glass of water, tipped the liquid into it and drank the potion down. “Not bad,” he said when he was done. “Tastes a bit like mint.”

  Florence called me from across the room, and I excused myself. “You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

  I caught up to Florence, and she linked my arm. “He’s a little old for you, Pops, don’t you think?”

  I shook my head. “You know it’s perfectly normal to talk to the opposite sex without flirting. Perhaps you should try it.”

  “Never!” She laughed, shaking out her mane of red curls, and we made our way to hair and makeup, the final step before the showstopper challenge.

  Jilly and Arty exchanged a sly glance before Jonathon and Elspeth swept into the tent. Had anyone else noticed this budding romance, or was it just me? When I took a look around, all of the bakers’ faces were trained on the clock on the wall, stern and troubled, waiting for the moment we could begin the final challenge. This one was make or break, and afterward, someone would be sent home.

  Hamish looked worried. I suspected he’d never look at another parsnip as long as he lived. Evie tied up her apron with determination. She knew she was in trouble and was going to give it her all. Truth was, any one of us could have a disaster today and be saying goodbye to the other contestants, our workstation and the judges. I just wanted to get on with it. My fingertips were tapping impatiently on the smooth white workstation surface. We were made up, mic’d up, and ready to go.

  Hamish saw me watching him and quickly came over to my station. “I already feel better. What was in that stuff? It’s magic.” And it was true. His nose had stopped streaming, and the color had returned to his face. Elspeth was truly magic. I’d have to see if she’d show me how to mix up a little tonic of my own.

  The cameras followed Elspeth, her pale complexion powdered to perfection under the warm tent lights.

  “Bakers,” Elspeth said, addressing the room with a warm smile, “it’s that time again. For today’s showstopper, you must bake a cake themed around festivals and rituals. This could be anything from Easter, with its traditional chocolate Easter eggs, to October’s harvest festival, full of wonderful produce from the earth. How you approach this challenge is entirely up to you, but we urge you to remember the basics as well as wow us with your creativity. Don’t sacrifice taste for flair. We want rich buttercreams, lovely textures, and a good marriage of flavors.” She paused and looked at each of us in turn. “Bakers, as ever, I wish you all the luck in the world, and I look forward to tasting each of your offerings.”

  Arty stepped forward. “All right, bakers. Your time starts… On your marks, get set, bake!”

  And here it was: the cold dread, the rush of nerves, the sudden emptying of my mind. Actually, that wasn’t true––my mind was too busy with other things to focus on my recipe. I was haunted by the scene of Susan bent over her husband’s body; the terrible watery warning from the woman in my bath time vision; the smiling man in the magic circle, flickering like a hologram. I took a deep breath. All this could wait. It was showstopper time.

  I’d spent ages deliberating about this one with Gina. I remembered our childhood trips to the neighboring village of Lacock to celebrate Beltane, the Gaelic May Day festival. Lacock was beautiful. Graceful medieval houses lined the narrow lanes and cobbled streets, and it was nestled in acres of unspoiled countryside. Lacock Abbey was a famous landmark often seen in films and TV shows. The entire town was now looked after by the British National Trust to make sure that its historic charm remained intact. Gina and I had loved going there for the May Day festival—it was like traveling back in time, and her dad had told us the history of the festival, which was dying out in England.

  May Day used to be a very special day on the calendar, especially for those in the countryside, because it marked the beginning of summer and when cattle were driven out to pastures. Rituals were performed to protect the cattle, crops and people and to encourage growth. When night fell, special bonfires were lit, and their flames, smoke and ashes were deemed to have protective powers. People would leap over the flames.

  We loved the mystery of these tales. Any fires lit in the houses would be put out and then lit again from the Beltane bonfire. The celebration would finish with a feast, and doors, windows, and livestock would be decorated with yellow May flowers.

  Gina’s dad would relay all this information in his ki
nd but booming voice, and I imagined it in intricate detail. Nowadays, the idea of a May Day festival had died out, but Lacock and other small villages still paid homage to summer and had a fete of sorts, with food and dancing around a maypole.

  So my showstopper today was going to be a tribute to those happy childhood days. They seemed so long ago now, but that feeling of warmth and security was palpable as I finally got my act together and began to make my lemon and almond sponge. The plan was to make a marzipan maypole as a centerpiece and little yellow May flowers to decorate the base.

  Around me, all kinds of interesting cakes were beginning to take form. Maggie was making some beautiful hand-painted Easter eggs. Gaurav and Evie were both doing their interpretation of a fruity Christmas cake, and I could see lengths of gorgeous red and green velvet ribbon on Evie’s table. She was upping her game, that was for sure.

  Florence was making an apple and cinnamon cake with cream cheese frosting for harvest festival. I could smell the mix of spices she was folding into her batter, and honestly, I was salivating. If only I could be as good at baking as I was at eating, then I’d be sure to take the wining title today.

  But my mind kept wandering. I couldn’t focus. May was a traditional time of fertility, and the woman in my vision last night kept returning to me. What was she trying to warn me about? The last time I’d seen her, she’d been pregnant, and it seemed like she was running away from Broomewode Hall. But like Elspeth said, maybe we only notice what we are already looking for. Was the idea that this woman was my mother just a fantasy I’d conjured? Did I just want it to be true, rather than looking at the facts?

  I was jolted out of my thoughts by Jonathon, who had, by the bemused expression on his face, just asked me a question.

  I blushed. “I’m so sorry. I was miles away.”