by Wendy Steele
Wendy Steele
Wendy Steele is author, wise woman, goddess. She is writer, dance teacher, mother and healer.
Magic is Wendy’s passion. ‘The Lilith Trilogy’ leads the reader along the paths of the witches Qabalah, following Angel Parson’s story of betrayal, retribution and redemption. Her magical story contains high magic as well as pagan ritual. ‘The Standing Stone Book Series’ focuses on the lives of three women linked together across time and space by the standing stone. The countryside is the focus of their magic, embracing the gods and goddesses, tree spirits, elves and fairies.
Wendy’s latest writing is witchlit. Like chicklit, Lizzie Martin, her female protagonist is a modern woman, juggling work, family and a love life, often with humorous consequences.
You can hear Wendy telling her short stories in Pan’s Grotto on her Welsh riverbank, on her YouTube channel, The Phoenix and the Dragon.
Wendy lives in Wales with her partner, Mike, and cats. If she’s not writing or teaching dance, you’ll find her renovating her house, clearing her land or sitting on her riverbank, breathing in the beauty of nature.
Please visit wendysteele.com for more info.
Also by Wendy Steele
Destiny of Angels
First Book in The Lilith Trilogy
Wrath of Angels
Second Book in The Lilith Trilogy
Too Hot for Angels
Six (eXtra Sexy) Extended Scenes
(The Lilith Trilogy)
Turn Down The Heat
A Short Story Anthology
Into The Flames
A Short Story Anthology
The Standing Stone - Home For Christmas
First Novella in The Standing Stone Series
The Standing Stone – Silence Is Broken
Second Novella in The Standing Stone Series
The Standing Stone – The Gathering
Third Novella in The Standing Stone Series
Wendy Woo's Year - A Pocketful of Smiles
101 ideas for a happy year and a happy you
(non-fiction)
The
Naked Witch
A Wendy Woo Witch Lit novel
Wendy Steele
www.wendysteele.com
Text Copyright © Wendy Steele 2017
Published 2017, in Great Britain,
by Phoenix & The Dragon
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.
Please visit www.wendysteele.com
for contact details
This book is also available as an paperback
For Jasmine, with love xx
1
Elizabeth Martin splashed through the puddles in her new Wellington boots. She chose the luminous frog design herself. After four days of continuous rain, the drains were overflowing. Cars trundled down the high street sending waves flooding the pavements but Lizzie didn’t care. In her waterproof trousers and coat, she peeped from beneath her fur lined hood at the host of disgruntled humanity making their way to work. She arrived at Brown, Melchett and Brown as black clouds deposited another downpour on the town.
“Morning!” Lizzie lowered her hood and smiled at Louise, the security guard on the desk.
“Morning, Liz.” She nodded as Lizzie waved her security pass, extricated from the pocket of her plastic, paisley rucksack. “Not looking good for the Fayre tomorrow.”
“Getting it out of its system. All be gone by home time!”
Louise shook her head, her raven black bob swivelling around her head. “You’re too bloody cheerful.”
“Sorry, weather’s been getting to me too. Trying to lighten the mood.” Lizzie leant an arm on the desk. “Rowan’s latest crush has turned into an obsession and the hens have stopped laying.” She lowered her voice. “Something’s on its way, change is coming, I can feel it.”
“Get on with you.” Louise brushed her away with a grin. “I love you, Lizzie but that heavens stuff is bullshit.”
“Whatever you say but it made you smile.”
With a lighter heart and the desire for coffee bubbling through her system, Lizzie walked to the lift oblivious to the footprints she left on the marble floor. She wrestled her auburn curls from her hood and ran a finger over each eyebrow before the shiny lift doors opened.
With her waterproofs hanging up to dry in the cloakroom, Lizzie donned her work attire. Today purple velvet fell sumptuously to the floor from her waist. Yesterday it was navy blue, Wednesday was red and Tuesday was turquoise. Monday had been her ‘Maid Marion’ dress sewn in soft green cotton, a warm start to the week before the storm began. A round necked, organic cotton long sleeved top hugged her generous curves, while a jacket of rich velvet hung loosely from her shoulders. Today’s headband glistened turquoise and green. She looked in the mirror. Jade eyes stared back at her and she shut them. Three deep breaths and three long exhales later, Lizzie opened her eyes and winked at her reflection.
Lizzie made her way to reception, her cheery ‘good morning’ extracting the usual mumbles in return. Six months into her probationary period at Brown, Melchett and Brown, Solicitors, Lawyers and Conveyancers since 1876, she knew better than to expect more. She enjoyed her job, sitting peacefully in her world behind the headphones, letting her fingers type at the commands of her ears. A few times a day, members of the public or clients with appointments would intrude but she helped them, offered drinks, guided them to their destinations and felt better for it. She had little to do with the main office.
When Suzanne came to relieve her, she liked to take her lunch to the park, where the squirrels waited for her, eager for a gift from her nut jar, once she’d sprinkled a good handful on her boxed salad. The last few days, as the rain poured down, she’d retreated to the bandstand where the squirrels found her beneath the cracking green paint and ornate wrought iron.
Stacks of folders, three bulbous towers, dwarfed her desk. Refraining from the sigh almost passing her lips, Lizzie removed the folders to the floor behind her. Ignoring the in-tray, already awash with paper, she pulled back her chair. Post cascaded off it like a cream soda fountain. Last night had been Rowan’s Options Evening so Lizzie had taken two hours flexi time to make certain she would be there. The office, it seemed, had conspired to go into overdrive in her absence.
Pottering between the printer and her desk, Lizzie hummed a favourite chant. The office door flung back, a balding, rotund figure striding through the opening. He slammed two folders on the corner of Lizzie’s desk, the damp shoulders of his jacket dark and steaming.
“Flamin’ June? My arse!”
“Morning, Tom. Bad journey?”
“Slow and crowded. Lizzie, be a poppet and get me a coffee, would you? Suzanne isn’t in yet.”
Lizzie placed the frothing cup on the broad oak desk. Thomas Melchett emerged from his private bathroom, flattening the remainder of his hair to his head. His grey suit was creased and a mustard stain visible on his tie.
“You’re an angel. Perfect. Thank you.”
Back at her desk, Lizzie’s nimble fingers raced across the keyboard. She admitted Tom’s client, closely followed by one for David Brown, the other senior partner. His client was a much older man whose small dark eyes stabbed the world from beneath looming, monstrous eyebrows. He’d refus
ed the seat she offered and insisted David be summoned immediately. He hovered at her desk while she called Tania, David’s secretary. David arrived in reception, steering the man to his office with an arm on his elbow.
An hour later, a message flashed on Lizzie’s screen. All staff were to assemble in the boardroom at 3pm. Lizzie smiled. Who had told them it was her birthday?
The rain eased and Lizzie chatted to the squirrels, seated on a bin liner beneath the oak tree. It dripped a bit through the leaves, but she enjoyed the sensation of her back against the ancient trunk. The squirrels wished her ‘happy birthday’, accepted a nut each and vanished. Single weighty raindrops hit the surface of the lake and Lizzie struggled into her coat. In moments, a great wet curtain soaked the park. Hurrying back to the office, Lizzie’s hood flew back, her hair loose but she left it, shocked by the force of the rain on her scalp but exhilarated by its power.
With a mug of hot chocolate on her desk, she opened her drawer, taking out a slab of dark chocolate, a gift from Rowan this morning. Fourteen was a tumultuous age, Lizzie remembered, and often difficult not to behave like a rude cow but Rowan could be thoughtful. She savoured the taste as the rich chocolate coated her mouth.
The boardroom was not festooned with balloons and no cries of ‘Happy Birthday!’ greeted her entrance. Biting her lip, she forced back the blush threatening to bring tears and sidled over to Suzanne and two other secretaries, huddled by a table of drinks. No one was drinking.
“What’s this all about?” she whispered.
Scared looks preceded shaking heads. “Neil reckons there’s been a buyout. Sanderson Greybolt, he reckons.”
“We’ll have to move to London!”
“Not if we lose our jobs.”
“Suz! Can’t be that bad and, anyway, Neil doesn’t know everything.”
“What about the client, the man who came in before lunch. I didn’t see him go, did you Suz? Tania?” They shook their heads at Lizzie.
“He’s not a client.” Tania’s orange face winced and she glanced over her shoulder. Spidery lashes captured frightened blue eyes. “He’s Mr Brown, the Mr Brown.”
Suzanne and Chloe gasped.
“Who?” asked Lizzie.
“My uncle, Edward Brown, will be taking up a position at the firm here in Romford, from next week. This firm will be Brown, Melchett and Brown again.”
David Brown wore a smile for a glimmer before a nervous tick took over his pale, flushed face. Sepia curls adhered cherub-like to his scalp but his large hooked nose and hooded eyes were not a bit angelic. Tania said he was fair but humour wasn’t high on his list of acquired skills.
“So let’s raise a toast to having the family together again!”
The staff sipped politely as Edward Brown stepped forward. “David’s father and I dragged this company from the gutter in 1978 with the help of our friend, James Melchett, Thomas’ father. We had standards then and we have them now. I’ve been through the books, which are none of your business but also your staff records, which are. Be assured, you will all retain your positions…”
An audible sigh trickled through the room.
“…while each of you is re-interviewed for your job. Only the best at Brown, Melchett and Brown, only the best.”
By the time Lizzie walked home from the bus stop, her coat had lived up to its waterproof claims but her feet were wet and her knees were soggy. Thin slits had grown into splits around the ankles of her pretty but impractical boots. The driving rain in her face had chilled her so she turned up the thermostat in the hall and dried the front of her hair as the heating clicked on.
“You in, Rowan?” She called up the stairs.
“No!”
Sat at the kitchen table, Lizzie sipped her coffee and opened her book. She would cook dinner at her own convenience tonight. The words jumped and shuddered on the page, refusing to be understood, her mind unable to focus. She stared at the three cards on the table. Rowan’s was a drawing of a black cat with a wide grin, painted in acrylics on cardboard. The other two displayed an abundance of garish, pink flowers, cascading over a wall from Lizzie’s mother and a single rose in a vase from her ex mother-in-law. The neat even handwriting in the former wished her daughter a happy day and delivered the obligatory single kiss.
With self-pity rising in her stomach, Lizzie dashed to the front door, bravely sticking out her head as she wrestled with the mail box. Junk mail and a postcard for Rowan from her father from New Zealand were the only soggy items.
Lizzie hummed as she chopped vegetables and sliced the tofu she had marinated overnight. Under the grill, she warmed two vegeburgers. Nothing stopped Rowan complaining about her cooking, not even her birthday, so pre-empting an argument seemed a good plan. Thunder interrupted her unpleasant musing, whether she would have a job, this time next week or not.
“Any plans for this weekend?”
“Well, I’m not seeing Dad, am I? Six weeks! How can anybody go on holiday for six weeks?”
Lizzie shook her head. She often did this while talking about Rowan’s father. It stopped her saying what she thought. Rowan idolised her father, though she’d seen him only sporadically for the ten years they had been apart. There had been only two phone calls since last summer. He was a life coach and motivational speaker, travelling the world, selling his books and lifestyle which Rowan thought was cool. Lizzie knew he had stolen most of his ideas from her. He was a liar, cheat and fraud but Rowan needed to find out for herself. She did her best to protect her daughter but Rowan was a young woman who needed to find her own way. At present, Joshua Martin was holidaying at Mount Manganui with his latest girlfriend, Bryony. Lizzie knew Rowan relished the idea of this enhanced, fashionable blond being her stepmother and dreamed of shopping together and trips to the coffee shop while Lizzie saw the blinkered adoration of a needy woman who’d fallen for the Josh Martin charm. She didn’t blame Bryony. It had been her, fifteen years ago.
“Do you fancy coming to the Charity Fayre with me?”
“In this?” Rowan’s brown hair, vibrant with russet tones, swished back from her shoulders as she gesticulated towards the kitchen window, resounding with incessant rain.
“It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Maybe.”
They ate their stir fry, Rowan happy with her burgers and the vegetables she chose to eat. Lizzie didn’t mind. There were plenty to choose from. The chocolate fudge cake to follow was delicious, a treat from the bakery. They washed and dried up together.
“Thanks for this.”
“No worries. Did you get anything from work?”
Lizzie froze. “Err, what do you mean?”
“Cards, flowers, you know.”
Lizzie breathed and resumed sloshing in the sink. “No, no one knew it was my birthday. I don’t know any of them well.”
“Why don’t you go out with them? You said they go out Friday lunchtimes and they play darts after work on a Thursday.”
Lizzie shrugged. “I’m not good at making friends.”
“You’re like a hermit!”
“I’m not! Anyway, I’ve not been there long. I prefer to get to know people before I get too friendly. Remember, it was a big change for me, moving house, getting a new job so you’d be able to walk to school.”
“Oh right, so it’s my fault you haven’t any friends!” Rowan threw the tea towel on the drainer.
“No! I…”
Rowan was already stomping up the stairs.
It was past ten in the evening. Rowan was quiet in her room, homework completed, hopefully. Lizzie eased into her waterproof coat and crept out the back door. She checked the bolts on the chicken run and walked the perimeter, checking for signs of intrusion or the future prospect of it. She couldn’t cope with a blood bath in the morning.
At the bottom of the garden, she squeezed past the oak and rowan trees and opened an old wooden door. Smells of pine, incense and wet wool greeted her. Rowan called it her ‘Mum Cave’. Lizzie called it Sanctuary.
Neither carefully synchronised calendars nor lists adorned the walls. No colour co-ordinated work outfits or labelled files filled the cupboards. Swathed in rich tapestries and layers of ancient rugs, Lizzie’s escape was the home she longed for. An ancient chaise longue, draped in rugs and throws spread along one wall. The corner opposite held an exquisite, dust free altar. In the centre sat a curvaceous wooden figure of the goddess.
She lit the candle, clasped between the arms of the goddess and flicked off her torch. Throwing herself onto the heap on the chaise longue, Lizzie sobbed, burying herself beneath her memories. Ten years. She’d gladly changed her life for Rowan, raising her with scant fatherly support, financial or otherwise but some days, she wished her life were different. The move had scared her, leaving a community who knew her and respected the quiet, gentle woman in the brightly coloured clothes. This new area was big, 1930s houses backing onto a vast 1970s estate. Mr Brody next door was kind, reminding her of her father in his smart trousers and blazer. She missed her Dad, but not his drinking. She didn’t blame her mother for moving on with her life but now her father was dead, she wished they could talk about the happy times, but Mrs McCartney wanted the slate wiped. All evidence of her early childhood had been trashed when her father died. Only two photo albums and a small box of video and cine films remained, prised from her mother’s hands by a fourteen year old Lizzie, sobbing as her childhood turned to ash.
Lizzie wept harder. And after all her efforts, all the planning and hard work, the job she loved was in jeopardy. She cuffed her eyes and extracted a tissue box from the desk. One day, she would have time to paint at that desk. One day. She blew her nose. Enough self-pity. The Charity Fayre was tomorrow and she had work to do.
She threw a large cushion on the floor and facing the altar, plonked herself, cross legged upon it. She drew her protection around her, evoking her favourite standing stones, and called in the goddess, to have a word about the weather.