“It’s not going well, sir.”
Carruthers shook his head. He stood up with a long-suffering sigh, as if annoyed that he might have to get on with some teaching. “Yes, I can see that. What’ve you done wrong this time?” He asked the question as if he’d asked it a hundred times before, which of course he had.
Olyvar didn’t bother answering, not even with a sir. After six months of Magick-class they both knew how this game of cat and mouse was played; Olyvar would show him his fuck-up, Carruthers would embarrass him in front of the class, and then he’d have to endure a lengthy tirade on how he was the worst witch Carruthers had ever taught in all his years of teaching. Ever. Bar none.
Once upon a time, Olyvar had daydreams of being a farmer. The thought of a simple life, growing and selling vegetables, maybe with a happy little wife at his side who loved him for his skills as a gardener and not for his impossibly strong witch genes, kept him going during those dull days of high school. They were just that, of course—daydreams. He was a Cauldwell. His future lay in leadership, advising whatever world leader who could afford the steep price demanded for a witch’s service. There were less than a thousand of them in the world; they were commodities to be bought and sold. Even a poor witch such as Olyvar could command the same price as a small country’s economy.
Carruthers waddled his way over to the desk and proceeded to instruct the class, using Olyvar as an example, of how not to do anything at all. Though Olyvar zoned out, his face maintained the look of sheepish embarrassment for which he was well known. It was an awkward muscle memory, like his previous failures had trained his face on how to behave during these ordeals. There wasn’t much worse in the world than being the class idiot.
Whilst Carruthers ranted, the mess in the pewter bowl bubbled away, sending bursts of black gunk into the air. Carruthers kept casting wary glances at it and, more than once, stopped talking when a bubble burst.
With a restrained sigh, Olyvar picked up a ball of root from the ingredients tray and started to roll it between his damp palms, the shamed expression remaining on his face. His classmate Stewart—or ‘Ball-buster’ as he was affectionately known to his friends—was grinning from his table, his own potion curling perfect ringlets into the air. Stewart was as cruel as he was clever and he seemed to live to taunt Olyvar. When he caught Olyvar’s eye, he wafted the silvery steam from his own bowl towards his nostrils with both hands, as though inhaling the aroma of a tasty stew.
“Just look at Stewart’s,” Carruthers said, giving Ball-buster a proud, fatherly smile. Stewart dropped his hands to his side and gave a good impression of looking modest but Olyvar recognised the smug twinkle in his eye. For Stewart, the praise was normal. Hell, it was expected. “Now, that is how you make a peripeteia potion,” continued Carruthers. “Atta boy, Stewart. Why don’t you come over here and tell me what’s wrong with this monstrosity?”
Stewart stood and strutted towards the table looking like a model on a catwalk. His dark hair bounced L’Oréal-like over his forehead. He was tall, handsome, and probably the best witch in class—probably because Stewart rarely handed in written homework. Without a doubt, he was the best at the practical aspect of the lessons, but he was an unknown on the academic side. Not that it mattered to Carruthers of course. According to their teacher, the sun shone out of Ball-buster’s backside. Olyvar was a Cauldwell, dammit, and yet it was Stewart who was the epitome of witchhood.
In a rare moment of frustration—and a teeny bit of jealousy—Olyvar tossed the tatty root ball he was holding onto the table. On any other day, it would have rolled across the wood, maybe coming to a stop in the middle of the table. At the very worst, it might have rolled off the edge, giving Carruthers an excuse to lecture him about something else.
Not today.
Not with his luck.
The ball of root, warmed by his sweating hands, bounced high like a rubber ball, so high that it curved into an arc and came down directly above the pewter bowl. The whole class watched with wide eyes as the root ball plopped right in the middle of the bubbling potion. It made a flat whaap sound and was swallowed by the gunk.
Carruthers licked his lips. “Oh, shit.”
“Sir?”
The classroom disappeared in a fantastic puff of lilac light.
Chapter Two
When Olyvar came around, his world had been reduced to a tinny sound that felt like a million beetles crawling between his ears, banging cymbals. He lay there dazed, his limbs sprawled across an uneven but not uncomfortable surface. For the first few moments, he saw nothing but lilac, which slowly dulled to a purple, then maroon, and finally a muddy brown colour that flickered as his vision returned. He knew he was no longer in the class because the sickly sulphuric smell of the potions room had been replaced by a gentle summer breeze that warmed his clammy skin.
“Cauldwell?” The word was hoarse. Almost unwilling.
Olyvar stuck his tongue out experimentally and was pleased to find it was still attached to his head. He licked his dry lips. “Carruthers?”
“You mean ‘sir,’” he snapped.
Olyvar rolled his eyes and then immediately winced as a flash of lilac bit into his brain. “Sir?”
“Was that a ball of spiralised Doberman’s tongue you were playing with?”
Olyvar had no idea. He’d thought it was a tangled ball of root, but now didn’t seem the time to plead ignorance. “Yes. Yes, it was. Sir.”
“And did you carelessly flick it into your… dare I call it… potion?”
“By accident. But yes, I guess that’s the gist of the situation.”
Carruthers groaned. “Do you have any idea what that would do…” He broke off, as though realising to whom he was speaking.
“Temporal distortion? Breakage of the tachyon particles.” Olyvar said, the words coming from nowhere.
Carruthers was so surprised that his breath caught in his throat, making him cough. Olyvar couldn’t blame him; he was as surprised as Carruthers that he knew what spiralised Doberman’s tongue would do. “I guess you do have an idea then,” Carruthers said when his coughing stopped.
“Where’s the rest of the class?” Olyvar asked, leaning up on his elbow and trying to see where they were. Flashes of green interspersed the lilac colour in his vision, creating a strobe effect. It made him feel so sick that he had to close his eyes.
“Back where they’re supposed to be,” Carruthers growled. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to leave a big enough ball of spiralised Doberman’s tongue around to transport the whole bloody class? There shouldn’t have been enough to transport one of the rats in the Transmogrification lab, let alone us.”
Olyvar was going to make a comment about how Carruthers was much larger than a rat but wisely kept his mouth shut. Now was probably not the time to raise his teacher’s errors when his own was so catastrophic.
“Can you see anything yet?” asked Carruthers.
“Nothing but shapes, sir. It’s clearing though. You?”
“Just lilac.”
“That’ll go. It takes a—”
“Yes, I know what it’ll take, thank you very much!” Carruthers snapped. His quivering moustache was visible through the glare of muddy brown.
There was something about it that made Olyvar pause. When he realised what it was, he sniggered. “You’ve done this yourself, haven’t you?”
“Cauldwell!”
“I mean, you’ve done this yourself, haven’t you, sir?”
Carruthers didn’t answer. Olyvar hid a smirk behind his hand. Feeling better, and his vision almost clear, he sat up but immediately regretted it when another flash of searing lilac bit into his brain. Groaning, he slumped back against whatever was behind him.
Carruthers turned his head towards the noise, his expression enquiring. “Where are we? What do you see?”
Olyvar’s eyes narrowed to a letterbox slit. He looked around and saw nothing but luscious greenery. They were lying in some sort of meadow, the grass tall and swaying
around them. The sun was warm on his skin. They were encircled by huge oak trees, the kind that were on nature calendars; all ancient, knobbly, with branches spread out like arthritic fingers. “I dunno. A wood, maybe?”
Still seeing nothing but lilac, Carruthers aimed a withering look in Olyvar’s direction. “A wood? That’s your best description?”
Olyvar glanced around again. “Yeah. I guess. We’re in a meadow with trees.”
“Do you know when?”
“When?”
“Yes, when!” Carruthers hissed. “Temporal distortion, remember?”
“A garden is kind of timeless. You can’t really tell when it is. Can’t you do something to get us out of here?” Then he added hopefully, “Sir.”
“Yes, absolutely. Bring me my ingredients tray.”
Olyvar glanced around but stopped when the sarcasm registered. “We don’t have it, do we?”
“No. We don’t.” Carruthers was blinking fast, so Olyvar knew he was at the stage where his eyesight was starting to clear. Olyvar waited patiently, wiping sweat from his temples with the back of his hand. It was hot wherever they were. Whenever they were.
A weak groan drifted out to them and they both froze. Heart pounding in his chest, Olyvar spun around to find Stewart slumped against a tree, a thick runner of drool hanging from his chin. A part of Olyvar—the part that suffered the daily punishment of being the class idiot—savoured the image of him looking so ruffled.
Carruthers muttered something beneath his breath and waved a hand. Stewart’s eyes snapped open. He blinked groggily a couple of times, then he stood up. As he got to his feet, he wiped away the hanging drool, leaving a silvery smear up his cheek. “What happened?” he asked, making his way to where Olyvar was sitting.
“Cauldwell happened, that’s what,” Carruthers snapped. “Let me see…let me see…” He cupped a hand to his eyes, squinting against the sun as he scanned their surroundings. Then he nodded, “Yes, we’re in Derbyshire.”
“Derbyshire? How do you know?” Olyvar asked, looking around.
“Because I recognise the trees.”
“You do?” he asked, voice full of doubt.
Carruthers rolled his eyes. “I recognise that tree.” He pointed to a particularly gnarly specimen. “You know, the one with the sign on it that says, ‘Welcome to Derbyshire. Chatsworth 10km. Bakewell 12km.’”
Olyvar felt the familiar burn of shame in his gut. He cleared his throat. “Ah yes, of course.”
“Of course,” Carruthers repeated, “We have a problem though.”
“What’s that, sir?” Stewart asked, kneeling besides Olyvar.
“Well, for starters, we need ingredients to get back to our time. We have no idea when we are. We might be in a time when witches were burned for all we know. From now on, no Magick unless it’s absolutely safe to do so. We can’t risk being identified. Do you understand?” They exchanged a glance before nodding. “Secondly. Not to alarm you, but my ankle is broken.”
He spoke so calmly that neither Stewart nor Olyvar took in his words at first. Then Olyvar let his eyes fall down to where Carruthers’ foot was hanging cock-eyed off the end of his leg. It wasn’t just broken, it was shattered. His foot had already swollen to the size of a small watermelon and was bulging out of the battered penny loafers that he wore.
Olyvar’s gullet contracted as his stomach tried to evacuate its contents but he swallowed it down. A wave of wooziness went through him. He wasn’t good with blood. Or with feet hanging at angles that they shouldn’t.
Olyvar turned around so he didn’t have to look at it. “Did I… is that… does it not hurt?”
“Yes, it bloody well hurts!” Carruthers snapped.
“Can I help at all?” Stewart offered. “Maybe some sort of spell?”
“What’s lesson number one in Magick, boy?”
When Stewart gave a sullen shrug, Olyvar surprised himself by speaking up for the second time in as many minutes. “According to Wainwrights laws, physical alterations require energy in mass form,” he quoted.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Carruthers snorted. “As loathe as I am to say it out loud, Olyvar’s right; we need ingredients. I’m not walking anywhere on this foot. You two need to take that road south,” he said, pointing to a dirt track to the right. “Stay on it for a few miles and you’ll come to Chatsworth House. It’s a stately home. It’s probably your best bet for ingredients.”
“You want us to go?” Stewart asked, exchanging an anxious glance with Olyvar. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
“With him?”
Carruthers flicked his eyes to Olyvar, sighed, and then nodded. “Yes.”
“What if someone finds out we’re witches?”
Carruthers shrugged. “Don’t let ‘em. You’re men in the eyes of the law. And you’re witches. You don’t need me taking care of this.”
Stewart opened his mouth to argue but Olyvar waved him down, his fear dulled because Stewart wasn’t surrounded by his cronies and was obviously more nervous than he was. He grinned. “Come on, Stewart. We better start walking. The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.”
Chapter Three
They trudged beneath the hot sun for most of the afternoon and by the time they finally arrived at the sprawling stately home, the sky had darkened and a fingernail-moon was climbing into the sky. Dusk did nothing to dull the oppressive heat. They were both hot, bothered, and so irritable that they snapped at each other as they walked like an old married couple. Olyvar’s shirt was soaked with sweat and was sticking to the skin on his back, and he was so thirsty it felt like his mouth was full of sand. Stewart didn’t look to be in any better shape.
They didn’t dare head to the huge main doors, not looking as they did and not having the foggiest idea of when they were, so they headed towards the servant’s entrance instead. Recalling his old history lessons, Olyvar knew that Chatsworth had been around in some form or another since the sixteenth century. That gave them a five-hundred-year time span to work with. Not betting conditions, really.
As they approached, the side door swung open and a matronly woman stood barring the entrance. Her arms were crossed over her ample chest in a gesture that told them that she would brook no nonsense. Her long face had the impatient expression that all hard-working women over fifty seemed to wear. Her hair was yanked back into a tight bun that was captured underneath a black hair net. She wore a simple black dress that allowed Olyvar to narrow down the timeline to the last two hundred years… maybe.
“Cauldwell, follow my lead, okay? Don’t open your mouth. Keep your eyes to the floor. I’ll sort this out,” Stewart murmured out of the corner of his mouth. He stretched his most winning smile across his face. “Hello th—”
“State your business,” the woman barked.
Stewart looked taken aback for a moment, but he tried again, his smile slightly dulled but still shining. “We’re lost. We’re looking for directions.”
“And a drink,” Olyvar added, hopefully.
The woman turned a withering gaze on them. “Directions? At this time of night? Maybe you’re burglars here for the silver!”
Stewart laughed as though she’d just made the funniest joke in the world. “Burglars? Do these muscles look big enough to haul silver?” He smiled, flexing his considerable bicep as if it were nothing. “Truly. Directions and a cup of water, then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Her face didn’t just soften, it melted like butter in a microwave. She ushered them inside, her hand lingering on Stewart’s shoulder. “A drink I can do, young man. I won’t have the master saying I turned away people in need. Maybe I can help out with some directions too, but you’re not staying the night.”
“Of course not,” Stewart assured her. “Just a drink and some directions. And maybe some spiralised Doberman’s tongue, if it’s not too much trouble?”
Olyvar’s jaw hit the floor. He turned slowly to face Stewart and stared at him as if he’d neve
r seen him before. “Smooth…” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Very smooth. Just like James Bond, that was.”
The woman, who was pouring two glasses of water from a silver jug, stopped so suddenly that the water splashed onto the floor. Her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
Amazingly, Ball-buster’s face turned red, something Olyvar had never seen. “Nothing. I…” He gave her another winning smile. “We wouldn’t be any trouble, Mrs…?”
“Mrs. Stanley.” She held out two glasses. Olyvar was so thirsty that he snatched it out of her hand and chugged it down in three spluttering mouthfuls. “Where are you heading?”
“Bakewell,” Stewart lied, barely missing a beat.
“That’s less than five miles from here. There’s a road right out front of the estate. Take a left and carry on walking. It’s pretty much a straight line. Though…” She trailed off, biting her plump lower lip. “I wouldn’t walk it at this time of night. You’ll get robbed by the real burglars for sure.” Her eyes trailed over both of them, taking in their lack of belongings, their inappropriate clothing. “From around here, are you?”
“No. We’re not local. We’re from Cumbria.”
Mrs. Stanley let out a breath of relief as if she suddenly understood. “That makes sense. My old auntie is from Cumbria. Mad as a hatter, that one, wears trousers to church.” She gave a firm nod. “Well, I won’t let the master say I turned away people in need. Directions and a quick meal, then you can be on your way. Sarah!”
A girl of around twenty appeared in the doorway with such speed that Olyvar imagined she had been waiting for the summons. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and she kept her eyes to the floor. She was wearing the same kind of black dress, but where it hung squarely from Mrs. Stanley, it clung to the girl’s curvy frame, emphasising a body that made Olyvar want to blush. Or stare. Maybe a bit of both. “Yes, Mrs. Stanley?” Sarah said with a voice as sweet as honey.
Olyvar stood straighter.
“Take our guests to the servant’s kitchen and give them something from the larder.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Then give them directions to Bakewell and see them out.”
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