The Promptuary

by P J Whittlesea

  The Promptuary

  The Good Witch Anaïs Blue Volume 2

  P J Whittlesea

  © 2017 P. J. Whittlesea

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Tyet Books, Amsterdam

  P J Whittlesea has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Editor: Philip Newey

  Cover Artwork: Monique Wijbrands

  ePub Edition

  For Zoé

  and every other child

  who will remain forever young

  Burnt Norton

  Time present and time past

  Are both perhaps present in time future

  And time future contained in time past.

  If all time is eternally present

  All time is unredeemable.

  * * *

  Excerpt from ‘Burnt Norton’, T. S. Eliot 1888—1965

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Sunrise

  2. Morris The Minor

  3. Families

  4. Kernel Panic

  5. An Apology

  6. Marazion

  7. St Michael’s Mount

  8. Preternatural

  9. The Locomotive

  10. The Dining Car

  11. Food And Trains And Time

  12. Teenage Dreams

  13. Breakfast

  14. Growth Spurt

  15. Eighteen

  16. The Hunting Lodge

  17. Mont Saint-Michel

  18. The Lift

  19. The Ballroom

  20. Mainland

  21. Different

  22. Back Into The Field

  23. Overland

  24. In Pursuit

  25. Spain

  26. The Architect

  27. A Ticking Clock

  28. Dead Sexy

  29. The Looking Glass

  30. The Misfit

  31. Confrontation

  32. La Farmàcia

  33. Assistance

  34. Children

  35. The Mother

  36. An Escape Plan

  37. The Airport

  38. Moving Shades

  39. Border Control

  40. Take Off

  41. Turbine Torture

  42. Inflight

  43. Airborne

  44. Bambina

  45. The Sorrento Coast

  46. Instruction Manuals

  47. Amalfi

  48. Antica Cartiera

  49. Rags

  50. Truman

  51. Nightmare

  52. Battling Evil

  53. Reunited

  54. The Message

  55. Taming The Beast

  56. The Compact

  57. Teenage Angst

  About the Author

  Also by P J Whittlesea

  Prologue

  STARTING OVER

  * * *

  Hi, it's me again.

  Did you miss me?

  If you're new to this tale you may want to go back and look at what happened earlier. For those of you who have no desire, or have forgotten, I won't penalise you for laziness. I will quickly refresh your memory and give you an overview. You do have a memory, don't you? Or are you a shade?

  Let's start at the beginning. There is a witch. Yes, there are witches in this world. Real ones which keep the whole thing ticking along. Without them we are all lost. The witch in question, our witch, is called Anaïs Blue, although she would prefer to be called something else. We won't concern ourselves with that. It is a problem she will have to deal with herself. Her purpose, and that of all witches, is to help the dead. Just as witches do, we shall call the dead shades. In these modern times we wouldn't want to insult anyone by using derogatory terms. The word shade is fairly neutral. At least, I think so anyway. I hope you agree.

  The purpose of this book is personal. I need to tell you all I know before it's gone. My memory is fading—fast. I wish I could do something about this, but memories have a finite existence and mine is failing. I will not bother you with the details. I am of no great importance. The knowledge is.

  Knowledge and information is the key to all this. Together we are trying to solve a very big problem. I am trusting you with something huge. It would be beneficial if we could keep all this information between ourselves. Let us consider it our little secret. Witches need freedom of movement. This is crucial. If everyone knew what I am about to tell you the entire system would cave in around our ears. Therefore—I cannot stress the point too much—what I tell you is for your eyes only.

  Consider yourself a confidant, a partner in crime if you will. However, we will try to avoid doing anything illegal. Be that real or supernatural. We don't want to cause anything untoward to happen. We have enough problems to solve as it is.

  Where were we? Oh yes, one particular witch.

  In previous exploits our witch, Anaïs, managed to survive a great many things: an enormous explosion, facing a witch high court, labouring with a deceased rock star and finding a solution to his predicament, a trip across the English Channel in a very small boat, inquisitors, hellhounds, family reunions, death and librarians. There is more in store for her, so read on.

  I'll be back to keep you informed along the way, and remember, don't breathe a word to anyone. Guard this information carefully. You have a responsibility.

  Sunrise

  The librarian's impatience reached breaking point. She called from the car, 'Are you coming or not?'

  Anaïs yelled back, 'Give me a minute, will you?'

  She looked around the street. Where had the night gone? The faint glow of the sun rising was turning the sky from black to blue.

  Anaïs trudged across the street, wrenched on the door of the Morris Minor and slid inside. She slumped in her seat and stared blankly in front of her. She was exhausted.

  The librarian turned the ignition but there was no response from the Morris Minor. On the surface everything seemed to be back in its place, but Anaïs noted a subtle difference. The interior of the car was immaculate, as if it had just come off the production line. There was a fresh sheen to the dashboard. The linen lining the roof no longer had frayed edges, and a tear, which had been previously above the driver’s seat, had disappeared. The seats themselves shone with their original buffed red leather. The tip of the gear stick was decorated with a brightly polished billiard ball, emblazoned with the number eight.

  The librarian tried starting the car again. Nothing happened, not even the click of a spark failing to ignite a piston.

  'Dead?' asked Anaïs.

  'Maybe,' replied Immi. 'I'll have a look under the bonnet. There could be a loose connection somewhere. Perhaps whatever it did to the car was only superficial.'

  'Perhaps, but I think it was a she,' said Anaïs.

  'I'm sure you're right.' The librarian cracked open her door and turned in her seat. Extending her leg she placed one foot on the pavement. She spoke over her shoulder. 'But after everything that's happened I'm hesitant to take things at face value.'

  Immi reached deep under the steering column and pulled a green lever, popping the bonnet. She sat up, leaned back, steadied her stiletto against the door and shoved it open. It didn't make a sound. Even the hing
es no longer squeaked. She extracted herself from the vehicle, walked around to the front of the car and lifted the bonnet. Anaïs heard her tapping at various parts of the engine. The librarian closed the bonnet and got back in the vehicle.

  'Well?' enquired Anaïs.

  'Looks fine to me. Actually the whole thing is in pristine condition. Not that I saw what it looked like before. But what do I know? I'm a librarian not a mechanic.' She turned the ignition. Still there was no response.

  Anaïs's frustration got the better of her. She slammed her fists down on the dashboard. 'Start, why don't you!'

  There was a minute ticking under the hood and then the engine roared to life.

  The librarian shot Anaïs a sideways glance and shook her head. 'You've got to be kidding.'

  Anaïs shrugged and grinned. 'Maybe it only listens to me.' The little witch directed her attention to the car. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to yell,' she said and caressed its dashboard.

  The Morris Minor revved its engine, seemingly in response, before settling into a purring idle.

  The librarian straightened in her seat. 'This is a rather fortunate development. Could you do this before?'

  'Nope,' said Anaïs, shaking her head and screwing up her face.

  'I guess we can get going then,' said Immi. 'Any idea where?'

  Anaïs raised her shoulders. 'Dunno. Your guess is as good as mine. Let's just start by getting out of here.'

  The librarian obliged and slotted the vehicle into gear. She pulled out from the curb and guided the little car down the street. The wet cobblestones glistened in the light of the rising sun. The librarian squinted in the glare and pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her coat. The frames were encrusted with fake precious stones and had little wings fanning out from the top edges. She hooked them over her ears. Combined with her big hair, she looked like a throwback to the late 1960s.

  Anaïs smirked at her and pulled out her own sunglasses. As she placed them on her head, and their lenses slid down in front of her eyes, the world turned a comforting shade of purple.

  At the end of the street the librarian attempted to make a right turn. The chrome-spoked steering wheel refused to budge. She grunted and wrenched at it but the wheel remained in a fixed position, guiding the car in a straight line. The gear lever popped out of first and slotted itself into fourth. The Morris Minor shuddered. Its engine whined, labouring for a moment under the strain, before winding itself up. A low whir grew steadily, running up through the frequencies before emitting a high-pitched squeal. Vibrations ran through the vehicle's bodywork. Its metal panelling sang in tune with the sound of the motor.

  The car radio sprung to life. It squelched loudly. The needle shot backwards and forwards across the dial before stopping. The bombastic, slow rock tones of Queen's ‘I'm in Love with My Car’ rose in volume, drowning out the engine and filling the cabin.

  The Morris Minor engaged its clutch and shot forward, pinning them to the backs of their seats. A look of panic flashed across their faces and the eyes of both the librarian and the little witch widened. The occupants of the vehicle grasped the edges of their seats and watched the tight, hedge-lined road ahead zip past them in a blur.

  Morris The Minor

  They had been cruising for some time before Immaculate Phlox spoke up. She had to yell to make herself heard above the car's cacophony. She flicked her head towards the rear of the vehicle. 'Who's your new friend?'

  Anaïs cleared her throat. 'She's not new. She's an old friend.'

  The shade's voice sounded in the little witch's head. 'I see you're still keeping nice company. Where did you pick her up?'

  Anaïs turned in her seat and faced the shade in the backseat. 'I didn't ask for her. She actually picked me up.'

  'Oh will you stop doing that! It's rude,' said Immi. 'Can't you just think back at it instead of forcing me to listen to half a conversation?'

  Anaïs swung around in her seat and sneered at the librarian. 'She can't read minds.'

  She sat back in her seat and looked out her side window at the trees whizzing by. 'Or at least I don't think she can.'

  The little witch closed her eyes. 'Nan? Can you hear me?'

  'Always, child,' said Nan softly. 'It was the only thing which kept me going out there in the dark. I followed your voice and it brought me to you.'

  Anaïs smiled to herself. 'That's good to know. Nan, I missed you so much. I honestly thought I'd lost you. I'm so very sorry about what happened.'

  'You don't have to be sorry, Anaïs,' said Nan. 'You're safe now. That's all I care about.'

  'It's so good you're here,' replied Anaïs, sending out her thoughts. 'I thought I was alone. Well, maybe I'm not completely alone. I do have this waste of space to keep me company.'

  She opened her eyes and looked directly at the woman sitting next to her. 'What a douchebag!'

  Immi looked hurt and pulled away from Anaïs. Furrowing her brow, she measured her response. 'What is wrong with the youth of today? No respect at all.'

  Anaïs shot back at her. 'I'm sure you were young once, although I have my doubts.'

  'Nice. Keep the insults coming. I'm all up for them,' said the librarian, sneering at the witch.

  'Ok, ok, enough. Can the two of you stop bickering for a moment?'

  The Morris Minor soared over a hump in the road and became airborne. Its passengers floated up off their seats and came crashing back down as the vehicle connected with the tarmac. Its springs bottomed out, producing a loud grating sound as all four wheels connected with the chassis. The Morris Minor switched off its radio. The impact and lack of music silenced its occupants.

  The librarian and Anaïs looked at one another. Was the car aware of their altercations?

  'How did you come into possession of this thing?' asked Anaïs, pointing at the dashboard.

  The librarian struggled with making room for herself. Her oversized coat rode up on her, almost choking her. She grunted, tugged it down and settled back in her seat. She stared out the windscreen. 'It was waiting outside the airport when I arrived in England.'

  'How did you know it was for you?'

  'I was given an envelope containing a ticket and a set of keys. In the envelope was a note with instructions. It said a car would be waiting for me. Well, a car was waiting for me.'

  The librarian scratched her head, using the tip of the slender, polished fingernail of her index finger in order to avoid messing up her hair. It was filed to a sharp point.

  'Only, I expected a driver,' she said, looking down at Anaïs.

  'How did you know which car?'

  'It was kind of obvious. The car was parked at the entrance to the terminal and there was this,' said Immi. She reached across to the centre of the dashboard and lifted a cardboard tag which was attached to the car keys. She showed it to Anaïs. Written on the tag in immaculate calligraphy were two words: Morris Minor.

  Anaïs smiled and nodded. 'Yeah, I guess that is kind of obvious. Were there any other instructions?'

  'No.'

  'Well, then, I don't get it. How did you find me?'

  'I just got in the car and started driving. Whenever I had to make a turn it told me which way to go by switching on its indicators.' The librarian screwed up her nose. 'Honestly, I assumed the keys they gave me were magic and not the car itself.'

  'Seems logical,' said Anaïs. She watched the key tag sway with the movement of the car. 'I just have one more question.'

  The librarian sighed. 'What is it with small children and questions? You never seem to run out of them.' She looked down her nose at the little witch huddled in the seat beside her.

  Anaïs folded her arms and huffed, 'I'm not a small child!'

  'Fine,' said the librarian. 'One more question and then I'm going to have a nap.' She pulled her coat shut, hugged herself and went back to staring at the road. 'Chances are this could be a long ride and I'm kind of thankful I don't have to do the driving.'

  Anaïs shuffled in her seat. 'Who gave you the en
velope?'

  'My mum of course,' said the librarian matter-of-factly. 'Didn't you meet her in the library? Or at least someone who said she was her. Her name is Sojourner Pink.'

  Families

  Witches can't do it all alone. As previously mentioned, they need the help of normal, everyday human beings to get things done. There are thousands of wannabe witches out there, but they can only really be considered as a sort of fan club.

  Fans of any kind are great, and who doesn't love a bit of adulation? However, not if they aspire to be something they're not—which is quite often the case once a fan becomes a confidante. People who desire something they cannot possibly have usually screw up the system.

  Experience has taught witches that, in order to be left to do what it is they do best, they do not need competition getting in the way. Unless, of course, the competition makes a useful diversion. True assistance will only come from someone you can trust.