Broom with a View

by Gayla Twist

  In Sebastian’s opinion, the Wilberforces were to be viewed with suspicion. Especially Mr. Wilberforce. The Vampire did not like the cut of the young man’s coat. It was too crisp, too tailored to make him a man of action. And the way Cyril kept clearing his throat and adjusting his ridiculous glasses every time he looked in Miss Popplewell’s direction was most annoying.

  The hooting of an owl finally caused the guard to turn his head for a prolonged moment, and Sebastian seized the opportunity, leaping from the tree branch over the iron fence encircling the villa in one graceful hop. He landed as quietly as a cat on the paving stones, the guard noticing nothing more than a slight shift in the breeze.

  As soon as the Vampire’s black boots touched the ground, flowering vines sprang up to entangle his feet. Ripping them from his ankles, Sebastian levitated in the air, scanning the windows for the most likely access point to the Villa Rosetta. New vines surged after him, large purple flowers bursting from the green as the plants pursued him. Sebastian withdrew from the villa, hovering near the second floor, and the vines receded slightly, waiting for him to make his next move. The Vampire edged closer to the building, and the vines tensed in anticipation. If he flew a few yards to one side or the other, the vines followed him like a cobra that has been serenaded from its basket. Sebastian withdrew several more feet, and the plants, too, retreated.

  With a burst of speed, the Vampire made a break for the open second-floor window. The vines pursued him with surprising vigor. He was just about to breach the opening when the long arm of a plant caught him by the heel. The Vampire thrashed violently to regain his liberty, but struggling only seemed to make the vine grip harder. Quickly, other tendrils reached him, wrapping around his limbs and dragging him from the villa. Purple flowers bloomed in rapid succession, bursting in his face like bubbles popping in champagne.

  The large purple flowers gave off a heady scent that began to have a tranquilizing effect on the young Vampire. His mind grew fuzzy, and he began to lose interest in grappling with the vines. Soon Sebastian's eyes began to close, and he drifted into a twilight sleep, unaware as the vines transported him back over the iron fence and placed him gently on the ground outside the villa. The guard, who had by then finished his cigarette, eventually became aware of the unconscious body that had been placed quite near to where he was standing. Grabbing his pike, which he had leaned against the gate earlier in the evening to better enjoy his cigarette, he charged over to confront the potential intruder.

  “You there,” the man said in a gruff voice, giving Sebastian a stern poke with the blunt end of his pike. “Get to your feet. You’ve got no business napping around here.” When the sleeping figure did not respond, the guard took it upon himself to roll Sebastian over with a thrust from his boot.

  Sprawling on the ground, the Vampire’s lips parted revealing his glistening set of fangs made opalescent in the moonlight. The guard let out a small, “Oof,” as if he’d been socked in the stomach. Grabbing his pike, he hurried away to ensure the safety of another region of the villa.

  A few minutes later, Sebastian came to his senses, the wet from the ground already seeping into his clothes. The vines were gone, and the guard was nowhere to be found. The Vampire again ascended the tree to sit on a branch and think.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  “Will you marry me, Miss Popplewell?” Cyril asked in a hurried voice, catching his glasses as they tumbled off the tip of his nose and quickly replacing them. In his mind, when he had rehearsed the most important question he would ever ask in his life, he came off as much more debonaire. And he was wearing a smarter suit. But the words had already left his lips; it was too late to retract them and wait to execute a more romantic approach. He would just have to sail forth into uncharted waters.

  Violet looked up from a gothic novel through which she had been idly paging. She wondered if she’d heard the young man correctly. It seemed very unlikely, but there was the chance that Mr. Wilberforce had just proposed. Still, she thought she’d better check. It was best not to make assumptions about these types of things. “I’m sorry,” she said, closing the book in order to pay closer attention, “but I’m afraid I didn’t catch that last thing you just said.”

  Cyril cleared his throat, happy to have another chance to do the business right. He was determined that this time his spectacles would stay on their perch. “I was wondering, Miss Popplewell, if you would do me the great honor of becoming my wife.”

  “Oh,” was all Violet could immediately think to reply. She had not misheard him after all. While Violet had begun to suspect that Mr. Wilberforce held her in some regard, it never occurred to the girl that his feelings ran to the point of offering matrimony.

  Growing up, some young Witches fantasized about running away with a Mortal, especially young girls who happened to live near a particularly handsome farmer or baker’s son. Violet was never prone to these kinds of daydreams. In fact, the idea of marrying a nonmagical being had never entered her head. Not that Mr. Wilberforce wasn’t attentive, well-mannered, and, to all appearances, quite wealthy. She did also feel some gratitude that he would think enough of her to want to wed her. It was, after all, her first proposal.

  Violet and Cyril were not alone in the sitting room. Lady Wilberforce and Vera occupied the other end of it, the former writing letters and the later resting her eyes and gently fanning herself. Even so, the room was so vast, the young couple was not in danger of being overheard if they kept their voices low.

  Violet and her aunt had been guests at the Villa Rosetta for a little more than a week. There were still small bursts of violence reported in X. Nothing that gave much alarm, but every time Vera began to fear they were outstaying their welcome, prompting her to suggest that they leave the shelter of the villa, Lady Wilberforce insisted that they should stay on just a few more days until things were more settled. The knowledge of the Wilberforces’ generosity did not alleviate any of Violet’s feelings of obligation on being made an offer.

  Violet knew she couldn’t sit there all day staring at the closed novel by Mrs. Radcliffe that she clutched in her hands. At some point, she’d be compelled to speak. “Cyril, that is so very nice of you,” she found herself saying. “But it really won’t do, as I’m sure your mother would agree if she were to hear of it.”

  “Quite the contrary.” The young man fiddled with a button on his vest. “I'm sure she’d be positively pleased to have you join our family.”

  Just then, Vera folded her fan and got to her feet. “Violet,” she said, quickly crossing the room. “I’m feeling a bit tired and want to lie down. Would you mind coming to my room and helping me with my boots? The eyelettes always give me such trouble.”

  It was a peculiar request. Vera’s boots were very well broken in and could possibly be described as a little worn at the heels. She’d never previously mentioned any difficulty with the eyelettes.

  “I can ring for a maid to help you,” Lady Wilberforce called, breaking away from her correspondence.

  “No, no. Please don’t trouble yourself,” Vera said, tugging at her niece’s wrist. “Violet can do it.”

  Being left with little choice, Violet followed her aunt out of the room, tossing Mr. Wilberforce as apologetic of a look as was possible while being bustled off. The young man was by no means discouraged by her rejection. In fact, quite the opposite. Miss Popplewell had, after all, called him Cyril.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, listening to that young human’s offers of marriage?” Vera hissed, once they were in her chambers with the door closed and the curtains drawn. It wasn’t a surprise to Violet that Miss Tartlette knew about the proposal. She did have extremely good hearing when she chose to listen.

  “So, you think I should have accepted him?” Violet wondered. It was so hard to know what to do in such situations.

  “No,” Vera snapped. “I don’t think you should have listened to him at all.” Seeing the confused look on her niece's face, Vera shook her head. �
��I sometimes forget how young you really are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Violet said, feeling a sudden flash of vexation. She was tired of people always using her age against her. After all, there was nothing she could do about it.

  “You don’t understand the magic of Mortals,” Vera told her in a low voice, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

  A small laugh escaped Violet’s rosebud lips. “I thought that was the truth of Mortals; they have no magic.” She sat heavily down on the chair in front of Vera’s dressing table and began fiddling with her combs, which were studded with small facets of jet. It was so like Vera to always be prepared for a funeral.

  “They have some,” Vera mutter, moving closer so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. “Even if most of them don’t realize it. There’s always the magic of threes.”

  Violet picked up a bottle of Vera’s jasmine perfume and then put it down again. She had no desire to smell like her aunt. Truth be told, she found the fragrance a bit cloying. Reluctantly, she felt compelled to ask, “What is the magic of threes?”

  “If that Mortal boy asks you to marry him three times, and he is sincere in his request, then you cannot refuse.”

  This time Violet’s laugh was much louder. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Vera.”

  “It’s true,” her aunt insisted. “Where do you think they got the expression ‘third time’s a charm’?”

  “No mere Mortal can compel me to marry him, no matter how many times he asks me,” Miss Popplewell said rather stiffly. “And besides,” she added after giving it some thought, “I’m sure Cyril is much too well bred to take truck with such nonsense.”

  “Mr. Wilberforce may not know of the power he wields, but make no doubt that his mother does,” Vera clucked.

  “Lady Wilberforce?” Violet was aghast. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “A clever woman recognizes the benefit of having a magical being in the family,” Vera insisted. “Even an underdeveloped magic like yours.”

  It would do no good to protest, Violet knew. Her aunt was set in her ways and her beliefs. Fact and superstition had a way of blending in Vera’s head. So instead, Violet offered, “Would you still like me to help you with your boots?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to trouble you,” Vera said, taking a seat on the bed and raising one leg. “After all, I’m only in X on your mother’s generosity.”

  Violet bent to address the laces.

  Chapter 11: Creating Second Chances

  The second proposal came ten days later and put Miss Tartlette in quite the state. “We should have left earlier. I knew we should have,” she fretted. But with reports coming in about the instability of X and with the villa being so safe and well guarded, not to mention the family’s good table and comfortable rooms—given all those factors, Vera had found one reason or another for them to continue enjoying the Wilberforces’ hospitality.

  But that was before Mr. Wilberforce had stumped up the courage to ask for her niece’s hand a second time. He did it on the veranda with the rising full moon as a witness. Violet demurred, naturally, but that was of little comfort.

  Vera had been trying to keep a close eye on the young folks, insisting on joining them for walks in the garden and not letting Violet sit by herself in the parlour. She had successfully thwarted several conversations that conceivably could have taken a romantic turn if she had not been vigilant.

  In the end, it was the offer of canapés that caught Vera out. She was tempted to leave the veranda for only a few moments to sample a candied fig stuffed with blue cheese and wrapped in a cloak of bacon proffered to her by one of the Wilberforces’ many servants. Vera meant to take just one and then hurry back to continue intruding on the young couple’s conversation, but the canapé seemed to have a bewitching magic of its own, and she found herself lingering for a second and even a third sampling. By the time she remembered her duties as a chaperone and scurried back to the veranda, the die was cast; Mr. Wilberforce had again felt the need to pop the question, this time keeping his glasses firmly in place.

  “My lace is broken,” Miss Tartlette announced as if it was one of the world’s true tragedies. “Violet, come help me mend it.”

  Rather than obeying her aunt without question, Violet glanced down at the elder Witch’s feet. “Your lace is fine, Vera. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I tell you, my lace is about to break, and I need you to come with me to help mend it,” Vera said, distress filling her words and giving them smudgy edges.

  “Mother always keeps an excellent cobbler on hand for just such emergencies,” Cyril put forth.

  Vera immediately shot him down with, “No, I have no wish to bother your mother or whatever servant she has at the ready. What I want is for my niece to accompany me to my room this very instant.”

  “Whatever is the matter, Vera?” Violet asked once they were ensconced in her aunt’s room. “Why have your boots become such a crisis?”

  “We must leave,” Miss Tartlette said, opening her wardrobe and grabbing an armful of her belongings. “We must leave first thing in the morning.”

  “But why?” Violet couldn’t understand her aunt’s agitation.

  “And you are not to be alone with Mr. Wilberforce. Not for one instant. Do you hear?” Vera bundled her possessions onto the bed then returned to the wardrobe for a second load.

  “Vera, be reasonable. I can’t imagine what has upset you.” Violet stepped forwards to take the clothing from her aunt’s hands, trying to calm her.

  “I told you of the magic of Mortals,” Vera said in a sharp whisper. “I told you, and I warned you about Mr. Wilberforce. And now he’s gone and proposed a second time. What will I tell your mother?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Vera. Mr. Wilberforce is Mortal. He has no more magic than this chair,” Violet said, waving at the small seat in front of Miss Tartlette’s dressing table.

  Vera paused in her packing to give the chair a very suspicious look. “I will tell Lady Wilberforce at dinner that we are called away. Urgently called away,” she said. “I’ll say Sonny has been injured and that we must return to England immediately.”

  “But Sonny hasn’t been injured,” Violet insisted. She didn’t even like to think about something happening to her brother. He was drafted almost immediately after the war broke out but had so far spent most of his days as a supply clerk. Sonny had always been rather clever with conjuring.

  “For all we know, something could have happened to Sonny,” Vera insisted. “He may be gravely injured, even as we speak.”

  “But it’s a lie,” Violet protested, not wanting to tempt fate.

  “I am afraid that Mr. Wilberforce has put me in a position where a lie becomes necessary,” Vera told the girl. “After all, I don’t want to appear to be rude.”

  Violet sat down heavily on the bed and scowled at her aunt. She wasn’t in love with Cyril, but she did enjoy his company, and rushing off due to some silly little proposal sounded just too absurd. “Really, Vera,” she said, “You’re acting like an old hen.”

  “Perhaps I am an old hen,” Vera said with an offended sniff, “but that means I’ve seen plenty of roosters strutting around the barnyard. Don’t just sit there wrinkling my sheets. You need to start packing. I’ll tell Lady Wilberforce during dinner that we have to leave. I am determined that we shall go first thing in the morning.”

  Violet obeyed her aunt. She was half afraid not to; she’d never seen Vera in such a state. The girl didn’t dare use magic to fill her trunks. All she needed was to bungle a charm and have her undergarments romping through the villa while the vichyssoise was being served.

  As she packed, Violet wondered what to say to Cyril. It was only right that she should say something. She’d never spent any amount of time with a Mortal male before, and they were quite different than she’d imagined. That was, if Cyril was a typical example of a Mortal; she had no way of knowing. At first, Violet had been acutely aware of h
is lack of magic. In fact, the whole house had amused her excessively. There was so much ceremony over lighting fires and fussing over chipped plates. So much time was spent polishing things and mending things and ironing things. Lady Wilberforce seemed to have an insatiable desire to have everything pressed flat and made crisp. The first week they were there, Violet had filled her days spying on the servants as they spread through the house covertly keeping things tidy.

  As the days melted into weeks, Violet grew accustomed to Cyril’s lack of magic. He was a Mortal whose feet had never left the ground, by charm or broom; that part was obvious. And he did have a habit of constantly misplacing his cigarette case and always finding it necessary to wind his watch. Violet found the behaviour a little confounding, but those little things didn’t bother her too much. She could sometimes be a bit magic deficient herself, so she didn’t judge him harshly. It was true he was a man who always appeared to have too much starch in his collar, but she began to wonder what it would be like to kiss Mr. Wilberforce. Not because she was particularly attracted to him, but in part because he was a gentleman and she was a young lady; it was almost a young woman’s profession to form romantic attachments to the available young bachelors in her life. But the real reason, which she would never reveal to anyone, least of all herself, was she was looking for something to blot out the memory of Sebastian Du Monde’s lips pressed against hers in a fiery embrace. His was not gentlemanly behaviour. Not at all. And she thought she’d better seek a true gentleman’s kiss to erase the passionate dreams that left her breathless, sweating, and twisted in the well-pressed cotton sheets of the villa.