Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “What will I do in London?” Besides blowing her magical cover to smithereens?

  Abby shrugged. “Take a long lunch. Go shopping. Whatever you like. I’ll make sure it’s on company time, so don’t worry on that account.” Her head dipped back to her phone.

  Astral’s palm prints sweated onto the folders. Once they got to the station, she’d try Dulcie again. Someone had to know where she was going. If the spell broke, at least she could melt into the crowd and disappear, leaving Abby with a perplexed face and an armful of folders.

  The traffic was light, so they arrived with plenty of time to bustle up to the automatic barrier, where Abby swiped through the ticket codes on her phone. They were let through onto the platform for London Bridge station. The train was waiting, and Abby headed for a first-class carriage with long strides that soon left Astral behind. She took advantage of it to fumble for her phone with her free hand.

  “Please, please answer, Dulcie,” she muttered, as the phone rang on the other end.

  The ring tone cut off, and a breezy voice said, “Good morning, Whoops a Daisy Flowers, how can I—”

  “Damián?” His wasn’t the voice she wanted to hear. “Can you get Dulcie for me? Quickly.”

  “Oh, hello, Sister George. Had any labrys tattoos recently?”

  “I’ll tattoo ‘stupid’ across your forehead in Dayglo if you don’t get Dulcie on here now. This is an emergency.”

  Dulcie’s voice broke in. “Sorry about that. He’s been promoted to answering the phone.”

  “Dulcie, it’s me.”

  “I know. We grew up together, remember?”

  Astral tutted in exasperation. Why was everyone so irresponsibly cheerful, didn’t they know she was in mortal peril—again? She was also catching up with Abby, so time was running out. “I’m on my way to London,” she whispered urgently.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m going up to London with Abby Black. You know… my boss.”

  “Astral, are you having an affair?” Dulcie demanded. Damián gave a delighted squeak in the background.

  “What? No. look, am I safe?” Astral asked hurriedly.

  “Dunno, I’ve never met the woman—”

  “Will you shut up and listen?” Abby was almost at the carriage and she could only trail behind out of earshot for so long. “Will the Cuckoo spell hold out?”

  Pause. “Gosh, I’ve no idea,” she said, tone sober now. “London’s quite far. Have you a contingency plan if it doesn’t?”

  “Jump off the train,” Damián shouted.

  “Ignore him. Just grab another seat and act like you don’t know her. I mean, she won’t know you, so you should be okay.”

  “That’s what I hoped. Thanks. Gotta go.” Astral closed down the call to Damián’s cry of, “everybody loves a jumper.” She slid the phone back in her bag.

  “This is our carriage.” Abby hit the button and the doors hissed open. First class was empty. Abby guided them to four facing seats with a table between. She took a window seat and indicated for Astral to sit opposite. “This can be our desk. I’ll grab us both coffee once the cart comes around.” She shrugged off her jacket to reveal a crisp white shirt with pale blue pinstripes. Abby hung her coat on the hook by her head and sat down.

  Astral took off her own coat and hung it up, self-conscious of the way her off-the-peg blouse clung to her. She quickly slid into her seat and dumped the folders on the table. The station notice board indicated six minutes until their train left the platform and she was anxious that they were the only people in this compartment. Surely, some other commuters would come along.

  “Which case files do you need to go over out of the ones we looked at yesterday?” she asked, looking everywhere but at Abby, aware that their last meeting had ended in a sizzling kiss. Even if Abby had forgotten, Astral hadn’t. She wished she was sophisticated enough for an unsolicited kiss to run off her like water off a duck. Instead, she felt flustered and ill-at-ease.

  Abby clicked open her briefcase and brought out more manila folders and set them beside Astral’s. “I’m really only interested in the anomalies, like that dental hygienist we talked about yesterday. What was her name?”

  “Miss Shine.” Astral pulled the file and they went over the details again while Abby made notes. A whistle blew, and the train began to move.

  They quickly ran through the previous day’s list when Abby hefted several files from her own batch and thrust them at Astral. “These are the worst defaulters. I’d like your opinion. Have a quick skim.”

  Astral glanced at the top file. It differed from the other folders she had seen. This had a red V.I.P. stamp across it. The name surprised her. “Is that the opera singer?”

  Abby craned her head to read the label upside down. “Yes. We have several high-profile clients on the roster.” She tapped the red V.I.P stamp. “This marks our A-list clients.” She regarded her, gaze inscrutable.

  The next file Astral put her hand on bore the names of a glamorous Hollywood power couple. “Wow. They’ve just adopted Sudanese twins. I read about it in Snoop.” She immediately regretted mentioning the trashy gossip magazine.

  “You understand all this is confidential?” Abby said, eyebrow raised. “I assume you signed the appropriate nondisclosure papers.”

  “Of course.” Astral had done no such thing. This wasn’t a real job and her work agency could only be fooled so far. But Astral had temped in this business a long time and knew discretion was a highly prized commodity. She would not be blabbing that so-and-so and her hunky husband had fallen into arrears. At least, she assumed that’s why these A-listers were in Black and Blacker’s naughty corner.

  “I’m going to find the refreshment cart before I expire.” Abby stood. “What would you like?” she asked. Was that a trace of warmth in her tone?

  Probably not. “Coffee, please. Two creams and four sugars.” Abby looked appalled but she said nothing and left the carriage.

  Astral continued to flip through each folder, quickly skimming the contents and jotting down her thoughts on her notepad. It was all straightforward contractual stuff. Some people had a little built-in leeway and others were in deep doo-doo.

  Once she finished with the files, she idly thumbed through the other folders in Abby’s pile, interested to see what superstars were not quite in the doo-doo yet, but hovering over it like flies. Her fingers stilled, and with a quick glance to make sure Abby was nowhere in sight, she carefully slid out one folder in particular. It had the red V.I.P. stamp across the manila cover. She read the name twice just to be sure, her mind abuzz.

  Magdalene Curdle.

  Hecate’s hearth, Magdalene Curdle had a file. Magdalene was an A-list client with Black and Blacker. That didn’t sound right. Maybe there was another Magdalene Curdle in the world. Unlikely, but possible.

  Astral opened it and read the client details. Her gaze skimmed the address—Lofty Heights Manor, Golem. That was Magdalene’s address. The file was indeed hers.

  She closed the folder and looked around again. What to do? There was no time to read it because Abby could come back at any moment. With a snap decision, she stuffed the file into her voluminous handbag so she could examine the contents later. Somehow, she’d sneak it onto Fergal’s desk in the morning and make it look misfiled, which shouldn’t be hard because his desk was a midden at the best of times.

  Abby returned, carefully negotiating the roll of the train as she carried two Styrofoam coffee cups. She sat down and set a cup before Astral, who gave her the widest, brightest, ‘I’m not a felon’ smile possible.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Certainly. Did you look?” Abby asked.

  For a split second, Astral thought she was asking if she’d looked at the purloined file. I am but a simple girl! I am—

  Then she realised what Abby was actually asking. She relaxed and gestured at her notepad. “Yes. I’ll read you back my notes.” She settled in, thinking that the two of them actually ma
de a good team, when dealing with things like this.

  By the time they began the long, slow entrance into London Bridge station, Abby was visibly content with their preparation.

  “Thank you, Ms Projector. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “Certainly.” A strange but not unwelcome warmth washed over her as Abby put the folders back into her briefcase, including those that Astral had brought, and sat back, staring out the window. Astral did, too, watching the drab inner city roll past. They sat quietly for a few minutes until a quick glance across the table brought on a vague frown from Abby, a frown that made Astral jittery.

  She surreptitiously patted her hair. It was frizzy again, indicating her guilt over the stolen—borrowed—folder. She was also nervous. The Cuckoo spell seemed to be holding up, but it surely had to be stretched to its limits. Any minute now, Abby could turn to her and demand, “Who are you?”

  The frown on Abby’s face deepened. Her dark eyes took on a sharp and inquisitive glint. The spell had clearly fizzled out and it was time to take Dulcie’s advice.

  Astral quickly gathered her handbag and jacket and stood. Casually, she made her way to the toilet compartment and waited there until the train rolled to a standstill. This was the tricky part. If Abby still remembered her, they’d grab a cab and she’d have to go even farther into London, where the spell would definitely expire. Not a happy thought.

  Black and Blacker’s head office was in The City at Gallows Walk, she knew, because she had looked it up. A prestigious address for a big, gloomy, Georgian building. The Black and Blacker website had a picture of their formidable headquarters. It had been a former debtors’ prison and its energy was still oppressive even after all this time. Astral had no wish to go anywhere near it.

  Carefully, she exited the toilet compartment. Abby was standing by the exit waiting for the doors to open. She wore her jacket, briefcase at her side. Astral came to stand nearby, but not too close. If Abby still recognised her, then they were simply waiting to disembark together, and if she didn’t and the Cuckoo spell had well and truly evaporated, all Astral had to do was leave the train a few steps behind, behaving as nothing other than a fellow passenger.

  The doors slid open and Abby stepped onto the platform. Astral followed, still uncertain. There was a moment of hesitation as Abby looked towards the station exit sign frowning. She tapped her pockets as if to reassure herself she’d not forgotten anything. Astral loitered behind her, still unsure. Was the spell broken? The answer came at once when Abby strode off without a backward glance, leaving Astral standing on the platform.

  A jolt of separation came with a sudden chill of abandonment, a tearing, a fright, like a small child losing sight of its mother in the crowd. Not pleasant at all, but now she knew what it felt like when a Cuckoo spell wore off. It hurt.

  Part of her wanted to run after Abby and cling to her wake. She ached for the soothing balm of her presence despite her hard, crystalline persona. This was a normal part of the spell’s end. There was always a price to pay for magic, usually emotional. Still, she’d no idea the Cuckoo spell’s dispersal would cut so deep.

  Forlornly, she watched Abby’s retreating back. For a few long minutes, she kept track of the tall woman with the dark hair as she wove through the crowds, and then she was at the ticket gate, and through it, and off into the big wide world…without her.

  Had Abby felt any of these weird pangs of separation, too? Had she frowned at the lipstick-smeared coffee cup on the table beside her own? And later, at her meeting, would she wonder at the strange handwriting in her notepad? Would she pause to consider the new ideas and tidy resolutions scribbled there? Would she wonder at any of it? Astral knew what it was like for someone to disappear. Would Abby feel even the slightest discomfort, now that something, someone, was gone?

  A hasty commuter jostled her shoulder and broke Astral out of her reverie. Gathering her wits, she made her way through the bustling crowds until she found the platform for the first train heading back home.

  There was no way she was returning to the office. Her mission had been skewed since day one. All she wanted was to get home, put on the kettle, kick off her shoes, and read first-hand what Magdalene Curdle was up to.

  *

  Astral parked by the barn and went across the farmyard, a brood of ducklings clinging to her heels all the way until she caved and fed them her packed lunch.

  “This is technically a mugging, you know.” They waddled around her feet and she had to gingerly step over them to reach the garden gate that barred them from the bounty of her vegetable patch. The gate refused to open, and she had to rattle it roughly to loosen the latch. It squeaked and grated, continuing its complaints as she pushed it open, actively refusing to cooperate.

  “What’s the matter with you, you silly thing?” She gave it an extra rattle. “It’s me. Let me in.” It suddenly swung open on well-oiled hinges as if her voice was the password.

  Disgruntled, Astral continued to her front door, where it became more apparent something was wrong. The white pebbles on the path kept shifting under her feet, trying to upend her, the border bedding plants looked scared and shrivelled, and the flowerpots had been flung about, leaving soil splattered all over the porch. Astral slowed her steps. The flowerpots were gifts from Dulcie, so they were clever little things, and they had left her clues—like strange footprints in the spilled dirt.

  The house had a story, too. All the curtains were drawn tight, though she had not left them that way that morning. Most telling was the welcome mat curled up like a kicked dog. There had been an intruder.

  “Mummy’s home. Everything will be all right.” Astral gently unrolled the mat and dug out her phone to call Dulcie, who answered after the first ring.

  “Astral? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Someone’s been at the house.” She straightened the flowerpots with the phone tucked under her chin. “As in, snooping around.”

  “What?”

  “An intruder. At my house.”

  “You’re home? I thought you were in London.”

  “I was, but didn’t have to leave the train station because the spell broke. I came right back home and found the whole place traumatised. Except for the ducks. They don’t give a damn.”

  “The ducks aren’t magical,” Dulcie said. “But that’s not important. Are you all right?”

  “For the most part. Just a little out of sorts.”

  “Oh, love. That’s not good. I’ll lock up early and come straight over. Is it safe to wait for me there? Are you sure whoever it was has gone?”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ve gone. The place is in shutdown.” She gingerly lifted a broken pot. The squished geranium looked strangely triumphant. “I think one of your Irish blues brained whoever it was.”

  Dulcie tutted. “Irish blues are always up for a fight. Look, I’ll be there in under half an hour. Please be careful. There could be booby traps and jinxes. Listen to the flowers. They’ll tell you if it’s safe.” She hung up before Astral could admit she hadn’t a good ear for petal-prattle. Dulcie was a Hedgewitch, and a terrible gossip, and everything from The Green conversed with her. The uprighted Irish blues geraniums quivered with excitement. To the inexperienced eye, it was the breeze making them shiver, but Astral knew a fighting spirit when she saw one.

  “Calm down, you lot. Whoever it was, you’ve sent them packing and I thank you for it. There’ll be extra compost tea for you.”

  With a smart rat-a-tat, she knocked on her own front door. The drawing room curtains twitched, as if the house was taking a quick peek to see who was there. Suddenly, all the curtains swished back and happiness twinkled from within, mixed up with winter sunlight that bounced off the windowpanes.

  “It’s me. I’m home,” Astral announced and the front door flung open without her having to touch the handle. The hallway lay in shadows after the brightness from outside. She hesitated, but not because she felt unsafe. The scents of beeswax polish, home baking, and th
e flowers in the vase on the hall table greeted her, all smells of home. They burst around her in a huge welcoming hug that she wanted to wallow in. The house was relieved that she was back because something or someone had upset it badly, and Astral brought the reassurance it needed. Home comfort went both ways for Fireside witches.

  Truth was, Astral was lonely in her family home, though she would never admit it. A Fireside witch should never feel adrift at her own hearth, but this was a large house and it seemed too big for one person. The granite farmhouse had been the Projector home for a hundred generations, probably starting out as a hole in a hillside, then maybe a simple shepherd’s hut, and finally a stone dwelling that had been added to haphazardly over the centuries as fortunes ebbed and flowed.

  Only witching folk could see the magic pressing against the leaded windowpanes so hard that the small lozenges of glass hazed and cracked trying to hold it all in. Centuries of magical containment had bellied the stone walls and now the house was crooked and exhausted, sitting low among the soft green fields, its swayback roof undulating alongside the surrounding hills.

  Now it was Astral’s turn to look after the old house. They were woven together like wattle and daub and one of the most troubling thoughts she had was that she was unsure who would take over after her day. The Projector lineage had shrunk drastically over time and she had no idea what to do. It was awful to be the last in a long and prestigious line, and a whole other reason for feeling more than a little lonely.

  Astral’s legacy would be to leave a vacancy, which seemed wrong, as if she were out of step with time, honour, and heritage. This should have been Myriad’s house, but she was long gone. Her legacy for Astral turned out to be a mother-shaped hole in absolutely everything.

  “Borage?” Astral called. The house was happy, so her familiar became her next concern and, as usual, he was nowhere to be seen. Normally, he appeared demanding food the moment she set foot through the door. Had anything happened to him? She moved through the house, searching. His spot by the stove was empty, and he wasn’t on her bed napping on the sun-warmed covers. He wasn’t sulking in the laundry basket, either.