The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Of course he can, I wanted to say. He’s a necromancer. But I can’t imagine how that might have gone down at our little dinner party, so I kept my tongue in check and concentrated on my wine instead.

  And that was pretty much how my ‘date night’ panned out.

  I managed to enjoy some conversation with Alex, but clearly his interest lay with Marissa. I had a feeling George struggled too, but at least Stacey lavished her affections between both George and Silvan. For his part Silvan lapped up all the attention Stacey doled his way, knowing full well he’d be heading back to Whittle Inn with Marissa.

  From my vantage point as chief wallflower, I spotted Crispin and Sally when they departed quite early on. They hadn’t eaten, just enjoyed a drink at the bar. I wondered briefly where they were off to and reminded myself to chat to Millicent about what, if anything, we could do with regards to Sally’s predicament.

  For all we knew Crispin was nothing like Lyle and I was doing him a disservice. But my intuition said otherwise, and I wasn’t one to dismiss a gut feeling.

  I waved goodbye to George and Stacey with some relief. We’d congregated outside Mr Bramble’s cottage as we tipped out of the pub at closing time. It had gone eleven and I needed to be up before five. If I hurried up the lane—leaving Silvan and Marissa to dawdle along behind me—then I could have a quick bath and still manage five hours sleep.

  “Thanks, Alf. I’ve had a wonderful night and you have lovely friends. We must do it again,” Alex said, kissing me on the cheek and I smiled politely.

  “Yes, yes, we must!” I hoped I sounded earnest enough and tried not to break into a run as I hot footed it out of the village, away from the muted streetlights, along the dark lane towards home. I’d obviously overdone the wine because I struggled to walk in a straight line, but it made no difference. At this time of night there was little if any traffic. I could have lain down and taken a nap and probably not been disturbed until the milkman rattled his bottles as he drove into Whittlecombe in his electric van just before daybreak.

  It felt good to be free from the noise and stuffiness and sheer fakery of The Hay Loft. Free to enjoy the breeze, alone and unencumbered.

  “Relationships are so complicated.” I tried to articulate my thoughts and feelings out loud as I went, ambling up the lane towards the drive of Whittle Inn, my voice sounding a little thick with the alcohol.

  “I don’t know if George and Stacey are happy.” I shrugged dramatically into the shadows. “I can’t tell. Does George like Stacey? Does Stacey like George? Stacey likes Silvan.” This last thought grumbled out of my chest.

  I hiccoughed and chortled. “She must be mad.”

  For some reason that made me laugh out loud. Hysteria gripped me, until I was howling in mirth and doubled over at the side of the lane, leaning against one of the old oak trees sheltering the drive.

  I heard footsteps behind me and straightened up quickly, trying to ascertain whether there was any danger, but the soft glow of Marissa’s pale shift lighting up the darkness, quelled my sudden fear.

  “Are you alright, Alf?” Marissa’s gentle voice drifted out of the darkness.

  “M’fine,” I said, and tried to stand up straight. Silvan’s low, knowing chuckle floated through the darkness.

  “Do you need a hand?” Marissa asked, coming alongside me and reaching out, her cool touch landing on my wrist.

  “M’noooo.” I shook my head, the vehement denial of the woman who has overdone it. “M’fine. Thanks though.”

  Silvan joined us and nodded at Marissa. “You go on. I’ll see you in the bar for a nightcap.”

  “A nightcap sounds good,” I said as Marissa drifted away, waiting for Silvan to tell me I’d had enough, but he didn’t, so I couldn’t argue with him.

  “Let’s get some more air,” he said. “Walk with me.”

  “I don’t want to walk.”

  “Then don’t,” Silvan shrugged, easy either way. He moved off, heading away from the inn and towards the gardens and the marquee. I could see lights in the tents and trailers at the edge of the grounds. Some of the production crew were still up. In fact, some of them were probably still working.

  I swayed where I was standing and hiccupped again. It probably was best I have a little more air and before heading inside for my bed.

  “I was going to take a bath,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  “You’d more than likely drown yourself,” Silvan called back, and continued on his way. Glowering at his back I hurried after him until I’d caught him up, but as I swaggered alongside him I nearly lost my balance. I reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “I don’t want to hold your hand,” I explained to him. “It’s just the world seems to be on a tilt tonight.”

  Silvan coughed. “I completely understand, Alfhild.” He didn’t shake me off, just left my hand where it was and continued to walk slowly around the outskirts of the grounds. To our right, I could see the uninterrupted ribbon of energy that made up Whittle Inn’s forcefield. Finbarr and his pixies were out there somewhere. That gave me a sense of wellbeing.

  Thoughts tumbled around my head. George, Stacey, Silvan and Marissa. Alex.

  “He’s not right for you, you know?” Beside me Silvan kept his eyes facing front and his tone mild.

  “Who?”

  “Alex.”

  How had he known I was thinking about Alex? I thought about protesting. After all, what business was it of Silvan’s whether the man was right for me or not. We’d been on one none-date, and it had been Silvan’s fault that a coach party of onlookers had accompanied me, when really it should have been Alex and I, just getting to know each other a little better.

  But I didn’t object because I knew he was right. “I wasn’t intending to settle down and have his babies,” I grumbled.

  Silvan snorted. “That’s alright, then.”

  The cheek of the man. I stopped and scowled at him, badly wanting to put him in his place, but unconcerned he kept moving away from me, continuing his walk. I ran after him. “Why did you come?”

  “I thought it would be nice if we all went out and had dinner together. And you have to admit, we had fun. I enjoyed getting to know George and Stacey a little better.”

  “That Stacey would certainly love to get to know you a little better,” I retorted.

  Silvan glanced at me and grinned. “I know.” He walked on. “Well we had a good time. It was only you who didn’t.”

  “You put me in an impossible situation,” I complained. “Why would I want to go on a date with my ex and his new girlfriend?”

  “Why does it matter? If you don’t want to be with either of them?” Silvan asked and you couldn’t fault his logic.

  I snapped. “That’s not what I meant anyway. I wasn’t talking about the date-that-wasn’t.”

  “What then?”

  “I meant why did you come here? To the inn? With your girlfriend? Are you deliberately—”

  “Deliberately what, Alf?” Silvan finally stopped walking and turned about, edging closer to me, until his face was mere inches from mine. The warmth of his breath fanned across my skin.

  My thoughts tumbled over and around themselves. “Deliberately—” I searched for some semblance of rationality in my muddled mind, but nothing came. What was he doing here? Why had he come? Was he trying to make me jealous?

  Jealous? Absurd! Why should I be jealous?

  Silvan’s eyes glittered and he raised his hand, as though to brush the hair away from my face.

  From up ahead came the sound of a trailer door slamming. It made me jump. We both looked that way. Silvan cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “What is it?” I whispered, reaching out with my own senses, but in my confuddled state I found myself touching the energy of those asleep or lounging around in the trailers, unable to discern friend from foe. Confused I pulled myself back in. “Is there something to be worried about?”

  Silvan reached into his robes and pull
ed out his wand. “Why don’t you have your wand with you, Alfhild?” he asked me, and I automatically put my hand to where it would be. But I wasn’t wearing my robes and I hadn’t brought my wand out with me.

  The realisation that I could have been here alone and defenceless hit me like a shedload of bricks, sobering me up rather sharply. Silvan gestured for me to stand behind him, and then moved forwards. I followed him closely, my hands loose by my side. I was ready to attack using the methods I’d always used, until the day Silvan had begun to teach me the dark arts and new ways to defend myself, and I’d found a chunky piece of Vance in the marsh and forged my own wand.

  I didn’t need to sense Silvan’s disapproval; I was disappointed in myself. I should have been ready for all potential situations. I’d let myself down, and I, of all people, knew at what cost that could come to my beloved Whittle Inn.

  “I’ve been complacent,” I said, and turned my head slowly to look over at the marquee, remembering Janice lying in the entrance there with a cake knife buried in her chest.

  We crept forwards, our footsteps silent as we crossed the lawn. Silvan twisted this way and that, trying to get a lock on whatever it was that had alerted him to something not quite right. He followed a trail I couldn’t see that led to Rob Parker’s sausage van, now dark and closed up for the night.

  Or so it seemed. We circled the van slowly and at first glance everything did seem normal, but when I reached out to try the door, Silvan touched my hand with his wand and silently shook his head.

  Instead he illuminated the tip of his wand and tapped lightly on the door. It swung slowly open, the wand’s beam casting shadows around the interior. Nothing obvious to see, and just the faint scent of fried onions and cleaning products. Everything was spick and span, the way Rob liked to leave it after a day of selling his products.

  I took a breath, relieved that we hadn’t found anything, just as something—a missile—shot out of the van and through my legs, spinning me around and knocking me to the floor. I was far too slow to get a good view of it, or even watch it as it made a bid to escape. Not so Silvan, however. He flicked his wand. “Stupefaciunt,” he ordered, and the thing, already a good twenty metres away from us, heading for the marquee, stopped dead, and keeled over.

  I jumped to my feet and followed Silvan as he raced across the lawn, but he hadn’t banked on the guy lines. Unable to see them in the dark, he stumbled over the first one he made contact with. Following so closely behind, I had to try and leap over him. In my slightly inebriated state, I made a mess of it, stood on his leg and ended up pitching headfirst on top of him.

  I lay stunned where I was for a moment, trying to catch my breath, looking over at the grey lump, still on the ground near the entrance to the marquee.

  “I knew you’d fall for me one day,” Silvan said from beneath me, and I hurriedly rolled off him and groaned.

  “Ow.”

  Silvan pushed himself up, heading for the thing, but he hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps when a pulse of magickal energy exploded, and the creature—whatever it had been—vanished from our view.

  We scurried over but we were far too late. It had gone. Whether it had been banished or destroyed there was no way of knowing. Silvan waved his wand around in the general area.

  “A djinn,” he said. “I haven’t come across one of those for many a year.”

  “A djinn? What’s that?”

  “It’s a spirit that can take the form of a human or animal. Some witches conjure them to do their bidding. Especially useful if you’re up to no good, because you can send them out to do your evil deeds rather than risk being caught or hurt yourself. Tumble Town used to be overrun with them, but there was a crackdown and many of them have been cleaned up. It’s a neat little trick to harness one though. I’ll have to show it to you sometime.”

  I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. It was hard enough managing all the ghosts that flocked around me all the time, let alone a bunch of evil djinns.

  We stood, back to back, turning around and scouring the dark grounds, peering into the blackest of shadows, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

  “It’s no good,” Silvan said. “There’s nothing left to see here. We might as well head to bed.”

  “We’ll have another look in the morning,” I agreed.

  “Starting with Rob’s van,” Silvan told me. “You go on. I’m going to secure it for now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  I watched Silvan walk back to Rob Parker’s van.

  Rob Parker again?

  That’s just a coincidence, I thought to myself.

  Surely?

  Not quite midnight. I figured a bath was now out of the question. Reluctantly I reset my alarm ten minutes earlier. I’d take a shower first thing instead.

  I plonked myself down on the edge of my bed, just about ready to collapse.

  “Miss Alf?” A plaintive little voice called me from the doorway. A pair of worried eyes stared out at me; a faint tinge of singed cotton danced beneath my nostrils.

  Florence.

  I’d completely forgotten I’d promised to help her. I wanted to tell her we’d do it tomorrow, but tomorrow would be too late. Tomorrow she needed to bake, and it needed to go well for her.

  So instead of snuggling down beneath my quilt, I blinked at her with tired eyes, my head still woozy from all the wine. “Oh, Florence. Sorry I’m so late. If you make me a cup of tea and join me in the office, we’ll make a start.”

  As Florence apparated away, I called out to my great-grandmother. “Grandmama. I really need your help.” I thought of Florence, and Janice, and Silvan and George, and how complicated my life was. “In so, so many ways,” I added.

  Just after one in the morning and I was still brainstorming the notion of what Victoriana might mean. I was writing our ideas down on a large sheet of paper, while Gwyn and Florence flitted around the room at varying speeds depending how hyped-up they were.

  From my twenty-first century perspective the Victorian age had been about industrial progress and the growth of the British Empire. What Gwyn remembered it for was militarism and patriotism and the advancement of rights for workers. “It was a time of increasing morality,” she told me, and I dutifully wrote that down.

  “But it’s too obvious to decorate a cake with the Union Jack or create a pie that looks like Queen Victoria’s head,” said Florence. “I can’t be predictable. That’s not going to help me tomorrow.”

  “Steampunk,” I suggested, and both Gwyn and Florence stared at me in confusion.

  “Steampunk?” Gwyn repeated. “Is that something to do with trains?”

  “No. Think of the Gimcrack,” I said, and even I understood I was gabbling. That wouldn’t help matters. “I mean the look of it—all brass and mechanical stuff.” I rubbed my dry eyes. “The judges will understand Steampunk. It’s a twenty-first century take on the Victorian age. It emphasises the technological aspects of the era. Kind of... I don’t know… H. G. Wells, Around the World in Eighty Days, that kind of thing.” When both Gwyn and Florence continued to stare at me blankly, I considered giving up. My bed was calling. I sighed and tried one more time. “The way Gorde’s Gimcrack looks, with all those cogs and springs and the gold and brass and little ticking things… that’s a steampunk kind of look.”

  “Ah, I see.” Florence nodded. “Yes, the technology… the advances in machinery… I could try and capture that. Maybe do a passion fruit sponge—”

  “No, no, no!” Gwyn looked positively hurt. “Absolutely not. No.”

  “No?” Florence asked, her gaze focused on Gwyn.

  “We wouldn’t have had passion fruit sponge cake back in the day, would we Florence? What’s wrong with a good-old fashioned Victoria sponge. What would Mrs Beeton say? I still have all of her books in the attic.”

  Florence clasped her hands to her mouth in excitement. “Of course. Mrs Beeton! How could I forget. Y
ou’re a genius, Mrs Daemonne! It makes perfect sense. I’ll create authentic Victorian bakes using Mrs Beeton’s recipes. That’s bound to be a winner! You’re a genius!”

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. Mrs Daemonne was the genius?

  Well that put Ms Daemonne in her place.

  I folded myself against the desk, cheek flat on the paper, and closed my eyes.

  Sometimes it was thankless being me.

  I arrived downstairs in the kitchen having had only three hours sleep on too much wine. You can imagine what sort of state my head was in. It pounded along to my heart beat and my throat was as dry as the Sahara desert. Unfortunately, the kitchen proved to be no refuge. I was met by a scene of total and utter carnage. Monsieur Emietter was shouting at the top of his voice, in French naturally, and while I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, I couldn’t help noticing he was a little upset.

  Several of my kitchen ghosts rushed past me—or through me which always feels a little unsettling—in their haste to escape the wrath of the rotund chef. I had half a mind to follow them to the nearest exit but quickly remembered the sad and salient fact that… even on a bad head day, Alfhild is in charge.

  Pots, pans, dishes and cutlery had been abandoned everywhere. Charity had her hands up and was trying to appease the irate chef in her pidgin French. Quite clearly, he either didn’t understand her or was choosing not to listen to her.

  “Grandmama?” I called, hoping against hope that she hadn’t disappeared without trace again, although I assumed she’d want to see what Florence came up with today in the Cake Off tent following the work we’d done so early this morning.

  It turned out I’d assumed correctly. Gwyn, perhaps alerted by the sheer volume of fury emanating from the kitchen, apparated in front of me, took stock of the situation and soared across to Monsieur Emietter.