by B G Denvil
Rosie ushered them inside, where they discovered a haven of comfort, thick with rugs and cushioned chairs, a huge inglenook fireplace which would just need a finger flick to light once winter arrived, a bedchamber with a soft pillowed bed curtained and tessellated in emerald green, their own private privy in the garderobe, and a myriad of other comforts which Maggs couldn’t even name.
Leaving them to their wedding night, Rosie returned to The Rookery and sat to watch the dancing, listen to the music, wave to the bats and birds, and talk to Peg and Edna.
“Does it make you wish you could fall in love and marry some gorgeous human male?” grinned Edna.
“Not in the least,” Rosie answered without hesitation. “Not even some gorgeous wizard. I’ve sort of thought about it in the past, and I used to like the idea of falling in love, though I always chose a horrible mistake to fancy. I don’t want that funny thing called romance anymore, and I certainly don’t want any man of any kind to start thinking he’s my master.”
“Wizards don’t do that,” Edna shook her head. “Especially a ninety marrying a ninety-eight.”
“And what does romance mean anyway?” demanded Peg. “Giggling and fluttering eyelashes. I can’t see the pleasure in that.”
“There’s that stodgy daft sheriff still wants you,” Edna pointed out, nodding at Rosie.
But Rosie didn’t nod back. “He’s not in the slightest attractive,” she frowned. “What I ever saw in him at the start, I’ve no idea. I’d sooner have Montague.” She didn’t confess that she’d liked him too at one time.
Edna and Peg both laughed rather loudly, since Montague, although handsome in his own disapproving way, was the one wizard nobody really liked. “You’d really need a magic charm to get that one,” sniggered Edna. “Though I’ve been just as stupid many years ago. I really wanted Whistle, but he was one of those many wizards who don’t know that females are any different to males. Whistle just thought I was a friend with a magical grade even a touch higher than his own. Well, now he’s such a cuddly little squirrel, I think he’s even more delightful.”
“You have the squirrel, and I’ll keep the donkey,” said Rosie. “And Peg, you can have Dodger and Cabbage.”
Indeed, she no longer admitted, even to herself, that a faint yearning still floated at the back of her mind and a tiny wish to cuddle her own baby.
It was a long time before Rosie wandered off to bed, flying out to her rooms at the back of the house. Here there was absolute peace, and although everything at the church had started that morning, there was now a mist of silver moon glow and a snowscape of stars in the sweep of black sky, each reminding Rosie of a thousand things she still wanted to do.
THE END
A preview of Hobb’s Henge
The new scullery boy came rushing in with his hat askew, one small hand plonked on top in case it tried to blow away, and his eyes wide. “In Tickwick on Lyme,” he said, words falling over themselves, “they got it. Everyone sick.”
He was only eleven but he had a good magical grade and if he said it, he meant it. But understanding what he meant by ‘it’ in the first place was the problem. However, Tickwick was where his parents lived and he’d gone back there for some days so I was beginning to guess.
“A flare up?” I asked. “What, the pox? The Marsh Fever?”
“The Plague,” he said, collapsing on the nearest stool.
I stared. Behind me I could feel Edna staring, and at my side Peg was definitely staring. “We have to stop it coming here,” I said, pulling myself together. “That’s the most terrible sickness and it’s usually too strong for us. Even our top grades can’t cure the Plague.” My head was racing now. “Did you leave your parents there?” I asked.
Sym had become our new scullery boy just weeks past, when I met him and offered a place in our cottages. The child had a wizard father and a human mother, and although she knew what her husband was, Sym knew she’d be frightened amongst so many of us.
But this was different. “Outside,” he said. “I can’t leave them to get sick and die. Me dad’s a sixty and I just been given a sixty nine, but that’s not enough to save me mum from the Plague.”
No, it wouldn’t be. “Bring them over to the new building,” I said, “I’ll settle them in and explain a few things. Each living space is in two rooms there so you can all be together.”
Tickwick was less than a day’s walk, and on horseback would take less than three hours or so. Flying would be a few blinks. Not so good. That was far too close to such a murderous spreading disease. Edna agreed.
“We can’t save the world,” she said, “but we can save Little Piddleton.”
Sym and I brought in his parents. His father had a bright grin with warm hands, but his mother was a terrified and trembling little woman about to collapse. She was pleased when I seemed normal, but I decided that shutting them away for a day or two was the best solution. “Two cosy rooms,” I showed them. “This one is quite large and the bed’s comfortable. The other room is small but I’m sure Sym won’t mind. Privies on the other side, the well up by the bigger house, and don’t mind the birds and a few other animals. They’re all perfectly safe.” I nearly told her that the only risk was from the donkey which might lick her to death, but then I decided she might believe me and get frightened again. So I explained the dining room and meal times and a lot of other stuff, and both were thrilled. Mother Bertha was frightened of possibly ghastly experiences, but at least realised that magic, however terrible, would be better than the Plague. Maggs, our other exceedingly happy human, promised to trot over and try to cheer the woman up and Reassure her.
Sym continued to work in our kitchens, which had more to do with conjuring the right food than actually cleaning anything or turning roasting skewers over fires. We didn’t have any of that. A small fire sometimes helped, and large pots for mixing and adding herbs and spices. Issa was our cook and the meals she invented were always delicious.
I was sitting in the garden outside my own ground floor rooms – I had three – is that greedy? – trying to work out a plan to stop the Plague spreading, when Fanny floated over. Not much of a help, frankly, even though she was one of my more interesting and recent residents.
“Being a witch,” said Fanny, “isn’t always as easy as people might think.” She was hovering right in my face, and several toe lengths above ground. “I admit I love flying. But I can’t just fly around in circles every day, or talk to the crows.” She’d complained.
“Most of the higher grades,” I pointed out, “really work on their magic, inventing things, studying what can be improved, seeing what they themselves are capable of and inventing all sorts of new spells and magical objects. You’ve got a high grade. You’re a seventy seven so you achieve a lot. Besides,” I added, “I thought you were heavily involved with Harry Flash.”
“I like Harry.” She looked away. “Though he’s only a forty. Much weaker than me. That’s embarrassing. I try not to do things in front of him that I know he can’t do. I mean, mostly anyone under sixty can’t fly, and he can a teeny bit, which is brilliant for a forty. But I can sweep and swish up all over the place and I love doing it. But how can I do that in front of him? It would be rude.”
It was almost winter, and the day was a truly beautiful autumn show of amber and gold that still took my breath away. So I refused to be upset with Fanny, and just smiled at her. “Help him grow, then,” I said.
She blinked, confused. “You mean that’s a possibility. How can it happen? I wouldn’t know how.”
“Well, go and find out,” I suggested. “That’ll keep you busy for at least a month. Have a word with Whistle, and try and work it out with Harry. It might be fun.”
Talking of fun – I explained the situation with the Plague in a very close village, and she sank down beside me, horrified. If there was one sickness that scared even wiccan folk, it was the Plague. It killed at least half of those who caught it, so everyone suffered in one way or other. Y
ou suffered even if you recovered, because it was such an abominable and painful disease. And you often wished to die quicker just to escape for the suffering.
Some of nature was stunningly beautiful. Other parts of nature seemed horrific.
“I wonder if I could work out what makes the Plague spread,” I frowned. “A lot of the people think it’s God’s punishment, or a general warning to the wicked,” I told Fanny. “But that never made any sense. If I could find out, it would help such a lot.”
“I’ll help,” Fanny said at once. “And Harry will help. He hates just being bored just as much.”
“I rarely meet humans getting bored,” I pointed out. “They’re too busy scrubbing door steps and sweeping floors and spending all day cooking a dinner that get’s eaten in a few minutes.”
“Well, Harry gets bored because he’s got nothing to do except cuddle me,” said Fanny.
I was becoming quite enthusiastic. Understanding the very worst of sicknesses could be both life changing and fascinating.
Then I was interrupted by Issa, who wanted to know if roast lamb was alright for dinner. Of course, I told her.
“I just can’t think of anything else, knowing we have another human in the ranks,” Issa sighed. “I’ll try to make the lamb taste as much like real lamb as I can manage. And some spinach cooked in cream. I could even cook the real thing. And what about bread and butter pudding and a lemon tart?”
Having started to concentrate on that most revolting of diseases, it was now rather hard to be attracted by food. “Perfect,” I told Issa. “That will delight every one of us, wiccan and human too.”
She left and rushed back into the kitchens, while Fanny sat quietly thinking, and I was deep in concentration when the next interruption was definitely more distracting. Whistle turned up. Still a very active squirrel, red bushy tailed and talkative.
Whistle had long decided that being a transparent ghost was not a good way of getting any of us to take him seriously. Besides, he couldn’t pick anything up, let alone eat. So he was now a squirrel that frequently sat on my shoulder.
He said, “I’ve had an idea.”
“Oh, dear,” I said.
This remark didn’t bother him in the slightest. “The shadow forces,” said the squirrel, “are the greatest danger we could possibly imagine. Humanity naturally knows nothing about this danger, and couldn’t stop it however hard they tried anyway. I have decided that I must begin to eliminate every source of the shadow.”
He was so serious, I couldn’t possibly say I wasn’t interested because I was worried over something else. “Go on,” I said. “What’s the idea?” Actually, I suddenly wondered if that was possibly where the Plague originally came.
“I intend travelling to the Henge,” Whistle told me. “And I thought you and a few others might like to come.”
But it wasn’t a good moment. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ve just been told about an outbreak of the Plague in Tickwick. That’s too close to ignore. I want to protect The Rookery of course, but Little Piddleton as well.”
“I’ll help you, and you help me,” said the squirrel. “These are essential matters and Stonehenge isn’t far away.”
“A henge is a burial mound,” I nodded. “So do you think the red spoon and toadstool might be buried there?”
“Stonehenge is a little different,” Whistle told me. “There are the old stones carried in from somewhere near Wales, and it’s not your normal Henge at all. But it’s where I intend searching.”
“Interesting,” I said. “But the Plague spreads fast, I presume your henge doesn’t move at all. So the Plague first.”
“The Henge doesn’t move at all,” Whistle said with faint distain. “You’ve never seen anything like it until you’ve seen it. The shadow power moves wherever it wishes and whenever it wishes. And that’s a lot.”
“Oh dear,” I sighed.
The birds were singing but the swallows had left, the geese had all migrated. Instead of life and movement, what we had now was the amazing colours of autumn leaves, and the first of the seasons bare branches. I stared at golden leaves and then at Whistle, and made my decision.
“I’ll go backwards and forwards,” I said. “I can fly fast enough and being young, hopefully it won’t knock me out. Because everything seems equally important. This Plague is such a terrifying thought. Even we can get it?”
“Since I’m already dead,” smiled Whistle, “as I’m already dead, it might be a bit of a shock.”
“Let’s discuss it over dinner,” I suggested.
Sym and his father joined us at the long table but his mother Bertha had stayed in her room, probably shivering. Not that anything was cold. We lit huge fires in the communal hall, and some of the bedchambers too. But we didn’t bother with that until winter was well under way. In the meantime, we magicked the warmth, and every single room in that new cottage, even those not yet occupied, were sizzlingly warm. But a frightened woman never really feels cosy.
Issa handed out a tray of the platters she’d produced and told Sym to pop it over to his mother. Meanwhile I talked about my own confusions.
“The Plague is the worst possible way to die,” I said, shouting over the din as everyone gossiped with their mouths full of roast lamb. “And we know there are worse dangers from the shadow forces. This is certainly going to be a hard working few months, because we’re going to stop both.”
By B G Denvil
The Rookery Cosy Mysteries
One Small Step
Kettle Lane
The Piddleton Unrest
Hobb’s Henge
Children’s Bannister’s Muster Time Travel Series
Snap
Snakes & Ladders
Blind Man’s Buff
Dominoes
Leapfrog
Hide & Seek
Hopscotch
There are other books written under my full name, Barbara Gaskell Denvil— but these are not Cosy, and contain elements of violence, swearing and sexual content.
You can find them on my website at barbaragaskelldenvil.com
About the Author
My passion is for late English medieval history though I also have a love of fantasy and the wild freedom of the imagination, greatest loves are the beauty of the written word, and the utter fascination of good characterisation. Bringing my characters to life is my principal aim.
For more information on this and other books, or to subscribe for updates, new releases and free downloads, please visit
barbaragaskelldenvil.com
