by Helen Harper
‘Sorry.’ The Neophyte blushed and looked down.
I glared. ‘Don’t apologise. We’ve never spoken before and you didn’t know what to call me. Instead of saying sorry, say something along the lines of, “Well, that’s so much better than wrapping my mouth around Miss Ipsissimus.” Or tell me that if I’d spoken in a full sentence then you’d have understood and I should learn the proper rules of grammar. Don’t say sorry for trying to do the right thing.’
The Neophyte stared at me. I tapped my foot in response and raised my eyebrows.
She coughed. ‘Uh, you’re very curmudgeonly to make such a big deal out of a name.’ She coughed again and blushed some more.
I nodded approvingly. ‘Well done.’ I turned round and started walking again. This was a technique I was perfecting: flummox witches to the point where they’d forgotten why they wanted to talk to me in the first place and I could escape the conversation much faster. Unfortunately I’d clearly not perfected it.
‘So,’ she called out again, ‘Ivy, should I use lavender or mugwort?’
I had to give her brownie points for not giving up. Stopping once more, I yielded to the question. Sometimes you had to know when to give in – I suppose Winter had taught me that. ‘What exactly are you trying to do? Weather covers a wide spectrum of possibilities. Do you want a sunbeam for your familiar to bask in? Or do you want to prevent a hurricane from happening? There’s quite a big difference.’
‘I’m putting up the Christmas tree in the main courtyard. We thought that some real snow would really add to the overall effect.’
‘Sure,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Wet, cold snow which will turn to sludge in hours is an excellent idea.’ I stared hard at her again. Fortunately this time she got the message and tilted up her chin in defiance.
‘Well, I think that snow will add to seasonal feel. A bit of snow makes everyone feel more Christmassy. Plus … plus … it’ll look pretty,’ she finished in a rush.
Breaking down hierarchical barriers one witch at a time. I beamed at her. ‘Good. I still hate snow,’ I added, ‘but good. You’re learning to argue.’ I tapped my mouth and thought about it. ‘You probably want to use a combination of smoked pennyroyal with a pinch of yarrow root. I’m no expert in herblore, however. You might end up with nothing more than a snowflake or as much as an avalanche. I’d strongly suggest getting the help of a Second Level witch before you begin.’
‘Can’t you help?’
I smiled. ‘I’m not a Second Level witch. I’m not even a First Level witch.’
This time she looked me directly in the eyes. ‘Yes, but everyone knows how talented you are.’
‘Not at herblore. Honestly, you can do better.’
She opened her mouth to argue. In the space of one little chat, I’d apparently created a monster. I held up my palms. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Abigail.’
‘Abigail, the most important thing you can learn is how to get others to do your dirty work for you. The second most important thing is to learn your own limitations and act accordingly.’ I patted her on the shoulder. ‘Find a Second Level witch and we’ll all be making snowmen in no time.’
For the first time, she smiled. ‘Thank you, Miss Ip— Ivy.’
‘You’re welcome.’ And with that, I tripped off to meet Maidmont.
Chapter Two
The costume Maidmont thrust in my direction looked tight, small and garishly green. It had definitely been made out of some horrifically scratchy material to boot. I gazed at it in genuine horror before addressing him. ‘I can’t wear that.’
‘Of course you can.’
I shook my head with surprisingly vehement energy. ‘Nope.’ I leaned over to him and lowered my voice. ‘I’m Caesar’s wife. I must be beyond reproach. This thing you call an item of clothing is the very definition of reproach.’
‘You have to be beyond reproach?’ Maidmont enquired. ‘What about last month when you got drunk on my secret stash of sherry and then bespelled the old statue of the first Ipsissimus to dance for you?’
‘No one’s infallible.’
‘If you say so. How about last week when you commandeered a group of Neophytes to track down tiny mops that you could attach to Brutus’s paws so he could clean the floor as he walked? And then you told the Home Minister when he came for a visit that they were special ear muffs designed just for him?’
I shrugged. ‘That was a one off. It’s not my fault Brutus rejected them. And you have to admit the Home Minister does have funny-shaped ears, even for a politician.’
His expression was impassive. ‘Fine. Yesterday then, when you—’
I interrupted him. ‘Okay, okay.’ I blew an imaginary strand of hair out of my eyes. ‘Enough already. I’m not perfect – I can admit that – but I really don’t think that being a grotto elf is using me to the best of my capabilities. You know I’ll be useless at all that running back and forth to get presents. And it’s sexist that the guy in the red suit who gets to sit down all day long and eat mince pies is, well, a guy.’
Maidmont’s expression still didn’t betray so much as a flicker. ‘Are you saying that you’d like to be Santa?’
Of all the grotto positions, it certainly seemed the cushiest. ‘Sure,’ I shot back. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, if you insist, Ivy.’ That was strangely quick. Maidmont reached into a sack placed conveniently behind him and pulled out a Santa suit. He shook it out then passed it to me. Like a fool, I took it. This time, there was a faint twitch at the corner of the librarian’s mouth.
‘What?’
Maidmont blinked innocently. ‘Nothing.’
‘Something’s going on here.’
‘All we’re doing is making some cute little children as happy as possible. What else could be going on?’
A suspicious twinkle remained in his eye. I had the nasty feeling that I’d been manipulated somehow but I couldn’t work out how. Or why.
Maidmont smiled. ‘We’re opening in less than an hour. You should get changed. The grotto’s already set up.’
I hugged the bundle of red and white material to my chest and sniffed. ‘Fine. But I’m only doing this out of the goodness of my heart.’ I turned to head to the restrooms.
‘Just keep all those cherubic faces in your mind, Ivy,’ he called after me. ‘And all the sweet, innocent joy you’ll be bringing to their little hearts.’
Two hours later, I’d have happily murdered Maidmont in broad daylight. I’d have used my thumbs to squish his eyeballs and then I’d have strung him up underneath the nearest bunch of mistletoe with a length of twinkly pink tinsel. And I’d have laughed to myself while doing it. From the far corner of the grotto where he was watching the proceedings, he was certainly doing enough laughing of his own.
My first child was a young boy with a pageboy haircut and rosy cheeks. He screamed in my face and almost shattered my eardrums when his present was a toy soldier instead of the train set he wanted. The second was a girl with blonde pigtails and dimples. She threw up a sticky rainbow mess all down my fake beard before I could even say a word. The third child pulled my replacement beard off and demanded to know (with several punches for effect) why I was posing as Santa Claus and what I’d actually done to the real Saint Nick. The fourth was quiet to the point of being mute but his beaming parents spent an extra fifteen minutes demanding photographs in a range of the strangest and most awkward poses. By the time the glitzy grotto curtain swished open for my fifth customer, I was making elaborate plans for my escape. After killing Maidmont, I’d run a marathon to get out of here if I had to. Things were genuinely that bad.
‘Ivy!’ Tarquin’s annoying face was a wreath of smiles as he sauntered in. ‘I mean, Santa. How wonderful to see you!’
No pint-sized child followed him. Tarquin was apparently alone. When he walked up to me and tried to sit on my knee, I sprang to my feet. ‘No! Absolutely not!’
‘I’ve paid my entrance fee, Santa,’
Tarquin drawled. ‘I expect to get what I paid for.’
‘I’ll give you your money back.’
He shook his head. ‘No refunds. That’s what the sign outside said. It works both ways.’
‘I don’t care.’ I pointed. ‘Get out.’
‘But I’ve been a really good boy this year.’ He smiled even more broadly. ‘I even saved the girlfriend of the Ipsissimus by killing a serial killer stone dead.’
‘You got lucky,’ I growled.
‘I still saved you. You owe me.’
I glared over his shoulder at Maidmont. ‘We’re done here. I’m leaving.’
‘You’re doing a really good job,’ the librarian protested. ‘The children love you.’
‘They hate me.’
Tarquin smirked. ‘I love you, Ivy.’
‘You don’t count,’ I snapped. ‘Besides, you don't love me. You only love yourself, Tarquin.’
He arched a look at me, one lock of golden hair falling across his forehead as he did so, and grinned. ‘But that's because I am really so lovable. You know that, Ivy.’
I rolled my eyes. After the morning I had been forced to deal with thus far, the last thing I needed was to be backed into a conversation with Tarquin Villeneuve about his lovability factor. What I needed was to get out of here. And fast. ‘Actually,’ I said, tilting my head to one side, ‘you are looking rather handsome today. I like the way that you've managed to get your hair so shiny and soft looking. You must tell me what conditioner you use.’
From the corner of the grotto, and well behind Tarquin, Maidmont stared at me. His expression was clouded with suspicion but, after a moment or two, he realised what I was up to. He began waving his arms in alarm. My supposed friend, the good ol’ librarian, would rather see me suffer until Boxing Day than have to work with Tarquin himself. My old boyfriend might not be anyone’s first choice for Santa but neither was I. If I left, Tarquin would have to step into the breach and take up the reindeer reins. I’d show Maidmont.
In any case, Tarquin was too puffed up with his own self-importance to have any real inkling about what I was trying to do. His eyebrows rose slightly and he ran his tongue over his white teeth as if to highlight his appearance. After all this time, Tarquin still thought that I cared what he looked like and that appearances were important to me. Considering that I was the witch who had wandered around the Order buildings only last week wearing a smelly tracksuit with a gaping hole in the crotch, a hairstyle which wouldn't have looked out of place in an eighties’ rock band, and the remnants of tomato sauce smeared across my cheek from the slice of pizza I'd fallen asleep on top of while waiting for Winter to return from work, you would think that Tarquin would know better.
‘I could tell you,’ he purred, ‘but then I would have to kill you.’ He laughed in apparent wonder at his own humour.
Unfortunately, Maidmont took that moment to leap in and try to save himself. He threw one arm around Tarquin’s shoulder and started to turn him round, propelling him towards the exit. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s been wonderful seeing you, Adeptus Minor Villeneuve. However, we don't want to hold you up any longer. Thank you for popping by.’ He all but shoved Tarquin out of the grotto.
‘Hey!’ I protested. ‘I'd not finished talking to him .’
Maidmont wagged his finger. ‘I know exactly what you're up to, Ivy Wilde. It won't wash. Not with me. You are staying here as Santa Claus as you promised.’
My shoulders slumped. ‘How many days is it until Christmas?’ I asked
Tarquin stepped back in. ‘A mere thirteen,’ he said cheerfully, ignoring my gasp of horror at the unlucky number. ‘And now I remember why I was here in the first place,’ he added. ‘There’s a problem in the square. Something to do with the Christmas tree.’ He examined his fingernails carefully, discovering a tiny speck of dust and frowning at it. ‘I would help but I am an important Order witch. Daddy would not like it if I were distracted from my real duties.’
‘I fail to see what your father has to do with anything,’ I said, before forgetting that I was supposed to be doing everything I could to get out of the grotto and away from any small children. If that meant doing Tarquin's dirty work for him, then so be it.
I hastily backtracked. ‘I mean, I completely understand.’ I nodded to emphasise just how deeply I did indeed understand. ‘You are a Second Level witch. I am nothing more then someone's girlfriend. I'm nothing. You are everything. I do not wish to disappoint your father either.’
Anyone else would have burst out laughing. In fact, that's exactly what Maidmont did. Admittedly, his laugh was more of a nervous titter but he also silently applauded me when Tarquin gave me a thoughtful, serious nod.
‘I am very glad you understand, Ivy,’ he said. ‘The expectations which rest on my shoulders are heavy indeed. A lot of it is your fault, you know. If I hadn't had to rescue you from an evil serial killer, then I wouldn't be seen as the hero I am today. I could be more incognito.’ He sighed melodramatically. ‘However, we cannot change the past. All we can do is play with the cards that we are dealt. Therefore, you must dress up as Santa Claus and cope with problems relating to Christmas trees while I must take my leave and work on the more serious issue of how to procure large amounts of stinging nettles for complex herblore spells.’ He offered me a smile and turned towards Maidmont to bow while I pointed at my hands and mouthed the word ‘gloves’. Collecting nettles was hardly rocket science.
As well as protective hand gear, Tarquin really needed a cloak to swirl and a moustache to twirl. With neither at his disposal, he was forced to smile again before finally taking his leave of the grotto with a pinched strut that fit his personality perfectly.
As soon as he’d gone, I took off my beard and passed it to Maidmont. ‘Well,’ I said with a shrug, ‘you heard the man. I must go where I am needed. I must go where my superiors order me. Tarquin obviously has far more important things to do so I must do whatever I can to help him in his hour of need. And if helping him out means abandoning my post as St Nicholas, then that is what I must do. It’s a wrench and it will be very difficult for me to depart and leave you in the lurch,’ I patted Maidmont on the shoulder. ‘But I am confident that you will manage.’
I lifted off my fur-trimmed hat and plopped it onto his head. ‘There,’ I said with the most serious expression I could muster. ‘You look wonderful.’ Then, before he could even begin to say anything else, I ran out of the grotto as fast as my chubby little legs would carry me.
Chapter Three
I was tempted to stay away from the square and the Christmas tree and whatever problems were occurring there but avoiding it meant taking a circuitous route which added at least half a mile to my journey back to the safety of my sofa. In for a penny, in for a pound, I reasoned. After playing the role of Santa, dealing with Christmas tree problems would be simple. Perhaps I’d even manage to snarf a candy cane or two while I was at it.
I picked up speed in case Maidmont decided to come after me with a foolproof manipulation that would see me back as a living, breathing torture device for toddlers. I only stopped when I reached a cluster of worried witches, all gazing upwards at the towering tree.
I stared up. The tree was impressive. I’d never been able to boast about having an artist’s eye but I could certainly appreciate effort. And Abigail and the other Neophytes who had been tasked with putting the tree together had certainly put in plenty of energy and labour.
The tree had to be at least twenty feet tall. Not only had they gone all out with the usual tinsel, baubles and glittery frou-frou things that I couldn’t name, there were also several spells set up to add to the overall effect. There wasn’t any of the snow that Abigail had been hoping to achieve but I counted at least two dozen tiny elves, created through some sort of elaborate illusion magic. They danced round the branches of the tree, flitting between the green and looking for all the world as if they really were Santa’s helpers. I could have done with some of them back at the grotto.
‘You know what I think?’ I said to no one in particular. ‘I think you should leave this up all year round. That way you don’t need to worry about doing this every twelve months. It’s pretty to look at and will distract visitors from the ugly Order buildings nearby.’
I eyed the carefully wrapped presents at the foot of the tree. Once upon a time, when I was young and foolish, I’d wasted many hours trying to create beautifully wrapped gifts. The trouble was that a gorgeous exterior not only took considerable time to achieve but also established unrealistic expectations. When the present looked as if it were an expensive toy but actually contained several pairs of socks, the ensuing disappointment could be considerable. At least that was what I’d told myself when I realised that it wouldn’t matter how much care and attention I took over my presentation skills; my gifts would always look as if they’d been wrapped by a clumsy clawed bear with defective vision. These days I counted it a success when I bothered to drop my gifts into handy bags. Usually I just thrust them into the hands of the lucky recipient with some muttered excuse about saving paper and therefore the environment.
From the other side of the crowd of witches, Abigail was wringing her hands. She stumbled over to join me. ‘I’m glad you like it. But there’s a massive problem.’ She bit her lip and looked as if she were about to cry. That concerned me; she hadn’t struck me as a weeper before.
At that moment, some of the branches towards the top of the tree quivered in a way that had nothing at all to do with the light breeze gusting around us. I frowned and squinted up, then leapt backwards just a flicker of a heartbeat before a massive glass bauble came crashing down onto the spot where I’d been standing.
