The Witch Who Mysteries Box Set 2

by Katie Penryn

  When we returned, we started on the ground floor windows. Multi-talented as Felix was, he had never mixed cement or used a power drill. He added too much water to the first batch. When he tried to fill the holes and cracks in the cut stone around the hinges, the cement wouldn’t stay put. It dribbled out and ran down the walls. Even though the cement we used was white, it made a nasty mess. We had to scrape it all off and start again. We didn’t know what to do with the mixture, so we sneaked through the garden gate and along the cliff path where we poured it into a hole in the cliff. Felix didn’t add enough water the second time and so the cement wouldn’t bind. It crumbled and fell out of the cracks.

  Felix called down to me from halfway up the ladder.

  “This is hopeless,” he said. “We’ll never have the house storm proof by Sunday at this rate. Can’t we use magic?”

  I was already feeling guilty about our non-ecological disposal of the sloppy cement.

  “I can’t do that. I’m a white witch. I have to use magic for the benefit of others, not for myself.”

  “It would be for the benefit of someone other than you—me! I’m hopeless at this DIY stuff, and we’ll never find someone to fix things for us halfway through Friday with a storm on the horizon for the weekend.”

  Another hodgepodge of wannabe mortar fell off his trowel and onto Zag. The ground below the first floor windows had the appearance of a bad case of chicken pox. Maybe Felix had a point.

  Zag seconded him saying, “Please Penzi, do something. He’ll fall off the ladder next.”

  “I won’t do that,” Felix replied. “I’m a cat and we’re good at heights.”

  “Let’s ask Gwinny for her opinion. After all, two white witches are better than one. Even if she hasn’t practiced magic for years, she’ll be all right on the principles.”

  Felix told me to hold the ladder. He shinned down it at top speed. He dumped his mason’s bucket, mortar board and trowel on the ground and made for the kitchen door. Gwinny looked up from her Friday morning baking session.

  “Finished already? That was quick,” she said.

  Felix washed his hands at the sink, leaving me to tell my mother about our lack of success in the field of window and shutter repair.

  “We’d like your advice on whether it’d be all right to use magic to get the work done. It’s nearly midday. We have to call on Father Pedro this afternoon. The storm is due on Sunday. We’ll never find anyone to help us at this late stage. And if the storm arrives earlier than expected, it will blow out all our windows.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking me. Of course, it’s possible to get the repairs done using magic.”

  “Gwinny, I know that. It’s whether it’s ethical for me to use a spell when it’s for repairs to my own house.”

  “You’re worried about benefitting yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “Let me take a look at your progress,” she said making her way out onto the verandah and then into the mess of our yard.

  “Hmm,” she said when she saw the dropped cement both sloppy and crumbly.

  “The magic wouldn’t be for your benefit only, would it? It would save Felix from attempting to do something he’s no good at.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Felix. “If I could do the job as a cat or leopard, it would be better because I’m good at heights, but we felines don’t have opposable thumbs, so that’s out of question.”

  Gwinny nodded to acknowledge what Felix had said. “It would make the house safe for Sam, Jimbo and me apart from you. And the dogs. Enough people would benefit to make it all right for you to use a spell to get the work done.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Felix hurrying back into the house. “We haven’t got long. Go and fetch your Book of Spells, boss.”

  Gwinny had followed Felix into the house with me bringing up the rear. I shucked off my mucky shoes and raced up the stairs to my bedroom. I picked up the old carved Chinese box in which the magic book was kept and ran back down again to the study where Felix awaited me. I placed the box carefully on my father’s old desk, took the lid off and lifted out the precious Book of Spells which had once been my mother’s. The beauty of the book charmed me anew every time Felix and I used it. Normally, only a white witch can refer to a Book of Spells, but Felix had received special permission from the High Council of the Guild of White Witches to teach me the spells as and when we needed them because of my dyslexia. However, he could not touch the book or turn the pages, and so learning a new spell involved teamwork.

  The rainbow of precious gems set in the thick antique red leather cover sparkled up at me. I braced myself for the brilliant flash of light which always accompanied my opening of the book.

  “Ready?” I asked with my finger poised on the corner.

  Felix nodded and closed his eyes. I followed suit and lifted the cover. Even through my closed eyelids the prism of light startled me.

  We gave ourselves a few seconds for our eyes to recover before I leafed the pages over to the index and turned the book to face Felix.

  “What shall I look for?” he asked.

  “Something to do with repairs, renovations, making good. See if anything like that catches your eye.”

  He checked the first page, his finger poised above the parchment and shook his head. I slipped my finger beneath the top corner of the page and ran it gently down to the bottom as I flipped the heavy parchment over to the next page. Felix stopped half way down.

  “Here’s one that might do. Let me read the details.”

  I waited quietly until he said, “Okay. This one will do the trick. It’s called the reparare spell. You have to add the object you want repaired. In this case shutters. What’s the Latin for that?”

  “Windows I know from my study of Latin for my law degree but not shutters. Look it up.”

  Felix switched on his laptop. As soon as it had booted, he searched for the Latin for shutter.

  “Foricula,” he said.

  I crossed my fingers to stop the spell working incorrectly before we were ready. “We have to use the correct grammatical case, so it would be reparare foriculas. Do we need any special ingredients, or is it a words and symbols only spell?”

  Felix read through the spell and looked up at me with a laugh.

  “Special ingredients. Give you three guesses.”

  “Bay leaves, lavender or parsley.”

  Felix shook his head. “No, no and no.”

  “So what then?”

  “It’s like something from Macbeth. Half a dozen live spiders, a piece of silken cloth and a tablespoon of salt.”

  “What? Live spiders? Let’s ask Gwinny if that sounds right.”

  Gwinny said the spell was reasonable and we should follow it.

  She handed me an empty pickle jar. “Here: for the spiders. I’ve an old silk scarf I never use. We can cut a piece off that. There’s the salt,” she said pointing to a barrel next to the stove. “I’ll run upstairs and fetch the scarf.”

  “Where are we going to find six spiders in a hurry?” Felix asked.

  “Start with the rooms we’re not using. I don’t clean them often. And check the corners of the ceiling on the verandah.”

  Armed with our spider catching kit, Felix and I went first to Audrey’s former bedroom. A cluster of spiders had built their webs in each corner of the room, but way up high on the ceiling.

  “Maybe we could knock them down with a broom,” Felix suggested. “You’re a witch. Fetch your broom,” he added with a chuckle.

  “This is no time for joking, Felix. I’m a modern witch and a real one at that. Brooms belong in the Middle Ages. Anyway, if we knock them down we might hurt them. Break a leg or something worse. I’m sure they have to be whole for the spell to work.”

  “Since when have you been so concerned about spiders, boss?”

  “I have nothing against spiders. They do their job: catching flies and mosquitoes. They’re fun to watch within reason. It’s Gwinny who
kills them all. She says their webs collect the dust.”

  “In that case, I’ll fetch the step ladder. Then you can climb to the top and trap the spiders while I steady the ladder for you.”

  “You’re not scared of spiders as well as bees, are you?”

  Felix narrowed his eyes and frowned at me.

  “I’m not scared of bees, boss. I told you that. I’m wary.”

  “And you’re wary of spiders, too?” I asked him with a grin.

  Felix gave a loud harrumph and stalked out of the room. When he returned with the step ladder, he set it up in the first corner and waved me up.

  “I’ll have you know,” he said. “When I’m a cat, I eat the darned things.”

  “What? Spiders?”

  He nodded and added, “Hurry it up, boss. We don’t have long. The roofer will be here soon.”

  Now, I had overplayed my interest in spiders. Yes, I didn’t mind them at a distance especially if there was no danger of them doing a Little Miss Muffet on me, but up close and personal was another matter. However, after teasing Felix, I didn’t want to give myself away. I climbed up the ladder hoping that French spiders weren’t aggressive and that if they were, they weren’t venomous.

  Surveying the problem I realized the best way to get hold of spiders who were happily sitting in their webs was to detach the whole web with its spider and drop it in the jar. In this way I added the required half a dozen to the jar.

  “We’ll have to hurry,” said Felix as I climbed down the ladder. “They might start fighting or eating each other up.”

  We walked quickly into the study to find that Gwinny had laid a piece of silk and the salt jar on the desk ready for us.

  Felix and I crossed our fingers while he taught me the spell. Once I was sure I could repeat the words and imagine all the symbols, Felix took the lid off the jar of spiders.

  He crossed his fingers again and shouted, “Quick. Before they escape.”

  I closed my eyes and concentrated. When I felt the power rising in me I called out, “Reparare foriculas!”

  Two of the spiders had succeeded in freeing themselves from their webs and were abseiling down to the floor when they disappeared in a puff of pink smoke. The other four suffered a similar fate, web and all. The silk shriveled up and vanished leaving only the salt behind.

  “Poor spiders,” I said.

  “They died a heroic death in a good cause, boss. Much better than being sucked up in a vacuum cleaner.”

  I opened the window. The spell had firmly embedded the shutter hinges in the walls. I pulled the shutter to and checked the handle. No screws missing. A good tight fit. It would take a hurricane to shift that.

  “Let’s tell Gwinny it worked, and the house is now storm proofed apart from the roof.”

  As we crossed the hall to the kitchen, the front door bell rang. The roofer. He introduced himself as Joachim Charpentier, said he was in a hurry and ordered his two assistants to carry his ladders round to the side gate. Gwinny offered the men the usual obligatory coffee, but Charpentier refused saying he had several other roofs to check that day. When the gang had completed their inspection, Charpentier told us he had replaced several broken tiles and used tile hooks on the tiles closest to the ocean.

  “That should hold for the time being,” he said, “but you need to have the whole roof fitted with modern tile hooks. These traditional canal tiles rely on nothing but gravity to keep them in place. You should move with the times.”

  Chapter 19

  Before we left to collect Jimbo, Felix and I had to clear up the mess we’d made in the backyard with our attempts at masonry repair. I gave Zig and Zag a brushing so they’d look their best to meet Father Pedro.

  Zig shook when it was her turn.

  “I’m scared, Penzi. What if Father Pedro makes me go right up close to the hives?”

  Zag woofed. “Don’t be such a puppy. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Felix broke off from his task of grooming Zag.

  “I know how Zig feels. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  Father Pedro greeted us all and gave the dogs a bowl of water. He offered Felix and me a glass of mead, but I refused saying I was driving. I’d found it overpowering last time I’d tried it.

  To start his therapy session, Father Pedro put on some quiet music and explained the life cycle of the honeybee to Felix who sat stiffly and tapped his foot all through the lecture. Zig lay across my feet as if she couldn’t get any nearer.

  “We can’t do without bees,” Father Pedro said. “They’re vital to our ecosystem because they pollinate most of our plants.”

  “My mind accepts that,” said Felix, “but when I hear the buzzing, reason vanishes to be replaced by a feeling of panic and helplessness.”

  Father Pedro asked if Felix knew why he reacted that way, and so Felix explained about his experience as a child, leaving out all references to being a leopard, of course. I told Father Pedro about what had happened to Zig when she was a puppy.

  “So you both have a real reason for being cautious round bees. That’s good in a way. Better than an irrational fear. We’ll start very slowly. Today I want you both to come outside and watch the bees go about their business. Remember they only sting when they are provoked. Using her sting is fatal for a honey bee—it costs her her life.”

  We followed Father Pedro out into his back garden. He left the kitchen door open to give Felix and Zig an escape route if they couldn’t stay the course. We all stood observing the bees flying in and out of the hives about twenty-five yards away. Zig had wedged herself up tight against my leg. She panted furiously and edged backwards. Each time she did, I had to coax her forwards again. I glanced at Felix. He was leaning against the door jamb. His shallow breaths indicating the strength of will keeping him in position. Sweat beaded his forehead. When he sensed me looking at him he gave me a tremulous smile.

  By the time twenty minutes had passed Felix’s breathing had calmed and although Zig was still panting, the rate had slowed down.

  “Take two steps forwards,” said Father Pedro.

  I cajoled Zig to keep pace with me as I obeyed. Felix cast me a plea for help but I ignored it and waited for him to move up alongside. Both Felix and Zig began to display signs of panic.

  “Felix, try counting slowly to a hundred and back again,” said Father Pedro. “Penzi, stroke your dog.”

  Once again Father Pedro waited for them both to calm down before saying, “That’s enough for today. We’ll have another session next week. Now come inside for a cup of tea.”

  Jimbo took Zig’s leash and gave her a big patting and stroking session until she wagged her tail. This was my opportunity to ask Father Pedro’s advice about the forthcoming storm.

  “Leave the hives where they are. You’ll disturb your bees if you move their housing with a storm coming on. Take away the extra honey supers and use ratchet straps to bind the rest of the hive together. Weight the top of the hives down with something heavy. Cement blocks are perfect. That will prevent the tops from blowing off. Make sure they have some candy to feed on because they won’t want to forage. Check on them whenever there’s a lull in the wind. They should be all right.”

  We thanked Father Pedro and walked out to our car. I was on the point of driving off when Father Pedro came hurrying out to the car and knocked on my window.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I nearly forgot to tell you. It’s short notice but these things always happen at the last minute. It’s tomorrow at four o’clock.”

  What was he talking about?

  “Come again?” I asked as he turned to walk back to his house.

  He slapped his hand against his forehead. “Oh silly me.”

  “The funeral, of course. Joseph Marin’s funeral. With any luck it will all be over before the storm arrives. You will be there?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said and waved to him as he continued on his way back to the house.

  Zig relaxed as soon
as we turned out of the drive. It took Felix a while longer, but he was almost himself by the time we reached Les Dragons.

  “This therapy might work,” he said, “but it was tempting to turn tail and run away.”

  “You were both brave. It takes courage to face up to something that frightens or alarms you. Well done, both of you.”

  I called Sam to help me and the two of us carried out Father Pedro’s recommendations, making the hives as snug as could be.

  *

  The wind picked up before dawn the next day. It rattled the shutters waking me. I jumped out of bed and ran over to look out at the bee hives but it was still too dark to see anything. As the morning went on the wind gusted in from the sea and a couple of tiles clattered down onto the pavement in front of the house. The Atlantic Ocean crashed onto the cliffs at the side of the house. Heavy sleet cut us off from the other side of the bay which heaved with choppy waves rushing into shore and retreating without spending their force.

  As the afternoon ran on the winds increased in velocity blowing away the garbage bins on the Esplanade and battering against the storm shutters on the shops facing the sea.

  I was tempted to skip Joseph’s funeral but civic duty got the better of me. At half past three Felix and I wrapped ourselves up warmly and put on our gumboots. We made a hazardous journey to the church. Two of the palm trees on the Esplanade had blown over. I drove through streets strewn with debris and fallen tiles, the windscreen wipers batting furiously against the maelstrom of whirling paper and plastic cups.

  We arrived to find the car park full. I had to park a hundred yards up the road. We battled our way through the driving rain to reach the church. We were lucky to find seats in the last pew as it was far from being empty. I shed my raincoat and looked around. I noted that most of the people we had met down at the docks and at La Rose des Vents had come to pay their respects to a member of their fishing and sailing community. Even the pleasure boat owners were there including the crew of the Spanish boat, Eva. A congregation brought together by their common fear and love of the sea surrounded us on all sides.