Borage

by Gill McKnight

  Familiars were supposed to assist their witches, but Borage had a different interpretation of his role. He had to be pandered to before he’d surrender any tidbits of information.

  She looked at him, expression thoughtful. Despite her Projector pedigree, she wasn’t a coven dignitary. She was barely an entry in the Book of Call. She had her place in the coven Circle, though. That was entrusted to her through birth and no one could take that away. But other than the odd ceremony, her wand didn’t get out much these days. It was hard to care about something she was so fundamentally bad at. She had once liked gatherings, when they used to be jolly, social occasions full of laughter and gossip. Used to be…in Grandma Lettice’s days. Now, however, was a different matter?

  Where is your wand? Borage’s grumpy voice crept into her head. He was still flat on his belly, limbs splayed. Dissatisfaction seeped from him, slipping across the kitchen floor in a thin layer, warm and sticky, and growing more viscous by the second. Astral stole a sidelong glance at the dresser drawer where she kept the wooden spoons and spatulas. The hazelwood wand was tucked in among them, gathering flour dust. She felt a momentary flutter of guilt. She really ought to look after it better.

  “It’s safe,” she said, as nonchalantly as possible.

  Borage’s straggly tail lashed out question marks. Is it? Hide it better.

  “What? Why?” She should be doing just the opposite, shouldn’t she? She should be practicing more. She should be waving it about, chanting this and invoking that. She’d hardly improve with her wand tucked in the back of a drawer. But she’d been feeling low since her grandma died and had lost interest in her practice.

  “Why?” she asked again. Borage sat up and licked a paw, ignoring her question. It had become a war of wills and Astral didn’t have the time to win it and Borage knew this.

  “Okay, here’s a tiny dollop.” She poured a small amount of cream into his bowl. “But you’re supposed to be on a diet, remember? Keeva will shout at me.” He dove on it. “Now out with it. Why should I hide my wand, especially on a coven night?”

  It was frustrating to scratch around for information like this. They should be empathizing with each other. That’s how Familingus—the telepathic communication between a witch and her familiar—should occur. Most times, Astral was uncomfortable with the link. Connecting with Borage was…itchy. He made her irritated and tired. Maybe she had a cat allergy.

  Itchiness aside, she needed to know the latest gossip among the familiars if she was to be prepared for tonight and whatever it was about to bring. Omens were in the spiralling cloud patterns overhead. They were in the creak of the barn door and the rattle of the beech tree branches. The wind chimes were all out of sorts. The hens had stopped laying. Even the ripples on the duck pond looked ominous. Something loomed behind the horizon—and Astral was certain she was not going to like it.

  “Diet be damned!” She surrendered and poured out the rest of the cream. Keeva could shout all she wanted. It was okay for her, she was a Dogwitch. her familiar, Lupin, loved her and did as he was told, unlike Borage, who was a heartless git.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this.” As always, guilt bobbed to the surface like the cork from the bottle of shame. “Keeva says you need to lose at least two kilos. The only reason you’re getting any of this cream at all is because it’s low fat.” Not that Borage gave a flying fart about calories. “So, tell me, why do I have to hide my wand?”

  Magdalene Curdle hates you. Borage’s voice scratched at her mind. Then he burped inside her head for good measure. Astral shuddered. His thoughts rasped across her synapses as smoothly as his tongue. She wants something from you that she couldn’t get from the old woman. His head was deep in his dish. He didn’t even have the manners to stop eating while communicating.

  “Uh-oh, that’s trouble.” Magdalene always made her uneasy. “Well, Grandma Lettice didn’t like her, either. She would have been affronted to know Magdalene took over from her as High Priestess. I wonder what it is she wants.” She looked around. The house was a practical shrine full of grandma’s things. “You think it’s the wand, don’t you?”

  Pfft, that floury old thing.

  “Then what?”

  Borage was done with her. Either he didn’t know, or he was through sharing. He gave another soft burp and lumbered off to his favourite corner by the stove and curled up on his cushion. Astral followed him. She opened the stove’s heavy cast iron door and placed a vanilla Françoise baked cheesecake on the lowest shelf. It was her last cake of the day.

  “Well, it can’t be anything witchy. Grandma bequeathed all her magical tools to the coven. Magdalene already has all her ceremonial stuff.” Despite the levity of her words, she was troubled. Magdalene was a formidable woman who always had a hidden agenda and her political cauldron was forever on the bubble. Astral’s wand belonged to the Projector bloodline and would be useless to her, even if Magdalene did get her mitts on it. Only a Projector witch could bring the hazelwood to life. Even the lowliest neophyte knew this.

  Borage curled into a tight ball. Communication was over. He gave a deep yawn and snuggled into his cushion.

  “You can be such a brute,” she muttered. “But I do love you, silly old cat.” She leaned over to rub behind his ears— they twitched with annoyance. She gave up. Borage believed in tough love.

  It was time to tidy the house while Dulcie’s favourite cheesecake baked. Astral hung her apron on the peg by the kitchen door and quickly checked her reflection in the wall mirror. She brushed a smudge of flour off her nose and frowned at a sprinkle of hated freckles. Her eyes betrayed her anxiety. She was nervous about hosting the gathering. As if to provide further proof, her hair was frizzier than usual, which always meant trouble was brewing. With a sly twist, she pinched it into a scrunchie at the nape of her neck and wrestled it under some sort of control. She could feel the tingle as her follicles protested, hating to be silenced. It was not the most elegant of hairdos, but it would do for now.

  Before she abandoned the unsatisfactory image in the mirror, she dug in her pocket for her lipstick and smoothed Pink Caress across her lips, frowning as the dimple on her right cheek popped. She hated how young it made her look. Like she still had baby fat under all her regular fat.

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed six times, pulling her away from the mirror. Then, it cheekily peeled out Chopin’s “Funeral March” to remind her time was running out.

  “You’re so funny,” she scolded it, but picked up her step. It gave a loud tock, its version of a chortle.

  She started her mental list. She needed to check the parlour, and it had better behave itself. Its oak panelling made it seem prim and subdued, and she was happy to find it suitably sober for such a grand occasion. The old-fashioned, heavyset furniture sat as sombre as a lady dowager, polished surfaces gleaming in the late afternoon light. She paid particular attention to the wallpaper. Today, it carried a smart design of silvery fleur-de-lis on a neutral background that was neither offensive nor overly cloying. Astral approved, especially since in this household, wallpaper designs could be problematic.

  The cushions on the squishy, blue-velvet settee were another matter. Giddy and giggly, they had rearranged themselves into a massive pile one on top of the other like a haphazard game of King of the Castle.

  “Stop that right now,” she warned. The cushions disentangled and scattered back across the settee into an orderly row, releasing a disgruntled bolster from the bottom of the heap, obviously the butt of the joke. With a sigh, Astral gave its flattened feathers a gentle plump before setting it on the rocking chair by the hearth. The little bolster was always being picked on.

  “Stay here and keep out of trouble, okay? You know they love to bully you.” She gave it a comforting pat. The rocking chair tipped slightly forwards to reassure her that it had taken charge of the ward, and all would be well. A tinkle from the sideboard caught her attention next. The decanter and matching goblets were resonating gently on their si
lver tray.

  “I know. I know. I didn’t forget. A promise is a promise.” She drew a soft dusting cloth from her pocket and began to buff the intricate glass-cut design. “I’ve a lovely bottle of Laphroaig for you. Soon you’ll be glowing like molten amber.” She smiled as the cut glass shivered with excitement under her fingers. Her grandmother’s decanter always enjoyed a good malt. It was an expensive treat, but tonight was special and witches loved whiskey as much as they loved cake.

  To be asked to host a gathering is an honour, Astral reminded herself. And as a Projector she would rise to the occasion and make Grandma Lettice proud. Here, among Lettice’s favourite things, it was easy to let her confidence swell. However, on a lower level, her niggling doubts refused to be subdued. Why her? Since grandma died, the magic emerging from the Projector house had been negligible, though she had been a pillar of the witching community, serving as the coven’s High Priestess, a member of the Upper Council, and, therefore, a Grand Dame. Astral could barely tie the old lady’s laces, never mind fill her shoes.

  And Borage, in his usual fashion, had managed to trouble more than reassure with his mysterious messages. Her anxiety leaked into the room and the wallpaper picked up on it and rippled into cascades of inky runnels. She glared as the runs looped around into nooses.

  “Oh, behave,” Astral ordered. The silver fleur-de-lis reformed in a blink, which was suspicious in itself, as the wallpaper, much like her familiar, usually did exactly as it liked. She glanced at the mantle clock. Hecate’s bells, the cheesecake! Dulcie would never forgive her if she burned it.

  As if on cue, Dulcie’s lilting voice rang out to her from the kitchen. “Hello? Astral?” She’d let herself in through the back door. “Something smells like singed cheesecake.”

  Astral ran to the kitchen to find Dulcie switching on the kettle and gathering together the tea things. The slightly browned cheesecake was now on a cooling rack on the countertop.

  “Oh, thank you for saving it,” Astral said. “I’d forgotten the time.”

  “Looks like you’ve outdone yourself.” Dulcie eyed the huge pile of pies and cakes on the table.

  Astral sank into a chair, grateful to have a cuppa made for her. “The burned one’s especially for you.”

  They sat across from each other with the teapot brewing between them. Dulcie broke off a sliver of burnt crust and popped it into her mouth and grinned.

  “It’s not bad at all. Even your mistakes taste wonderful.” She plated a good-sized slice. “Keeva said she’ll call in later when it’s over and you’re to save her a Tupperware of apple cider pie. Though I can’t see you running out.” She threw a glance at the heaped confectionaries and asked, “Are you nervous? You always go a little overboard when you’re nervous.”

  “Very. Plus, Borage is as useless as ever. Did you manage to find anything out?”

  Dulcie slid back into her seat. Her hazel eyes gleamed wickedly, a sure sign she had gossip. And the generous smile on a mouth almost too wide for her small, pointed face, meant it was good gossip. She tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear and got down to business.

  “There’s definitely something going on,” she said. “The elders were in and out of each other’s houses all last night. I couldn’t get hold of anyone to see what this gathering was about, and yet I’m the Maiden and supposed to cast the Circle?” She poured the tea for Astral and herself, and took a sip from her own cup and thought for a bit. Astral knew to let Dulcie ruminate.

  “This is what I hate about Magdalene’s style of leadership,” Dulcie said. “It’s all so divisive, keeping only a few of her cronies in the know. Not that I respect any of her in-crowd anyway.” She snorted. “Your grandma kept everything out in the open and it built up intimacy and trust among us. Now Magdalene’s ruined all that with her stupid secrecy.”

  “Borage told me to hide my wand. Do you think Magdalene is going to give me a practical test?”

  “Why? You’re a coven member born and bred. I’d understand it better if she could take your wand away, but it’s a Projector wand. It’s yours and no one else can use it.” She looked over at the fat black cat sleeping by the range. “He’s such an awkward old buzzard. I’ll never understand why Grandmother Lettice picked him as your familiar. He wasn’t even a pretty kitten. You should have a bird like me.”

  “Where is Merryman?” Astral asked.

  “Outside eating flies.” She peered out the window looking for her sparrow. “He’s happy to be out of the car. He pooped all over the upholstery again. Dirty little beggar.”

  “I thought Keeva gave you a box to transport him in.” She sympathized with Merryman. Dulcie was a truly awful driver. If Astral were her passenger, she’d poop all over the upholstery, too.

  “He says the box smells of pigeons and he won’t go in it. Familiars are the most awkward things.” Dulcie returned her attention to her cup of tea. “I’m worried about tonight, Astral. Magdalene is up to something, and it can’t be good, or she’d have me in the loop. I’m her serving Maiden, after all. But she keeps me at arm’s length. I wish your grandma were still around. She’d soon sort Magdalene Curdle out.”

  Outside, the beech tree rapped smartly against the windowpane, making them start.

  “It’s been doing that all day,” Astral said. “It’s warning me. I mean, just look at the duck pond. It’s in turmoil.”

  “Whatever is going on, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Wordlessly they sipped their tea and brooded over omens from the safety of the kitchen table.

  Chapter 2

  “Critters!” Astral said with a gasp.

  “Yes.” Old Mother Worriwort took another large gulp of whiskey. “Critters.” Her eyes gleamed like hard-cooked raisins in her florid face. She was on her third glass, and although a mermaid finger sat on the plate on her lap, she hadn’t touched it. Her nose glowed, and her upper lip beaded with sweat. Pippin, her house mouse familiar, peeped out from her collar, his gaze as glassy as his mistress’s, leading Astral to wonder if familiars could get intoxicated by osmosis.

  “Here, child.” She signed the receipts for the night’s refreshments. Astral tucked the paperwork away and distractedly poked at the ginger glee on her own plate, her appetite well and truly gone. She hated critters. Not that she knew any. Okay, maybe she didn’t exactly hate them— it was unjust and unnatural to hate for the sake of it. Plus, it brought bad energy into the world and there was enough of that already. But she was unnerved at the very thought of these supernatural creatures. They were dangerous, wicked beasties that could suck a witch’s power clean out of her, leaving a hollow, shrunken husk.

  “Oh, my,” she struggled for something pertinent to say. “And you’ve seen these…critters, Mother Worriwort? Maybe in your scrying cauldron?” She was concerned about the old witch’s drinking, and on a coven night of all nights. Grandma Lettice had kept the old duck’s drinking in check, which was more than Magdalene Curdle did. She didn’t seem to care one jot that the ceremonial Crone was tanglefoot before they even cast the Circle.

  “Well, not quite, dear.” Old Mother Worriwort looked pointedly at her empty glass and Astral refilled it grudgingly. It was good malt, and deserved to be appreciated, not slugged down like tap water on a hot afternoon. Witches were so greedy when the hospitality was free. She hoped this would be the last time she hosted a gathering. Even with the coven paying for the baking ingredients, it took an awful amount of time to prepare for one.

  A glance around the room assured her the guests were comfortable. Everyone was dressed in ceremonial black robes, munching on cakes and chatting away. There were thirteen coveners present, including herself. This was not the entire coven family, but enough for a circle-cast, and a few of her favourite witching family members were present—older women who had been close friends of her grandma and regular visitors to the Projector home before Magdalene took over. The visits were much fewer since that had happened.

  Tallulah Spinner and h
er partner Martha Briarwood smiled at her. They were chatting with Dulcie and signaled their enjoyment of the spread set out for them. Astral made a mental note to send them home with a Tupperware of leftovers. She missed Tallulah and Martha’s visits and pushed away the small, nudging hurt that she saw so little of them since grandma had died. Life was busy for all of them, she supposed. Tallulah and Martha would never deliberately hurt her, but she did miss their gentle guidance and friendship.

  Dulcie tipped her a wink. She was in top sleuth form, and Tallulah and Martha must have had something of interest to say for her to be so glued to them when she really ought to be setting up the Circle.

  Borage was suspiciously absent from the proceedings. Though he was not a particularly social animal, it was customary for him to stalk through his domain when visitors called, tail whipping and whiskers seething. It was all for show because he was hoping to be pacified with adoring coos and tidbits. She excused herself from Old Mother Worriwort and went to check on him.

  Astral saw him at the top of the stairs, ears flattened and hissing at Magdalene Curdle’s familiar, Syracuse, a silver mink and a slippery, devious creature just like his owner, who now stood sentry on the bottom stair, blocking Borage from coming down.

  “Syracuse, are you bullying Borage? Shame on you. Shoo.” She tried to wave him off the step, but like Borage, he was oversized for his species, and a very sour, bad-tempered specimen. He refused to budge and hunched lower on the step, his scarred face squinting up at her. He remained unmoving, even as she gestured in an effort to shift him along.

  She was sorely tempted to give him a sharp prod with the tip of her toe. It was rude of him to cow another familiar, but like his mistress, Syracuse had little time for rules or mannerly behaviour. With a quick glance to ensure no one else was around, she slipped her foot under Syracuse’s butt and tipped him off the step.