Borage

by Gill McKnight

  “What?”

  “Well, we’re thinking there is no critter,” Keeva said, “and all Magdalene wanted was an excuse to break your wand.”

  “I’m no threat to her, with or without a working wand.”

  “You might not be, but there’s a lot of magic in that wand and Magdalene must have known what she was releasing.” Dulcie ate a cracker.

  “You said before she wouldn’t have known.” Astral didn’t like the sound of this.

  “What if she did know? Maybe she’s figured out how to capture the magic.”

  “But that’s my family magic,” Astral said. “Not a swarm of bees.”

  “Regardless, it’s behaving like a swarm, whizzing here and there looking for a new queen.” Keeva sipped her port. “Which should be you, by the way, unless Magdalene somehow gets there first.”

  “But why?” It had never occurred to her that Magdalene could be so duplicitous. Mean and maddening, yes. But this? This was something else entirely. “Magdalene wants to find the critter that’s stealing all our money,” she said, but she wasn’t even convincing herself.

  “Are we even sure we’ve lost money?” Keeva said. “I mean, we’ve only Magdalene’s and Old Mother Worriwort’s word for it, and Old Mother Worriwort is as steamed as a clam half the time. The rest are just a pack of burnt-out crones.”

  “That pack of burnt-out crones happens to be our coven.” Astral shot her a look.

  Keeva met her gaze, unperturbed. “It’s not the coven your grandmother left behind.”

  “It’s true, Astral.” Dulcie leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. “The Plague Tree Coven is practically unrecognisable from a year ago. Very few of us like the direction Magdalene’s taking us.”

  “And if you vocalize it, you’re out on your ass,” Keeva said. “All the decent witches in official positions have been replaced by her suck-ups.”

  “Except for Dulcie.” Astral put cheese on a cracker.

  “Yeah. There’s that, thank Hecate,” Keeva said. “But I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.” She swapped glances with Dulcie so swiftly that Astral almost missed it.

  “What? What are you hiding from me?”

  Dulcie sighed. “Keeva has it in her head that I’m a fall guy somehow.”

  “You’re the Maiden because you’re the smartest,” Astral said, a small knot of tension tightening in her stomach, but already Dulcie was shaking her head.

  “Then why isn’t Erigone the Maiden?” Dulcie said. “She’s whip sharp and Magdalene’s daughter.”

  “Yeah, she’s clever, but you’re the smartest,” Astral repeated. “You can run rings around Erigone, and, anyway, she doesn’t want anything to do with the coven. She’s made that clear.”

  “Nepotism aside, Erigone is smart enough, and she damn well could be Maiden if she so much as clicked her fingers.” Keeva refilled everyone’s glasses. “There has to be an agreement between her and her mother. It’s as simple as that. Magdalene doesn’t want her daughter anywhere near the coven as much as Erigone doesn’t want to be bothered with it.”

  “So, you think Magdalene doesn’t really care about the coven at all?” Astral stared at her. “It’s just part of a power play?”

  “Perhaps. I mean, look at Eve Wormrider,” Keeva said. “Your grandma wouldn’t trust her to pick herbs, and suddenly she’s Magdalene’s right hand. There’s a recipe for disaster. Magdalene isn’t stupid, after all. She’s surrounded herself with daft and disposable lackeys for a reason.”

  Dulcie picked up her glass. “I think we’re all getting a little paranoid. Magdalene isn’t going to destroy The Plague Tree Coven because it’s the seat of all her power and she’s an Ironwitch. She loves power.”

  “Well, something odd is going on.” Keeva pointedly waved a stick of celery. They sat in silence for a few moments and Astral ate more cheese. Witches loved cheese more than cake or even whiskey…sometimes.

  “Why do you think Magdalene is doing this?” Astral finally asked, because right now, she had no idea what any motivation for any of this could be.

  Dulcie came around the table and wrapped her arms around her. “We don’t know all the answers, but we’re getting closer, thanks to you, and we’re looking out for you. You’re not alone.”

  “Yeah.” Keeva stabbed the last of the Wensleydale and gestured at her with it. “While we’re here, nobody puts baby in the cauldron.”

  Astral tried to smile, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Something was afoot, and she definitely did not like the way any of this was playing out.

  Chapter 7

  The apartment’s panoramic window overlooked London Bridge. Abby Black sipped her fifty-year-old Balvenie scotch and contemplated the soft wash of light over the ancient stone and the inky ripple of the Thames. She liked London Bridge. It was stately, sombre, and secure, indifferent to the knee-deep sludge that washed around its landings. She had an affinity with it.

  Reflected in the glass behind her, Iraldine draped across the white leather Arne Norell couch, idly twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger, and Abby knew she was bored, which was never a good sign. Trouble brewed, unless she was distracted or had money thrown at her, and right now, Abby was disinclined to do either. Extremely disinclined.

  Iraldine finally said, “I don’t like her.”

  “Who?” She turned away from the London panorama, schooling her face into a rictus of ennui, but the type of ennui that could turn surly if provoked. She hoped Iraldine took note.

  “The new temp. She’s vulgar.”

  “Ms Projector? In what way is she vulgar? Has she been rude to you?” She knew Iraldine’s feelings. Iraldine had made them more than clear for most of the commute home. In a way, she rather enjoyed Iraldine’s pique.

  Iraldine sighed as if the question was facetious and took another sip of her scotch. Abby begrudged her it. The Balvenie was expensive enough not to be wasted on an uneducated palate. Iraldine was a cocktail girl and Abby wished she’d just admit it, ask for a Cosmopolitan, and stop wasting her good scotch. She found these attempts at sophistication—or worse, attempts to impress her—tedious. Ms Projector never tried to impress. She simply was herself, and Abby liked that.

  “Who is she meant to replace, anyway? I can’t remember who was on Fergal’s team before her. And it’s not like I can ask him because he’s always addled.”

  “She’s replacing nobody who’s important.” Abby turned back to the river, finding it far more pleasurable than her present company.

  “Is she important?” Iraldine came to join her at the window. She snaked her arm around Abby’s waist and dropped her head on her shoulder. She was the right height for this to occur and Abby thought again about Ms Projector, and how short she was.

  She also remembered the stretch as she stooped to kiss her. Not unpleasant at all. Far from it. She pushed the memory away and watched as Iraldine checked herself in the glass and seemed pleased with what she saw.

  Abby flicked an impassive glance at their joint reflection and considered the contrast. Iraldine was as beautiful as ever. A frosty Nordic goddess carved out of living ice. Next to her, Abby was smouldering hellfire. She was dressed in black, as usual. Her dark hair hung straight to her shoulders, and in the city lights bleeding through the glass, her face was a ghostly mask of angles, hollows, and hard edges. She looked like an abandoned Picasso, but the comparison didn’t perturb her.

  “Well? Is she?” Iraldine asked again.

  “Hmm?” She had forgotten the question.

  “The Projector girl.” Iraldine’s tone broadcast impatience. “Is she somehow important?”

  Abby sipped her Balvenie, appreciating the velvet heat and the citrus burst on the back of her tongue that slowly levelled off to a gentle hint of cinnamon, and finally the promised oak. It took nearly a minute for the full hit. She thought carefully during that time before answering, her mind idly drifting back to the kiss with its own slow burn. It had held a velvet heat all of its
own and she’d liked it, much more than she had expected to. Her distorted Picasso reflection smiled drolly back. It had been a very fine kiss with soft, long forgotten afternotes of Anatolian spices and Thracian honey—and magic.

  Yes. It had been a fine kiss and that had initially caught her completely unawares, which was a hard thing to do. She wondered why Ms Projector had initiated it and would there be another one soon? If so, she’d play along with it—no quibble at all. She had to be careful, though. It would not do for Ms Projector to realise where the magic was really coming from.

  “She is important. Much more than you’d guess.” She took a sip from her crystal cut tumbler and added, “He is pleased.”

  Iraldine huffed in irritation. “Good for him.” She grimaced. “Baked goods,” she said acidly. “The little tart brought you baked goods.”

  “I didn’t ask her to.”

  “That’s the point. She did it without prompting. Clearly, she wants something from you.” She glared at their shared reflection in the glass.

  “I can’t control whether an employee wishes to bring baked goods to work.”

  “She brought a special baked good to you,” Iraldine pressed. “Inappropriate. I don’t care how important you think she is. Best to ensure she understands what’s what.”

  “It’s unimportant whether she does or not. What’s important is what happens as a result of her temporary position at the firm. Remain focussed on that.”

  She shot her another glare in the glass. “The team and I are going to a club.”

  Abby kept the flicker of relief from her expression. She much preferred to be alone right now. “An excellent idea. Team-building,” she said, tone dry.

  Iraldine rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you at the office.” She leaned in to kiss her but Abby turned her head and the kiss landed on her cheek. Iraldine stepped back, cruel amusement in her eyes. “So, you’re in one of those moods again.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Iraldine shrugged. “You’ll be back,” she said with bored certainty.

  Abby sipped her scotch and watched in the glass as Iraldine moved away and grabbed her wrap. She left without another word. Abby relaxed and continued to stare out the window, sorting through thoughts on the rather odd turn of events that encircled her and the firm, and how a certain witch from a nondescript village had ended up in the centre of them.

  *

  “Morning, Ping. Anyone in yet?” Astral’s greeting sounded jauntier than she felt.

  “Hello, you,” Ping answered, equally cheerful. “No one that I’ve seen.”

  “Ah. I thought Ms Black was an early bird.” Astral kept fishing. If Abby Black came in early, she most definitely didn’t want to run into her. She didn’t have the reserves to deal with how she was feeling around Ms Black. Plus, she was unsure what would happen if they ran into each other. Her face heated in what she was sure was an unbecoming colour at the thought of yesterday’s kiss. It had run through her mind all night, over and over, denying her sleep and giving her hormonal night sweats. She didn’t need a visceral meltdown in the office.

  “No, she’s got meetings in London today.”

  That was a relief. “Oh. So, does she commute here every day?” Was it obvious that she was asking too many questions? Or that she was super curious about Abby Black? Which was a sure sign she was crushing. Inwardly, she cringed. She ought to be more sensible. It was only a kiss, and one caused by magic at that, which wasn’t really fair to Ms Black.

  Ping nodded. “Oh, yes, so far. She’s got a fabulous place near London Bridge. We were all invited there for a party one Christmas. Oh, my god, the view is to die for.” She smiled, clearly happy to start the day with a good gossip. “There were three bathrooms, all marble, and the canapés came from Fortnum and Mason’s, and there was so much Champagne, I had a hangover for a week.” Her eyes shone. “I took a peek in the master bedroom and her bed was a mile wide with black silk sheets.” She giggled and blushed. “Black. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Astral smiled back. It seemed someone else had a sort-of crush on Ms Black, too. “Is she English?” She rushed to change the subject, and experienced a bit of jealousy because Ping knew all about Abby Black’s apartment, especially her mile-wide bed with black silk sheets. “I mean, there’s a trace of an accent…” Her question wasn’t really that much of a diversion, she noted. She was still all about Abby Black.

  “Her mother’s English, but her dad is from somewhere in the Middle East. She told me where once…Sumer, I think she said. I forget. It’s a big place, though.” Ping paused. “Hey, would you do me a favour and take the mail for your floor?” She waved a bundle of letters and packages. “Just drop them onto the tray on the console table. People can pick through for themselves as they come in.”

  “Of course.” She took the bundle and with a friendly wave headed for the elevators. It was still early, and the building had an easy-going feel, as if it was slowly stretching into its work day.

  An empty elevator was waiting for her, which she took as a good omen, and she pressed button thirteen. The elevator whizzed her upward, and a classical guitar rendering of Bill Wither’s “lovely Day” accompanied her, another good omen. The car slowed and stopped at the ninth floor, where the doors opened.

  Abby Black stood waiting. Behind her stretched a long, dimly lit corridor lined with office doors. Each door was firmly shut. This floor was not an open plan like the thirteenth floor.

  “Oh,” Astral exclaimed and she stepped backwards and pronged her left kidney on the handrail.

  Abby entered the elevator and, for a tall, thin woman, took up far too much space. She seemed to swallow all the light with her brooding presence, like a funeral bird at a baby shower.

  “Good morning, Ms Projector,” Abby said, without a flicker of recognition of past intimacies.

  Astral sighed inwardly, glad but also a little disappointed that everything was back to normal. A little part of her went into mourning.

  “Good morning, Ms Black.” She kept her voice under control. As the doors slid shut, she caught a final glance of the ninth floor. Low lighting and a general stillness gave her the impression no one was working behind the rows of closed doors. What was Abby Black doing here when she was supposed to be in London? The elevator doors snapped shut, and the car began to rise.

  “Ping said you were in London today,” she blurted, then realized what a stupid, intrusive statement it was. She blushed.

  Abby looked surprised. “My meeting is later today.” Silence fell like a thick woollen blanket and it threatened to suffocate Astral.

  “How were your first few days, Ms Projector?” Abby asked, tone polite.

  “Interesting.” She gripped the mail as if it were the last life preserver on a sinking ship.

  “I hope that’s a good thing. Remember, we will be looking for permanent staff once things are more settled. Transition is always a major upheaval and we expect a few new openings, if you find you enjoy the work.”

  “Oh? Thank you. I’ll consider it.” Absolutely not, no way, and could she just leave today and never come back? She kept her expression neutral.

  “I hope so. And thank you for the bread. It was quite delicious.”

  The elevator arrived at the thirteenth floor before Astral could respond, and Abby stood back to let Astral exit first.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” Astral finally managed.

  She liked it. Ms Black had liked the bread. Or, at least, she had said she did. That acknowledgment caused all kinds of little tingles up and down her spine.

  With a curt nod, Abby turned towards her office, leaving Astral to fumble with the mail trays. Clutching her Tupperware to her midsection, she went to the kitchen to leave out today’s selection of ginger glees and fudge fandangos. She thought about Abby’s words with regard to transition and upheaval. Was that how the critter did it? An office move would provide the perfect opportunity for malign business.

  She sta
rted when Abby walked into the kitchen and went to the coffee machine, where she poured a cup of coffee. Black, Astral noted. As black as her kinky bed sheets. She blinked. Where had that little morsel of inappropriateness come from? She liked to think she was not overly imaginative—in that way—and she certainly didn’t want to start now. And certainly not towards Ms Black.

  Sure, Fireside witches tended to be homemakers who worked best in a loving relationship, but single Firesiders were no less effective. The assumption was that they had not found their “other shoe” yet. And if the “other shoe” never appeared—well, Astral felt she was quite capable of hopping through life on one leg happily enough. She wasn’t actively looking for another shoe, and even if she was, Abby Black was definitely not it.

  “Would you like a ginger glee?” She fumbled with the lid of the Tupperware and offered up the contents.

  “Thank you, no. I’m afraid I haven’t a sweet tooth,” Abby said with a small tilt to the side of her mouth, which Astral interpreted as a friendly gesture.

  “Oh, of course.” She fumbled the lid back on again and managed to block the doorway so Abby had to sidestep awkwardly around her to leave, holding her coffee cup high, and a flash of humour in her eyes.

  Annoyance at yet another example of her own awkwardness accompanied Astral to her desk where she sat, a mass of hard edges and embarrassment, until she threw herself into her work, taking a bit of comfort in Abby’s comment about her bread.

  Fergal had wasted no time in heaping her desk with everything he either didn’t want to do or didn’t know how to do. Astral studied the pile. She had a straightforward method of working, which involved starting at the top and working her way down, completing all her tasks thoroughly and in an efficient manner. It was a simple, orderly process because Fireside witches liked simplicity and order.

  Plus, without Fergal around she could concentrate better. Her nerves were jangled after seeing him walk off with twenty grand in his pockets. She had no idea what that was about or what to do about it. On review, he didn’t seem to be traditional critter material because he was neither nasty nor cunning. Fergal was lazy, and a terrible supervisor, but not a problem she’d likely pass on to Magdalene.