Sparkle Witch: A Novella (The Lazy Girl's Guide To Magic Book 4)(6)

‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I wasn't talking to you.’

Her brow furrowed, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. ‘Then who...’ She hesitated ‘Oh. You're talking to a ghost.’ A flash of interest crossed her eyes despite her anxiety. ‘Is it someone famous?’

Grenville preened. ‘Why, yes.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘I am rather famous actually.’

‘Like,’ Abigail said, ‘John Lennon or someone like that?’

‘John Lennon!’ Grenville shrieked, his good humour vanishing. ‘Who in the blazes is John Lennon? Who cares about John Lennon? Could he do magic? Was he a magnificent witch like me?’

I sighed. ‘I rather think we’re getting away from the crux of the matter,’ I said. ‘Why don't we stop faffing around and one of you tell me exactly what the problem is?’

‘Work it out,’ Grenville snapped. ‘You're supposed to be some kind of genius. Work it out for yourself.’

Given the time and inclination, I was quite sure I could work it out for myself. However, when there were two people standing next to me who could tell me within the blink of an eye what the issue was, I had no idea why I should set my own brain cells to the matter.

Fortunately for all of us, Abigail was far more obliging than Grenville. ‘It's the Angel,’ she said. ‘It's missing.’

‘Huh?’ I responded stupidly.

‘From the top of the tree,’ she explained. ‘It's always been there. It's some kind of special antique. We collected all the decorations from Antiquities, including the Angel. We were all set to put it on last and make a bit of a big deal about it. The Angel is special, you see. She grants wishes and protects...’ Her bottom lip began to tremble again and her head dropped.

‘What the little witch is apparently unable to say,’ Grenville piped up, ‘is that the silver Angel, which your lot insist on putting on top of a tree but which deserves far better treatment, is not only lost but has several curses attached to it. And it’s also a protective emblem for the whole Order.’

I took a step back, fixating on one word. ‘Curses?’

Abigail's body shrank; it seemed that all her breath left her lungs all at once. ‘The ghost has told you,’ she said. She twisted her fingers round and round in her lap, pinching them so tightly that I was surprised she still had normal circulation. ‘I thought you'd have known about the Angel already. It's quite famous.’

‘This is my first Christmas with the Order,’ I answered testily. I was still finding it hard to move past the mention of curses. I was as superstitious as the next witch and any mention of anything that might bring bad luck terrified me.

Abigail coloured. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I forgot that you were...’

‘Kicked out for cheating and for assault,’ I finished for her. ‘It's all in the past now. Let's get back to what this Angel is supposed to do. Tell me about the curses.’ I did my best to sound business-like and professional. It was either that or turn round and run screaming for the hills.

Grenfell folded his arms and smiled as if he were enjoying all this tremendously. He turned his attention to Abigail and both of us waited for her to speak.

An over-eager witch who had been listening to our conversation sidled up. ‘I don't mean to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I couldn't help hearing what you were talking about. I've been told the curses will bring death and destruction upon the entire Order. That if the Angel is lost and not given pride of place at least once a year, we will all die in a fiery volcanic explosion.’

I gave him a long, hard look. Okaaaay. Yes, I believe in superstitions and curses. However, the idea that a volcano was going to appear out of nowhere in middle England was stretching even my credulity. We don't have volcanoes. We don't have earthquakes. We have lots of rain, some nasty wind which has the habit of sneaking down the back of your neck along with icy drips when you’re not paying attention, but no tsunamis or hurricanes or real attacks from Mother Nature. The natural occurrences we experience in this part of the world happen with whimpers rather than with screams.

I wasn't the only one who seemed to think that this new witch was being ridiculous. Another Neophyte, who to my eye looked as if she were about twelve years old, butted in. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It's not a fiery volcano that the loss of the Angel will incur. It’s the plague.’ Her eyes widened almost gleefully and she gestured to her bare skin. ‘First of all,’ she declared, ‘there will be pustules.’ She paused. ‘Pus-filled pustules.’

I frowned. ‘Aren’t pustules by their very nature filled with pus?’

She looked at me. ‘Uh, I don't know.’ Medical specifics were clearly not her forte. ‘But,’ she returned, moving on from my interruption, ‘the pus will be very green and very icky.’

I raised an eyebrow. When was pus not icky? Rather than interrupt again, however, I let her continue. When it doesn’t terrify me, I rather enjoy melodrama.

‘The affected will have all their hair fall out,’ she breathed, ‘and then all their teeth.’ She shuddered for extra effect. ‘And all their fingernails and toenails will drop off. Once that has happened their very bones will begin to disintegrate within their bodies. They will become like jellyfish, flopping around uselessly on the pavements of Britain.’