Page 2 of Uncharmed
‘It’s like clockwork. Thursday, isn’t it?
And Thursday is always date night.’ Olive waggled a knowing finger.
‘Fridays are with your girls. Mondays are late-night Cake Club here, to brighten up everybody’s start to the week.
Tuesdays for your studies, Wednesday nights are left for spontaneous plans.
I’m not sure what’s spontaneous about planning your spontaneous plans in advance but.
..’ Olive shook her head with a laugh. ‘You’re a marvel, Annie.
When you find the time to sleep remains to be seen. ’
‘You know me,’ Annie said, shrugging in good humour. ‘I just like things to be organized.’
Olive clucked. ‘There’s organized and then there’s the way you like to do things, lady. Whatever happened to going with the flow?’
Annie tried not to take this as a slight.
It felt like one, whenever people pointed out her need to consider things first. ‘Everything’s just better when it’s wrapped up in a neat little bow, don’t you think?
’ Hands on hips, she nodded pointedly towards the small box in Olive’s grasp containing her éclair and crumble.
The shine on its dusky pink ribbon winked back at just the right moment, as though it should have been accompanied by a high-pitched ping .
Annie made a mental note to research adding magical ping s to her powers when she had a spare moment. It could be a very cute detail.
Olive tutted. ‘Go easy on this one, will you? They’re all hapless victims as soon as they see you. I’ve witnessed it in here first hand more times than I can count. Have to feel sorry for them, really. Poor chaps.’
Annie rolled her eyes affectionately. ‘I’m only giving as good as I get.’
‘It’s that shampoo you’re using, I think.
Must get the brand from you next time,’ Olive muttered as she turned to leave.
Splendor Coma was a spell that Annie had mastered at her dressing table on day dot – the very same afternoon that she had come into her powers at fifteen years old, before her mother moved her on to more important things.
Just the right amount of volume, a calculated projection of shine.
A never-sickly fragrance that lingered when she turned, sweet coconut and fresh vanilla.
Even in drizzly London weather, her hair never dropped.
Annie held the door as Olive left clutching the little box. A damp fog yawned out across the early night, coating the cobbled street with a misty rain that fizzed on contact with the cold air. ‘Any time you need to talk, Ol, I’m always here.’
Olive paused for a second to wrap a hand around Annie’s. ‘You’re a real diamond, Annie. What would we all do without you?’ She shook her hand tightly and sincerely. ‘I’ll see you in the week, duck.’
Annie snicked the brass bolt shut and, with a deep breath, leaned her forehead against the front door.
The conversation with Olive had been heavy; heartbreak and loss and sadness clung to the tips of her fingers, tingling against her magic like opposing forces.
But Annie only allowed herself a second of quiet to swallow it down.
She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the cafe and wiped a rogue smear of chocolate from the back of her hand onto the hem of her apron that still hung untied around her.
She was a little short for time considering she still needed to close down for the night, freshen up, then make her way to the restaurant.
..Annie’s mouth twitched into the slightest grimace as she ran through her nightly to-do list, but in the blink of an eye, the smile returned.
Luckily, her specialism in Incantation had always lent itself well to transformative magic.
She picked up speed on her way to the back room, gliding the cafe’s billowy curtains along the brass rails as she passed.
A cascade of pink magic fell as they closed.
A couple of remaining cups, saucers and plates left by satisfied customers soared through the air as Annie passed by with a flick of her hand, soaking themselves in a sink of warm water, before shaking off like a wet dog and sliding back onto the wooden shelves.
A mop wrung itself around a soapy bucket, before twirling its way across the floor like a ballroom dancer, leaving frothy bubbles in its wake.
The chairs shuffled neatly under the tables as the tablecloths shimmied to shake themselves down.
This was another reason it was often easier to close up without Faye and Pari: Annie’s magic could lend a keen, quick hand when she was alone.
The small room to the rear of the bakery functioned as a storeroom, staff room and dressing room all at once for their team of three.
The space was, at any given time, covered in Faye’s endless stacks of music magazines and DIY mixtapes recorded from the radio.
Or Pari’s impressive and extensive graveyard of craft projects, each of which she would grow an obsession with and entirely lose interest in three weeks later.
September had been spent making tiny clay animals, which were now perched on every possible surface like little pastel-coloured gobstoppers.
It was cosy, mismatched and chaotic, much like their combination of personalities as a trio.
But Annie couldn’t resist sending a nudge of magic across the room to at least tidy up as she passed the armchairs, alphabetizing mixtapes and colour-coding miniature clay bunnies.
Her own little corner was separate. Behind the pretty antique dressing screen, Annie tapped her chin thoughtfully.
She gazed at the rail of clothes before her and scrolled her magic through the row of dresses, each fresh and fluffed for this exact purpose.
Faye and Pari always laughed affectionately at her makeshift dressing room.
‘I wouldn’t trust anyone other than Annie Wildwood to keep pink silk and vintage organza next to tubs of dark chocolate spread,’ Pari had recently pointed out.
The pink dress tonight. Well, the slightly paler shade of pink dress.
There were four of them, all lined up on velvet coat hangers from light to dark on the dress rail, with high heels placed underneath each one.
Each pair had been gently enchanted with Calceus Commodus to be extra comfortable – the higher the heel, the more the spell kicked in to pleasantly numb her toes.
She was proud of that handiwork; gradual magic was a tricky talent to keep fixed in place.
Important, though. Who had time for aching feet to ruin an outfit?
With a quick flick of a wrist to summon her magic, smudges of whipped cream, buttercream, miscellaneous-but-equally-delicious cream all vanished, leaving Annie somehow even more immaculate than before.
The pale dress with a ruffle around the skirt glided from its hanger to the dressing mannequin, to be styled with the appropriate accessories.
Satisfied with her choices, another subtle gesture of magic traded her hot-pink Celeste overalls for the mannequin’s night-time ensemble.
Her apron swooped by the strings to hang itself on the door and the wooden spoon that she’d wedged in her back pocket at some point flew back to the kitchen like a paper aeroplane.
Annie glanced at the mirror, a beautiful gilded piece that had been her mother’s.
She could immediately see Cressida Wildwood preening in front of it, memories from childhood rippling in the glass.
Her mother would always be adding more hairspray or admiring some form of luxurious accessory while Annie was wrapped around the doorframe, unnoticed.
She would watch and yearn in secret, supposed to be asleep while her mother and father got ready for their evening out.
She wondered where they were going each night, so mysterious and glamorous, her father slipping a proud arm around her mother when she finally declared that she was ready.
The mirror was a reminder, now that she was in on the secret, of how far she’d come and everything that had been left behind.
An entirely unnecessary smooth of her hair, a cautious check of her clinking bracelets, a quick practice of her smile.
It looked genuine. Whispers of faint magic clung to her skin with a glitter.
Andromeda Wildwood simply adored being a witch.
Not only did it come in handy multiple times a day, woven through each element of her life like a golden thread, but it was such a cute look for her.
Being a witch was bright and fun – and Annie loved to be both of those things for everybody.
She took a second to steel herself, a final glance in the mirror to check that everything was just as it should be. It was. It always was. Her heart thumped a little louder, as though it wanted to be noticed, to remind her it was still beating.
She whispered under her breath: ‘Perfect.’