Page 50 of Uncharmed
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE SAMHAIN BALL
T he night before Halloween rolled darkly and wondrously across London like a charged storm cloud. The air felt thick with magic.
Annie had always thought of her home as a sanctuary.
But now that she knew an alternative, had experienced what a home could and should evoke, she could barely stand to be there.
The quietness and the stagnant air that hadn’t been breathed back out by loving lungs, felt as though it bounced back off the walls to push at her.
Karma wove her way in and out of Annie’s ankles to reassure her that she wasn’t alone.
Back in her bathroom, Annie clutched onto the colourful collection of clinking bottles, juggling each of the ingredients and holding them at arms length as though she wasn’t quite sure she could trust them any more.
Had life really been so bad before, allowing the spell to lead the way for her?
It certainly hadn’t proved itself to be any easier without the control of Splendidus Infernum to guide her.
In fact, her life was actively harder since she had returned from Arden Place; it was tearing her in more directions than she could count.
Annie gingerly took a step closer towards the filling bathtub, steam rising in wisps and coils that began to lull her mind with its invitation.
Following expectation was simpler in so many ways.
It kept pushing her along with a prodding, pointed finger.
Had it really been so difficult, to live a life alongside those whispers of pain and regret?
She had always managed to carry them all, she had never buckled.
Perhaps she had been dramatic to consider it so utterly draining.
But she kept hearing Maeve, over and over, in the particularly pestering voice that she loved nagging Annie with. This is your life and you ’ re letting people make you unhappy in it.
The bottles clattered to the floor. Pools of potion leaked across the tiles, ground herb powders and petal shards landing at her feet. The grasp of the haunted voices that came with the hex faded away into the distance.
‘No, Annie,’ she told herself firmly.
She owed Maeve at least this much. To let her own joy matter, to see what her heart was pulled towards. To try the hard way a little longer.
If she wasn’t to turn back to the spell tonight, then at least that gave her a dash more time to consider her dress for the ball.
She had to get it right and, without the guidance of the spell, she was holding on to the hope that just her own natural magic would be enough.
Leaving the mess to deal with later (but closing the bathroom door behind her to ensure that paws didn’t wander through puddles), Annie took a dubious seat at her sewing table in her pyjamas.
She frowned. Normally, Splendidus Infernum would act of its own accord in these situations, reaching out from within her.
It would tug her arms like marionette strings, lifting and dropping them with no thought required, until the perfect combination of outfit and accessories was created.
Annie tapped her fingers on her thighs. What did she want to let her magic do?
Silence, except for the impossibly loud second hand of the clock on the mantlepiece.
For once, not plagued at midnight with feelings and thoughts of others, she could hear her own breathing.
Her own pulse. Her own fire. She barely dared to breathe, but it was then that Annie felt an impulse that seemed familiar.
A pull to create and let her magic flow and flourish.
Before she could second-guess herself, she fired up her trusty sewing machine.
Reams of fabric cascaded around her as though she were caught in a cyclone.
Spools of thread flew and ribbons unfurled like ferns, dancing and dashing about her work space.
Occasionally, Karma lost all dignity and pounced upon them with a waggling rear end and twitching ears that still hadn’t returned to their normal size.
Her paws landed unceremoniously with a chirp, but Annie only gave her a quick scratch of congratulations.
She was lost in a flurry of focus, watching her own magic – her own talent – bring an imagined creation to life.
A thought occurred to her as she stitched fabric together in ripples and reams. Had Splendidus Infernum controlled her to the fullest extent that she had always assumed?
How many elements of her carefully perfected personality were, in fact.
..really just her? She considered the possibility that her creativity had maybe even overstepped the spell sometimes, taken the reins all by itself with the confidence and reassurance that some other force would be able to reel it back in if anything were to go wrong.
Had it been that way all along? Could some of her perfect self have been real and true?
Magic tingled at her fingertips, pricking slightly at the enticing thought.
Hours later, with one final guide of the delicate fabric under the foot of the sewing machine, Annie rebounded against the back of her chair, as if waking from a dream.
Between her thumbs and forefingers, she held the dress up in front of her as though it had appeared of its own accord, sent from somewhere else.
‘What do you think?’ Annie asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek. ‘Is it enough for the Samhain Ball? Those witches don’t mess around at this time of year.’
Karma leapt up onto her lap with a bell jangle and placed her paws together neatly on Annie’s thighs.
She glanced at the dress, her little head tilting one way in thought.
After a moment or two of contemplation, she returned to licking the top of her left paw and fluffing up the fur behind her ears.
‘You’re right. Needs a little something.’
With a small flick of her wrist, Annie added what she suspected may be the finishing touch.
She had lost her sparkle, left it behind at the cottage among the wildflowers and the long grass.
She needed a reminder that perhaps it would one day return to her.
A finely spun layer of her own magic coated the dress from top to bottom, a shimmer of starlight when the fabric moved. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
In Annie’s experience, there was little else that could lift her spirits quite like slipping on a new dress.
Granted, her spirits at present were lingering somewhere that felt like it must be the underworld, but this was a special dress that worked a small miracle.
The layers of delicate tulle slipped over her skin and floated around her shape, billowing to the floor in light layers.
It was, of course, a shade of pale pink that felt just right, but blended at the waist and down the sleeves into a spray of navy-dusted silver.
Annie knew that her heart had been thinking of the dawn that bloomed over the woods each morning at Arden Place.
From the top of the dress, which skimmed just off her shoulders, a trim of wildflowers, trailing stems and stars were embroidered by her magic, bringing the whole thing to life.
She swept her hair behind her shoulders and left everything else understated. As understated as a wondrous, magical gown could possibly be, anyway. This was a dress that would speak for itself and Annie knew the rules of fashion better than most – spell or no spell.
The steps into the Tempest Theatre music hall were peppered with the skeletons of leaves that had blown in on the gathering storm, but Annie permitted herself her princess moment on the grand staircase.
Wearing her gown for the descent was too delicious a prospect for her to ignore.
She took her time slowly on each step, hand gliding down the brass rail.
Despite the nerves that were bubbling at the pit of her stomach, the weight of dread that pushed against her ribs before the start of every Sorciety gathering, for one moment she allowed herself to forget about it.
As always, she could barely contain the excitable snort-laugh that escaped.
Having ascended the stage, mirrorball spinning above, Annie brushed her fingers against the ivory keys of the grand piano. The tune tinkled below her skin, cutting through the thick atmosphere until the sound settled across the tops of the theatre chairs like another layer of dust and moth wings.
The transformation was somehow slow motion and instantaneous as always, the magic that cascaded across the theatre bending time to its whim, bringing a tidal wave of enchantment with it.
With that familiar spin of seating and spill of silver across the scene, the Tempest Theatre washed away the sleep from its eyes and revealed its truest, regal self once again.
Ball nights were something to behold even for the witch, warlock or wicchefolk who had somehow grown accustomed to the Tempest’s usual splendour. Tonight, to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve and the changing of the seasons, it was blinding in its beauty.
The theatre had become a grand ballroom, a richness to every aspect, from the high ceilings to the walls adorned with tapestries that depicted the six families at the helm of the Sorciety.
The mirrorball wore a crown, orbs of its flames flickering in its reflection on a polished obsidian floor.
The black glimmered with swirling movement, like a lake at night, symbols and shadows and faceless figures glowing faintly beneath the surface.