Page 6 of Uncharmed

‘Seconded. You were in early again, so make sure you leave early, too,’ Faye added, patting Annie on the back as she followed Pari out, chucking a tea towel over her shoulder in an enviably cool way.

‘I know that technically you’re the boss and, hey, I don’t make the rules, but I’m in charge on this one, okay? ’

‘I’m fine,’ Annie smiled weakly. ‘All under control.’

It soon would be, at least – once she’d completed the fiddly bits and bobs for the scones and finished folding in the Memoria Laetificus blend of nostalgia dust into the icing sugar.

Each of the scones, layered up with comfort cream and Faye’s heartfelt, homemade jams, were perfectly finished with a final dusting of treasured memories to talk about while they were eaten.

Each bite sparked a darling memory – favourite toys, treasured grandparents, happiest reunions – that kept conversation flowing, warm and precious.

‘All under your control,’ Faye said with her usual scepticism. She was constantly reminding, sometimes ordering, Annie to share the workload. ‘Let us help you. It’s literally what we’re here for.’

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. She was desperate to and she knew that their talents would thrive with fuller roles at Celeste.

But, through her whole life, Annie had felt unable to share anything that felt tricky.

Or burdensome. As though she wasn’t allowed to take her foot off the pedal.

Only she could solve her problems in just the right way and asking for help or delegating meant admitting defeat.

She was not the girl who admitted defeat and she certainly never let go.

She had never let go of anything. She was the one who continued to impress, to hold on and handle it all.

She returned her concentration to spooning cream into individual ceramic bowls.

‘Having said that,’ Faye called back into the kitchen, ‘don’t leave me to do any of the actual cooking. As long as you prefer our customers being of an alive disposition, anyway.’

After a mild threat involving a spatula and an undisclosed location where the sun don’t shine from Faye, Annie reluctantly left her and Pari to close up the shop – but not before putting together a box of apple pie for them to take home as a thank you, braided with a caramel crust and tiny, bronze-tinted autumn leaves pressed into the pastry.

Friday nights were always reserved in her diary with doodles in pink pen and organizational stickers, but the occasion also brought a strange, slightly shadowed dread to the pit of Annie’s stomach.

It was certainly not the time for relaxing or letting her guard down.

But that wasn’t necessarily a reflection on the girls.

It was her own fault – just the way she was in social situations. Tightly wound and second-guessing her responses, reflecting on all the ways that she’d embarrassed herself as soon as she got home.

Leaving Celeste under the musical tinkle of her brass doorbell, Annie hurried across the street, puddles beneath her feet reflecting orange orbs from the early evening street lights.

Magical transference would have been the easier option at any other time of day, but schools were still emptying and the busy row of shops was bustling.

With so many children around, highly attuned to all kinds of witchery, it wasn’t wise to whip out magic on a whim.

Instead, she attempted to hail a black cab.

It was a process that took some time; three cabs were taken by others who arrived after her and she gladly waved them away, insisting they take them.

A surprisingly chilly wind bit sharply at her nose while she waited.

Autumn had shifted across London, the last of summer hurried along with the leaves.

She was relieved when she could eventually close a cab door behind her, blowing warmth into her hands against the numbness that the cold had gloved them in.

‘Tempest Theatre, please,’ Annie called to the driver. He turned back to give her a look as though she had entirely lost the plot.

‘What d’you want that dump for? It’s falling to bloody bits, you know,’ he asked in a strong Cockney accent. ‘Got an ’ard ’at and a bulldozer in that ’andbag of yours?’

‘Of course, girl power!’ Annie chimed, with added peace sign. ‘And a safety vest, so don’t you worry about me, sir. Luckily, neon yellow is one to watch this season.’

The drive across London gave Annie a rare chance to pause, unable to distract herself with much other than clicking buttons on her pager once or twice.

The sight of the city wearing its coat had a calming effect on her mind.

Shades of brown and burnt orange streaked past like a smeared paintbox behind the rain droplets on the cab window, splashes of mustard and buttercup yellow to fill in the tops of the burnished trees with thick, rich colour.

The whole city smelt like cinnamon and fireworks, bonfire and black pepper, witchery and wonder.

Perhaps the rain was unwelcome for most, but for Annie it brought a translucent cloak to the city, blurred it all a little and softened the sharp edges of every day.

Autumn was a feeling she longed for all year.

She drew a tiny heart in the condensation in the corner of the window and watched a single, determined raindrop slide through it.

A flush of chestnut brown and tangerine-coloured trees appeared across the horizon, the shapes bold against the sunset as they entered through the gate of Richmond Park, the pathways stippled by muddy wellies and even muddier dogs.

The taxi veered towards a left-hand path, partially obscured by thick, overgrown knots of bracken and woodland.

The uneven ground rattled the endless amount of lip products at the bottom of Annie’s bag.

‘Shame they let this place go to rubble and dust,’ the cab driver said as they pulled up, peering his head out of the window for a better look.

‘My grandad had some old photos of his grandfather arriving outside, would you believe? Proud as punch to have a ticket. It meant you’d made something of yourself, if you could say you’d been to the Tempest Theatre.

Don’t make ’em like that any more, do we?

’ He tutted and wound his window back up.

‘Oh, isn’t it just dreadful. I’d give anything to see it in all of its glory,’ Annie said as she counted out a tip from her purse.

‘Noise complaints all the time, o’course, but the police never find anything. Bloody kids. Or squatters, I imagine. You be careful in there, miss,’ he said and gave a friendly beep on his horn as he drove away.

Hidden within the dense, tangled outskirts of the park, the Tempest Theatre reclined in the shadows of the sycamores, overlooking a grand, algae-laced pond that often went unnoticed on the park maps.

Once a grand and favoured music hall, a polished jewel in London’s history, the place had been beloved by anyone lucky enough to experience its centuries of performance and pleasure.

But, as times changed and the concert experience fell from favour, the building had eventually been abandoned, left to tumble quietly into disrepair.

Now, the ivy cascaded down its facade like one final leafy curtain drop; its pretty face bore scars of relentless British weather.

The billboard across the front had once proudly listed talented acts and top shows in block letters that lit up the park each evening in Hollywood lighting.

Now, in faded letters, it simply read ‘NOTHING TO SEE’.

Annie knew that this wasn’t strictly true, however.

She checked over her shoulder, but the handful of people nearby were all far too distracted by the miserable weather.

Hoods were pulled in front of faces, soggy dogs with ears scooted back tugging them home.

A flock of geese came in to land, splashing across the lake in a flurry of feathers, and, just beyond, a pair of deer butted their antlers together in a clash, putting on their own show before the theatre. The perfect distraction.

Cringing at the strained squeak of metal construction sheets and old hinges, Annie carefully pushed open the door.

Inside, dust and debris scattered the old foyer like a sprinkling of flour.

The windows were boarded up and blocked any daylight from making its way in, as though the theatre herself were shy and couldn’t possibly permit anyone to see her in such a state.

Teetering in her heels with every careful step across splintered wood and chipped tiles, Annie made her way further in.

Past the abandoned ticket booth, the gilded detail flaked away like worn make-up.

Past the old cigarette machine, past the long-empty ice-cream stand and the peeling posters, all advertising upcoming concerts that were a hundred years ago.

The click of her shoes pierced the quiet and, somewhere far above in the high rafters, a bird flapped its wings in a gust.

She held on tightly to the brass stair rail, its shine long dulled, and carefully made her way down into the main auditorium.

Annie couldn’t help but smile to herself every time she descended the crescent staircase.

She found magic in it, a moment that made her want to gather her skirt like some kind of dramatic princess.

In books and films, she’d be dressed in a ballgown that looked like an ornate cream cake, gliding her way towards a handsome prince with a hand outstretched.

She had to stop a self-conscious, snorted giggle every time and settled for singing a nostalgic fairy-tale tune to herself as she headed down.

The concert hall was an eerie, cavernous space that seemed to breathe in and out all by itself, a curled-up dragon guarding hidden treasure, the place alive with the power of memories.

It made Annie feel impossibly small, like a tiny spinning dancer set inside a music box.

The silence made her want to shout into it, as loud as she could, almost to reassure herself that she was really there.

She never did, of course. Rows and rows of crimson seating lined the stalls, each one balding and threadbare, coated in a layer of dust so thick Annie could have written her name in it.

And above, remnants of a starry night sky painted in every shade of royal blue, navy and sapphire.

Water damage sprawled and stained its way across the ceiling and an enormous, cobweb-coated mirrorball loomed at the centre.

Right on cue, there were the goosebumps.

They chased one another across her skin, her heartbeat quickening as each of her senses began to ignite at what was to come.

The taste of a coppery sweetness spread between her teeth from the stale, shadowy air.

The earthy, musty scent mixed with burnt embers, probably damage somewhere by vandals – but a sweetness of toffee apple too that still lingered from the past. The Tempest Theatre always gave her the shivers.

Although, of course, that could just be the witches.

She reached the main concert stage. The piano sat plump and sprawling at the centre, the stage bowing under its vast weight.

She lay her right hand across the keys, pink nails stark against the yellowing ivory, and tinkled them in the correct order.

It was a melancholy sequence that she’d been taught years ago by her mother and father and would never forget, the combination always sounding so powerful. Magical.

With the final note, a sprinkling of magic sprayed from Annie’s fingertips as though her powers were called forth from her body to the piano.

The pink stars tumbled into the spaces between the keys, slipping through the cracks.

For one exquisite moment following the music, it felt as though time stopped still, slowing even the dust that danced across her vision on the stagnant air, moths pirouetting in tiny movements.

Then, like clockwork, the painted stars in the ceiling fresco caught a glint of light that hadn’t been there before.

Each one twinkled in the blue darkness, one after the other, and carried the musical notes that Annie had just played through the room.

Starry shapes cascaded across the seats below as the mirrorball began to spin.

It sent new light across the theatre, illuminating every part of the music hall from the galleries to the foggy panes of glass in each door.

The contrast from dark to light was almost blinding as it built.

Squinting, a hand up against the glare, Annie saw the golds become gold again, extra dazzling.

The crimson velvet returned to rich red.

The stage was restored, piano polished to its former glory.

Then the seats across the stalls began to rearrange themselves, the neat rows spinning into separate, seated groups. Elegant tables shot up from the floor and were topped with emerald green glass lamps, ornate crystal drinkware, tiny bowls of plump olives, sparkling sugared nuts.

And in the final flashes of mirrorball light, the seats began to fill. Ghostly figures, each one changing from translucent, iridescent outlines that caught in the light, to fully formed people...Witches, warlocks and wicchefolk revealed.

Annie smiled, relieved as she was each time the magic of the theatre generously accepted her back into its arms. There it was, just as she left it. The Sorciety.