Page 45 of Disenchanted

“Well, I…I didn’t entirely mean to do that,” Patrick gulped. “But you were supposed to draw your sword, you craven coward! How is a nobleman supposed to enter a quality duel when his lily-livered opponent won’t even meet his challenge?”

“Oh, for the love of…” Sage couldn’t stand to hear another word of his knighthood nonsense or see that sword thrust dangerously close to Casimir’s nose again. It was a nose she had always been quite fond of.

It happened before she could even register what she was doing. A memory returned to her that she hadn’t allowed herself to think of for a very long time. The first evening after her powers had shown themselves on her fifteenth birthday, which felt like another lifetime now. She wasn’t even sure she could be considered the same girl as the one she had been then, but then the memory was soundtracked by Laurel’s eleven-year-old squeal and Robin’s thirteen-year-old laugh, and she knew it must be her after all. She’d learned a spell, a simple summoning charm to catch a newt from the river near their home and place it into a jar so that they could examine it more closely and show their parents. Once they’d let it go, Robin had told her it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen in his life, and Sage had burned with so much pride at the approval that she could have burst. She clung to the memory, clasping it like a tiny prize.

Sage flung out her left hand, and a string of glittering magic twisted its way in a burgundy ribbon towards Patrick, landing square in the chest of his armour. The spell exploded like a pocket-sized firework, and in the next blink, he was gone. Only a jam jar remained, rattling on the floor of the dell, with a quiet tinkling of glass. A miniature Patrick, alive and well but absolutely furious, landed with a thud inside it.

Sage let out an unexpected bark of a laugh. It was all so, so stupid. Juvenile, really. Incredibly childish. She should almost certainly act her age and take this all more seriously. But she was having fun. In fact, aside from Casimir’s cut, the afternoon had been the most fun she could remember having in a very long time. Surely a rare, worthy use of magic if she had ever encountered one.

She turned back to Casimir, awaiting the inevitable snarky comment about how he had a handle on things, that she hadn’t needed to resort to blundering in and showing off. But instead, she was greeted by a look on his face that could only be described as amazement.

She had seen it before, to some extent. Casimir often was impressed by her mind and quick thinking and was never shy about telling her, but maybe not quite so blatantly as this. It made her feel…strangely good. She pushed up her glasses, suddenly self-conscious, and waited for him to say something.

He gulped. “I think that was the single most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.”

18

The Autumn Festival

The sun was setting over Port Sylvan and plumes of silvery steam from the railway leapt in playful circles towards the evening clouds, tinged with a sugary pinkish purple. The colour of the dusky sky was a contrast to the crisp tangerine leaves carpeting the streets. It was as though the whole town had been dipped in caramel; a golden hue kissed everything from the tops of each tree to every blade of grass in a sweet warmth. Today, October 26, was always the bonfire at Port Sylvan’s annual autumn festival to mark the ten-day countdown until they could celebrate actual Bonfire Night. Sage had always thought it was a preposterous concept, but could usually be swayed to attend anyway by the promise of a very mustardy hot dog and a toffee apple for dessert.

This year, however, she needed no convincing. At one of the town’s biggest celebrations of the year, there was certain to be an abundance of spell behaviour to monitor. She had grabbed her warmest scarf and a pair of mittens that Maggie had knitted her years ago, as well as a travel-sized notepad and pen for her observations, and for once, it had been Sage who had hurried Casimir along to the party. They could not afford to miss a single moment of valuable observation, and no one in the town ever skipped a bonfire. With him as the handsome prince, Laurel as the princess and Patrick’s frankly undeserved knighthood, Sage had an inkling that the spell may have begun to lace its way through many other people around the town too. She wasn’t even particularly connected to Patrick (thank the universe for that) and it had already changed him into a caricature of his arrogant self. Since coming across him in the stream earlier that day, one particularly persistent thought had been gnawing at her for attention.

“Don’t you think it was odd?” she asked Casimir as they wandered into the centre of town with the last of the sun on their faces. She knew he was growing tired of her rehashing the topic over and over, but she remained determined. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Patrick was always absolutely insufferable, even at school. But he doesn’t normally talk as though he’s just stepped out of the jousting ring.”

Patrick’s transformation in particular felt increasingly uncomfortable. Sage could permit the spell to tinker with everybody’s wardrobe; it was nothing more than a glorified fancy dress party. As much as she loathed those infernal situations, it wasn’t doing any harm. But Patrick had seemed to be particularly susceptible to the transformation, his entire personality overcome by the spell.

“Maybe.” Casimir shrugged, indifferent and entirely distracted by the hubbub. “But he’s just thick, isn’t he? His wormy little brain is probably easier to enchant than average. Oh, look, jacket potatoes!”

Chatter and laughter enveloped them, fireworks broke overhead in a glitter, and music played. “At least I’m not the only one who looks like a total pleb anymore,” he went on, looking at the crowd around them. The bonfire was already lit, casting out the most incredible smoky scent and showers of firefly sparks into the night sky. “But what kind of mystical figure, especially one of such esteemed supernatural legend as Lilara Mournfell herself, decides that their legacy is simply to make a whole small-town population wear hideous aprons and frilly bonnets? She’s going down in my estimation, I have to admit.”

“We’re still missing something,” Sage said. “I know we are.”

But Casimir failed to hear her worries, preoccupied by what was becoming clearer and clearer. Everyone they knew so well in the town, every face they saw each morning and evening, had been well and truly enchanted.

The stage for the autumn festival was annually booked with a line-up of slightly greasy teenage bands on electric guitars. This year, it was playing host to equally greasy teenagers, but on lutes, harps and pipes on the main stage instead. Casimir pointed out Cliff’s wife, Ada, in among the large crowd of spectators, who had taken it upon herself to gather groups into circles to start performing a dance that, somehow, everyone already seemed to know by heart. There was a lot of synchronized high-fiving, hand-twirling and hop-steps happening.

The whole community green buzzed with excitement. Ayana, whom Sage was somewhat friendly with and lived a couple of doors down from, seemed to be running a stall that sold…ribbons? Or possibly herbs and also garlands of flowers. Not a great money-maker, Sage imagined, but either way, it all looked very pretty. There were so many pumpkins—everywhere across the green, around the fountain, between the stalls and on the stage—that Sage thought there must be a national shortage across the rest of the country. The warm apple cider was flowing, an abundance of lanterns were aglow around the white gazebo in the distance, and the hayride wagon clattering over the cobbles gave a comforting background beat.

While Sage remained concerned that the magic was affecting all of the folk she’d come to care for, everyone swept up in a tide of incantation, she was also quietly reassured to note down once more in her findings, as they weaved through the crowds, that it seemed to be having a strangely and undeniably positive effect. Wherever she looked, there were smiling faces, lit amber by the bonfire. Knee-slapping laughter, warm embraces, an air of what could only be described in Sage’s notes as “extreme tomfoolery.” Loud giggles and gasps of delight everywhere matched the crackling bonfire sparks. The stresses of modern life had dissipated. The sprinkle of joy from Lilara’s magic was doing them all a distinct good.

“I’m going to need hot chocolate and a honey cake to handle this much merriment,” Sage said, steering Casimir away from the leather goods stall, which smelled terrible but did showcase some very nice handmade boots.

Thanks to a particularly annoying prissy young blonde girl ahead of them (whom Sage remembered laughing at her costume during a walking tour once), they had to wait a while for their cups of hot chocolate. The girl had made a whole song and dance about insisting on three different servings until she was satisfied. The first was too hot, the second was too cold, but thankfully the third seemed just right. Sage had just opened her mouth to tell her to get a grip when there was a tap on her shoulder in the queue.

It was Robin, looking altogether rather unimpressed. “Why do I feel like this has something to do with you?”

It didn’t take long to understand why he seemed annoyed. His hands were firmly on his hips and he was wearing what appeared to be a…

“Is that a tunic?” Casimir spluttered. “And I thought my outfit was bad. Woodcutter, I take it?”

Robin’s transformation was much more in keeping with the rest of the locals, less regal and more rural. A roughly spun, humble green tunic, worn and soft with what Sage supposed would be years of rugged use. Burgundy breeches were tucked into mud-splattered boots, a coarse cloak that stank of hay and horses hung heavily from his shoulders and a broad leather belt with a heavy brass buckle sat at his waist. A pointed forest-green cap sat on his cropped red hair.

Sage bit down on her lip to stop a snort. “You look like…Well, I’m not really sure. Peter Pan? Robin Hood?”

“I look like an idiot.”

“You’re rocking it, my man.” Casimir clapped him across the shoulders in camaraderie. “How are you finding the tights? Oddly freeing, aren’t they?” He pointed to Robin’s hand. “You hurt yourself?”