Page 65 of Disenchanted

“What about, Treasure?” Maggie hurried over, visibly concerned as she took Sage’s hand. “Is everything all right?”

“Not really. In fact, it’s not all right at all. Technically speaking, the existence of ‘all right’ in modern verbiage implies the existence of ‘all wrong,’ so perhaps it would be prudent to add that into our vocabulary, given current circumstances. But that’s probably beside the point,” Sage garbled. “Maggs, if my theories are correct, you are the very last person in this blasted town who I’ll be able to talk any sense with by the time the night is done.”

“Oh, thanks very much,” Casimir tutted from the hallway, where he had made amends with the cat and scooped a sleepy Mal onto his shoulder for their usual cuddle.

“Sorry, Cas, but it’s where we find ourselves.”

“As long as I draw breath, no shadow shall touch you, fair Specs. My honour is true and my heart is yours,” Casimir said, then caught Maggie’s baffled expression. He gave a shrug and a grimace. “Alas, it would seem my words may have galloped a touch beyond dignity.”

“Listen to yourself. You’re losing the last of your grip on reality, and everyone else has already long surrendered,” Sage said. The dawning realization of Maggie’s relevance had come with the very welcome additional conclusion that the ghost must likely be immune to the enchantment. “Luckily, it seems safe to assume that Maggs remains unchanged, seeing as she’s not technically, you know…”

“Alive?” Maggie shrugged.

“Quite,” Sage said, rushing back into the living room to turn on the lamps against the night’s darkness. She ushered Maggie and Casimir to join her, then plonked down onto the sofa herself.

“Let me at least fix up some tea first, will you?” Maggie said, rising and heading back towards the kitchen.

“No, Maggs. For once, this is something that a cup of tea can’t solve.”

The look of horror on Maggie’s face was all too real. At the revelation that there wasn’t even time for tea, she seemed to register the gravitas of the conversation. Maggie slowly lowered herself into the rocking chair beside the fire and opposite Sage. She held her hands neatly in her lap and kept a rigid posture.

“What is it?” Maggie chanced nervously.

“We may not have discussed this curse at length, but you’re smart, Maggs. You’ve noticed the strange goings-on around here. Even more strange than usual, that is,” Sage said a little self-consciously, tugging at her sleeves.

“Madam, you know I strive to conduct myself with due regard when it comes to your professional—”

“Yes, and normally I very much appreciate our boundaries,” Sage said, interrupting her. “But this time, I need you to stick your nose in as much as you like, Maggs. I need to know whether you’ve noticed anything we haven’t already discussed over the past week—and if that brilliant mind of yours has come to any conclusions. I suspect you are, quite literally, the key to all of this.”

“Me?” Maggie asked. She shuffled uncomfortably at the attention. The housekeeper was never one to enjoy being the centre of a story; existing as a ghost had encouraged her in the art of slipping into the shadows as much as she could.

She had told parts of her history to Sage here and there over the years, but it was rare that any of her own memories were clear or strong enough to share, beyond a hazy snapshot of a summer’s day or the powerful, nostalgic feeling from a family Christmas. Always something fleeting and beautiful that Sage would grasp on to greedily, keen for a little more insight into her most peculiar of friends.

Sage nodded in what she hoped was an encouraging manner and not a terrifying one.

“Speak freely, my lady. No fragment of truth is too slight to aid in our quest,” Casimir said, perched on the arm of the sofa next to Sage with the cat wrapped contentedly around his shoulders like a scarf.

“What is he yapping about?” Mal asked Sage, twitching his ears up in a way that implied disapproval.

“Easy now, little one,” Casimir said, affronted. “A humble feline would do well to mind some courtesy when royalty graces the room.”

Mal somehow raised one long eyebrow. “Who are you calling ‘little one’?” He turned back to Sage. “You’d think he was the one who’d just learned to talk, the way he’s going on.”

Casimir frowned, and Sage softened at the way his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was so unlike him. She cleared her throat hastily. “What Casimir means to say is, I haven’t told you both the full story. You wouldn’t believe the chaos that’s been unfolding outside this house, Maggs. And we suspect you are the next key to our understanding.”

“I wish I could have seen it out there for myself,” Maggie said wistfully. “I confess, I did wonder about your change of fashion, Mr. Everald. Your curious choice of chapeau, for example.” She nodded towards the obnoxious feather.

Casimir sighed. “Yes, yes, we all hate the hat. Anything else?”

“Why, only the obvious. The gingerbread décor, and there was the beanstalk, plain as day. I did note the sudden influx of textbooks left strewn about the place to be tidied away, Sage. I assumed it must have been a peculiar experiment that you weren’t quite ready to share…But then the cat started to impart his tips for the weekend’s horse racing, and my suspicions did take flight more readily…”

“No one appreciates me around here,” Mal said, giving a yawn from Casimir’s shoulder.

“Is there anything else at all that you can possibly share, Maggs?” Sage asked, trying to keep her impatience in check. “Three blind mice that shot out of the drainpipe, maybe, or lying wooden puppets or a pig that’s moved in over the road and decided straw was best for his kitchen extension? Anything at all.”

Maggie faltered. “Well,” she said with a hopeless shrug, “I did think it most peculiar that you had taken to wearing jewellery, madam.” She pointed at the chain of charms around Sage’s wrist.

Casimir lifted Sage’s arm to the light and out closer to Maggie. “What, this? You really don’t miss a trick, do you, Maggs?”