The Boy Witch

Chapter One

The Morning Of

While the two sentient lounge chairs spent their early Monday morning gossiping with the coffee table—as they often liked to do—the coffee table was also secretly gossiping to Aunt Beatrice’s half-empty teacup, who unbeknownst to the coffee table was actually the biggest gossip of them all. Which meant that by mid-morning every sentient piece of furniture in the entire house knew that Willy would soon be leaving them, aware that he’d finally be heading off for his very first year at the academy.

The staircase took the news the hardest, of course, as it groaned and moaned and creaked and squeaked dramatically as if Willy were descending its steps for the very last time.

‘I’m sorry, Staircase,’ said Willy. ‘You know I would take you with me if I could.’

‘Are you—’ There was a brief pause and a gentle sob—Staircase had always been the sensitive kind. ‘Are you going to sketch me before you go? You know, to remember me,’ said the staircase—voice quivering.

Willy gave Staircase what he thought to be a gentle, reassuring smile. ‘I’ve already drawn you from three different angles, Staircase. Besides, I won’t be gone forever. I’ll be back before you begin to miss me.’

‘But— But I’m already starting to miss you. Be-be-besides, who’s going to sand these splinters off of me when you’re gone?’

‘I’m sure Aunt Beatrice will—’

‘She never polishes me like you do, Willy,’ said Staircase.

‘I-beg-your-pardon,’ said Aunt Beatrice trudging down the steps, frowned face and all. ‘I’ll have you know; I gave Staircase a mighty good polishing last month.’

Staircase replied with a sharp snort and said, ‘She barely touched my corners.’

Aunt Beatrice, however, crinkled her nose as though it sat atop the garbage bin, which Willy had only now remembered he’d forgotten to take out for a walk—again.

‘They should already be here by now,’ said Aunt Beatrice, sighing as she gave her watch another quick glance.

‘Broom traffic?’ suggested Willy.

‘Un-likely. Not around here anyway.’

‘Do you think that maybe…. they’ve forgotten?’

‘Forgotten?’ Aunt Beatrice huffed. ‘Absolutely not, Willy. Now, you’re certain you’ve packed everything, aren’t you?’

Willy gave his backpack a quick shrug and smiled. ‘Everything except the staircase.’ To which the staircase instantly began to sob.

Aunt Beatrice leapt forward, wrapping her arms around Willy’s shoulders and squeezed tightly as she too began to sob. ‘If your parents were here to see you now. They would be so proud. You’re going to become a fantastic Witch. Top of the rankings, I know it.’ Aunt Beatrice let go and wiped away a few tears. ‘Wait. Wait here,’ she said, as she wandered off into the kitchen. ‘You’ll need some Quartz before you leave,’ she yelled out. ‘If you’re going to purchase your own broom, that is.’

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The door rattled three times followed by silence.

‘Ah—umm—just a moment,’ said Willy, his voice cracking as he frantically patted himself down in an attempt to make himself look more presentable.

A few moments later, and with a few more creases smoothed out and his hair slicked back, Willy had finally gained enough courage to open his front door, startled to find himself greeted by what looked to be a tree the size of the doorframe. A tree with the figure of a woman. ‘You’re a— You’re a—’ Willy stuttered trying to finish his sentence.

‘A Tree,’ said the figure. ‘Yes, you must find my appearance rather… surprising, I suppose.’ The figure raised out a slender arm covered in bark and twigs that seemed to have only recently begun to have sprouted a few new leaves. ‘Belvadere. Professor Belvadere.’

Hesitating, Willy clasped Belvadere’s splinter-prone hand and gave her a firm handshake. ‘Willy. Willy Whicker.’

Willy’s hand had all but disappeared inside Belvadere’s grip, as she craned over him with a look of pure fascination. ‘Our first Boy Witch. Remarkable. Truly remark—’

‘Why If it isn’t, Professor Belvadere,’ said Aunt Beatrice, cutting off Belvadere’s enthusiasm as she arrived back from the kitchen in haste. ‘I see you’ve made it just in time to be our new Christmas tree,’ she said, pointing out the empty spot between their lounge chairs and the fireplace.

‘Oh, Beatrice, how I have missed that sarcasm of yours. And yes, apologies for my tardiness.’ A crease formed between Belvadere’s leafy eyebrows, and small bits of bark around her nose seemed to crumble off as her smile slowly faded into a frown. ‘Wait a moment, you haven’t passed your sarcastic nature onto your poor nephew here, have you?’ asked Belvadere, seeming genuinely concerned.

‘Come now, Belvadere, inside before anyone sees you. Quickly.’

‘Right. Right you are. You won’t want to spend your afternoon explaining my presence to your Witch-less neighbors, I suppose.’ Belvadere’s leaves rustled as she squeezed her way quickly through the doorframe—some of her stray branches snapping-off in the process.

‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ asked Willy, gesturing towards the broken branches falling atop their doormat.

‘Not really. It’s a similar feeling to’—Belvadere leaned forward and plucked one of Willy’s stray hairs—‘That.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Belvadere. What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ asked Aunt Beatrice.

‘Teaching Willy here a rather valuable life lesson, Beatrice.’

‘And what kind of lesson is that supposed to be?’ asked Willy.

‘That curiosity can lead to unexpected outcomes,’ said Belvadere cheerfully. ‘You know, ever since the academy received notification from the Inquisition about the enrolment of our very first Boy Witch, we’ve all been desperately curious ourselves.’

‘Curious, about what?’ asked Willy.

‘Yes,’ said Aunt Beatrice. ‘Curious about what, exactly?’

‘We have all been wondering, pondering, speculating as to… how?’

‘Ah. You wish to know how I found out?’ asked Aunt Beatrice.

‘Precisely.’

Aunt Beatrice exhaled a deep sigh and said, ‘The Broom Test.’

‘You gave Willy here The Broom Test? But… why? he’s a boy.’

‘No. Willy unwittingly gave himself The Broom Test.’ Aunt Beatrice’s stern expression turned in Willy’s direction. ‘He was seven at the time when I caught him levitating haphazardly around our living room on my broom.’

‘Aunt Beatrice’s scream was so loud that I ended up crashing into a vase,’ said Willy. ‘Took me nearly a whole hour to pick up those broken pieces.’

‘Which was a rather satisfying punishment for disobeying my one rule to never-touch-my-broom.’

‘Well, I didn’t think I was actually going be able to fly now, did I?’

‘So that’s how they found out. Interesting,’ said Belvadere. ‘The Inquisition is instantly notified the very moment an unregistered Witch fly’s a registered broom. They must have come knocking in seek of answers. Which has inevitably led us here. Well, If you’re packed and ready then I suppose we ought to head off.’

‘He’s yet to purchase his own broom,’ said Aunt Beatrice, cutting in once again. ‘He’ll still have time to purchase his own broom now, won’t he?’

‘I will make sure of it. Besides, a Witch cannot attend the academy without her broom, can she— Oh, sorry, Willy, a slip-of-the-tongue. I meant, he,’ said Belvadere as she stretched-out her long, slender arms towards the floorboards. ‘Grab hold of my arm, Willy. Tighter now.’

Aunt Beatrice quickly turned to face Willy one last time. ‘Never forget how much I love you, Willy.’

Willy gave Aunt Beatrice a warm smile and replied, ‘I know, I love you too.’

‘And make sure you stay out of trouble. You hear me?’

‘Stay out of trouble, got it.’

‘And promise me you’ll enjoy yourself, Willy. I know there won’t be any other boys there, but you can still make plenty of friends among the girls.’

Willy exhaled a deep sigh and replied, ‘I know. I’ll try my best.’

‘And that is all I ask of you,’ said Aunt Beatrice, as she stepped closer to whisper in Belvadere’s ear, ‘You’ll take care of him, won’t you? You and I both know what those girls can be capable of.’

Belvadere gave Aunt Beatrice what Willy thought to be a reassuring nod. And before he could begin to ponder exactly what Aunt Beatrice had been referring to, Belvadere’s leaves appeared sharper and more angular, and the ceiling above him began to fade away as though the house were rapidly disappearing before his very eyes. ‘Does— Does anyone else see this?’ asked Willy.

Belvadere took quick notice of Willy’s look of astonishment and frowned, glancing towards a now barely visible Aunt Beatrice and asked, ‘He has done this before, hasn’t he?’

‘Well,’ said Aunt Beatrice, hesitantly. ‘You see, I was never much for teleportation, Belvadere. I’m afraid this is going to be Willy’s first—' But Aunt Beatrice never finished here sentence; she was gone.

*

The Caldron-shaped chamber was embedded with a strange pattern that glowed with a blue hue. The pattern, which looked as though it had been carved into the cast iron itself, encompassed the entire Transportation Chamber. And as the blue hue began to fade, it appeared as though tall, moving figures could be seen among the shadows, unlit by the lanterns hanging from the surrounding wall.

‘Best to ignore them,’ Belvadere whispered. ‘Come along, we’re behind schedule.’ Belvadere gestured with her finger towards a little brass clock hanging above the archway. A little ticking sounded amid the soft, dry cracking of what Willy thought to have been Belvadere’s finger; Willy looked down towards his own finger, slowly bending it, wondering what it must feel like for a finger to just up and snap-off.

Wherever Belvadere walked, broken twigs and tree-leaves fell behind her; seeming to molt off of her like the fur of a feline. Which is precisely why Willy kept himself to a dawdle. He felt no real need to hasten his pace after Belvadere—who seemed to push ahead in some kind of rush—as the trail left in front of Willy was as good as being tied to Belvadere’s hip with a map in one hand and a compass in the other; Each twig, each leaf, and each stick—all of which would either end up as kindling or the culprit of a broken neck—eventually led Willy out into what looked to be a very large waiting area filled with even more clocks, each set to a different time. If Willy’s eyes were darts, they would land bullseye on a brass clock-face every time. Clocks were everywhere Willy looked. Some of them dangled from the ceiling high above, while others were perched above the bustling archways where fellow Witches arrived dressed in an assortment of pointed hats and darkly colored cloaks.

With the remaining trail of twigs and leaves kicked and scattered-about by bustling feet, Willy finally spotted Belvadere bending down towards a bench, which was nearly empty except for a heavy-set girl dressed in a drably, sun-kissed colored cloak, asleep in the corner. Belvadere poked her long finger into the girl’s stomach.

‘Francesca. Come on, Francesca, wake up.’

The girl’s snoring continued.

‘Wake-up-Fickle,’ said Belvadere—punctuating each word with a poke from her finger.

The girl awoke, rubbing at her face and stretching her neck as she let out a soft groan.

‘Where’s that sister of yours wandered off to? I asked you both to stay put.’

‘Oh, Felicity went with Harriet Krump the moment you left, Professor. She said they are supposed to get to their Coven before orientation prep.’

Belvadere huffed. ‘Of course, they said that.’

‘But I waited,’ said Francesca, sounding sincere.

‘Yes. But whether that’s out of kindness or your desire to have a nap, Francesca, I have not yet determined.’

Francesca’s eyes seemed to drift off in thought for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t it still be okay if it were both?’

Belvadere smiled and said, ‘I suppose that would. Anyway, Francesca, I would like for you to meet a fellow first year.’ Belvadere motioned Willy over with a hurried gesture from her broken finger.

Francesca’s eyes seemed to narrow in confusion as she caught sight of Willy for the first time. ‘Professor, is it just me or does she look an awful lot like a—’

‘A boy?’ asked Belvadere in obvious amusement.

‘Professor, You might offend her if you say that too loud.’

‘Offend her? Francesca, Willy here is a boy.’

‘A— A What?’

‘A boy Witch,’ repeated Belvadere.

Francesca’s mouth opened, then closed slightly before opening even wider. ‘Are— Are you sure?’

‘About which part, my dear? Sure, that he’s a boy or sure that he’s a witch?’

‘I— I’ve just never— I thought only—’

‘Yes, however, the Inquisition is rarely wrong, Francesca, and so often full of surprises. So, allow me to introduce you to their latest one. Willy, this here is Francesca Fickle. She’ll be commencing her first year at the Academy too.’

‘Umm, hi,’ said Willy, sheepishly. ‘I’m—’

‘A-boy-Witch,’ said Francesca.

‘Actually, people usually just call me Willy. Willy Whicker.’

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. It’s just my first-time seeing a— Anyway, I’m Francesca Fickle, but most just call me Frances,’ said Francesca, who continued to regard Willy as though he was some newly discovered species—although perhaps to the majority of Witches, he was.

‘Good. Now that the two of you are some-what acquainted, how about you chat amongst yourselves while I go and get your parchment’s notarized?’

Francesca—still in disbelief—gave Belvadere a slow nod.

‘I won’t be gone long,’ said Belvadere, quickly receding off into the nearby crowd of witches.

‘Ah, where are we, exactly?’ asked Willy, gesturing to their immediate surroundings.

‘The Grand? Oh, this place is known as Transportation Central. But most of us just call it the Cuckoo Clock.’

‘The Cuckoo Clock?’

‘It’ll make a lot more sense when you’ve seen this place from the outside. Anyway, see that clock over there?’

Willy glanced towards a small clock hanging above a wide archway.

‘Budapest,’ said Francesca. ‘And that clock up there, that’s India.’

‘Oh, so this Cuckoo Clock place is like an airport then. All these clocks showing their destinations and time zones?’

‘Exactly. Have you not been through here before?’

‘Once, maybe. But I would have been too little to remember. Your sister, uh, she goes to the academy too?’ asked Willy in an attempt to keep their conversation going as he glanced around at several of the other clocks and their unusual destinations.

‘Yep. She’s in her third year this year. How about you?’

‘I’m an only child. Just me and my Aunt, actually. Oh, and our house, of course.’

‘You mean, you don’t even have parents?’

‘Of course, I’ve got parents. Everyone’s got parents. Mine just… aren’t alive anymore.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Francesca’s eyes seemed to drift off in thought again before she eventually asked, ‘Would it be rude of me if I asked you to tell me about it?’

Willy shrugged. ‘There’s not much to know really. According to Aunt Beatrice my mother passed away during my childbirth. And as for my father, well, he died from a work accident. But that was before I was born.’

‘A work accident?’

‘Some kind of construction injury,’ said Willy. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Francesca gave a serious nod and replied, ‘Anything.’

‘What’s with your broom?’ asked Willy, motioning to Francesca’s worn and frazzled stick.

‘Oh, you mean Broomelda?’ asked Francesca. ‘She looks a bit silly, doesn’t she. I told mum that Broomelda was far too old and thin looking. I’m sure she’s been struck by lightning, and more than once.’

‘Old equates to experience, Francesca,’ said Belvadere arriving back to interrupt their conversation. ‘Newer brooms are often too unwieldy for first years to handle. Now, both of your parchment’s here are signed and notarized. I’ll be needing to go on ahead to the academy. So, Francesca, I’ll need you to accompany Willy to Secondhand Broom’s along the way, okay? Willy needs to purchase his own broom. Addle will help him select the right one, I’m sure of it. After that, you are to both continue straight on to the Academy, and I’ll see you at Orientation. Any questions?’

*

Francesca was right; The Grand from the outside resembled a giant cuckoo clock the size of a twelve-story building, complete with a varnished wood finishing and fine details that ran all the way up towards a big, round clock face at the very top. It looked absolutely incredible—and Willy couldn’t help but feel miniature beside it. ‘Francesca?’

‘Yes? And call me Frances.’

‘Frances, right. I’ve been wondering, why do witches seem to place so much importance on their brooms?’

‘Ask Professor Penfold, she’ll tell you why.’ Francesca leaned in closer and whispered, ‘My sister said everyone calls her Professor No-hands. Apparently, she blew both of her hands off trying to perform a powerful spell without her broom. Now she goes around wearing metal hands, instead.’

Willy’s eyes pressed against his eye sockets.

‘The thing is, right, without a wooden broom to direct the flow of energy and concentrate it, performing most spells would be like holding onto sticks of dynamite.’ Francesca made an explosion gesture with her free hand.

‘But I saw Professor Belvadere use a Teleportation spell without a broom,’ said Willy. ‘With her bare hands?’

‘That’s because she’s a tree. She’s already made of wood.’

‘Oh, right. I guess that does make sense,’ said Willy, as they passed beneath a large silver sign made up of letterings that appeared to be alive and moving. ‘Welcome To Nowhere … Particular? Shouldn’t there be an I and an N?’ asked Willy.

‘Good luck finding them. Those two are always wandering off somewhere. It probably explains why so many Witches get lost around here,’ said Francesca, as she led Willy past yet another large sign.

‘Deja Avenue,’ read Willy. ‘Everything you would need or want conveniently located all in one place?’

‘Finding something you need here is the easy part,’ said Francesca. ‘It’s getting out that’s hard.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Willy, as they both made their way past several different shopfronts containing all kinds of bits-and-pieces. Up on their left was a tailor for handmade cloaks and clothing. On their right, there was a little bookshop selling the latest addition of the Great Witch Battles of the Twenty-first Century, right in the front window.

‘Because Deja Avenue goes on forever and ever,’ said Francesca, quickly glancing into the shopfront window of the Broken Mirror hair salon. ‘Anyway, Deja Avenue goes on-and-on and unless you know exactly where you’re going, you’ll keep passing the same shops over and over and over again. It’s enough to drive some Witches insane.’

‘But’—Willy grew nervous—'you know where we’re going, right?’ Francesca seemed to lead him away from the noisy vendors and up and through the dense crowd of Witches loitering-about outside a particular shop-front window full of what appeared to be some unusual looking, perhaps exotic, creatures.

‘Get ’cha Secrets and Whispers Digest, here! Secrets and Whispers Digest!’

Willy paused, peered around searching for the source of the melodic shouting but found nothing, except for a stack of old, crinkled-up newspapers. Which at first, looked to have been thrown away and discarded on the curb. But then a grumpy, wrinkled-up face of a newspaper, spoke again. ‘Do yah want a copy or yah just going to stand there gawking at me?’ asked the newspaper.

‘How— How much?’ asked Willy caught off guard.

The wrinkled newspaper curled up into a half smile. ‘For but the whisper of a rumor, a little tattle-tail, a… secret, you’ll get full access to the number one newspaper read by gossipers and gossips alike. Full of Witchcraft’s worst scandals, and all the verified hush-hush,’ said the newspaper in a tone of theatrics.

‘We’re not interested,’ said Francesca, flatly. ‘A newspaper read by the worst sorts. Full of nothing but lies and deceit. Come along, Willy, that newspaper is enough to tarnish anyone’s reputation.’

Leaving behind the ghastly newspaper, Willy passed by the Aalia Fountain, finding the letters I and N floating around in the water—smiling and giggling to one another as they held each other’s hands.

‘This is it here,’ said Francesca, gesturing to a shop-front sign that read: Secondhand Brooms. The shop was made up of numerous narrow buildings placed ungracefully atop one another like rundown vehicles stacked up in an old car-yard, or a nervous game of Jenga.

Willy lent his weight against the shop door and shoved it open. The heavy door struck a small, mounted bell that echoed a soft ringing down the narrow hallway—no doubt alerting anyone inside that a new customer had just arrived. The hallway was like a museum for brooms, as numerous brooms with translucent orbs hung from the walls like picture frames--each one with their own descriptor card. More brooms, which seemed more ornamental than anything else, hung from the ceiling—their orb’s illuminating the hallway with brightly lit colors.

‘Hello!’ shouted Francesca, her voice echoing down the hall. ‘Is anyone here? Addle?’

Hearing no reply, Willy shrugged and leaned forward to read one of the descriptor cards mounted on the wall.

‘Quercus Rubra.

C. 1966. (Quarter Sentient).

Length: One meter.

Alignment: Alchemical Witch.

Kilometers: 108,699.

Prior owners: One.’

‘Woah,’ said Francesca with an air of excitement. ‘Check out this one, Willy.’

‘Grevillea Robusta.

C. 1802 (Half Sentient).

Length: Two-point-eight meters.

Alignment: Battle Witch.

Kilometers: 63,216

Prior owners: Forty-seven!’

‘I wager that one isss too big for the likesss of either of you two.’

Willy followed the direction of the voice to find a Witch, twice as tall as he was, in thin dark robes—grinning what would have been a welcoming smile, had she any teeth.

‘Are you … Addle?’ asked Willy.

‘Yesss,’ said Addle, licking her toothless gums. ‘I am the patron here at thisss fine essstablishment. Have any of my broomsss caught your attention?’

‘Well, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pick?’

‘Ahh, yesss. Ssso many to choossse from. Tell me, child, what kind of broomsss do your parentsss favor?’

‘They’re…’ Willy looked down towards his feet. ‘They’re not around anymore.’

‘I'm sssorry to hear. I too have lossst my parentsss. Time makesss corpssesss of usss all, eventually. Ahh, look at me making thingss all gloomy again. Not to worry, not to worry, I will find a ssssuitable broom for you. But where to begin. Gifted to unwrap on ssspecial occasionss, every Chrisstmasss, birthday, and every celebration; these broomss are like catss or rabbitss or dogss, enjoyed for a time then abandoned for good; replaced in favor for the mosst popular around, these broomss are like petss and this place is the pound.’

‘From gloomy to gloomier,’ whispered Francesca.

‘I know what that feeling’s like,’ said Willy.

‘Loss? Yesss, ssso do I.’

‘Then— Then I’ve made up my mind.’

Addle arched her eyebrow. ‘Already?’

Willy nodded and said, ‘I’ll take which ever broom has been here the longest.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Francesca.

‘I’m certain. I want whichever broom nobody else has wanted.’

Addle titled her head back and cackled—her laughter echoing down the hall. ‘Sssuch a decision made so eassily. I don’t know whether that is brave of you or sssimply foolish.’

‘Brave, obviously,’ said Francesca.

‘Then pardon me for just a moment, while I go and fetch your bravery,’ said Addle as she turned on her heels and made her way back down the hall—her cackled laughter receding with her.

‘You know she could bring back just about anything, don’t you?’ asked Francesca. ‘You could end up with a broom resembling one of Belvadere’s broken twigs.’

‘I…’ Willy hadn't thought about that. Simply put, he didn't want that broom to be left behind any longer; left behind and forgotten. ‘Just imagine being that broom. Imagine being left behind in some dingy little closet for years. To be forgotten. It just isn’t right, Frances—’

Squeak-Squeak-Squeak-Squeak.

Addle reemerged at the end of the hall, pulling behind her a long, thin, chest on wheels.

Squeak-Squeak-Squeak-Squeak.

Addle smiled a toothless grin as she suckled her gums and nodded toward the chest. ‘Your bravery.’

Kneeling down and unclasping each of the three latches, Addle opened the lid of the unremarkable, cheap, wooden chest, and there it was. It was black. The blackest of blacks. So black in fact that it seemed to absorb all the light that surrounded it. The broom had a dark, opal-like finish as though the galaxy itself were somehow trapped inside.

Willy broke his gaze and looked up towards Addle—who seemed to be studying Willy with a careful eye. ‘Why has it been here for so long?’ asked Willy.

‘Each broom has its own hisstory. Sssome much more vasst than otherss. This broom here is a one-point-two-meter, three-quarter sentient, Motuss Cryssstallo. It’s ssupposed to have a more translucent, glass-like appearance.’

‘But this one’s dark,’ said Francesca.

‘Brilliant obsssservation,’ said Addle, sarcastically.

‘But why?’ Asked Willy.

‘Ahh, the why is a part of the reason it’s sstill here. This broom is tainted.’

‘Tainted?’ asked Willy.

‘You sseee, this broom has sseen and done ssome… awful thingsss. A broom like this was never meant for such despicable actss. Its appearance hass changed over the yearss to reflect the pain and ssuffering that its prior owner has inflicted on others. Now, tell me child, who do you know that would willingly want to carry around ssuch a ssstained object for all to sssee?’ Addle stared at Willy and continued, ‘The real question iss do you believe in sssecond chancesss?’

‘We’ll put it back, Willy,’ said Francesca. ‘You can choose a—’

‘No,’ said Willy, sharply, as he slowly reached out towards the broom. It felt like the two were strangers meeting for the first time, like feet dipping slowly into the water to test the temperature. The broom seemed to react and pull Willy’s palm inwards like a magnate—as though the broom itself were the one to decide. Willy embraced the broom with a tight grip of its hilt, which sent a shockwave of energy reverberating down the hallway, clanking all the hanging brooms against the walls—resembling the sound of a wind-chime on a stormy day.

‘That-was-brilliant!’ yelled Francesca with a huge grin spread across her face.

‘Interesssting,’ said Addle. ‘The chancesss of a bond between you both were… ssslim at best—’

‘The broom’s orb, it’s black,’ said Francesca, eyeing the darkly colored orb nestled deep within the bristles of the broom.

‘Yesss. All a part of the defect. Usually, an orb reflectss a color that aligns with its owner’s emotion. But, as we discusssed, this broom is tainted. A tainted broom naturally has a tainted orb as well.’

‘Wait,’ said Francesca, drifting off in thought yet again. ‘Wouldn’t that be an advantage? If Willy’s orb is always black, then nobody will know exactly how he’s feeling.’

‘Either that or they'll assume that he’s consstantly harboring dark feelingsss,’ said Addle. ‘Now as for the payment. This broom is priced at two-hundred and fifty Quartz.’

‘What?’ asked Willy. ‘But I don’t have that much?’

‘That’s a shame. It would be sssad to ssee ssuch a good bond go to waste.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Francesca. ‘You said no one wants it. You said that it’s been here longer than any other broom. So It can’t be that much of a prized possession, can it. We’ll give you two-hundred and ten for it?’

Addle grinned. ‘I suppose I can drop it by ten Quartz. Even if it is a rare model. Two-hundred and forty.’

Willy turned towards Francesca, ‘Francesca, my Aunt only gave me Two-hundred Quartz to spend. I don’t—’

‘Two-hundred and twenty,’ said Francesca ignoring Willy altogether. ‘That’ll be a full extra twenty Quartz you’ll be pocketing from us.’

‘Two-hundred and thirty. Final price,’ said Addle. ‘Take it or leave it.’

‘Done!’ Francesca smiled as she dug her hand deep into her cloak pocket and pulled out several half-moon-shaped gold coins, before sending them clinking atop one another into Addle’s open palm.

‘Francesca, I can’t let you pay for some my broom—’

‘I said to call me Frances. And don’t worry about it, mum and dad gave me some Quartz to spend for Christmas. Just think of this as, I don’t know, an early Christmas present from me?’

‘Frances… Thank you. Really.’

Addle leaned forward with unnerving speed. ‘Promissse me child. You won’t abandon this broom and bring it back here, will you?’

Willy spoke with such finality that he was sure to never see that toothless grin again, or at least not anytime soon. ‘My broom will never be abandoned again. I’ll make sure of that.’

*

Deja Avenue—thankfully—had not driven Willy or Francesca mad. The cobblestones eventually broke off into a dirt footpath that led them out towards a forest, where its densely packed trees had only begun to separate when Willy and Francesca drew near.

‘How much further until we reach the academy?’ asked Willy.

‘It should be soon,’ said Francesca.

‘Should?’

‘Well, It’s not like I’ve actually been there myself. But my sister said the academy is carved out of the mountainside; everything from the classrooms, corridors, and even the window frames.’

‘How would something like that even be possible?’

Francesca gave a shrug and said, ‘Witchcraft.’ As if the mere mention of Witchcraft explained-away everything. ‘Oh, the cemetery should be right up through here.’

‘Did you just say the cemetery?’ asked Willy, assuming that perhaps he’d misheard Francesca.

He hadn’t.

Up just a little further appeared to be a small graveyard that had a half-dozen or so tombstones, all partially covered in overgrown weeds and vines from an obvious lack of upkeep. And leaning up against the largest of the tombstones were two fellow Witches, neatly dressed in matching tailored cloak’s, holding brand new auburn brooms that looked to be adorned with solid gold hilts.

‘I can’t believe we are still being kept waiting,’ said the tallest of the two girls as she strangled her copy of the Secrets and Whispers Digest in momentary frustration. ‘They better not start Orientation without us.’

‘Relax,’ said the other, much smaller girl beside her. ‘Headmistress Ludwig’s not going to start until everyone’s arrived. So, who cares if we’ll be late,’

‘Helga, what kind of impression will we give the Goldyr coven if we end up being the last Witches to arrive. They will think we’re lazy, disorganized stragglers,’ she said, in a tone that sounded a lot more like whining. ‘We have an image to uphold. Mother won’t want the Von Shtrapen name being tarnished with coven-gossip—’

A small tree-branch resting beneath Willy’s foot had interrupted their private conversation with a loud snapping sound. The much taller girl beside Helga quickly glanced in their direction. ‘Oh, look who’s finally arrived, Helga.’ She quickly began to call out, ‘We thought perhaps you weren’t going to make it, Francesca.’

Francesca let out a barely audible sigh. ‘And why would you think that?’ Francesca leaned in close and whispered, ‘That’s Elizabeth Von Shtrapen. And that other girl is her fraternal twin sister, Helga.’

Elizabeth grinned as she replied, ‘Well, we thought maybe you might have been the one taken by the Patchwitch this year.’

‘The Patchwitch?’ Francesca gave a snort. ‘Don’t tell me you still believe in that story?’

Helga glared at Francesca. ‘She’s real, Francesca.’

‘Helga, she’s made-up! It’s just a story to frighten young witches,’ said Francesca.

‘Then explain the numerous sightings of her,’ said Helga. ‘Or all those missing Witches?’

‘My aunt never mentioned a Patchwitch,’ said Willy curiously. ‘What’s this story about?’

‘It’s not a story! It’s…’ Helga trailed off—appearing to have just noticed Willy for the first time.

‘I take it that you’re him. The boy Witch?’ asked Elizabeth, eyeing over Willy as if he were some unwanted, stray cat.

‘You’ve heard about me?’ asked Willy.

‘We’ve heard quite a lot about you,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Don’t tell me he’s mentioned in that?’ asked Francesca, gesturing to Elizabeth’s crumpled-up copy of the Secrets and Whispers Digest.

Elizabeth huffed. ‘Oh please, our source of information is far my reliable than this thing.’ Elizabeth gave the Secrets and Whispers Digest another tight squeeze. ‘So, what shall we call you? Or are you simply, Boy Witch?’

‘Willy. Call me, Willy.’

‘Well, Willy, that story states that at the start of every academic year, a young Witchling goes missing; taken; vanishing into thin air and never to be seen again.’

‘You mean, they’ve been kidnapped?’ asked Willy.

‘Exactly that,’ said Helga.

‘How? And why the name Patchwitch?’ asked Willy.

‘Well,’ said Helga. ‘No one really believed in the stories at first; a woman who hides under a young Witches bed at night. But a few years back someone caught sight of her, didn't they? In the act!’

Francesca rolled her eyes and asked, ‘And who was that?’

‘The neighbor,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She saw her and said that the woman’s face was covered in pieces of discolored skin and that her whole face was lined with scars.’

Helga nodded. ‘Our mother said that the Patchwitch sows the flesh of her victims onto her own face, so that’s why they all started calling her the Patchwitch.’

‘And how would your mother possibly know that?’ asked Francesca.

Helga smiled as though she had been waiting for that exact question. ‘Our mother is the new Lead Inquisitor,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Didn’t you know? I thought everybody knew by now. She just got the promotion last week. She says it’s all real and that it’s about time everyone else knows the truth of it.’

‘How about your mother, Francesca?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Is she still doing— What was it called… Pest Control?’

‘It’s not Pest Control and you know it. It’s The Agency For Alchemical Eradication Of Extraneous Curses.’

‘So, she’s a glorified exterminator?’ asked Helga.

‘Are you always this mean?’ asked Willy, finding himself genuinely curious.

‘Mean?’ asked Helga. ‘How dare you call—’

‘It’s not mean if it’s true,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Helga, I’ve been waiting ten minutes. I thought you said they were supposed to be fast?’

‘And who are we waiting for?’ asked Willy.

‘You mean you don't know that either?’ asked Helga. ‘I’m surprised our boy Witch here has managed it this far.’

‘Death,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We’re waiting for death to arrive.’

‘Ghosts, actually,’ corrected Francesca in a more upbeat tone, however, she was immediately cut off by a sudden uptake of a loud, aggressive wind, whistling through the trees towards them.

Both Willy and Francesca, and even the Von Shtrapen twins, glanced in every which-way direction as the whistling drew more intense, until eventually something came rattling up through the dirt beneath them, rising up like drifting smoke. The galloping of hoofs came to a halt as a transparent ghost carriage creaked to a stop in front of them.

‘Finally,’ said Elizabeth as she wasted little time making her way up and through the carriage door. ‘Quickly, Helga, we need to get moving.’

Francesca, however, was too busy pushing her arm back and forth through the carriage timber. ‘You’ve got to try this, Willy. I can’t feel anything. My hand, it goes right through.’

Willy eyed the small steps that led up into the carriage, carefully placing his right foot atop the first step, hoping he wasn’t about to fall face first through the carriage and down into the dirt beneath. However, his right foot firmly met wood, as did his chest.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked Elizabeth, while digging the end of her broom into Willy’s chest.

‘We’re coming with you two,’ said Willy—suddenly unsure of himself.

‘I'm afraid that this is a girl’s only carriage.’ said Elizabeth as she shoved Willy back down off the step.

‘What are you talking about,’ said Francesca. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘There is when a girl desires her privacy,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Listen here, Willy, just because you’re the Academy’s first ever Boy Witch, doesn’t mean you can go around thinking that it makes you something special.’

‘I wasn’t. And I don’t.’

‘What are we supposed to do then?’ asked Francesca. ‘Walk?’

‘Actually, you look like you could do with a good walk,’ said Helga, giggling.

Francesca turned bright red and held up Broomelda in response. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Helga smiled and said, ‘And what do you plan to do with that? I doubt you know any useful spells. The best you could possibly do is give this graveyard a good sweep. Anyway, you can just as easily call for your own chauffer, like we did.’

Francesca was about to speak up again, but Willy placed a placating hand on her shoulder and replied, ‘I think we might just go ahead and do that. How— Umm…’

Helga rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘Just read the name on a tombstone aloud three times to call for a carriage.’

‘But, the tombstones, there are so many,’ said Willy.

‘I’d suggest that one over there,’ said Helga, gesturing to a large pile of vines covering a small and barely noticeable tombstone. ‘That’s the one everyone chooses. We’d have taken that one ourselves, of course, if it hadn't of already been called for at the time. It’s sure to be available now though. Too-da-loo.’

The small tombstone looked as though it hadn’t been used in centuries, and when Willy turned back around to ask the Von Shtrapen twins one more question their carriage was already on the move, leaving Willy and Francesca behind, stranded in the cemetery.

Francesca scoffed and muttered to herself, ’Rotten apples. Absolutely rotten.’

‘Oh,’ said Willy in a mocking tone. ‘But that’s the one everyone recommends.’

Francesca grew a wide smile in response and said, ‘Come on, try and pull back some of those vines, would you?’

Willy strained to hold back the thickly rooted vines as he asked, ‘Can you see a name on it?’

‘Ri— Rick? No… Rickety. Rickety… Pete? Rickety-Pete? Yes, It’s definitely Rickety-Pete,’ said Francesca. ‘So, we’re just say supposed to say his name three times?’

‘I… I think you just did,’ said Willy, as the wind, once again, began to whistle.