Witchlings: Chapters 18–22

The fabric was supple and luxurious feeling.

Each outfit came with a cape, dark red pants (except for Thorn’s ensemble since she usually only wore skirts), and a matching shirt and vest.

Their suits matched perfectly, and each one complemented the others in a way that, without knowing exactly why, you knew you needed all three suits to be complete.

It was some sort of magic Thorn had infused in them.

They looked better than cool, they looked formidable, and prepared, and like...
“We look like a coven,” Valley said.

Dinner was mashed plantains with butter and fried cheese, Seven’s favorite.

Seven’s parents left for town after putting Beefy to bed, and Mrs. Villalobos had come over and promptly fallen asleep in front of the telecast of Real Witch Wives of Hastings-on-Pumpkins.

Beefy was trying to climb out of his crib and complained in unintelligible baby talk except for one word: monstruo.

The cuco went completely feral, trying to hold on to anything it could as the strong wind spell pushed it toward the window. It smashed Beefy’s dresser, pulled the wallpaper from the walls.

The three Witchlings went inside the ornate Hall of Elders, where all government business was handled and the council kept their records and held their meetings.

It was one of the most beautiful buildings in Ravenskill, with onion domes and high spires that looked like they reached the clouds sometimes.

There were large archways and intricate etchings that told the story of the Twelve Towns’ origins.

A curly ginger Valley and a brunette Thorn nodded and followed Seven to the desk of a shiny blue see-through clerk.

We keep records of everything, and I mean absolutely everything. So, when there’s something amiss during an impossible task, or you’ve made some sort of progress, we record it here! For posterity.

“Unfortunately, those records were lost in the great fire of ’65. I know a bit about it off the top of my head, but I’m not sure it would be very helpful or accurate. That was a fraught night for me, you see.” Alaric touched his half-melted name tag, and Seven knew for sure he had died that night.

Seven looked around to make sure nobody was looking and deftly put two drops of las veras potion into the mudbean juice on his desk.

“I’m afraid they just won’t be processed for a while. But I assure you there are much more exciting meetings to peruse! There was a rousing one about toad race regulations just two weeks ago, and if you’re in the mood for something older, we can look at the disco dance-off of ’78, or even the great fire of ’65! We have options with a capital O!”

The Witchlings exchanged nervous glances as Jonafren meandered toward them, eyebrows hitched.

“I hope we haven’t caused an unmendable rift between coworkers,” said Thorn, worrying the collar of her prairie dress.

Thorn and Seven had snuck into their school’s potions room five days after their spy mission and were mixing ingredients together for a particularly volatile enchantment.

It wasn’t super potent and the memories might be muddled, but it would have to be enough.

Spares...we are the most vulnerable witches in this town because we don’t have powerful magic. We can’t protect ourselves against big threats.

She was sweating in every conceivable place.

What if she’d bungled the spell?

“We should avoid talking at all costs. The vocal transformation component of the spell must’ve gotten messed up somehow,” said Seven sheepishly.

It enraged Seven that even when a law or issue had to do with them, the simple fact of being young made them unqualified to have an opinion.

Mr. Dimblewit cleared his throat again and took off the ascot around his neck, putting it down on the chair beside the podium.

“So we suggest that instead of this...ill-timed amendment discussion, we instead talk about the proposition that my lovely wife and I, along with other members of the Hill Society, have put together. An amendment that would seek not to restore rights to Spares, but to restore law and order to our fair town. A law that would require Spares to be relocated and stripped of their magic in order to save Ravenskill from any further destruction. It is time we put Ravenskill first.”

Now almost everyone—including the three old-lady Witchlings—stood up in their seats and began to protest.
“You can’t possibly do this!”
“This is preposterous, barbaric!”

“Pollepel Island has more than enough room to house all of Ravenskill’s Spares, or those of the entire Twelve Towns if they so choose. The beautiful land will be a wonderful home for the young and old Spares alike, and while they’re there, we have devised a fruitful work schedule to keep them entertained! Why, everything from our cauldrons to our potions bottles can be manufactured there.”

“Pollepel Island has more than enough room to house all of Ravenskill’s Spares, or those of the entire Twelve Towns if they so choose. The beautiful land will be a wonderful home for the young and old Spares alike, and while they’re there, we have devised a fruitful work schedule to keep them entertained! Why, everything from our cauldrons to our potions bottles can be manufactured there.”

It was rare for a witch to be jailed; only killings on a mass scale and usage of dangerous Forbidden Curses ever warranted it.

Any Spare with a work voucher will be permitted to stay in Ravenskill provided they are working for a Hill Society family and are of course not receiving compensation—

They likely not only brought this Nightbeast on us but are keeping any competent witches from stopping it since doing so would mean interfering with impossible task magic.

“Right. Then I propose that along with our new law, which we have lovingly named the Spare Sanction”—Mr. Dimblewit took a deep breath, puffing his chest out as if to gather courage—“we swiftly vote to send the Gran to the Tombs.”

This blatant use of high-level magic by incompetent Witchlings is basis for a sentence to the Tombs for these Spares.

The few residents not too busy fighting to notice gasped or tried to apprehend Mr. Pepperhorn, but he already had his own security detail pushing them back.

Seven turned to Thorn, fire in her gaze as she opened her hand to reveal the button she had taken from Mr. Pepperhorn’s jacket while he was busy berating them.

Seven grabbed her friend’s hand, and they ventured into the dark, drafty halls of the Goody Garlick Academy for Magic and hustled toward the potions room.

She was smiling on the night of the Black Moon Ceremony as her father chastised her.