Simmer: Or, The Second Life of Callis Wardwell, Witch

PART 3: AT WIT'S END

Tᴡɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

Oғғ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ; ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪs ʀɪɢʜᴛ.

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It struck the sky and shot it through gold, knocked the Spellcast into silence and black, shook the earth to rattle the bones of every person in the Woods. In Camelot, statues cracked and fell, the people in the square screamed, clutched neighbours, fell to their knees, prayed, resurrected piety and superstition. Witches across the Woods, wiser and better knowing, came out onto streets, shook their heads, clicked their tongues, grudging. The reflection of the sky in the sea blinded and burned.

At the School for Good, Clarissa Dovey pushed her students aside and ran onto a balcony in Purity. She knew what this was.

Everboys ran after her as the balcony trembled, but she stood quite still, quite firm.

In Netherwood, Guinevere looked up, and was quiet.

A hand receded.

Agatha woke up to find everyone else on the ground, too.

She struggled to lift her head, feeling leaden and unsteady. She could hear the others getting up, vague questions. She thought Callis had gone to Iphigenia, maybe, or perhaps the other way around–

Then Hester was behind her, pushing her upwards. Off balance, Agatha fell forwards, and Callis caught her, instead. She didn't say anything, just clutched her against her chest, but Dot was saying something. What was she–

"I can't believe it, but you... he..." Dot spluttered, lost for words. "Just–"

Agatha looked up, saw Sophie–

"Your face," croaked Agatha. Sophie snorted, and crimped a bit of limp white hair with a wizened, liver-spotted hand.

"Got a little upset, darling. I'll be beautiful old me again in no time, don't fret. My varicose veins are already gone."

"You... who did you..." Agatha managed.

Sophie grinned horribly, exposing blackened and missing teeth.

"I ought to take up axe-throwing. I got him right in the chest. Poor thing..."

Through bleary eyes, Agatha looked over.

Nearby was Rhian, sitting in the mud, a look of pure animal horror on his face. Japeth– or Japeth's body– was in front of him, seeping blood, the axe embedded in his chest.

And in front of them, on the ground, Tedros was moving.

Agatha felt vaguely as if she was watching from very far away. Tedros clawed his way up to his knees, took up his head in his hands, put it right. He bent double, vomited a grisly stream of blood into the sand.

Then he started laughing.

Spluttering, dripping with strings of blood and saliva and gunk, he hunched over and cackled, staring into Rhian's horrified face. He heaved and spat and yet he still laughed, almost convulsing.

"Every god preserve me," said Callis hoarsely, clutching Agatha so tightly it was nearly painful. "You actually managed it. Agatha..."

She'd... managed it. Tedros was alive, he'd... he'd picked up... there was so much blood...

Agatha copied him– doubled over and threw up in the sand. Callis, never-fazed, pulled her hair back, though Sophie grimaced. As if she wasn't a toothless hag at this moment.