Chapter Text
Hecate dipped her quill into her crimson inkwell. Alone in her office, sat at her writing desk, was the only sensible way to spend a Friday evening for Miss Hardbroom, Deputy Head and Potions Mistress of Miss Cackle’s Academy for Witches. Surrounded by shelves towering with hundreds of musty tomes, shining sets of scales and other various measuring apparatus, and glass bottles containing magics too precious for the potions laboratory, she was marking a truly reprehensible batch of potions homework from her first year class. It was only the second week of term but already she had given her first years a somewhat tricky assignment. What with the Autumn Equinox coming up in a fortnight’s time, it was essential that the girls learnt proper discipline. Miss Cackle’s Academy was to host Mabon for four witching academies: Miss Pentangle’s, Miss Amethyst’s, and Moonridge High, with Miss Cackle’s as the location where the festival would take place this year for the first time in several decades. Miss Hardbroom had been working diligently all summer to ensure the successful organisation of the inaugural congress of the four academies. It had to be perfect.
Hecate’s bony hand poised the nib glistening with deep red ink over the answer to the last question of Mildred Hubble’s homework.
“Incorrect again, Mildred Hubble,” Hecate uttered to herself, etching a pitiless X beside Mildred Hubble’s pitiful handwriting. She scrawled 0% at the top of the paper and placed the quill back in its stand.
Hecate beckoned to the next piece of homework with her black-taloned hand, and it floated up from the stack of papers to be marked, borne on a bed of twinkling magical orbs, and rested gently onto the smooth green leather surface of her writing desk.
Unlike Mildred’s chaotic clusters of cramped writing, the neat lines of evenly spaced penmanship that lay before her brought an expression of satisfaction, if not a smile, to Hecate’s lips. And of course, the name at the top was that of Ethel Hallow, her star student. It came as no surprise to her that within the first answer, Ethel had managed a level of academic sophistication that Mildred had failed to grasp and would quite probably struggle with her entire school career. Hecate was of the opinion that some students would simply never be as capable as others, and that a witch with a slapdash approach was both unwitchlike and irresponsible in regards to the safety of her fellow witches. Thus, eager to merit the restrained and precise responses Ethel Hallow had given, Hecate dipped her quill into the inkwell with a practised motion and wrote “excellent work” in her slanting calligraphy. There was something eminently gratifying about a correct answer, particularly a competent one from a Hallow.
The soft fur of her familiar pressed against her ankles just under the hem of her long black skirt. Morgana could always perceive what her mistress was feeling, and at present, she sensed the ease in her mood. Hecate put one long arm down to caress the cat’s plush black fur, down her back to her tail, and let Morgana’s tail coil around her wrist. She allowed herself to linger in thought for a moment before returning to her work.
Hecate had almost completed marking the potions assignments when a soft knock came at the door. She was startled from being so deep in her occupation, but her response was merely to stiffen slightly and rest her quill in its stand.
“Enter,” she said, straightening her already immaculate posture and looking up to see the round, bespectacled face framed with short, silver hair gleaming gold in the low candlelight, of Miss Cackle, garbed in one of her usual bright woolly jumpers. Hecate rose to her feet at once. “Miss Cackle, what can I do for you?”
Ada smiled and waved her hand for Hecate to resume her seat. Hecate remained standing. At her place bolt upright beside Hecate’s black boots, Morgana blinked in deference to the headmistress.
Ada approached the writing desk and patted the tall stack of marked homework. “Hecate, my, my! You have been busy—and on a Friday night with lessons barely ended.”
“It is always best to strike while the iron is hot, Miss Cackle,” Hecate replied with solemnity. “There is still much preparation to be done for the Autumn Equinox. I also have my nightly duties to attend to—patrolling the corridors and ensuring all girls are asleep.”
Ada looked upon her deputy head with a sensitive smile. “Would you care to join me for a spot of tea?”
“Thank you, Miss Cackle, but I am still working. Was there something you needed my help with?”
“Ah yes—about the Equinox.” Ada paused for a moment, wrinkling her brow as if choosing her words as carefully as possible. “Do you think you’re possibly… taking on too much of the responsibility yourself?”
Hecate raised her eyebrows. “Not at all. I am perfectly capable of taking on a task of such importance. It would be the utmost honour for me to perform this duty for Cackle’s.”
“Yes—I don't doubt that you are up to the task, Hecate, nor do I doubt that you would treat it with the reverence such a task demands.” The older woman gave her a long, searching look. It was surprising to Hecate how exacting such a gentle person in chunky cabled knitwear could be. “I’m just concerned that you might find it… emotionally difficult. I know that you and Pippa Pentangle once had a sort of falling out.”
Hecate broke eye contact and focused on a set of measuring scales. “You know about that, Ada?”
“Well, my dear, while it happened a long time ago, I do recall how close you girls once were, but after—”
“—Ada, I would rather not—”
“—what I mean is, that if you would rather have an intermediary—”
“—Ada.”
Silence rang between the two women. Hecate, hands by her heart, ran her thumb along the chain of the pocket watch that hung about her neck, down to the watch and fumbled for its crown to open the filigree half-hunter cover.
“I had really better return to my work,” Hecate said in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Of course, Hecate. But consider what I have said—and please do ask for help, should you find yourself in need of it.”
Hecate bowed her head in respect, her ears colouring ever so slightly pinker than normal. “Yes, Headmistress.”
Ada stood for a moment looking at the severe younger woman, her mouth a worried line, before heading for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, Hecate saw Ada take one more glance back at her before her silver hair vanished out of sight.
Hecate closed her pocket watch. Alone once more in her silent study, she gathered her hands together; the feeling of her own cold, thin fingers folded over her hands was barely a comfort to her, but it was something. Yet as soon as she realised she was dithering, she scolded herself, even as her eyes stung with the effort not to tear up. She had to focus on her duties and not waste any more time in frivolous reminiscing. She was Hecate Hardbroom, and she did not reminisce.
With all her marking for the night completed and the girls’ scores registered in her marking book, Hecate now stalked the corridors of the dormitories. The shadows cowered out of her way as she walked, the lantern hovering alongside her steadily. If it had breath, it would be holding it in fear of disciplinary action from the imposing figure commanding it.
Try hard as she might to squash any memory of her conversation with Miss Cackle out of her mind, the headmistress’s voice echoed in her thoughts. She was affronted that Miss Cackle would question her indomitable capacity to handle difficult situations. Certainly the strength and integrity were the cornerstones of Hecate Hardbroom’s essence. No matter what may or may not have happened with a young Miss Pentangle and herself many, many years ago in the heady storm of a misguided youth, there was absolutely no chance that Hecate Hardbroom would allow this kind of distraction to hinder her professionalism or affect in any way the opportunity she had been granted to let Miss Cackle’s Academy shine.
A sound shook her from her train of thought—which, in hindsight, had been a self-indulgent and somewhat arrogant measure of her own worth, she reprimanded herself—something that sounded suspiciously like trouble. At once, keen to weed out the source of the disturbance, Hecate transferred herself and her lantern directly into the offending dormitory with a twist of her long-fingered hand.
As her vision materialised, Hecate saw at once that the disturbance had been nothing more than a girl who had just discovered a dead mouse that her cat had presented for her lying beside her head. The yelping of the young witch would have surprised her the first time this had happened, but fortunately, Hecate had encountered this very situation numerous times.
“M-Miss Hardbroom!” the girl gasped as she noticed the teacher’s striking form emerge from a magical mist.
“Not to worry, Charlotte Gimlett,” Hecate drawled, as she sent the mouse into vanishment with an idle wave of her hand. Charlotte stared at the spot on the pillow where the mouse had lain, looking ashen-faced in contrast with her dark grey pyjamas. Hecate raised an eyebrow at the frozen girl. “Well? Are you quite recovered?”
Hecate tilted her neck to better see Charlotte’s expression, and saw to her alarm that the girl had begun to cry.
“I— I— Thebe— she’s never—”
“That is what cats are wont to do, Charlotte,” Hecate said in as nice a voice as she could manage without sounding too patronising.
“I— I know— but Miss Hardbroom—”
This was not looking like an easily defused situation. The girl had worked herself up into a state and it would almost certainly be hours before she would be able to get to sleep. Hecate sighed inwardly. Although it was the weekend tomorrow, and there were no scheduled lessons, a sleep-deprived, traumatised girl did not do homework well.
“Would you like something to help calm you down?” Hecate asked.
In the low light cast by the floating lantern, Hecate saw her tear-streaked face nod. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and transferred them directly to the potions laboratory.
The temperature in here was much cooler; Charlotte’s inconsistent, shallow breaths sent plumes of vapour into the air. Hecate put her hands together and drew them apart, as if opening a tape measure, and instantly pulled out of nothing a thick, tartan wool blanket, which she handed to the shivering girl to encircle herself in.
“Sit,” Hecate said to Charlotte, pointing to a chair at the front desk that had not been there seconds before. The lantern lowered onto the desk at an indication from Hecate’s hand. She then turned to her shelves, which were glittering with glass potion bottles. She reached for a large teardrop-shaped vessel containing a pale blue liquid and set it on her desk, along with a small goblet. Charlotte watched her teacher cautiously and rubbed her eyes with a corner of the blanket, as Hecate decanted a measure of the potion into the goblet, and placed her fingers on its base. After a few muttered words, from the pale blue contents a wisp began to spiral into the cold air.
“Here,” Hecate said awkwardly, edging the goblet towards Charlotte on the other side of the desk. “Drink. It is a calming concoction. It will be slightly hot.”
The shaking Miss Gimlett took the goblet and sipped a little of the potion with an uneasy frown. A faint colour spread along her cheeks as she swallowed, and she began to drink more eagerly.
“Your cat, Thebe, was it? She might well do this again. But you must understand that cats only present their mistresses with dead mice as gifts. This means that she is bonding with you. It should be quite the honour considering you were only united with her but a fortnight ago.” Hecate’s mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile, which faltered as though the muscles weren't used to maintaining such an expression. “It is a little shocking when it happens unexpectedly, particularly when you are awoken to such an unpleasant surprise, but now you will be prepared mentally for any subsequent repetitions of Thebe’s gift-giving.”
“Th-thank you, Miss Hardbroom. I’ve just been finding everything so difficult. I didn’t mean to cause a fuss like this. I’m so sorry, I don’t think I’m going to be a good witch if I’m scared of a dead mouse. And my cat, now.”
“You may be interested to know that I have just marked your year’s potions homework,” Hecate said. At Charlotte’s terrified look, she hastily added, “you performed… adequately.”
The girl did not look very comforted by this, but seemed to be more bewildered than scared or shocked, which Hecate counted as an improvement. Perhaps the girl had heard that she did not give praise freely and was wondering what to make of this. Saying the ‘right thing’ had never come easily to her. This was more Miss Cackle’s territory.
“Remember that many lonely women find great companionship with even quite ordinary cats. A magical cat, though they perform an important duty as a witch’s familiar, can also be the source of companionship over the years,” Hecate said, tensing her square jaw to attempt to disguise the flicker of her own loneliness threatening to falter her voice. “Now, it is high time you return to bed. The potion that I gave to you should help you rest well now. However—” and here Hecate poured a little more of the calming concoction into a glass vial and stoppered it “—here is a little more for you in case you have another unwanted night-time awakening.”
“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” the girl said gratefully. She hesitated before shrugging out of the blanket and standing, reaching out for the proffered vial.
“I am going to transfer you back to your room, now, if you are feeling better?”
“Yes, Miss Hardbroom. Thank you,” the girl responded, and as soon as she had uttered the words, she vanished into mist with one sweep of Hecate’s hand.
The shadowy potions laboratory fell silent. It was a relief being here at night when none of the students were around to cause havoc. Three broken flasks had had to be cleaned up only today. On days such as this, sometimes all she wanted was to retreat to her bedchambers with only the companionship of Morgana, but, as she reminded herself, she had responsibilities to enrich her mind. She closed her hand over the heap of blanket, which now had a damp patch and a string of snot on its corner, and, folding it in mid-air, sent it back to her own bedchamber. It had been freshly laundered and now would have to be cleaned of child snot. Sighing, Hecate tidied away the empty goblet and the calming concoction, before transferring herself back to the dormitory hallway.
The dark corridor was immediately illuminated by Hecate’s lantern, and the messy, lank brown hair of a pale, shocked—
“—Mildred Hubble, where do you think you are going with those potions ingredients?”
For in her arms was a collection of roots and weeds Hecate recognised from the supply closet. However, the look of false innocence on the young girl’s face was deluding nobody, least of all the deductive Hecate Hardbroom.
“Detention.” Hecate seethed as the word escaped her teeth. Mildred lurched forwards as the potions ingredients vanished from her arms. “Report to my office tomorrow first thing. Now back to bed.”
“But Miss Hardbroom—”
“Silence. To your room.”
Whatever excuses Mildred had to offer, Hecate was not interested to hear at this time of night. She began to wonder whether Charlotte Gimlett had been perhaps the convincing distraction for whatever escapade Hecate had just interrupted. This would have to be investigated fully tomorrow. She followed the crestfallen Mildred to the door of her dorm room, and watched, eyes apoplectic as the girl stumbled over her trailing bootlaces inside. Hecate closed the door with a snap, and cast a sealing charm on the lock that would deactivate in the morning on Hecate’s awakening.
While she headed to the other wing of the castle to continue her vigil, her fingers found themselves on the pocket watch around her neck for the second time that evening. Her thoughts turned again unbidden to Pippa and how fate would force them together once more in merely a fortnight’s time. Of course she had seen the headmistress of Pentangle’s since their split, what with them both being high-ranking faculty members, but their meetings had always been brief, when not avoided completely, and scarcely been anything more than professional exchanges. The Pippa she revolved in her mind now, however, was the vision in the gold dress who had utterly mortified her at the ball all those years ago. While she had been in silver—cold, sterile, and reflective of no warmth of her own—Pippa had been radiant in gold, laughing with her friends, popular as ever. Even though she had no reasonable explanation of what she could have changed, Hecate longed to be back in that moment, to turn back the hands of the clock, but it was too late for her now. Moreover, silly reminiscence was ineffective at initiating any kind of change, and only squandered opportunities in the present of achieving success. And at present, Hecate’s primary duty was to Cackle’s Academy’s triumph at the Mabon festival.
The pocket watch in her hands flicked open at her touch, and she gazed into the clock face. Its exposed movement looked blankly back at her. The years may have passed, but a single moment in history held the pocket watch in suspension. A clock with no hands—ever close to her heart, ever closed to the hearts of others.