I wrote this a long time ago as a sort of sequel to my other WW story (How Does Your Garden Grow) but never thought I would post it. But, I was going through some old files on my laptop and thought "why not?" so here it is.

Constance Hardbroom had never meant to become friends with the caretaker.

In fact, as a rule, Constance did not approve of becoming friends with anyone. Experience had taught her that the initial pleasure of companionship was always outweighed by the inevitable disappointment of betrayal, and so she did her work, interacted with her colleagues when she had to (curse the headmistress and her insistence on "bonding" over cake at every opportunity) and kept herself to herself when she didn't. It was completely uncharacteristic of her to have a friend—certainly not a friend of the generally arrogant, untrustworthy and deceitful male species. Yet here she was, heading down the castle's back stairs in the dark for her daily chat with Frank Blossom.

The ritual had begun by accident really. It was summer, and everyone else had gone away, but Constance had stayed to work out some new potions in peace, and Mr Blossom, who lived just down the hill in the village, was there to keep an eye on the castle and mend things that wanted mending. In the first week, they had only crossed paths once, in the greenhouse, and she had thought perhaps that would be all until the girls returned in September. But she slept as little as possible, and Mr Blossom was up before the larks, and before long those wildly disparate habits had brought them both to the kitchen in the pre-dawn darkness, wanting a cup of tea.

Constance had meant to take her cup and go back to her own room, where her books and notes and cat awaited her, but Mr Blossom had looked so eager and hopeful at the prospect of companionship—like a big, friendly retriever anticipating a treat—that even she, who often missed the social cues other people read so easily, realised it would be unkind and impolite just to leave. So she had sat down across from him at the battered wooden table where Mrs Tapioca chopped and kneaded things, and the next thing she had known, the sky outside the narrow, barred windows had turned a pale grey with the oncoming dawn, and she'd been overwhelmed with a wave of drowsiness that not even a Wide-Awake potion could combat.

She'd bid him good day then, and gone up to bed feeling that Miss Cackle and Miss Drill would have been proud—weren't they always telling her to make more of an effort and give people a chance, Constance? And when she'd come down for her tea again the following morning, she'd been surprised, but not wholly displeased, to find him there ahead of her, and the kettle already on.

After that it became a habit, meeting in the warm kitchen at those small, dark hours. Mr Blossom was easy company (for a man, she mentally added). He didn't demand anything of her and would cheerfully keep up his side of the conversation even when she ran out of things to say, and bit by bit, she found herself both more willing and more able to talk. She'd always thought of him as an amiable idiot, but upon closer inspection, she discovered that despite his love of ridiculous inventions, he wasn't stupid in the least. He knew a great deal about plants as well, which was an endlessly fascinating subject to her, and they had had many discussions about the best way to grow this or that. She had been wondering if she should present him with a few cuttings from her herbs—the more ordinary ones, of course; he might have a green thumb, but there wasn't a drop of magic in him—to see what he could do with them. Perhaps he would surprise her. It wouldn't be the first time.

Pondering that, Constance rounded the corner at the last landing and emerged in the kitchen, only to find that it was empty, the fire banked, a single cup rinsed and sitting on the draining board. She frowned; was she later than usual? No, the cuckoo clock on the wall (enchanted by some distant Cackle ancestor so that the cuckoo screamed out the hour at the top of its nonexistent lungs) said thirteen minutes to five. It was the right time, and she was in the right place, but the other actor in the play had missed his cue.

Constance did not like having her routine disrupted, and this unforeseen development upset her. She brooded about it while she made her tea and added the tiny splash of milk that she allowed herself. It was very rude, she thought, to lead a person to expect you to be somewhere, and then not to be there. All right, they hadn't had an official appointment, but a precedent had been set, and he had no right to change it without alerting her. As she thumped the milk jug down on its chilled stone shelf, the cuckoo burst out behind her with a shriek of "IT'S FIIIIIIIIVE O'CLOCK!"

"I know," Constance snapped, and stomped back up to her room, where she swept all the books to one side of her bed and lay down fully clothed for a few hours of thin, restless sleep, interrupted several times by a recurring dream in which Mildred Hubble burnt down the school. She woke up sometime toward midmorning, with a dry mouth and a banging headache, and flung open the shutters on her window to discover Mr Blossom himself out in the courtyard, aggressively pruning an ornamental shrub in a planter. Under normal circumstances, she would have shouted for him not to use the shears so loudly, for pity's sake, but at the moment even the idea of raising her voice made her temples throb. Instead, she eased the shutters closed again, drank a vial of painkilling potion and sat down for her daily diary-writing session. Just because some people couldn't keep to a timetable didn't mean she had to let things slide, she thought crossly, dipping her pen.

19 August

Mr B missing from kitchen this morning for no good reason that I can determine. It is not that I wish illness upon him, but at least it would be some sort of excuse. I shall ask him tomorrow where he was. Fine weather, but looks as if it may rain later. Could divert the storm around the castle, but to what purpose? Thunder and lightning would suit my mood.

20 August

Wretchedly cold with torrents of rain. Thought of lighting the fire in my study, but refused on principle; must not give in to weakness even when the girls are not around to see. Mr B nowhere to be found again this morning; thought he had not come up to the castle at all until I saw him in the distance, touching up the paint on one of the sheds. He nodded to me but did not say anything. Still have headache.

21 August

Raining again. Gave in and lit the fire because Morgana was shivering. The potion I have been brewing for the last three days burnt and stuck to the bottom of the cauldron, and now I shall have to start all over. Took a book down to the kitchen at four this morning and stayed until six, thinking I might catch Mr B sneaking in for his tea, but nothing. I really think he is avoiding me. Why would he do that? I wish Amelia were here to tell me. She is much better at this friendship business than I am. But then, so is everyone.

22 August

Really, this is nonsensical. If he is going to creep about the way the girls do when they're up to something, I shall just treat him as I do them.

"Ahh! Miss Hardbroom, you gave me a start." Mr Blossom had been using a long-handled ladle to stir a simmering pot over the kitchen fire, and when Constance had materialised, he'd thrust it out in front of him as if to defend himself. Now he lowered it again, but held it ready as if he didn't like the look on her face—which, Constance thought, was probably good judgment on his part. She'd planned out several things to say when she confronted him, but now that they were face to face, she found none of them seemed quite right.

"Where have you been?" she asked at last.

"Oh, here and there, around and about," he said. "I hope you've been keeping well. Can I offer you some porridge?"

"No thank you," said Constance, who never ate before noon unless Amelia forced her to.

Mr Blossom turned away to stir the pot again, and she frowned at the back of his old grey jumper—there was a hole at one elbow, disgraceful—and wished she could see his face. She was generally hopeless at reading other people's emotions, but at least it might help her guess what he was thinking. He was as polite and good-humoured as ever, at least superficially, but there seemed to be an immense distance between them, as if this summer had never happened and they were meeting here in the kitchen for the first time. It made her feel not only awkward, but suddenly, powerfully lonely—a feeling that was both unaccustomed and unwelcome.

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps I should have made myself more plain. I was wondering not only where you have been, but also why you have not been here. I had…grown used to it."

Instead of replying, Mr Blossom tasted the porridge, whacked the ladle on the edge of the pot to knock off the thick bits that clung to it, then moved the whole pot away from the fire and scooped out a bowl full.

"Sure you won't have any?"

"Quite sure," said Constance. She poured herself a cup of tea, skipping the milk, and sat down in her usual chair while he added honey to his concoction.

"You haven't answered my question," she said.

"It isn't a question I can answer, miss." He hesitated, then sat down opposite her. "If I tell the truth you'll be cross with me, and if I don't, well, then I'll be lying, won't I? Either way I lose, so if you don't mind, I'll just keep quiet and eat my breakfast."

Constance drank some tea to hide her reaction to this statement. When she thought she was composed enough, she said, "Honesty is a virtue, Mr Blossom. I can't promise I'll like the truth, but I'll respect you for telling it."

Mr Blossom sighed and let his spoon fall into the porridge bowl. "Alright, it's like this. I've been enjoying these talks of ours, here in the kitchen every morning."

"So have I."

"Yes, but I've been enjoying them a bit too much, if you catch my drift. Looking forward to them all day, thinking about them after, wishing they'd last longer. What I mean to say is, I've been having feelings about you that I ought not be having, Miss Hardbroom, and it can't lead to anything but unhappiness, because you're who you are and I'm who I am, and never the twain shall meet. And now you're probably going to change me into a newt, but you asked, and there it is."

"I certainly will not change you into a newt," said Constance. "It would be against the Witches' Code."

"Well, that's a relief," said Mr Blossom, and ate a spoonful of porridge. "But it doesn't exactly touch on the rest of what I said, does it?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't," said Constance. She fiddled with her teacup, wishing that she were somewhere else. "Perhaps that bit doesn't really matter. We can pretend you didn't say it and go on as we have been—"

"We can't, though, because that isn't all there is to it." Now he was looking at her in a way that made her dreadfully uncomfortable—too warm and a little fidgety. "I don't want you to get upset, because I'd never, ever do anything about it unless you said it was all right."

"Do anything about what?" Constance asked faintly.

Mr Blossom coughed. "Well … there's a sort of physical side to these things too—no, don't, wait!" he said, as she overturned the cup and leapt to her feet, ready to vanish. "I swore I wouldn't do anything, and I won't. You'd blast me into the middle of next week if I tried, anyway. I'm only saying that I—I think you're beautiful, that's all. I can't help thinking it, or wanting to kiss you and—all the rest of it."

"All the rest of…" Constance's eyes widened as she took in what he must mean by that. "No! Absolutely not, Mr Blossom, that is completely out of the question. In fact, the entire idea is absurd. Just because we have been talking as friends, to suppose that I would entertain the thought of some sort of an, an intimate relationship is an outrage."

"I know it is," Mr Blossom said, patient as ever. "I didn't expect you to entertain the thought. I wasn't planning ever to say anything at all, just to stop coming round, but you would ask. Didn't your mum teach you not to ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to? Mine did."

"Well, I wasn't expecting the answer to be that," Constance snapped. "I thought you might tell me I'd offended you somehow. Heaven knows enough other people have done. I even meant to apologise for whatever it was, but this is simply beyond the pale." She felt something drip onto her shoe and looked down to see that the brown puddle of her spilt tea had reached the edge of the table and run off. "Oh, for goodness' sake!"

"Hang on, I'll mop it up for you—"

"Never mind!" Constance pointed and the puddle disappeared in a flash.

They both stood staring at the place where it had been for a moment, and then Mr Blossom said, "Can I ask you something, Miss Hardbroom? As a friend, if I still am your friend, or ever was."

"That depends," said Constance, folding her arms with fingers still in the spell-casting position, just in case. "Are you sure it's a question you want the answer to?"

Mr Blossom either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Yes, actually," he said. "I was just wondering, have you ever cared about anyone at all? Like that, I mean."

No doubt it seemed like an innocent question to him, but for Constance it brought up years of unpleasant memories: being called a robot and a statue and an ice queen; being accused of having no feelings; being asked if she was going to marry one of her books, as she loved them more than people.

"If you must know, Frank Blossom," she said sharply, "all I care about in life is my work and my studies. And I can see I should have been devoting myself to them instead of wasting hours of my valuable time on useless chitchat with you."

She rarely regretted the things she said in anger until much later, if ever, but the hurt on his face—obvious even to her—made her instantly wish she could take the words back. Now she felt guilty as well as furious, and all at once she knew she was going to behave very badly. Mr Blossom seemed to realise it too. He reached out to touch her arm, as if hoping to placate her, but a crackling blue burst of magic arced between them, and he jerked his hand back, shaking it to counteract the sting.

"Constance!"

He'd never used her Christian name before, and hearing it shocked her out of her rage—only for an instant, but long enough for her to get control of herself.

"Leave me alone," she said through gritted teeth. "You wanted to stay out of the castle, so stay out of it—in the greenhouse, in the sheds, at the bottom of the cesspit, I don't care where. I don't wish to see you or speak to you again until the new term starts. Is that understood?"

"Yes, miss."

"Good," Constance said, and transported herself directly to her room. She arrived there shaking with indignation and embarrassment and at least half a dozen other emotions she couldn't name. What was the matter with the man, anyway? Why did he have to spoil a perfectly good friendship by having these feelings she didn't want? Why couldn't he just have enjoyed it as it was? She wanted to scream and slam doors and smash things, but she knew it would do no good. Morgana came padding over to rub against her legs, and bending down, she gathered the cat into her arms and buried her nose in its neck, breathing in the scent of clean, healthy animal.

"I should have known better, Morgana," she said, and sighed.

1 September

Amelia came back yesterday. I did not see her until this morning, when she called me to a meeting in her office. The first thing she said was that Mr B has resigned. He has found a position at a horticultural college, and his brother will be taking over his work here. Amelia was upset and asked if B had said anything to me about planning to leave; told her quite truthfully that we have not exchanged a word in nearly a fortnight.

It is for the best, of course. How could we have behaved normally around each other after that? But I do miss those early-morning talks, and...he was not wrong when he said I was the one who insisted on knowing the reason for his absence. I shall apologise for that if I ever see him again, although I don't know if I ever shall.

I do know one thing though, and that is that I will never try to have another friend again. It is much too complicated.

I am better off as I am.