Here we are, Chapter 2... happy reading.

For those of you who are reading Bellatoxica, I hope to be updating v. soon.

Thanks to those who have reviewed this and BT so far. :-)

2

There was an inherently magical feeling about broomstick flying, the cool night breeze snatching at your hair, the altitude low enough for you to appreciate the glorious sights of the sky. And, despite the darkness of the river beneath us, I felt completely safe with Constance, knowing she would not let any harm come to me. If only I had a little more confidence at taking off, I was sure I wouldn't still have my arms fastened about her waist now; but, that said, it was rather a nice place to be...

Any doubts I'd had about the existence of witches had faded long ago; as detached from my present as was a mother's life before her children. Now, a world without magic felt like a dismal, ludicrous, impossible distant memory. When I had asked Constance on one occasion why there was a human predisposition to deny the reality of magic, she had allayed my curiosity with the same informed intellect that never failed to reassure me:

'People refuse to believe what they don't understand – what science can't explain. That is why so many refute the existence of God, the afterlife, Heaven and Hell... Unfortunately for those rather blinkered individuals, we witches exist whether or not it sits comfortably with their constitution. Their minds, however, turn a blind eye to what they wish to ignore – that which interferes with their own personal doctrines.'

My thoughts occupied me throughout our journey, crossing patchworks of fields, neon-lit motorways, negotiating hills and gracing the tops of dark forests. I peered over Constance's shoulder to see that the stars had disappeared in the light pollution of the city. I clung to her more tightly, excited by where our journey was taking us, the chill night air having the welcome effect of sobering me up. I listened to the gentle flapping of Constance's cloak in the wind as we soared closer to the capital, meeting again with the Thames and passing the golden glow of the Houses of Parliament, the grandeur of Tower Bridge, the brazen modernity of the London Eye...

Constance veered the broom slightly off course, away from the centre and eventually towards a collection of haphazard roofs reminiscent of a Dickensian toy town. The broom slowed instinctively as if it knew its location, and before long we were making a smooth descent onto a cobbled, narrow street thick with misshapen old buildings, crooked and aged in appearance. Constance touched down gracefully and got to her feet. I too dismounted, stumbling slightly, falling against her as she seized my upper arms so that I regained my balance.

'God, that was amazing,' I breathed, absorbing my surroundings before turning to Constance, who had disentangled my fingers from her robe and was heading for a side street. 'Why are we here, anyway?'

Constance didn't answer, and I rushed after her down a darkened alley and out onto another brightly lit street, where the houses were a little more spaced out and not quite so archaic in design. I had to almost break into a run to keep up with Constance, who before long turned into one of the driveways, striding up the terracotta-paved pathway to a large forest-green front door complete with stained glass and a brass doorknock in the shape of a cat's face. The looming house, which I backpedalled to observe, was in darkness. As Constance fumbled inside her cloak pocket, I took in the large bay window, the tiled canopy that sheltered the porch, and the front garden, which was almost completely surrounded by a laurel bushes. At last, Constance produced a key and fiddled with the lock.

'Whose house is this?' I asked, glancing confusedly around. Constance stepped into the darkness, tracing her fingertips across the wall in search of a switch and turning triumphantly to me as the hallway was basked in light.

'Mine, of course.'

x

I hadn't known what to expect of Constance Hardbroom's house. I'd never really thought about it. I'd imagined – somewhat ignorantly, it rather seemed now - that she'd spent her entire life at Cackle's Academy; that Castle Overblow was the home in which she worked, read, ate, slept, and where she had possibly even grown up. Some of our past liaisons had been during the school holidays, and as I had always met with her on the school premises, I'd never had any reason to believe she was ever anywhere else.

The hallway floor consisted of the same patterned terracotta as the tiles on the pathway outside – cold to the soles of my feet, which, once I'd slid out of my stilettos, were protected only by a thin layer of 15-denier Pretty Polly. Constance disappeared into the kitchen, indicating that I make myself comfortable in the lounge, and when I wandered cautiously in she had already cast a lighting spell so that a rather tired looking candle was casting an orange ring from the mantelpiece, along with one on a small coffee table and another by the hearth. I peered at the closely packed bookshelves which took up the whole of an alcove next to a leather sofa – each title on magical theory, or magical instruction, or magical history. Turning to the rest of the room, I saw that it was predominantly furnished with an old rocking chair, heavy purple velvet curtains, a working fireplace which Constance had also magically lit, and a large oil painting of the Academy, illustrated as though the artist had sketched it from somewhere outside the open gates. I drew my face closer to the painting, squinting in the dim light to read the handwriting in the bottom left corner.

To Constance,

Where I first saw you, and always think of you...

With love,

But the scrawl below was merely a signature, and an indecipherable one at that. I tried to ignore it - the involuntary spasm of jealousy in my stomach...

I jumped as Constance cleared her throat, standing in the doorway with another bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed the glasses on the table, pouring wine into both and putting the bottle out of harm's way on a bookshelf. Sitting down on the sofa, she indicated for me to join her.

I felt a surge of self-consciousness as I took my seat beside Constance. It was more than a little strange being in her abode – like being at an aunt's house in which you were afraid to move for fear of spilling tea on the beige carpet. Not that there was beige carpet – or indeed anything beige about Constance at all; but I had never so much as been anywhere near her chamber at the academy, and certainly never expected to be invited. I watched her discreetly from the corner of my eye as she took a sip of wine, slipping her feet out of her shoes with a feline movement and resting a heel on the corner of the table, her legs crossed at the ankles.

'You certainly wouldn't condone that at school,' I said, noticing the elegant arch of her instep. She laughed, gently, sinking further back into the sofa.

'Of course not,' she flexed her toes, closing her eyes as her wineglass tilted slightly in her lap. '"Do as I say, not as I do".' She quoted, turning her face to me. 'Did you know that teachers are often failed actors?'

I considered her words for a moment. No, I had not known that. But I could see why it might be true.

'Are you saying Miss Hardbroom is a mere character?' I asked, sceptically, running a fingertip around the cool rim of my glass.

'To an extent, of course. You don't honestly think I could keep up that persona all the time, do you?'

I drew my knees up onto the sofa and brushed my palm along the semi-opaque material of my tights.

'Well...' I began, cautiously, 'I suppose not. But then I don't think that Constance is the exact opposite of Miss Hardbroom, is she? I mean, you're still pretty straitlaced, aren't you?' Before I'd even finished the sentence, Constance had clicked her teeth and was letting out a low, exasperated groan.

'I hate that term, I really do. It's so – frigid.'

I couldn't help it – I let out a burst of laughter, cupping my hand over my mouth, my eyes apologetic as Constance observed me in the flickering light.

'Sorry Constance, it's just – well...'

'You think that describes me perfectly, don't you?' she shrilled, outrage in her voice.

'No, no – of course not. Well... maybe just a little. But you don't do yourself any favours.'

She set her jaw, turning her attention contemplatively towards the window.

'Miss Drill is the one who doesn't do herself any favours.' She said, her eyes narrowed.

'You really don't like her, do you?'

Constance took a large glug of wine and placed her glass on the table.

'It's not a question of liking. She can be a little too big for her boots, that's all.'

'So you feel threatened by her?' I dared, watching as Constance rolled her eyes. I smiled, inwardly. Miss Hardbroom has re-entered the building.

'She's hardly going to climb the proverbial ladder in a witch academy, is she?'

'That's a little unfair, Constance. I don't think she wants to. But she feels singled out a lot of the time, and I can't help but think you rather enjoy that.'

'Oh, she feels singled out all right! She makes the most of every opportunity to remind us of that! So why apply for a position at a magical institution in the first place? She knew what she was letting herself in for.'

I bit my tongue. Discussing the shortcomings of one friend with another went completely against my grain, but Constance, as usual, had a point, and there was little I could add in Imogen's defence.

'And Miss Bat? She's never outshone you, has she? And she must have been there decades longer than you. You should be proud of yourself, Constance.'

'Miss Bat has, what I believe your generation call, "issues". In my day they called it what it is - insanity.'

I allowed myself a smirk at Constance's sardonic response. Several quiet moments passed, and I tilted my head back slightly to massage the tenseness in my shoulders, happening to notice the painting again.

'So come on, Constance,' I said, eventually, biting the inside of my cheek as though it might encourage me to broach the subject. 'You must have a boyfriend stashed away somewhere.'

Constance had returned to her reclined state, her eyes closed with her head resting against the back of the sofa, her face turned slightly away from me. She had removed the hairgrips from her bun so that the long braid was hanging like an uncoiled serpent about her shoulder.

'Must I?' she replied, entirely unfazed.

'A girlfriend then,' I asked, mischievously. That was enough to provoke her eyes to snap open and she turned to me, her expression more Miss Hardbroom than Constance.

'And now who is getting too big for her boots?'

'Oh come on!' I placed a hand on her forearm and gave it a little squeeze. 'I don't believe for a moment that you confine yourself to a life of solitude. There must be someone.'

She observed me with a cautionary silence and an expression that warned me to think very carefully before overstepping the mark. Seemingly satisfied that I'd decided against goading her further, she reached for the bottle.

'Have another glass of wine,' she said, already pouring.

As I studied her perfectly contoured face, its proximity unusually close, I concluded with a sinking heart that there were some things no one would ever really know about Constance Hardborom. Except, perhaps, one lucky person. And whoever he or she was, I would have given multiple limbs to be in their position.

x

I felt vaguely aware of a sense of morning as I stirred from my slumbers, awoken as usual by the sound of next door's children playing raucously on their trampoline. My eyes flickered, a familiar pounding reigning my head, reminding me of my reckless alcohol consumption the previous night. Groaning, I unfurled my legs so that they stretched further down the bed – and was shocked as my feet met with something solid. Groping for the top of the duvet, I peered over it, my eyes squinting in the unwelcome glare of my bedroom, the curtains already drawn back.

'Constance,' I murmured, thickly. 'What are you doing here?'

She was sitting at the end of my bed, her back against the wall, engrossed in a book entitled "A Study of the Non-Magical Community: Past, Present, and Predicted Future Doom". She looked over at me casually, snapping the book shut and shifting to the edge of the bed, where she reached down to pick up her handbag.

'Ah. So you've decided to join the land of the living,' she glanced at the wall clock in a way that suggested I should, too, and I peered up to see the hands almost reaching 11.15. 'If it's all the same with you, I ought to make my way back to the Academy.'

'Constance,' I whispered, pushing myself up to a sitting position and attempting to tame my bed hair, 'Keep it down, will you? My parents will hear.'

She glanced at the door. 'I doubt that. You father is in the garden on a weed killing mission and your mother is cooking what I believe is commonly termed as a "fry up".'

All the time she was speaking I gestured nervously, pleading with her to quieten her voice. Just what my Mum would think if she walked in to find a severe looking schoolmarm with a broomstick propped against the end of my bed was more than my hangover could take.

'How did we get back here?' I asked, my mind foggy as scraps of last night pieced themselves together.

'We apparated, of course. Now,' she got to her feet, slinging her handbag over her shoulder and gathering up her cloak and broom with a sigh. 'You will remember what we spoke about last night, after our little game of chess – well done, by the way,' Her congratulations were reluctant and I racked my brains in confusion, scant memories of a chess game forming like a foggy dream. Did I really win, against Constance the Great? 'And you will remember that you are sworn to utter secrecy never to breathe a word of it to anyone?'

I felt a rising sense of panic as I tried to remember what Constance and I had spoken about, aware that my Mum's slippered footsteps were mounting the stairs as she obliviously hummed the theme tune from The Archers.

'Erm – yes, Constance, of course.'

'And you are aware that I will know if you tell anyone?' Her eyes were dangerous. No, I hadn't been aware of that. My mum's knuckles rapped at the door.

'Yes, of course.'

'Love?' came my mum's voice from the landing. My eyes looked desperately to Constance.

'Constance, please,' I hissed, 'She'll never understand, she'll –'

'Love? Are you all right in there?'

'Very well then,' Constance straightened herself up. As the door swung open and Constance vanished into thin air, I was sure she'd shot a meaningful glance at my dressing gown.

'Oh. You're alive then,' my mum said, her brow un-furrowing in relief. 'Didn't hear you come in last night. Go anywhere nice?'

I slid out of bed, reaching for my dressing gown and fumbling for the sleeve openings.

'Not really,' I lied, my memory erratically piecing together the no-holds-barred conversation we'd had at the kitchen table in the small hours.

'Come down for brekkie, then. You done with these?' She stooped to pick up an old pile of magazines from my dumping ground beneath the radiator.

'Er – yeah.' My words were distracted as my palm inadvertently brushed the material of my dressing gown, feeling something unfamiliar within the pocket. Sliding a hand inside, I peered down discretely, turning a stoppered test-tube over in my fingers so I could read Constance's calligraphic handwriting:

Morning After Potion

With it was a small piece of parchment, which, glancing to the door to ensure my mum had left, I hastily unfolded.

Until next time...

With a grin I bounded out of the room and practically skipped down to breakfast, my hangover all but forgotten. Constance Hardbroom had finally accepted me as the friend I had aspired to be for so long: the friend she could be herself with, who she looked to for advice - and, most importantly, the friend she trusted implicitly with the deepest, darkest secrets of her heart.