The pair of colleagues returns to their quarters to apply appropriate academy attire. Ada is sipping her tea, and perusing the newspaper when they appear in her office. Without a word she carefully folds the news, and places it on the table. The gravity of the situation does not escape her as Hecate plants herself in an armchair without instruction.
"How was the meeting at the council?"
"We did not go to a meeting with the council. I think we can skip all of the charades," Dimity takes a firm stance.
"I was not going to probe for information that I was not offered. You are both adults who can deliver pertinent information as you see fit. I do need to mention that the investigation has nearly drawn to a close. They have narrowed down the suspects to half a dozen contenders based on evidence. As long as the investigation is officially opened I am mandated to report any new information I receive to the council. As I recall the rule of thumb, hypothetically that is, for some announcements occurs sometime into the second trimester as a safety precaution. So what was it the two of you wanted to discuss with me?"
"The wind is really picking up out there. It seems only prudent for us to bring the banners in," Hecate replies.
"There are so many banners. I just wanted to ensure you could spare both of us for the task," Dimity adds.
Ada grins, "As you wish."
The two of them transfer out of Miss Cackle's office quicker than grease leaps from a hot frying pan. They regroup in the courtyard. Hecate once again becomes reacquainted with her stomach contents. With a snap of Dimity's fingers all of the banners disappear.
"How can this not be affecting you?" Hecate snarls as her hands brace themselves on her knees.
"It is turning me into a cat."
"You're growing whiskers?" She furrows her brow as she longs to move past the phase of things that requires a near constant lingering taste of bile.
"I just want to curl up and go to sleep every chance that I get."
"That is preferable to the constant retching. How am I going to get through a single lesson plan like this? I was mistaken in ever thinking that I had supernatural sense of smell. Everything around here reeks."
"It can't be that bad."
"You applied unscented hand lotion recently. I can also tell that you brushed your teeth after eating a bowl of bran cereal."
"We could switch assignments."
"Physical education is my weakest subject."
"I think you might find a whistle quite therapeutic. The pupils may not agree, however."
"I do find solace in a well-tuned whistle."
"Does transferring yourself contribute to your retching?"
"This is going to kill me."
Dimity grins, "This is just the beginning."
The best witch is roused from her slumber by a tug to her bed clothes. Her eyes wearily open, and cast themselves downward. A small child stands at her bedside.
"I've had a frightening dream," the little one with wild locks of hair announces.
Hecate lifts the small human onto the bed, and secures them next to her.
"Mum, I am sorry to have woken you."
Hecate caresses her progeny's warm, round cheek, "I shall forgive you darling."
"Do you have a cure?"
"A witch is always prepared with her antidotes."
"What is in order for a dream about being eaten alive by giant unicorns?"
"That is quite a serious task," she muses.
"A hefty spell, and slimy potion might be the only choice."
Hecate peels back the covers so that the little one can nestle in beside her.
"Have you secured yourself?" Hecate questions as her arm wraps around her offspring.
"Indeed I am ready for your worst concoction."
"I have something a little stronger than a potion."
"Lay it on me."
Hecate can't help but grin at the four year old's sense of bravery. She plants a warm kiss atop the little one's forehead. The little one scoots further beneath the covers.
"I should remain in a secure location just to be on the safe side. I know that your kiss is the strongest magic, but my dreams may not."
Hecate rolls onto her side. She gazes at the little one's face which is being illuminated by the full moon peering in through the window. Her finger taps a small button nose.
"No kicking."
Her eyes flutter open in a frenzy. She finds herself too near the edge of the bed. In an attempt to free herself from the restraint of her covers she rolls onto the floor. Luckily the floor provides the solace of an available waste paper basket for her to heave into. The moon peering into her room reminds her that dawn has not yet struck.
Hours later she manages to compose herself enough to join her colleagues for breakfast. Her lips remain steadfastly closed as she watches a various assortment of breakfast items slosh around in her colleagues bowl. She pushes her bowl aside. A hand rests on her shoulder, while another one removes the untouched porridge. Her expectation of a tongue lashing does not come to fruition.
Miss Tapioca replaces her bowl of cold, unappealing porridge with jell-o. She furrows her brow in confusion as she notices a helping of cream atop the heap of jiggling gelatin. Miss Tapioca winks at her, and carries on with her other duties. The gelatin is reminiscent of a smiley face sticker, in color. Her nostrils question the yellow gelatin. A small tastes proves her nares theory, of lemon-ginger flavored gelatin correct.