There were typically two places where witches could be readily found.

One was the local branch of a Bewitching Postal Service building. The other was the New Bewitching Woods, a revered site of ancient magic which has been the ancestral home of the witches for as long as two months ago.

Nobody quite knows what happened to their last ancestral home, and nobody asked. When it came to the witchly world, it was universally accepted that the word, 'Okay', was the optimal response when required to react to anything that happened there.

The New Bewitching Woods was nestled between Heizholm State and the Ashlands, requiring me to fly through the former in order to reach my destination. While Heizholm usually huffed at any notion that it was often used as a travel hub en-route to better destinations, diplomatic immunity and wide jurisdiction to act meant I was unimpeded as I beelined straight for the home of the witches.

The sun had long risen by the time I caught sight of the great forest canopy stretching in the distance, and by the time I actually reached it, I wondered if I had to think about staying the night there.

That was a problem for many reasons, not least of which was that I currently had no money in my possession. I absolutely did not want to be the type of heroine who accepted freebies, even if others tacitly did.

Hopefully, I’d be in and out before this became an issue.

And so, on I went, until the great yews of the New Bewitching Woods stretched out before me as a sea of tangled moss and branches.

Somewhere beyond the unending thickets was a barren land scorched by what had once been home to the oldest and most revered clan of grey dragons, but they had long abandoned it for greener and higher pastures. The Ashlands was kept hidden from view now, except for the brief sight I caught while my legally modified broomstick kicked itself out of hovering mode and catapulted towards the forest canopy.

The small blast of dust I showered the road with wasn't just for show. Or fun. Although I couldn't deny it wasn't worthy of a wheee. Only non-witches used the front entrance, and those were met with a popular family hiking trail with ample amounts of wild berry picking opportunities and red squirrel sightings.

To actually enter a witch's sanctuary required a broomstick operated to perform a precise 70 degree diving manoeuvre.

I was off by 2 degrees.

Twigs and green things happily whacked away at me as I hurtled into the bowels of the forest. Narrowly avoiding upending a sparrow nest, I pulled up my broomstick just in time as a mosaic of fallen leaves indicated where the ground was.

What I should have been looking out for, however, was the group of witches that were picnicking on said ground.

A loud crack followed by a sizzling sound filled the air as a picnic basket, a tartan blanket, a full array of teacups and sandwiches and the witches that were enjoying them blinked and reappeared two metres to my right. As I set my broomstick down and felt the soft padding of leaves beneath my feet, I was met with a series of frowns, and then pure indifference as the witches returned to sipping freshly brewed Darjeeling.

A wonderful fragrance. One of my favourites.

Still, I nodded my head in apology. And then nodded again, just to avoid the broomstick that managed to send my hair swishing to the side.

In fact, I decided to keep my head in this awkwardly bowed position, owing to the fact that there were a significant number of broomsticks jostling for space in the air.

I'd found the witches.

All of them, by the looks of it.

***

I’d once witnessed a coven in session.

It remains one of my fondest memories, filled with magic, dazzling lights, and heated debates between the most wisened minds of our generation over the price of lost cat finding services.

That coven had over a dozen witches in attendance, itself a high turnout for people gifted with multiple means of magical communication.

Here, over a hundred witches were zipping about on broomsticks, eating sandwiches on the grass or disassembling physics at their fingertips. I knew without question that this had to represent the largest gathering of witches in Ouzelia since they banded together to help defeat the Last Great Evil.

And that was a problem.

I didn't know what the problem was yet. But as was usual in my line of work, it didn't take long before it was spelled out to me in big words and bright crayons.

Floating beneath a branch was a large whiteboard headlined with the words, 'Suggestions To Escape The Mysteriously Sealed Forest That Keeps Sucking In More Of Us'.

A rainbow of responses filled the whiteboard, some suggesting the use of fire, some suggesting the use of even more fire, and some using the opportunity to scribble love confessions between the proposals on whether to use a bit of fire or a lot of fire.

Judging by the lack of armageddon currently around me, the witches hadn't quite decided how much was too much arson when it came to burning down their own property yet.

I peered around me, keeping my head low as more and more broomsticks swept past my head.

And then to my shock, right in front of me.

A witch popped out of a bush far too small to hold her, shooting straight up into the crown of the forest. I watched as she vanished among the branches, only to reappear streaking past my eyes from the treeline to my side.

Other witches repeated the stunt, zipping into every angle of the forest only to reappear from a different point. Others had abandoned their broomsticks altogether, and were instead conjuring diagrams of abstract mathematics before their determined eyes.

Ancient magic coalesced into indecipherable patterns of shapes and colours as thousands of years of accumulated history and knowledge poured forth via the sweat dripping from their chins and feeding the grass below, before finally a plate of Victoria sponge cakes appeared in their outstretched hands.

Now I realised how serious the situation was.

If they were conjuring sponge cakes and not mini blueberry mousse gateaux with perfect mirror glazes, then it meant their magic was running dry.

They'd been here days. Possibly weeks.

“Good evening, Miss Rowe.”

And some, for hours.

“Oh, hello again, Miss Haycroix.”

I smiled in response to the witch gazing at me with bright eyes beneath a tidy set of dark bangs.

Marissa Haycroix, the witch who'd delivered Tutu's scarf even over whatever parcel Duchess Cadence had expected, glanced pointedly at the bits of leaves stuck to my broomstick. And also my face.

“Oh? I don’t believe I introduced myself,” she said, saying nothing about the sticky bits of nature I was brushing away from myself. “Do you read Cosmos Magazine?”

“Nope. But my co-worker does. I think she's a fan of your lip gloss. It's, um, lip gloss, right?”

“I offer image rights and provide endorsements for select cosmetics. But I claim no ownership. I'd run afoul of advertising laws if I did.”

She was both a delivery witch and a brand ambassador. I couldn't help but marvel at how someone the same age as me could essentially be working two jobs at the same time.

Yes ... she truly must be a madwoman.

“Well, it's lovely to see you again. Thank you for delivering my parcel safely. Tutu appreciated the scarf.”

“Tutu?”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Flying black tabby.”

“Interesting. Wild or captivity?”

“Neither. We found him scavenging our bins.”

“A flying tabby caught in an urban environment? That's certainly unusual. Has he shown any aptitude for eating goblins yet?”

“Not yet. He mostly eats chocolate oat flakes.”

“Then let's hope it stays that way. I don't really want to imagine the diplomatic fallout resulting from a heroine's pet chewing on an envoy. Goblins are only now beginning to venture out from Troll Country. They'll be a key source of business in times to come.”

Spoken in the same entrepreneurial vein as Lize.

She, too, was expecting a rise in goblin sightseers frequenting the cafe in the not too distant future. My hopes were a little more tempered. Experience taught me that goblins followed in the broad footsteps of trolls, and to date, they'd mostly been content to just pawn us stuff.

Troll wares were quite good, though, if a little pricey.

“In any case, I'd like to welcome you to the New Bewitching Woods,” added Marissa. “I apologise for the lack of a formal reception. Aside from rarely receiving visitors, we're currently preoccupied with a case of being unable to leave.”

I nodded, appreciating the sentiment, but really not missing the formality.

I was never one for official functions. My sword of heroism imbued me with the ability to shatter the wheels of calamity, but not how to avoid embarrassing myself with a social faux pas. Not unless I seriously messed up my curtsey.

“It looks that way. May I ask what happened?”

I kept my tone steadfastly curious, since any notion of sounding accusatory really rubbed some people the wrong way. Happily, Marissa's businesslike expression suggested I didn't need to worry about ruffling any feathers today. Straight to the point.

“Ten days ago, premium delivery services that could only be operated by archwitchs began going unfulfilled. Contact was unable to be established with the archwitches' conclave in the heart of the forest. Shortly after, witches sent to investigate ceased contact, and witches sent after them followed suit.”

I nodded.

Duchess Cadence wasn't wrong in her assessment that a late parcel meant more than a fall in service quality. It meant a fall in the number of witches. They were going missing. Here, apparently.

“Oh, I see. Would that be you, then?”

“No. My task was to find the witches searching for the witches searching for the witches searching for the archwitches.”

“That's a lot of lost witches,” I added helpfully.

“Yes, it is. Regional postal operations are now at a complete halt.”

Marissa gestured towards a pair of witches playing ping pong with an acorn over a makeshift log table.

“Fortunately, the worst case scenario has been avoided. We are safe and unharmed, thus we have not summoned an eldritch horror that not only nests in our home, but one which also actively seeks out and consumes the soul of every budding witch within a five kilometre radius for sustenance.”

I took in her words with a sense of academic curiosity.

“Summoning a nightmarish extraplanar being is specifically the witchly world's worst case scenario?”

“There are 5,328 worst case scenarios. I chose one at random.”

“Oh, right. May I ask what worst case scenario number 1 is?”

“The world explodes.”

“Do witches possess the ability to do that?”

Marissa's raised eyebrow offered me a chance to withdraw my question. I decided to take it.

“I don't suppose there will be further witches sent to find us, by any chance?” I asked, despite knowing the answer already.

“Barring assistance from considerable distances away, I was the last available witch in this region.”

I looked up in thought.

“I take it that's why Tutu got his scarf?”

“Indeed. I felt it prudent that I secure my survival by ensuring your parcel was delivered.”

I considered Marissa's choice of words, her still expression, and her vivid eyes in the darkening light.

“Sole survivor scenario?”

Marissa, to her credit, didn't shy away from my gaze. Her look of self-recrimination was already apparent.

“Other than the world exploding, I believed that our meeting would largely shield me from the remainder of the dooms I could be facing, yes.”

A nod of understanding was sent her way.

I already knew our meeting couldn’t be a coincidence. And frankly, I couldn’t blame her for setting it up.

It was a sensible measure. By introducing herself to me, she was lessening the probability of being quietly swept aside by any calamity that befell the witches. Engineering a sole survivor scenario required grim foresight, but it wasn't an excessive measure.

Of course, meeting any heroine invited problems of its own. And Marissa Haycroix was now down one introductory trump card. But as long as she was careful, she was still safer than most.

“So the witches arrived only to find the forest sealed to escape,” I said, receiving a nod in reply. “Do you know what the cause is?”

“My peers have conferred extensively over the matter and believe it to be a derivative closed boundary as a result of improper use of spatial magic. However, I consider this to be flawed, and thus greater urgency and deliberation is required.”

I raised an eyebrow, politely letting her continue.

“The perimeter is distorted, but not closed. We are able to leave, we simply return. It’s unlike any boundary field I’ve come across. There is no evidence that the magic encasing the forest will subside in volatility just by waiting. I'm in disagreement that we can simply 'sit it out' and 'enjoy a free holiday', even if we are being paid.”

“This is paid time?”

I suddenly wondered if I was in the wrong career field.

I already had a broomstick. Other than stepping on the toes of the witches all around me, there was no reason I couldn't also deliver parcels.

“We work on salary, although we do receive set bonuses for positive customer feedback.”

“Ah, so those little forms that come with the parcels … ?”

“Yes.” Marissa looked at me with utmost seriousness. “Please fill them out. It helps us a lot.”

I nodded, endeavouring to tick as many boxes beside smiley faces as I could from now on.

“What happens when you try contacting the archwitches from within the New Bewitching Woods?” I asked, peering around at the clearing. There was a distinct lack of cackling in the air. Wherever the archwitches were, they were not even close.

“All attempts at magical messaging have been rebuffed. Larina’s Serenity In Summer, Op. 9, No. 2 is the only response we receive.”

Now that was interesting. If the messages failed to reach their recipients, it would usually entail silence.

“Doesn't classical music suggest that a connection has been formed, but a reply just isn't being sent?”

“We are being put on hold, yes.”

I wondered how much of Lize's concerns for the end of the world was turning out to be true.

Considering the situation, I doubted if even the archwitches wouldn't at least return a message acknowledging they were safe, and then to ask for some of the Victoria sponges to be saved for them.

Either the archwitches were in no capacity to respond, or they were purposefully choosing not to. Neither were fantastic scenarios.

I took a moment to consider the area around me.

It was a tight squeeze, but enough to hoard all the witches in Ouzelia if required. That the boundary still invited new arrivals highly suggested that it was designed explicitly to net as many of the witches as possible, as opposed to being an unintended consequence of a wayward spell.

The answer to this puzzle didn't come immediately, which I suppose was a good thing. Wholesale rescues weren't typically part of my daily routine. A good thing, as well. I had a hard enough time attending the book club sessions held in the Bread & Berry with just my regular duties.

Which reminds me, I was meant to lead the discussions today.

Best not be late.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing off to the side.

It was one of those moments where I wondered if I was missing something obvious. Because unless I was mistaken, there was a notable, if partially hidden opening in the edge of the clearing.

A pair of large yews stood guard across the only patch of grass not to be claimed by flowers, plants or shrubbery. The branches of the trees curved upwards, joining almost as if to form a gate.

“Oh, right,” said Marissa, following my fingertip. “That's the ominous entrance.”

I carefully examined it, noting the thorns sprouting from the branches and the unnatural white mist that obscured all vision barely a metre past. It was a 3/10 on the omen of doom scale.

“Where does it lead?” I asked curiously.

“Deeper into the New Bewitching Woods. Or so our directional spells inform us.”

“Really? So it breaks off from the boundary?”

“It may very well do.”

“Then, has no witch opted to step through the ominous entrance?”

“Oh, plenty. Whenever a ping pong ball goes over, one of us has to scoot over to retrieve it.”

“What do they say afterwards?”

“Nothing. Any witch that steps past the ominous entrance is veiled by mist and promptly never returns. They do throw the ping pong ball back, however.”

Hmm.

I suppose that made it a 4/10 on the omen of doom scale. Suitable for children accompanied by an adult.

“We're witches, not adventurers,” said Marissa, more or less shrugging at the potential demise of her colleagues. “As purveyors of magic, we don't follow the road laid out before us. We create our own. With excessive use of fire and lightning, if need be. That ominous entrance is not for us.”

No, I suppose it wasn’t.

For a moment, I was faintly envious. Not of the fire and lightning thing, as wonderful as that was, but that witches could dictate where they stepped as easily as where they flew.

As a heroine, I followed the path laid out for me.

But at the same time, I also wasn't an adventurer.

And this meant I could take short cuts.

“Okay, got it,” I said, turning for the ominous entrance. “I'll just head on through and sort this out. It shouldn't take too long.”

Marissa tilted her head slightly.

“Do you often see to witches trapped in a forest?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“And yet you're reasonably certain you can unravel whatever mysterious force is behind this?”

“Not in the slightest,” I said, with as peppy a smile as I could give. “Want to come along and see how I do?”

Marissa seemed stunned by the offer.

She turned her head, glancing between the ominous entrance and the gaggle of witches around her, the majority of whom were now busying themselves in the middle of a snooker tournament.

Then, she shrugged.

“Sure.”