The Charming Teapot
A Lollie and Bertie Story…
Over the small but deeply set hearth, the cauldron was bubbling, steaming the air gently with the scent of musty woodland.
Just as it should be, Lollie thought, taking a moment to sniff appreciatively. So difficult really to get the fungi at precisely the right moment, with all the picnickers and dog walkers and hikers bounding here, there and everywhere in the woods on any pleasant summer’s day.
She turned back to the table, gaze flitting across the bowls and boxes, weights and measures, ingredients, equipment and apparatus. It wasn’t that it was such a difficult potion, she considered, picking up a long, fine, filleting knife. It was more of the case of being fiddly. Too much this way or that could have disastrous results.
Bertie would be cross, but there was no helping that. For some reason, Mrs. McCormack’s beady, birdy gaze had a hypnotic effect, and she’d found herself lost in it, agreeing quite mindlessly that it would indeed be in everyone’s best interests if Bartholomew was a more charming fellow. It wasn’t until the old lady had waddled away, breaking that odd hold, that Lollie had realised what she’d promised to do.
She looked up sharply, meeting the amused golden stare of Nicodemus. The silvery-grey feline was perched on the top shelf above the range, large ears swiveling like miniature radar dishes.
“I know.” Lollie snapped in response to the cat’s silent laughter. “The woman has some kind of effect on me. Stop laughing and make yourself useful. I need a mouse tail, perfectly fresh.”
Weaving his way through the jars and past the strings of herbs and drying fungi, around the baskets and over the books, Nicodemus left the shelf and leapt lightly to the floor, disappearing through the door, his tail executing a lazy salute.
“Where was I?” Lollie muttered. “Ah, yes, eye of frog and nightmare’s root…”
She plucked the eyeballs from the jar and tossed them into the beaten silver bowl, adding a small pile of finely chopped nightshade root from the scale. “Then…toe of dog and victim’s boot…crumbled leaf of last year’s holly…a drop, no more, of rich man’s folly…”
Moving the silver bowl to the frame above the small gas jet, Lollie gave the ingredients a stir, glancing over her shoulder at the doorway. Were the household spells really so efficacious as to allow not a single rodent enter, she wondered? Not that it mattered. The mouse-tail and the liquid from the cauldron were the critical components and those would be in precisely the right state when Nicodemus returned.
I’ll make a nice cup of tea while I’m waiting, she decided, going to the breakfront and taking down the cheery Beswick pot.
After Bertie’s numerous and rather sly comments regarding Lollie’s fondness for the pot, Lollie had stopped using it when her sister was at home. Ridiculous where Bertie gets these ideas. The pot was simply pleasing to look at and of superior quality, that was all there was to the matter. If the gentleman’s eyes seemed to gently twinkle, well, that was undoubtedly a trick of the light and nothing more. She lifted the lid, a green hat set on a jaunty angle, and spooned in the tea.
At that moment, Nicodemus returned, a squirming captive between his teeth.
“You took your time,” Lollie told the cat, clearing a space on the worktable and turning to the hearth with a ladle. “Freshly dead would have done, you know.”
The mouse squeaked as Nicodemus leapt onto the table. Lollie moved the cauldron from the rear of the hearth to the front, eyes closing as she sniffed the steam. It was very close. The mouse tail and a pinch of cinnamon would finish it. She eyed the fire and exchanged the ladle for her filleting knife, holding the blade in the flames for a moment.
In the cat’s mouth, the mouse panted and twitched, fur drenched. Lollie pinched the end of the tail between her fingers, and gave a quick upward slice, taking the last inch of the little thing’s tail. The hot blade cauterised the wound, but the mouse gave a terrible cry. Nicodemus’ tongue curled up and covered the mouse’s mouth. Lollie dropped the curled up tail into the potion, then added the charred contents of the silver bowl.
Really, she thought, studying the agitated bubbles rising to the surface of the liquid, what Bartholomew McCormack Junior needed was a bit more animation. The man tottered around like a freshly resurrected corpse and had only been known to smile once in the last seven years. The question was — what would give him that joie de vivre he so blatantly lacked?
To one side of the fire, the small crystal bowl tinkled and chimed and Lollie smiled. Of course, how silly of her. Jagged pieces of whitened glass peeked over the edge, the last of the fulgurites collected from Athens. She reached for a small piece and tossed it into the cauldron.
The resultant blue-white flash filled the kitchen. Nicodemus, unprepared for it, opened his mouth to complain, and the mouse fell, turning head over heels, to the floor. It ran straight for the closest shelter it could see — Lollie’s voluminous skirts — and ran up her leg.
“Ohhhhhh!” She leapt sideways at the feel of tiny feet and claws snagging in her stockings, drawing in another breath when a whiskery head dug determinedly at the elasticized lace rim of her drawers.
Her sideways lurch took her too close to the cauldron and the compulsion to scream at the invasion in her undergarments was stifled as the smell of scorching fabric filled the room. Panic set in — beset by a rodent and on fire! — and she grasped the handle of the cauldron, remembering too late that it was too hot to hold. The cauldron and its contents swung in a short arc across the room, drenching the end of the worktable in the process.
Nicodemus gave a piercing yowl and leapt out of the way, landing on the floor and looking speculatively at his mistress’ long skirts. Lollie ran to the sink, running cold water over her palm. With her free hand, she slapped at the scurrying creature under her petticoats, biting back a small shriek as it leapt from one leg to the other. Bunching her skirts in her hand, she lifted them and squeezed her eyes shut. There was a shrill squeal, a low growl and a soft plopping noise on the floor.
On the table behind her, something clattered. She spun around.
“Good day to you, it’s a rare fine day, isn’t it?”
The handsome face was smiling, and gave her a quick wink.
“I beg your pardon?”
“M’dear Lollie — you don’t be minding my calling you Lollie, do you? We’ve shared many a bewitching moment in the early hours, after all — I feel quite the live one today.”
The fulgurite had worked a treat, Lollie decided, watching the Beswick’s china cheeks lift in a cheeky, lopsided grin. Stop that! It was a disaster, that’s what it was.
“You have some salve for that nasty burn, don’t you? In the cupboard by the door?”
She did, trying to not wonder how the teapot knew about it.
“I expect you’re wondering how it is I knew about that?”
Lollie turned and looked at him suspiciously. There was nothing in either the charming or anima spells to suggest telepathy.
“Have no fear, dear woman, I’ve been in the position of watching this kitchen for so long, unable to move or voice me thoughts, I believe I can point out the location of everything here. It’s no more magic than that.” The Beswick gave a sigh. “If only you knew how much I longed to be able to share all my ideas with you, for even a teapot has thoughts, you know.”
“You did? They do?” Lollie halted, surprised at the idea.
“Of course! Did you know I hate tea? Can’t stand the stuff. What an aftertaste…and when it’s cold — “ The pot rolled his eyes. “Which isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy every minute with you when it was for you.”
“Oh…” Warmth flowed into her cheeks and she turned away awkwardly. Really, Lollie, recover your wits; it’s a teapot, she reminded herself irritably, not to mention that her days of banter with the opposite sex were behind her…and he wasn’t even the opposite sex…he was crockery! Why was that so difficult to keep in mind?
She picked up the salve and smoothed it over her hand, keeping her back to the Beswick. The spell was limited to last a year, a likely futile hope that dull stick Bartholomew would have picked up sufficient expertise over that time to be able to charm on demand. But that was a flesh and blood person, not a…porcelain beverage dispenser.
She turned back to the table, determined to undo what she’d done, but her lips rose involuntarily at the pot’s infectious smile. He was more handsome than he’d ever been.
Roberta would never believe she hadn’t done this deliberately.
