The Enchanted Writes Book One (20 page)

Neither was the fabric, for that matter, or
the cut or the way it sat. It made her look like one of those
perfect Disney princesses, or like someone from a drawing.

“It looks gaudy,” Brick pointed out again.
Gaudy was his favorite word. On several occasions she’d pointed out
to him that his leather jacket was hardly fantastic, but he’d
always offered her a nonplussed look. It seemed Brick could shift
from being caring to being fabulously disdainful, as if he was off
some kind of reality TV fashion program.

“Look, surely it will do?” she said as she
looked down at her dress, picking up a handful of the skirt and
letting it flop back down.

She was in a ball gown, a perfect ball gown.
It had layers and layers of the softest silk that somehow sparkled
and glittered. The bodice and top sat so perfectly, and gave her
such a stunning figure, that Henrietta couldn’t recognize herself.
Her hair was also done up into the most stylish of dos, and fixed
in place with a gold and diamond clip. She had perfect white heels
on her feet, and to top it all off, she wore a detailed white
mask.

Brick was not impressed. He crossed his arms
and shook his head. “A witch hunter’s appearance is her most
important asset.” He paused. “Other than her wand... and her
magic... and her ability to run... and her battle instinct.”

Henrietta rolled her eyes. “I get it. But
honestly, this seems fine.” She looked at herself in the mirror
again. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she could hardly
recognize herself. That was the point. This was a disguise, after
all.

Just after she found out about the
masquerade, Brick had taken her away and taught her a new spell.
After she'd transformed into a witch hunter, she'd written the word
disguise with her wand. At first, she had twisted around in the
air, as a symbol had appeared underneath her, and then she'd fallen
on her feet, dressed in one of those ghillie suits that they use in
the army when they are trying to hide in long grass.

It had taken Henrietta a few tries to even
begin getting a hold of the spell. In fact, every single time she
had returned home from work, and before she would go out to hunt
the witches, Brick would make her practice the spell.

It wasn’t like most of the other spells she
cast. Whenever she wrote wall or ice or tornado, all she had to do
was pay attention to where she directed them. Disguise was
different. She had to try and concentrate hard on a costume, and
that very costume would soon appear around her form.

Brick didn't like her efforts.

“You need to be wearing something that will
catch everyone's attention,” he told her for about the 10th time,
“including Hellier's. You need to get as close to him as you can,
so we can find out what he is doing and we can thwart him.”

Henrietta always felt uneasy when Brick
would go over that part of the plan. While she was standing in her
lounge room flouncing about in her ball gown, she could pretend
that it was all a bit of fun. But in six days, she would be
attending a masquerade, trotting up the steps of the City Hall, and
attempting to mingle with the Witch King.

Brick assured her that if the spell worked,
the Witch King would have no idea she was a witch hunter. The
disguise spell would hide her magic completely. It would even
disguise her wand, changing it into a ring or a bracelet or a fan.
If needs be, she could grab at it in an instant, write in the air,
and the disguise would fall, and her ordinary witch hunter costume
and magic would return to her.

Henrietta hated this plan; there were so
many ways it could go wrong.

“I have discovered from my warrior monk
brethren that Hellier is fond of the color black and he prefers
heavier make-up.” Brick nodded at her face.

Brick had already told her that several
times, but each time she had refused to disguise herself in layers
of black silk and mascara.

She looked back at her reflection in the
mirror.

Henrietta hadn't been much of a girly girl;
Marcia had already beaten her to it. By the time Henrietta had
grown old enough to discover make-up and boys, Marcia had cornered
that market entirely.

Still, Henrietta had grown up with dreams,
little fantasies that were left over from her childhood. And yeah,
dressing up in a flouncy white ball gown was kind of one of
them.

Okay, she was an adult now, and she wasn't a
little kid anymore, but the prospect of dressing up like a Disney
Princess still excited her. And the fact she could now make that
fantasy a reality with her magic wand... it was too hard to pass
up.

“I'm sure I will catch his attention in this
dress,” Henrietta said as she did a twirl on the spot, her skirt
flying out in a circle. There were so many layers that it sat
perfectly over her hips and spread out like a princess’ dress
should. It was the right color too. Such a soft white, and there
was delicate beading up and down the folds of her skirt, and the
prettiest lace poking out from underneath.

As for the make-up, it was subtle; it made
her eyes sparkle and her lips wet enough to kiss. Fortunately it
didn't make her look like she had been attacked by a stick of
eye-liner.

Brick took a heavy sigh. “It seems
impossible to teach you style, Warrior Woman Henrietta. Obviously
you have too much of a mind for battle, and cannot concentrate when
it comes to fashion.”

She looked at him askance. He did like his
clothes and shoes, didn't he? Over the past week she'd met more
warrior monks, and it seemed the lot of them were far too
interested in style. They all had their views on high heels and
skirts, and every single time Brick brought them around for dinner,
each one of them commented on her bathrobe or her track pants or
her hair.

She had tried to ask Brick why he was so
damn interested in clothes, and his reaction was always the same.
Clothes, when it came to battle, were paramount. They allowed for
freedom of movement, for protection. Yet if you chose them
incorrectly, if you wore the wrong set of shorts or shoes to the
witch fight, then that could lose you the battle. Apparently style
was a foundational unit in every warrior monk’s course in
understanding war.

Henrietta had to admit even though Brick
reminded her of some fashion designer, outraged at her choice of
clothing, his countenance wasn't the same. There was a strict edge
to what he was saying, and he always backed up his statements with
comments like “you won't be able to run in that very easily,” or,
“if we make those heels a bit taller, your feet won't get wet when
sprinting through puddles produced by water witches.”

“For tonight, this will do. But tomorrow you
must attempt to disguise yourself in something more appropriate.”
With that Brick backed off, grabbed the mirror from the couch, and
returned it to the bathroom.

Henrietta let out a heavy sigh and looked
longingly down at her dress for several more moments until she
transformed out of it.

Then the two of them did what they did every
night; they went to hunt the witches.

It was now the day before the ball, and
Henrietta was going mad. She'd already dropped two glasses, broken
a plate, and when she had handed the Fire Chief his coffee, her
hands had shaken so badly that she had tipped it over his
sleeve.

She was a mess, a complete mess.

“Henny, Henny,” someone said from her
side.

It took her a while to look over.

She had walked over to the tables by the
window to clean them off, but after she'd wiped them down, she'd
straightened up, her gaze locking on one of the shops over the
street as her mind went blank.

“Henny.” Someone placed a hand on her
arm.

She shuddered. Turning around, blinking
quickly, she looked up into Patrick Black's face.

“You okay?” He looked concerned.

She stuttered out a, "yes."

“Well then, are you going to answer my
question?”

She blinked back at him. “Sorry?”

“Wow, you really are out of it today. Why
don't you ask Maria for some time off?”

“I'm okay,” she tried to reassure him.

He nodded, and then, uncharacteristically
for the suave and dignified policeman, he looked uncomfortable. He
cleared his throat, giving a short cough at the end. “So? Are you
going to this party? The masquerade? The one tomorrow night?”

Henrietta winced at the mere mention of
it.

“Oh, sorry, of course, it's not your thing,
is it?” Patrick was speaking quickly, something he never did.
“Never mind then.”

“Okay...” she stopped. Patrick was trying to
ask her something, wasn't he?

Though her mind was stuffed full of fear at
the prospect of the masquerade tomorrow night, a quick pinch of
nerves got her attention. Was Patrick Black about to ask her to the
masquerade? Her, Henrietta Gosling, awkward and ungainly sister of
the hottest woman in town?

While certain men did need to get Marcia's
attention by pretending to be interested in Henrietta first,
Patrick was not one of them.

“What were you going to ask me?” Henrietta
clutched onto the rag she had used to clean the table tighter.

Patrick smiled at her, and by George did it
send tingles through her stomach. “It's okay, Henny, it's nothing.
Have a good weekend.” He backed off, nodded at her, and walked out
the door.

Henrietta watched him go.

Patrick Black was not in her league. Not in
any way. But he’d just been about to ask her to the ball, hadn't
he?

She took a step to the side and craned her
neck to watch Patrick as he walked along the street outside. With
every step he took away from her, her cheeks reddened.

No way, she thought to herself, he must have
been about to ask me something else.

Henrietta only tore herself away from the
window when Patrick was well and truly out of sight.

Then she got back to work. She no longer
stumbled over everything in her path, and neither did she spill
coffee over the customers as her hands shook.

Though her mind should have been filled with
the horrible prospect of what was awaiting her tomorrow night,
Patrick Black had distracted her.

In fact, she found herself staring off into
the distance wandering about him so much that she didn't hear
several customers when they asked for coffee and a slice of
cake.

“Henrietta, Henrietta.” Someone leaned
forward and waved a hand in front of her face.

It was Jimmy.

She blinked at him. “Jimmy.”

“Well, you look like you are off with the
fairies. You had a hard night?”

Henrietta shook her head.

Jimmy laughed. “Sorry, I forgot who I was
talking to. Your sister likes a drop now and then, but you don't
touch the stuff, do you?”

She smiled at him. “I've never really
developed a liking to alcohol, no.”

Jimmy nodded, and just for a moment he
looked uncomfortable. Which was bizarre, because nothing made Mr
December uncomfortable. A raging forest fire? He was fine. Night
shift for a week? Didn't bother him. A full day of bench presses
and training in the gym? He would lap it up. But right now Mr
December looked awkward.

It got her attention.

“You know, it's a funny thing, but...” he
trailed off.

“What?” She smiled at him encouragingly.

He took a swallow and leaned in, tapping his
hand on the bench. “I suppose you already have plans for tomorrow
night, right? I suppose like everybody else in the city, you are
going to that ball, or whatever it is.”

Henrietta stopped what she was doing
immediately.

He wasn't, was he? Was Mr December asking
her out?

The Mr December. Jimmy Field? One of the
only men in the entire city who Marcia Gosling truly fancied?

“Look, you probably are, forget I asked.” He
stopped tapping his hand and straightened up.

“No, no, no,” Henrietta stuttered, then she
stopped. She was actually going to the ball. Except she wasn't
technically going in person, if that made any sense. She was going
in disguise.

Jimmy returned his attention to her, and he
looked expectant. In fact, his exact expression sent all sorts of
wriggling sensations through her stomach, and they made her grin
awkwardly.

“Well...” she tried to think quickly.

“It doesn't matter, everyone is going to the
ball, forget I asked. Have fun.” Jimmy gave her a short but
fabulously attractive wave, and then walked off.

She was flabbergasted, gob smacked. In the
space of an hour, the city's two most eligible bachelors had almost
asked her out. Almost being the operative word. Neither of them had
ever asked her directly. All she could do was infer what they had
intended.

There was always the possibility that
Patrick had asked her what she was doing tomorrow night as a
lead-in to talk about her sister, just as Jimmy may have only asked
her whether she was going to the ball so he could figure out
whether Marcia was going too.

Still. Still it gave Henrietta pause for
thought.

She was unlucky, fabulously unlucky when it
came to love. But could her luck be changing?

That slim hope was all that got her through
the day and the night.

When she woke up the following morning,
nothing could shift her mood. It was the day of the masquerade. By
that night she would be trotting up the steps of City Hall, and she
would have to face Theodore Hellier, Witch King and potential
mayoral candidate.

On Saturday morning, Henrietta stayed in
bed. In fact, she stayed there with the covers pulled over her head
and the pillow held close to her face until mid-afternoon. She
never stayed in bed that late. Today was going to be an unusual
day, a day out of the ordinary, a day that she would remember, if
she lived to see another.