AMY ON RAIN

Amy had been brought up in Coven 13 and had seen many a to-do: magical woodworm causing mid-air broomstick collisions and even the odd plummeting sister narrowly saved by the emergency services; warlocks dressing up as mortals to protest against equal access to children; and teenage sorceresses auditioning for X Factor where they had screeched like spiked rats yet glamoured the judges into thinking they were wonderful. Her old room-mate, Cheryl, had been very good at that.

But today was different by a long wand – a tool Amy’s clan refused to employ: it was too common for witches of their calibre. Amy picked at the wart she had been nurturing. Sure, there was a lot of Hollywood stuff about stereotypes and witches really being pretty, but seriously – how else was one to commune with one's mediums. The demons might look like cats, mice, dogs or ravens, but they were all of one mind as regards human “beauty” – they hated it and wouldn’t be seen dead or half-alive near some pretentious wench with a hankering for love and fertility spells.

As to Big Horny down below, Amy scowled at the appellation. She didn’t get the humour behind that nickname. He might have been The Most Beautiful once, but the ugliness inside tends to migrate to the surface. She shrugged, suddenly noticing that her pubescent chest had begun to move in a significant manner. She pulled at the top of the dress and peered downwards with raised eyebrows and got distracted with a few more experimental shrugs.

Today … yes, today Witch Weighs Up, the daily news programme, had issued a bulletin about the weather control station orbiting the planet. The motherboard was faltering, causing irrational winds and several witches were rushed to woodwork shop with severe burns. There had been worrying rumours, but these had been hushed up by the Magic Marquise, oversight of the Grand Council.

AMY ON RAIN

Amy took time out from the traditional scarring of her cheeks to consider the rumour which caused the most concern: that in the southern hemisphere, there had been uncontrolled rain of monsoon proportions. This was no great inconvenience to the witches themselves, despite old myths of water-buckets and dogs, but the mediums were demons and any water, other than stagnant or at least still, was like the worst sort of acid to them.

Word was that Covens 23 to 59 had lost hundreds of mediums to a great deluge. A friend of Amy’s from the Supplies Coven – 15c(i-iii) – had told her of the batches of orders for kittens, puppies, scaldie ravens and even rabbits as hosts for replacement demons.

She stood behind the customised Queen Anne dining chair and admired the avant-garde set for Witch Weighs Up. She’d be assured that Warlock Dimblebum would be with her shortly to hear her take on events. The crystal ball used to broadcast was on amber.

“Hello, Amber,” she nodded.

Amber rolled her eyes and sighed. “You do realize you’re phasing, dear.”

Amy blushed. “Sorry, nervous habit.”