I left Lytleigh with a reasonable number of A and O levels, and I passed the Witches Entrance Exam without difficulty. This pleased my mother who had assumed—like at least the three most recent generations of our family—she would need to semi-officially bribe me in. And The Imperial Womens’ College of Magical Philosophy was not cheap to bribe, although plenty of its old buildings were crumbling, and plenty of the old tutor-witches had expensive doll or angel-jism habits. 

I stayed in the student halls, and quickly felt more at home than I had at Lytleigh School. It was not that the women were more friendly—I was still friendless—but they were more weird, and less inclined to think me odd. People didn’t judge you for being a little taciturn, when one of the students only spoke ancient Mesopotamian for some reason. In some ways I had improved; I could fake a normal conversation adequately. But I still found it impossible to make friends. Some mental block lingered. I still found most of my solace in solo sports, or in the gym.

They were still mostly posh girls there, although they had a lot more scholarship students as well. A few of the upper-class girls had dolls; I was curious, but didn’t participate when they were left in the shared lounge with inviting signs.

Things with my family were strange. With the event of my eighteenth birthday, my mother had decided I was now actually a person. While I’d always gotten birthday presents bought by personal shoppers—because my mother’s money was the important thing, surely—now Genevieve and Evelyn talked about a birthday surprise that wasn’t quite ready yet. And, more than that, mother gave me an invitation to the Greengrave and Lytleigh hunt.

My mother sent boxes of clothes, and a car. The clothes for the day of the hunt were pretty much as you’d expect; riding clothes, jodhpurs, boots and jacket. There was also an outfit for the pre-hunt banquet; a tweed skirt and linen blouse, very much my mother’s style. Both had elegant little witch’s hats, of course. I wished I was the kind of girl who could go in jeans and tee shirt, but I was not.

I’d never seen the car’s driver before, but that didn’t surprise me. Mother got all the staff—drivers, butlers, human maids—from an agency, and insisted they were changed frequently. “It does no good,” she insisted, “for the mould of familiarity to grow in that situation.”

The house, as I’d expected, was set in extensive grounds. It was not the stately manor I was expecting though. It was very modern; organic shapes in white concrete and glass, spiraled round on top of each other. There were several buildings, interlinked by covered walkways. One was the main house, another stables, a garage, and others with an unknown purpose.

My mother greeted me from the car. Well, I was fairly sure she wanted to check I was presented correctly, but I suppose any form of maternal concern was something.

She had looked me up and down. “You know, dear,” she said, “Evelyn says that you shouldn’t just mention fleshcrafting to young girls, but if you ever wanted your form corrected, we know some excellent witches.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Unusual house, isn’t it?”

“An American billionaire,” she said, sniffing. “She has loaned it to her friend—lover, according to gossip, a jolly widow—who was just desperate to see an English witches’ fox hunt. Dreadful, isn’t it? But she’s paying for everything.” 

The inside of the house was much as I had imagined—only more so. Like our house, it was filled with antiques; but for us, most of these had a family connection. Here is a skull given by (taken from) Chinese mystics. This is a spear given (at considerable speed) to an ancestor’s batman at some rebellion or other. A jewelled necklace. A section of jade frieze. A broken sabre. A noble house was a diary of misdeeds. This place wasn’t. It was an antiques stall; furniture and ornaments set out with considerable care but without any sense of history. To look at Greengrave Hall was to get a sense of the British Empire’s interest in the ‘Far East’. Here it was just random pieces; oh, I’m sure many had terrible stories—there’s a reason noble-witches don’t learn psychometry—but it wasn’t all the same story.

If I was concentrating on the decor, that was because the noble-witches and the dolls were scary. The huge foyer—it had two fireplaces—was full of both. I had met noble-witches before; many were dressed—like mother and me—in posh but sensible style, others wore ball gowns, ranging from straightforward Vera Wangs to witchmade confections run through with flowers and animals. A few were skyclad; a bit gauche for their class, but no-one was going to argue with a witch. And the dolls! Other than a few servants, all were puppy-dolls. There was a lot of variety here too; most were human-looking, with fleshcrafted ears and tails. Others had furry paws. Some had altered noses, or resculpted muzzles. A few had shortened and re-angled limbs. All were naked, of course, and wore collars with ribbons twined around. I recognised the green and gold Greengrave colours on some of the collars, but there were many others. My mother led me over to a small couch in the middle of green and gold collars. Evelyn waved lackadaisically; one of the pups had its head under her skirt. I looked away. My mother sat, and a puppy-doll rested its head on her knee. A few were fawning around my legs.

“I’m going to mingle,” I said. I know they say that witches taking dolls isn’t technically sex—just something that appears identical—but I had no wish to see my mother doing so.

I helped myself to a glass of champagne and set off on a brief tour. A witch was showing off her puppy-doll; it was on a coffee table, on all fours, and guests were stroking and touching it. Its owner drew particular attention to the excellence of its pussy. The pup was bright red. Another set of witches were laughing as they ordered a huge butch puppy-doll to penetrate several much smaller pups. They laughed at the expressions of the puppy-dolls as they were impaled and almost crushed. A puppy-doll whined as it writhed on the floor, displaying its belly to a group of onlookers. It took me a moment to work out what was going on; the group was passing the controller for an electric shock collar, experimenting with the different settings.

I had taken a seat on the wide stairs, and drank my champagne. It was all a bit much.

Someone sat beside me, descending almost silently from upstairs. 

“English people, eh?” said the woman, in a mid-atlantic accent. “They make everything posh. And tedious.”

I looked; she was obviously a witch; I felt quiet power roll off her. She was dressed very casually; a green cashmere jumper and form-fitting jeans, kitten-heeled shoes. Her eyes were brilliant emerald, and watching me. She was the sort of scary beauty that witches sometimes were; pale skin, clever eyes, a smile that flickered between cruel and friendly.

“I am English,” I said. I was nervous about being spoken to, especially by an attractive witch. 

“Nevermind,” she said, smiling, knocking my knee with hers. It was impossible to tell how old she was; she looked to be in her mid-thirties, but she could easily have been three hundred instead.

“You know,” she said. “Normally, I’d love this sort of thing. Doll orgies. Torture parties. Lovely. But the British somehow make them dreary.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. 

“Cat got your tongue, pretty one?” she said. “Do you not like dolls?” 

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sort of. Haven’t seen much of them, I suppose.”

“Ah,” said the woman. “And this is not the ideal introduction.” She looked at me again; I wasn’t used to it, but there seemed to be interest—maybe even attraction—there. “You should have a play with my doll. What do you like? Spanking? Biting? Restraints?”

I blushed. “I don’t know,” I said. 

“Yes, you do,” she said. “You like spanking, open-hand slapping.”

Was she reading my mind?

“Like recognises like,” she said. “Although I’m rougher than you. My doll would love you; it does complain about big welts. You would be a nice change for it.”

Again, I didn’t know how to respond. A gong announcing that dinner was served saved me.

“I had better go,” said the woman. “I’m Veronika, by the way.”

“Oh, I’m Verity,” I said.

“Wow, all the V’s together,” Veronika said, scissors her hands together. “See you soon, Verity.”

The banquet was a lavish affair. There were three huge tables; we were sat at the top table. My mother was seated at one end of the table, with Evelyn and myself either side of her. At the other end was the host’s chair, which to my surprise, was Veronika. She gave me a nod and a smile.

In the centre of the room was a cage, hidden by a tapestry showing the history of the hunt. Or, rather, the mythic history, as it was supposed to have originated with the witches showing the Wild Hunt how it was supposed to be done. In the cage, I knew, was the fox-doll for the hunt.

Everyone gradually filtered in; well, no dolls, obviously—even the serving folk were human. Finally, my mother stood, ahemmed (she considered tapping a glass to be common) and waited for silence. Then Genevieve began to speak; she was quite a talented speaker, though I won’t relay the whole thing.

She thanked the host, “Mrs Marlinspike, a visitor to this fair land, but a very welcome one,” mentioned the house, “a lovely settling, though perhaps a bit adventurous for the older witches.” Then she went off for a bit about foxes (real), foxes (mythical) and fox-dolls (for the purposes of hunting). She directed people to charge their glasses, then signalled to an unseen witch, who levitated the tapestry off the cage.

The fox-doll turned around, snarling and hissing. It was beautiful—delicate shading on its ears and tail, red through black to white—but obviously terrified, cringing and snapping.

We toasted to the fox-doll—well, to the chance that it would make excellent sport—and then to Lady Pennelegion, sadly absent RSKS chair, and the Queen. Then the meal started; it was good—turbot, venison, etc.—but I was still thinking about the fox-doll. The witches around me were talking about hunt minutiae; I just zoned out.

The meal eventually ended; people took their drinks to the more comfortable chairs of the foyer, or headed out to the wide patio to smoke. A few, like me, stood around the fox-doll’s cage. Some guests had saved little pieces of venison which they tossed or levitated into the cage. The fox-doll flinched from them, and did not eat them.

“I wonder if the problem is that the British do not know how to do fun imperiousness,” whispered Veronika, standing—suddenly—closely behind me. “The only imperiousness they know is the unfun kind; the empire on which the sun never sets kind.”

“This from a yank,” I muttered, several glasses of good wine (including a particularly nice Château Haut-Brion merlot) having unstoppered my tongue somewhat.

“Odd, isn’t it?” said Veronika, her breath tickling the outside of the ear. “The idea of noble-witches. Witches are supposed to be outside of hierarchies, but here, instead, they are part of the order.”

“Plenty of witches aren’t nobles,” I said. “And plenty of nobles aren’t witches. But it was inevitable that the two sources of power should meld. I hear America has formed its own witch’s court?”

“The American Order of Magical Practitioners, yes,” said Veronika. “AOMP. They claim to be following the traditions of the Seelie Court, hence the Lords and Ladies, but we all know that the Royal Society of Knights Sorcerous is more of a direct influence. Curious though, that your Queen is not a witch.”

“Our Royal family hasn’t produced a witch for five hundred years, not since Mary the first,” I recited. “The Royal is simply because it has a royal charter, not because of any membership.”

“You don’t hold with the opinion that Victoria was, in secret?” asked Veronika. “Cementing the Pax Britannica seems like quite a job for a non-practitioner.”

“Queen Victoria was not an engineer, a gun-maker, a ship-builder, a foot-soldier, or an administrator,” I said. “She did not need to be. She used these people as necessary, to enforce her imperium. Witches too.”

“Ah,” said Veronika, the ghost of laughter in her voice. “You are well-studied, Verity.”

“I have a good memory, is all,” I said. 

“Hmm,” said Veronika. “Are you looking forward to the hunt tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, honestly. “At any rate, I like horse-riding.”

“Ugh,” said Veronika. “I didn’t take to horse-riding. If I’m going to exhaust myself bouncing up and down on a dumb animal, I ought to at least come.”

I laughed, a bit shocked. “Some hunts use brooms,” I said. “But being able to fly makes it a bit pointless.”

“Wouldn’t want anything pointless,” said Veronika, surveying the scene. 

“You’re the one who was just desperate to see an English witches’ fox hunt,” I said.

“True, true,” she said. 

The fox-doll snapped, startling me. A witch, who had been trying to stroke its brush-like tail, jumped back, and laughed.

“Is it alright, the fox-doll?” I asked.

Veronika shrugged. “It’s full of charms,” she said. “Charms to cause fear and the need to flee. Charms to disrupt logical thought and enhance emotion. It’s overwhelmed, and, of course, horny.”

“Horny?”

“Any strong emotions cause arousal in dolls,” Veronika said. “Love. Pain. Misery. Fear. In this case, it’s afraid and horny, so it’s also frustrated. The fox instinct keeps it distrustful. A puppy-doll would whimper and display its belly instead.” 

I had never heard it explained quite so simply. “I feel sorry for it,” I said.

Veronika chuckled. “Are you sure you’re English?” she said. “But dolls don’t need your pity. In many ways they are transcendent beings, unburdened by human detritus. They are pure—in a filthy way—that no witch is.”

I nodded. I was feeling the effects of the alcohol now and could not formulate a cogent response. 

“Well,” said Veronika. “I think I will head outside and find out how passive-aggressive they can be about American dreamweed. It’s either that or watch a lot of English witches boringly fuck puppy-dolls.”

“I’m going to bed,” I said, with alcohol driven directness.

“Oh,” said Veronika. “Want any company? My doll? Me? Both?”

I was flustered and could feel myself blushing. “No. I mean… no,” I said. “You are very nice. But, I’m… Why me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?” she said. “Because you’re a handsome butch who is adorable enough to overcome your Englishness. Don’t people tell you that?”

“No,” I said.

“Goddess damned Brits,” she said. “Seriously, sweetie, get some new friends. And call me if you ever change your mind.”

* * *

I had slept in quite late, but was still up before most of the guests. Breakfast was a well-stocked buffet; every so often servants would remove a cold dish, replacing it with a hot one.

“Don’t worry,” said my mother, who appeared to be breakfasting on coffee. “It doesn’t go to waste. They take it through to the kennels.”

I nodded, putting my plate of kedgeree and toast down opposite her. She was sitting by the window; outside was a glorious view over fields and hedges, the occasional copse. The last few wisps of morning fog were almost evaporating as I watched.

“I saw that you were talking with our host last night,” my mother said.

“Mmm,” I said, taking a fork full of kedgeree.

“About what?” my mother asked.

I was glad of the food giving me a chance to not reply immediately. I was worried I was blushing, though.

“Just chatting,” I said, eventually. “Differences between Britain and the US, that sort of thing.”

“Well, be careful,” my mother said. “If a level two witch offers to sleep with you, there must be some ulterior motive.”

My mother stood up while I was still deciding on a response. “See you later, dear,” she said, and left.

* * *

Most of the guests were down by the time they released the fox-doll, though several carried toast (and in one case sausages) onto the patio, where we were crowded. They placed the cage some way off, in the middle of a croquet lawn.

My mother made another brief speech, and then signalled that the cage be opened. The witches clapped and shouted or blew the ceremonial horn. The fox-doll wasted no time; it sprinted away, leaping the haha and then over a hedge and away.

Tradition demanded the fox-doll was given thirty-eight minutes’ head start. The keenest hunts-witches (witch-hunters was not the preferred term) were already readying their horses. The witches who regarded this as a fun outing went back to breakfast/brunch instead.

I spotted Veronika across the crowd; she looked stunning in jodhpurs, tailored jacket, and a neat dart-like witch’s hat, a sprig of speedwells in the band. She waved, and then turned back to her horse, an elegant and black thoroughbred. Probably a bit rangy for hunting, but an excellent form.

I was using one of mother’s horses; Bailey, from a thoroughbred line, but with a quarter Irish draft horse—so a good hunter, if a little stocky.

Another blow on the ceremonial horn, and we were off. The puppy-dolls first, of course. The fox-doll’s scent had been magically enhanced, and the more experienced puppy-dolls excitedly chased after its trail immediately. The newer pups were more confused; being off-leash in a strange situation. They soon got the idea, however, and followed the rest of the puppy-dolls. 

We set off as well, on horseback. It was a little overcast but still a fine day, the meadows and hedgerows looking beautiful; muted greens, yellows and whites. The fox-doll had evidently followed a bridle path to start with, and so the first part of the chase was relatively easy going.

I found Veronika trotting alongside me; for all her complaints, she seemed to be a splendid rider. 

“Is it that British people can’t do anything just for enjoyment?” she said. “They want to ride in the country, so they need the excuse of a hunt? Just like if they want a pleasant walk, they have to pretend to like golf. And, if they want a doll orgy they need to convince themselves they are maintaining an important tradition.”

“I think they also want it to cost a great deal,” I said, “to keep the riff-raff out.”

She laughed. “So does that explain why we use horses for this; the fact that they are pricey?” asked Veronika. “Because, while I hear the arguments against brooms, puppy-dolls don’t really run fast enough to need horses to keep up with them. Faster than humans, sure, but nothing that a witch with a festinare charm couldn’t keep up with.”

“Very undignified though,” I said. “My class believes in having entities—horses or dolls—run for them.”

“Why not pony-dolls, then?”

“A bit nouveau riche,” I said. We had some pony-doll fans at college; they were pretty annoying. “Plus, as you must know, they’re not really suitable for that kind of riding.”

She smiled. “You’re more talkative today,” she said. “It’s nice.”

She slowed her horse; I did likewise. She stood in the stirrups and leant over; she must have used magic somehow, either that or had circus family. From nowhere she produced a tiny posy of speedwells; she tucked it into my buttonhole.

“See you later, flower,” Veronika said, and—before she had finished sitting—her horse broke into a gallop.

It probably only took me ten minutes from that point to become hopelessly, stupidly lost. I was following three Greengrave pack puppy-dolls; at this point my conviction they had a scent was waning, fast. The morning fog had returned, patchy, lying above the fields. As the horse stumbled into a cloudbank, I lost the pups. 

I slowed my horse to a walk; we would clear the fog soon, and I could look for other riders. On the floor, something glittered; a spearhead, rusted but with the edge still sharp and bright, attached to some decaying wood. That was a bad sign. I dismounted; I didn’t want to run my horse into any further debris. I picked my way carefully through the fog, finding other debris. There was a sword, corroded away until it was just a skeleton, sticking up out of the earth. A half-buried pot helmet, empty thankfully. No way that a farmer would just leave these objects lying around. Which meant—shit—there was a good chance I’d wandered into Faerie.

I stopped. This was something that happened—very rarely—in the British countryside. The official advice was “Do not engage, just wait.”

The fog was rolling back now, showing a whole battlefield of discarded weapons and armour. Cheerful flute music was coming from somewhere. Bailey shifted nervously. 

“Okay, time to go back to jolly old England,” I said, to myself and the universe in general.

“This is jolly old England,” said a voice by my shoulder. I jumped back, turning.

The speaker was beautiful; a princess or queen. Her gown was brocaded, silver and red. Her face was paler even than Veronika’s, her eye-holes were wide and dark, her jawbone was fine, her teeth were neat. 

“There was a jolly battle here, in old England,” she said. “Two orders, both alike in stupidity. They fought and they died. Did you know some faeries drink blood? Or to wash with? Or as ink in contracts?”

“Yes,” I said, unable to take my eyes from her beautiful face.

I saw now her court around her; I don’t know how I’d missed them earlier. They were lovely; elegant handmaidens in red sheer robes, handsome courtiers in silver frock coats. All were as slender as their mistress, narrow limbs, porcelain visage, a fixed grin.

A handmaiden brought them a tray with two glasses of wine; red and mysterious. 

“Drink with me, my sweet berry,” the battlefield queen said. “You shall be a handmaiden.”

I reached for the wine. I heard a new voice swearing, and something hit me hard from the side. We both went over, the wine glass flying aside. Everything tumbled.

There was plaster ceiling above me. A plaster ceiling and a rather angry looking cat-doll. It untangled its limbs from mine, before giving me another unfriendly look and jumping off.

“Wren, you fucked up,” the cat-doll said.

“I don’t think so,” said a quiet voice, Wren, I assumed. “The spells are going quite well. But what have you brought in this time? Sorry!”

I sat up; I was on some threadbare carpet in a fairly ramshackle room. The cat-doll crouched nearby, not looking at me. It was dressed in a worn sweatshirt and cycling shorts, each as black as its hair and ears and tail.

“A hunter,” said the cat-doll, a little smugly. “About to get fucked by the Queen of Battlefields.”

“Well, why?” said Wren, sounding a bit embarrassed. She was sitting on a quaker-style chair in front of a battered kitchen table, and a crystal ball. She turned to face me.

She was a witch, obviously; I could sense magical power, and besides, her hat was on a hook across the room. She wore an olive green cable-knit sweater and faded jeans. She was ginger and freckled. Her face was very pretty, in a sort of delicate and natural way.

“Fucking speedwells, Wren,” said the cat-doll.

“Oh right,” said Wren. “Well it’s quite difficult to tell through the crystal, you grumpy mog.”

The cat-doll hmphed.

Wren got up and offered me a hand; she was a little on the short side, and I was careful not to pull her over.

“Anyway, why bring her here?” she asked the cat-doll.

“Because, oh ungrateful mistress, she’s your fucking type,” the cat-doll said.

Having just completed standing, my hand was in Wren’s; she snatched it back. Wren made an incoherent noise; she was blushing, but I imagined I was too.

“What?” said the cat-doll. “Don’t pretend you’ve suddenly gone off muscular butches?”

“Um,” I said. “What’s—”

“See, she even has a nice voice,” said the cat-doll.

“For Goddesses sake, Enoki, you can’t go—” began Wren.

“What?” said the cat-doll, Enoki. “Would you rather I went back to dead birds?”

“That pigeon was not dead!” said Wren, anger rising. “I knocked half the stuff off my shelves trying to get it to fly out of the window.”

“Well, I’m fairly sure it was dead when I brought it in,” said Enoki, a bit sulkily. “But you’re missing the point: live butch girl.”  

“Enoki!” shouted Wren. “Sorry,” she said to me. “Enoki, take her back!” 

“Fine,” grumbled Enoki. “You don’t have to listen to yourself sniffling all night about not being the little spoon.”

Enoki looked like she was preparing to pounce.

“Er, I’m Verity,” I said, sticking out my hand.

The Enoki slammed into me, and the world tumbled again.

I sat up in a meadow, the sky resolutely English, by which I mean gray. Bailey was standing nearby, delicately eating brambles from a hedgerow. There was no sign of the cat-doll. 

* * *

I’d managed to catch up with some riders and the puppy-dolls, just as they had captured the fox-doll. It was at the bottom end of a waterlogged field, just before a small copse.

The fox-doll was struggling and the puppy-dolls were biting, and pulled it to the muddy floor. It thrashed, but more pups joined the melee, more puppy-doll jaws biting. Not biting off chunks—they had been trained—but not play bites either; marking neat semi-circles on the skin, bruising or breaking.

At some point, the fox-doll gave up, going limp. The puppy-dolls worried at it for a bit, and then one of the more experienced pups mounted it. The other pups crowded around.

“So this is the quintessential British countryside sport, eh?” said Veronika, her horse trotting up beside mine.

She—and her horse—looked unbothered by the hunt; unmuddied and fresh. I looked like I’d rolled over in a meadow, mostly because I’d rolled over in a meadow. My cuff was also stained with a few drops of what I took to be Faerie wine.

“I suppose so,” I said. 

Over the general yapping, I could hear the puppy-dolls and the fox-doll grunting and moaning.

“Is the fox-doll… enjoying that?” I asked.

“A dangerous question to ask about dolls,” she said. “Some witches will tell you that it is entirely senseless as a question. Does a record player enjoy playing a record? I, personally, think it’s a complex question.”

She watched the pup pile as the active puppy-doll changed over.

“I mean,” she said, “the answer is yes. And no. It wanted to escape. It also wanted to be fucked. When humans have that sort of choice they usually pick one or the other. Dolls don’t. They are both still true. It’s enjoying being railed. It hates being captured. Dolls cope with these contradictions in a way humans don’t. It’s amazing, really.”

My mother rode up; she was holding the rein in one hand, and in the other a silver arming sword.

“Mrs Marlinspike, daughter,” she said, eyeing the mud down my back. “You alright?”

“Fine,” I said. “Took a bit of a tumble.”

“You’re lucky,” the mother said. “We’ve had a lot of riders disappear into Faerie. Having a heck of a lot of trouble getting them back.” She held up the sword. “I had a dispute with a marsh husband. Evelyn is around here somewhere; a wyvern ate her horse. Verity, you should get back to the house. Take the roads; I don’t want the embarrassment of having to rescue you.”

“Is this normal?” asked Veronika, voice full of concern. “I’d heard England sometimes had a problem with Faerie but I had no idea it was so commonplace.”

“It isn’t, Mrs Marlinspike,” said my mother. “Either there’s an unprecedented magic slip, or it is enemy action. I suspect the latter.”

“Gosh,” said Veronika. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Sabotage, Mrs Marlinspike,” said my mother. She gestured at the pile of dolls; the pups still taking turns. “They do not like our traditions.”

Veronika tsked. “Well, Lady Greengrave,” said Veronika, “I will escort your daughter back to the house; we wouldn’t want her set upon by the enemies of tradition.”

My mother looked at us suspiciously, but then nodded. She hurried on to order some more people about.

“You’re lying,” I said, after we had ridden in silence for some way. “You knew all about Faerie.”

Veronika smiled. “What makes you think that, handsome one?”

I gestured at the speedwells in my lapel. “Wren said she wasn’t supposed to transport those with sprigs of speedwells. That’s just you and me, as far as I can tell. Also, I remembered the other name for speedwells.”

“Bird’s eye? Gypsyweed?” said Veronika, smiling. 

“Veronica,” I said.

“What a remarkable coincidence,” said Veronika. “Verity, do you want to become friends?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question,” said Veronika. “Do you want to be close? Secret sharing. With benefits or without.”

“My mother says you’re not to be trusted,” I said, but part of me was already singing. This poised, elegant woman wanted to be friends! And maybe more.

“Your mother is quite right,” said Veronika. “To be clear, Verity; I will use you as far as you let me. But the offer of friendship is real.”

We had reached the house now, ambling up to the stables.

“It must have taken a hell of a lot of magical power to apportate people remotely, between worlds,” I said.

Veronika looked at me. “Answer my question first,” she said.

We dismounted. There were no servants about; we were earlier than expected. 

“Is it a deal, then?” I asked.

“Most things are,” she said. “For both of us.”

We led our horses into the darkened stables, tied them up in empty stalls.

“Okay,” I said. “I agree.”

“Thank you,” Veronika said, closing the distance between us. I took a half-step back, into the wooden wall of a stall. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

My throat went dry. I nodded. She was almost exactly the same height as me, though her build was much more feminine. She removed my equestrian witch’s hat and discarded it to the floor. She ran a hand through my short hair, ruffling it. I felt ready to burst. Or to run.

She angled her head, and softly kissed me. It was delicate but electric. I’d kissed aunts before; this was not like kissing aunts. I felt our breath merge; there was this odd sensation of feeling another being’s reality. Through a small portion of skin—our lips—we were connected. I pressed harder; I wanted this connection, I had hungered for it or something like it, for so long.

She bit, nibbled really, my lower lip, and pulled apart, saliva stretching. I pushed forward, kissing her again, biting similarly. Our mouths became a gentle battlefield; tongues scouting, lips clashing, bites like artillery.

Footsteps from down the corridor. We broke apart quickly. 

“I see you later, dear friend,” said Veronika, calmly but slightly breathlessly.

She turned towards the servant, issuing instructions for her horse, and strode off.

I stayed and ensured Bailey’s grooming was done myself; the brushing gave me something to do while my mind went wild.

The final score on the Faerie trips were: three returned entirely unscathed, five escaped with witchcraft, two were aged prematurely, and five were rescued by other witches; one of these was desperate to go back. They would normally spend the night ‘honouring the pups and the fox’ but the mood was dark now. People packed up and went home.

My car was summoned; I hadn’t got the chance to speak to Veronika, and now she had disappeared entirely. As we pulled out of the drive, I spotted her on a balcony. She blew me a kiss.