“That old warlock is still causing mischief, hmm?” Isobel pulled the door all the way open and beckoned them inside. “Come, have a cup of tea and tell me what you seek.”
She waved a hand and whispered something, and torches flared to life, revealing stone walls and a flagstone floor topped with woven rugs. The furniture was heavy and Gothic-looking, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters, and a cauldron bubbled in the fireplace. At the back of the room were several closed doors, and a wrought-iron staircase wound up to the next story. A wall-mounted television was the only modern touch—it was paused on a scene that showed a group of people in yellow, red, and blue shirts pointing odd-looking guns at someone in a poorly constructed dragon costume.
“This place is great,” Calladia said, looking around. “My friend Themmie would say it has ‘vibes for days.’?”
“Please, sit.” Isobel gestured toward a red velvet couch with carved lion heads protruding from the armrests. She retrieved two mugs from a shelf above the fireplace that held tableware and occult-looking figurines. Astaroth squinted at one of the figurines, whose head had started bobbling when Isobel’s sleeve brushed it. Its base was inscribed with the odd word Spock, and the black hair, pointed ears, and blue shirt were vaguely familiar—perhaps an elven deity?
Isobel ladled steaming liquid from the cauldron into the mugs and handed them over.
“Oh,” Calladia said. “Thank you. You brew tea in a cauldron?”
“Cauldrons are useful for many things,” Isobel said.
Astaroth sniffed his tea suspiciously. His eyebrows shot up at the familiar, delicious scent. “This is proper English breakfast tea.”
Calladia sniffed her own mug. “What? It smells like orange and ginger.”
Isobel poured her own tea, then settled into a wooden chair that resembled a throne. “The cauldron produces whatever your favorite blend is. It also works for soup.”
Astaroth looked at Calladia. “Your favorite tea is orange and ginger?” He’d need to stock up on some. He had a tea cabinet in his flat in London, and he liked the idea of her tea leaves nestled next to his.
“I’m amazed someone as precious as you is happy with plain old breakfast tea,” Calladia said. “I expected you to be into oolong seasoned with rose petals and civet poop or something.”
“Excuse you,” he said. “There is nothing plain about a proper breakfast tea. The flavor profile is quite robust.”
Calladia shook her head. “You really leaned into the British thing, didn’t you? You probably have a collection of rare tea bags.”
The horror! “I would never steep tea from a bag. Loose leaf is superior in every way.”
“You probably have a kettle, too.” Calladia smirked over the rim of her mug.
“Of course I do.” Both an electric kettle and an old-fashioned ceramic teapot. His forehead furrowed. “Wait, do you not?”
Calladia raised her mug in a toast. “Microwave, baby.”
“No!” Astaroth was appalled. “That’s a crime against gastronomy.”
“What can I say? I like to live on the edge.” Calladia sipped and made an appreciative noise. “That’s delicious.”
Isobel had been watching the exchange with interest. “How did the two of you become acquainted?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s my nemesis,” Calladia said, raising a challenging brow at him.
“Exactly,” Astaroth said. “Just two sworn enemies on a quest.”
“I see.” Isobel did not look like she, in fact, saw. “And this quest led you to me?”
Astaroth quickly explained the situation, from the amnesia to the witch who had apparently stripped away his immortality.
“Well,” Isobel said when he was done. “That’s a lot.”
“Can you help?” he asked.
“Possibly.” She set the tea aside. “May I examine you?”
Unsure what that would entail, Astaroth agreed. She stood and moved toward him, the hem of her dress whispering over the floor, then placed her fingers at his temples and closed her eyes.
“Is it possible the witch took away my memories, too?” Astaroth asked.
Isobel shushed him. “Let me look.”
Astaroth sat still while she palpated his skull, feeling awkward.
Finally, Isobel opened her eyes and dropped her hands. “Your memory loss is from a blow to the head, not a spell.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Astaroth said. Then he reconsidered. Being mortal meant he didn’t heal quickly anymore. “Or is it?”
“Recovering will come down to time and willpower,” Isobel said. “I cannot force your mind to produce the memories it has lost. They will return once you’ve healed and are ready to seize the life you want.”
“Cryptic.” And unhelpful. “I’m ready to seize that life now though.”
She shook her head. “Memories can be planted, altered, erased. They cannot be pulled forth unwillingly, at least not with my powers. The damage is not irreversible though—you gain more with every hour, and a time will come soon when your will, your reality, and your mind reach an accord. When you are ready, all shall be restored as it once was.”
“Can we hurry that process up?” Calladia asked. “It’s pretty urgent.”
“One cannot rush such things.”
Why was nothing ever straightforward, especially when it came to witch business? Astaroth eyed Isobel, wondering if that had been a final answer or the beginning of negotiations. “What if we pay you a lot of money?”
Isobel pursed her lips, looking between them. “You don’t look rich.”
“We’ve been roughing it,” Calladia said. “And I did recently lose most of my worldly possessions, but I can scrounge up some cash.”
If Isobel was as old as Astaroth suspected, she wouldn’t be inclined to trust fiat currency versus something more tangible. “I have a safe full of gold doubloons,” he offered.
“Doubloons?” Calladia asked incredulously. “Who are you, Blackbeard?”
“No, but I did enjoy a brief stint in piracy.” Talk about a group that understood the importance of branding. From their flags to their wildly original methods of execution, pirates had nailed the creative brief.
Interest flared in Isobel’s eyes. “Where are these coins?”
“London.” He was fairly sure they were still there anyway, though if Lilith had been poking around, who knew? “I can write a promissory note.”
Isobel pursed her lips. “If you sign a contract in blood, I’ll accept it.”
She was definitely old. These days, most witches accepted digital signatures in WarlockuSign.
“So you can restore his memories after all?” Calladia asked.
“No, but I can encourage the brain to heal. The moment the memories return will still depend on Astaroth, but a stable foundation will make the rest of the process easier.”
“Let’s do it,” Astaroth said.
Isobel produced a piece of parchment, a quill pen, and a knife, and Astaroth wrote a promise to pay fifty gold doubloons in exchange for her assistance regaining his memories. He signed it, then cut his finger and dabbed blood on the signature.