magenta was stunned. Did this really happen? has that man transmogrified himself into an owl, and fluttered out the window?

She gazed out the window, through the trees and the large, pink moon hanging low in the sky. And her thoughts went back to England, to her circle, to the Old Ways. Memories came flowing back like liquid embroidery - the dance, the ritual, and the warm beer. Magenta realised that she hadn't felt like this since that night at the Black Lion, that night when the sinister, sinewy Vlad spoke so softly in her head. It was as if part of him had stayed inside her, and her dream about the old women had somehow smoked his essence out of her. But she still didn't feel quite right, it was as if he was near, somehow trying to re-penetrate her psyche.

Freda wandered across, and brought a silver flask out of her tapestry bag. It had a pattern of leaves and berries on it, and the head was a carved silver stopper, in the shape of a waratah.

"What's up, Magenta", said Freda. "Would you like a toddy?"
and she poured a hot, spicy mixture into a small silver cup.

Magenta sipped, it was strong, spicy and soothing – and she could feel the comforting warmth of Ginger, Fennel, Hops, Cloves and Feverfew trickle around her mouth and tongue, warming her throat and soothing her being.

The taste took her back again, to medieval moments, with Micca, Morty, Pixie and Phot. Where were they all? She should be there, where she belonged. Something inside told her that Phot was undergoing a great task – she held up her cup, and held a little thought of him, wishing him, Pixie and them all the strength and courage to get by.