I was off to the castle again today, a little follow-up tidying and a chat with the ghost. There had been strange lights in the sky last night, and largely from over that way, and I thought it prudent to investigate.
I made my way through the forest. The creatures were twitchy, staying out of sight, but I could hear the rustles and see the quiver of leaves as they scurried about, keeping an eye on things.
The ghost was in the garden, and she was not happy. Something had crashed through the roof of one of the few rooms still intact. I have a feeling her other visitors were in the habit of sleeping there and she was upset at the loss of her guest bedroom. Her Ladyship liked to be a good hostess.
Furthermore, whatever it was that did the damage was still in the room, and blocking Her Ladyship’s efforts to enter and investigate. I wasn’t as polite as the Lady of the Castle, and considerably harder to put off. I opened the door and smashed through a pretty poor set of wards in one movement.
On the pallet in the corner was a lumpy pile of fabric. It looked like a bundled-up sweater – if you liked your sweaters many sizes too large. A muffled groan came from somewhere within and a head emerged, a young girl, tousled and tired, and now suffering backlash from my demolition of her wards.
How had a juvenile witch managed to fall through the roof of a ruined castle, miles from anywhere?
The DNA of Stories 