I, in a weak moment, had agreed to keep an eye on both the Holmeshallow Farm kids for the day. Not that I should be referring to Sarah as a child, she’d be mortally offended.

Ben, on the other hand, is a textbook example of a boisterous, curious boy-child, who leaps into trouble like it’s his purpose on Earth.

I’m fond enough of him I suppose, but look forward to days with him in much the same way I’d look forward to hosting three racoons in a trench coat.

They arrived. Ben announced. “I’m a pirate and I’m going to search for buried treasure.”

Because that was a safe and staid activity for a witch’s garden.

Sarah was in a charitable mood, thankfully, and managed to convincer her brother that my suggestion to draw a treasure map first was the best idea ever. A touch of genius on my part. Sarah has a decent working knowledge of my garden, enough to keep them out of the worst sort of trouble at least.

I waved them off from the back terrace, provisions in a small canvas bag – they’d be devoured within minutes – and settled into an outside chair with my tea and a spell book. I needed to be reasonably on hand in case of screams, but also needed to show Sarah I trusted her with my garden.

All was quiet enough (and not too quiet) for about half an hour, then Ben came pelting up the path, skidding to a stop in front of me, chest heaving, eyes bright with excitement.

“There’s a badger!”

“Is there now.”

“Yep, and it’s wearing a funny greeny-brown waistcoat like Grandad’s and has a plant pot with a great big feather in it, and Sarah says he’s terrible upset and you need to come.”

Gregory was a wood troll, not a badger, probably best not to mention such things to young Ben though, his stories at school are considered highly imaginative, but they’ve triggered too much interest in my woods from various listeners in the past.

I followed Ben back down the path, the pond rippled as we passed. Its resident, contrary to all expectations, liked Ben, found him amusing. Which is why he’s the only person who can splash and play in the pond on a hot summer’s day. It tolerates Sarah, respect for her potential I think, but Ben has been wholly adopted by an eldritch terror. Boys.

Anyway, we reached the harvest garden and there was Sarah, an arm around Gregory’s shoulders, urging him towards us.

Gregory spotted me and hurried forward, holding out his plant pot. The feather was actually an unusual fern, with equally unusual properties. At the moment, it was dying.

“I watered it, and was careful with the sun, why is Janice so ill?”

“You called your plant Janice?” Ben had opinions on names.

I replied. “The plant is connected to the health of a wind sprite who calls herself Janice. It looks like she’s sick or injured.”

We trooped back up to the house – this was the perfect opportunity to teach Sarah a little scrying. Ben picked it up as well, of course, has quite the talent for it. I only hope my stern reminder about what happened the last time he played with one of my spells at school keeps the skill contained.

Janice had been caught in a blackberry thicket a short distance from my wood-side gate, Gregory set off to free her as soon as the location, and issue, was confirmed. Ben was disappointed none of us went with him but, really, he’s a wood troll, he’d get her out quicker and less painfully than any of us. We’d only be a hindrance.

As we waited, I coached Sarah through the concoction of some new salves and a soothing tea for our incoming patient. Ben has no interest in such things, so I set him to watching the fern feather. About twenty minutes after Gregory left (and Ben had been sent outside twice to check how long it took him to run around the house), he gave a delighted whoop. “It’s got green bits.”

“So it has, well spotted, that probably means Gregory’s got her free and she’s able to move again.”

I think he found the actual treatment of the wind sprite a bit of an anticlimax, although he did enjoy watching the fern return to flourishing.

After Janice and Gregory left, Ben looked at me consideringly. “Did you make that plant?”

“After a fashion.”

“Can you make one for me?”

I laughed. “I already have one for you, your sister, and both your parents. How do you think I knew to drop by that time your dad got kicked in the ribs by Maleficent?”

Before you ask, Maleficent is one of the cows. Sarah named her after the kicking incident.

I pointed at the row of pots on a bench in the still room. Ben trotted over to inspect them. “Which one’s me?”

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