William Rashleigh feared decay. He had successfully managed to keep his dread of the most personal manifestations at bay by employing tricks and talents known only to wizard kind. The smaller, more insidious kinds of decomposition still stalked him, leaping forth to remind him of mortality and the tendency of living matter to eventually rot beneath the ravages of time.
He employed a troop of servants to ensure that any mould, degeneration or perishing articles were kept at bay and eradicated on sight. He avoided the refrigerator, which was a Muggle contraption, one of the finest and most expensive that Harrods had to offer. It glittered at him from the far side of the vast kitchen whenever he happened to be in the room, tiny jewels covering the surface of the black exterior. Mrs Fitzroy had been scandalised by the cost, but £1400 was nothing to man sitting on the amount of wealth that William Rashleigh was. She had been dazed by the electronic gadgets that it was furnished with, switching on the built-in radio and stepping back in bewilderment as disjointed music filled the kitchen. In her opinion, all that was needed was a good solid chilling device, not some popinjay of a machine that disgraced the kitchen with its flash, brash look. Yet it made her master feel better, even if it was the kind of dissatisfied security that only the most expensive possessions offered.
Mrs Fitzroy loved young Mister Rashleigh as she had loved his father, and excused him his foibles as she had the older, now deceased, gentleman. They came of a good family and had inhabited this part of Cornwall for so long that they were as deep rooted as the ancient trees that continually survived the foul winds blowing across the moor. Yes, a tor of a man was William Rashleigh, with his hair as dark as wet slate and eyes chipped from the granite that coated this part of the country. His was a pale countenance, made paler by his lack of endeavour into the world beyond Trevithick House. In his younger days she had encouraged him out into the gardens, and then further, out onto the moor itself riding on the back of a little Exmoor pony named Bob. The boy had fretted and shown great pain, but she had persevered, knowing that he must conquer his fear. Bob was a temperate little fellow, but even he had been startled by the curlew that rose rapidly from the undulating ground; the animal had thrown the seven-year-old boy from his back and stampeded as far away from the offending bird as he could.
It had been unfortunate that William had landed directly beside a dead hare, whose insides had been turned out by some foraging creature. His small, pinched face was a rictus of horror as she scooped him up in her broad arms and carried him back into the house. His leg had been broken, although his father had mended it quickly enough. The elder Rashleigh had looked at his son’s nurse and forbade her to take him outside again unless the child specifically requested the journey.
Twenty-three years on and still William refused to go outside. He would stand in the doorway and inhale the vibrant life of the dawn, but by the time the day had begun to expire, he was long gone, cushioned against its loss by his perfect home and the preservation within. Mrs Fitzroy often reflected on the possibility that, had William no wealth with which to indulge his fancy, the fancy itself would take flight and he would be left to face his dread. Money kept him safe, at least in his own mind.
Many would have found his life a chore; a spinning top of tedium, but William Rashleigh had an imagination built to withstand any amount of interminable time. He had toys. At least, he called them his toys, Mrs Fitzroy, the only person allowed even a whiff of his underground workshops, called them a tangled morass of contraption. In terms of accuracy, the latter was probably closer to the mark. None of them worked; oh, they performed. Bright lights, noises, emissions, all manner of pyrotechnic effects were loosed on the whitewashed chambers beneath the house, but they didn’t actually perform a function.
Until a wet Wednesday in March.
Halcyon Rosmerta was fed up. Not only had her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend abandoned her, he had done so with all their money in his pocket and taken the little Ford Escort that he had surreptitiously borrowed off his father for this unauthorised trip into the West Country. It had all gone very well at first. There had been lots of small kisses snatched as he steered them down the long road that would eventually deliver them to a coastal town where they could buy fish and chips and steal even more kisses as the sun dipped below the horizon. At least, that had been the general, and rather nice, idea. The rain had started as they passed Bristol, thin at first, but gradually building to swollen drops that bounced of the bonnet. Then the radio stopped working, forcing them to listen to the sound of the hammering water instead of the latest David Bowie record.
The car had then developed a rattle. By the time they reached Exeter the rain had eased, but the rattle persisted, irritating and pernicious.
“What is it?” she asked, scrabbling about at her feet to reach her bag.
“How the hell should I know,” he barked back, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the slowly drying road. “Not a mechanic, am I.”
“You’re a Mu… man. All men know about cars, don’t they?” She pulled out a packet of wine gums and brandished it at him. She would have much preferred some sherbet lemons, but this was the best the Muggle garage could manage.
“Stop ruddy well waving them in my face and let me concentrate on the road, you daft woman. And no, not all men know about cars; some of us are more concerned with bricklaying.”
Halcyon watched him, her pretty eyes focused on his better attributes, which mainly involved cheekbones and muscles. She’d initially found the idea of a well-built Muggle workman a challenge and something to be savoured, but it was becoming apparent that with the rough came, well, more of the same. Still, she pondered silently, at least if the car holds out we’ll make it to our destination and then he can prove his credentials.
They drove along in what would have been silence were it not for the noise, which shifted about the engine as if a hamster was loose in there. By the time they approached a sign pointing to a place called Jamaica Inn it was obvious they were going to have to stop. The car now shuddered violently every time her boyfriend put his foot on the accelerator and with a resigned grunt of annoyance he pulled off the main carriageway and stopped as soon as he could. They both stepped out onto the damp grass verge and surveyed the scarlet car with disgust. At a loss for what to do, he did the only thing he could do and lifted the bonnet.
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about cars,” she pointed out, coming to join him as he peered at the mysteries of internal combustion. “Pointless looking under there if you don’t know what it is you’re looking for. Why don’t we just walk up to this Inn and get them to send for someone to look at it.”
“You got the money to pay for a mechanic?” he grunted. “Because I ain’t. Dad’s going to murder me when he finds out.”
“Finds out?”
“Yeah.” He shuffled his feet a little and stood up. “I ain’t strictly speaking told him that I took the car.”
“Oh! Well that’s just great, isn’t it?” She chomped angrily on the wine gum in her mouth and surveyed him and the stolen car for a moment. They were stuck, but she had the means of getting them unstuck. It was just a Muggle car; a simple spell with her wand would work wonders for whatever it was that was wrong with the mass of metal that made it go. She’d fixed her friend Sally’s car with just a quick Reparo once; it was much easier than using all those complicated tools and having sweating, buttock-revealing men grubbing around underneath.
To do that, though, she would have to reveal to him that she was a witch, and they’d only been going out for three weeks. He stretched out over the cavity beneath the bonnet, his arms straining slightly beneath the T-shirt he wore. Halcyon had a vision of those arms wrapped around her, pressing against her own with some insistence, his fingers…
“I can fix it,” she blurted, her heart overruling her head.
“You?” He looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “You’re a girl.”
“Nigel, have you ever heard of witches?” Her voice was steady, not betraying the importance of the moment.
He appeared to give this matter some consideration before replying. “’Course I have. Ugly old bats with warts and green faces; tall pointy hats and stuff. What’s fairy tales got to do with fixing my dad’s car?”
“Get in and start the engine,” she said, feeling a thrill rush through at her at the amazement he would show when she got the car moving again.
“What?”
“Just do it.” She smiled and he gave in with one of his trademark grunts. Once the engine spluttered into uncertain life, Halcyon dipped into her bag and pulled out a thin stick, which Nigel couldn’t see because of the large red bonnet that filled his field of vision. Mumbling the spell almost shyly, Halcyon gave a determined wave of her stick and the desperate shuddering stopped, leaving the engine to run as smoothly as it had at the outset of their journey.
Nigel was out of the car like a rock from a catapult. “What in the name of Nora did you do?” he asked, looking from her to the stick to the engine in shock. “And what,” he asked, returning his gaze to the stick in her hand, “is that? Tell me you didn’t poke Dad’s engine with a ruddy stick?”
“I’m a witch, Nigel,” she said, licking her lips and smearing strawberry lip gloss on her teeth. “This is my wand.”
He looked at her blankly, a slight delay between his ears and brain causing him to falter.
“I know,” she said with a little giggle. “It’s rather mad, isn’t it? I can do magic, but only for good, like fixing cars.” She winced internally as she said this, imagining the response of her former professors if they thought that was her only intention for her magic.
“A witch?” Nigel’s brain finally instructed his mouth to open. “There’s no such thing as witches. You must have whacked the engine; lucky strike and all that. People can’t wave sticks and make stuff happen.”
“All right,” she said, eager to prove herself now that she was being doubted. “What’s your favourite sandwich?”
“Egg and bacon, but what’s that got to do with ””
His words ended abruptly as Rosmerta waved her wand and a freshly made sandwich dripping brown sauce appeared in front of his face. He went a little pale as the bread hovered in front of him, instinct making him back away from the corporeal snack.
“You can eat it,” she instructed. “It’s perfectly edible.”
He didn’t, however, reach for the sandwich. He scrabbled backwards and dropped the bonnet of the car, not daring to look at her. With a turn of speed that she had not suspected he possessed, he was in the car. The gear stick was wrenched into reverse and, with Halcyon still not quite suspecting what was going on, Nigel thrust the vehicle into first and roared off down the road. The sandwich, sensing defeat, dropped to the floor with a squelch.
She was quite a sharp girl, but she was also a reasonably good hearted one, and it would not have occurred to her immediately that she had been abandoned. Ten minutes later and he had not returned. Halcyon looked at her wand, and then down the road. With a sigh she tucked it back in her bag; she should have known better, Muggles just weren’t made to know about magic.
So there she was, abandoned, with no money, no Apparation licence and a reluctance to use magic in case any other Muggles where about. There was only one thing to do and that was set of in the direction of the Inn in the hope that Nigel had stopped there. At the very least she could use their telephone.
An hour later and she was beginning to accept that she had taken a wrong turning. It must have been by the little bridge when the road forked and the sign had been indecisive about which prong she should take. The road itself had now become little more than a dirt track, still damp after the rain. Mud was slowly crawling up the sides of her wedge-heeled shoes, and these were her new pair too. It was hard enough getting the latest Muggle fashions when you were a witch, but to then go and ruin them in a muddy lane was a travesty. To make matters even worse, there was a hint of drizzle in the air and a rolling mist was creeping across the moor. Bodmin Moor they called it; she’d been here with her family years ago. Bodmin, she thought, sounded like it boded ill. The more the mist rose, the more boding she felt, until boding was all around her, confusing her senses and almost stopping her progress entirely.
And then she walked into a post, her hip making contact with it, knocking her sideways. Her muffled cry made her jump, but she had the presence of mind to reach out and clutch at the post. The mist was so deep that she couldn’t see her hand before her; it drained into her throat, making her breathing laboured. Feeling her way, she discovered the post was attached to what felt like a gate. Dropping to her hands and knees, feeling foolish for doing so, even though she knew no one could see her, she felt hard stone beneath her hands: A path!
Making the decision that she didn’t care if Muggles saw her use her wand or not, she reached in and pulled it from her bag. “Obduco Nebula,” she hissed, watching with satisfaction as a tunnel of clarity appeared in the thick cloud before her. Now she could see clearly the path as it marched on ahead. Halcyon was a patient girl, but she had her limits and she found she was now at the outer edge of them. She wanted a cup of tea, or preferably a Butterbeer, and a warm fire, and toast. Yes, she decided, as she followed the path, some toast and jam would be most welcome.
The door, when it appeared, was about as welcoming as a troll beneath a bridge. It was a black slab of wood in a grey wall of forbidding stone. She reached up and rapped on it, making enough noise to reach the furthest reaches of what, she was beginning to suspect, was a very large house. When nothing happened she glanced about and noticed a bell begging to be pulled, so she did just that. A distant clattering echoed through the building, followed by a resonant voice calling loudly for ‘someone to answer the damned door’.
She took a step back and waited patiently. After a minute or two it seemed that no one had heeded the cry, so she rang the bell again, longer and more loudly. Again the shout rose from the bowels of the building and again it was ignored. Eventually she heard a scrape of a lock and a man’s voice, an angry one at that, call out from behind the solid wood.
“There’s no one here, whoever you are!”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she snapped back. “What are you, then, a recording?”
“I’m just a servant ordered not to open the door by the master. He said… he said… that visitors were not desired today and that you should go away.” There was a pause. “So go away.”
“You’re awfully well-spoken for a servant,” she replied. “And I’m in no mood for tricks. I’m lost, cold, tired and hungry and I need to get out of this mist. You can tell your master that he’s a brute if he thinks sending young women out onto a moor filled with goodness only knows what is in any way honourable.”
There was a heavy silence as she waited for a spark of decency to propel him to open the door. A bolt was shot, a lock clicked, several chains were pulled, another lock clicked. Halcyon tapped her foot. Eventually the door was thrown open; a blur of a man stepped out, caught her arm roughly and dragged her inside, slamming the door before any of the swirling fog could slip into the interior.
“Ow, ow, ow!” she yelped, pulling her upper arm out of his manacle-like grip. “Is that how you treat all your visitors?”
“Only the unannounced ones.” There was anger there, but she detected something else, something that almost touched fear.
“Well, I didn’t mean to be unannounced. I was lost.” Now that they had time to survey each other, Halcyon realised that the man who had been eager to rough-handle her was actually quite good-looking in a delicate, wild way. “That moor is a nightmare.”
“What were you doing out there alone?” He narrowed his grey eyes. Now that he had a toy that worked, his suspicions were ever alert.
“I told you; I was lost.” Halcyon had no desire to tell this man that she had recently been abandoned by her boyfriend. And he definitely didn’t need to know it was because she was a witch.
“What is that?” He was looking at her wand, which was still in her hand.
“Nothing,” she blustered, quickly replacing it in the safety of her bag. “I used it to hold out in front of me in the mist, make sure I didn’t bang into anything.”
“Then why,” he asked, “have you put it in your bag?”
“Never know when a stick will come in handy.”
“Or a wand. I find wands come in very handy, don’t you, Miss…”
She blushed furiously. “Rosmerta. Halcyon Rosmerta, but call me Rosmerta, please.”
“William Rashleigh; call me William.” He stuck his hand out and grasped hers, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm.
Halcyon couldn’t decide whether she imagined it, but as he shook her hand she thought she could see something forming in his mind. His eyes were too expressive and beneath their surface there was a germ of an idea waiting to expand.
“Tea?” he asked. “Perhaps some toast and jam?”
Out of Time by Magical Maeve
Chapter Notes: This has been inspired by the Spring Challenges. Yes, yes, I know... I'm a naughty bad mod for writing something based off one on my prompts, but if you are entering the Spring Challenge prompt A Shift in Time you might want to not proceed until you have finished your story. This does not adhere to all of the prompt conditions and is not connected to the challenge but for the base character of William Rashleigh and the time travel aspect. This was just a bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Madam Rosmerta has no first name that I could find, so I gave her one and she isn't too happy with my choice. ;-)