LIZZIE AND AUTUMN did indeed talk about everything over cocktails, and then at the Vicarage, with strong, sweet tea. Autumn, feeling that she had her best friend back, asked her what it was that had disturbed their friendship so much. Lizzie told her she didn’t really remember.
Zoya, having negotiated quite a pay rise from what Judith had been getting, because, Autumn figured, she supposed she was hardly going to pick someone else, had come to work at Witches. She’d also proved herself to be an excellent apprentice. It’d be a long time before she could deliberately do anything as spectacular as what adrenaline and improvisation had allowed against the angel. But she was very interested and willing to learn. And, with a bunch of old books her mum had left her, she significantly increased Autumn’s occult library.
The extra costs of having her around would, Autumn discovered, be more than met by the increased interest in all things magical the locals were expressing. What had previously been denial had now become acceptance. So there were at least a few customers around, actually buying things, most of the time. Carrie Anne Christopher, who’d led a small army of local nonbelievers back through the wall as soon as it had fallen, had also been in the lead of coordinating local response to the enormous media presence that had descended on the town. There was, after all, grieving to be done, whatever the supernatural background, the “impossible stuff,” as everyone started to call it. The townsfolk of Lychford swiftly learned to simply agree with the pet theory of whoever was interviewing them. Autumn suspected that serious military people of some kind had been nosing around too. They probably weren’t so easy to repel. And there were some, well, eccentric enthusiasts who’d just about moved in and were here for the long haul, helping the local economy and cluttering up her shop. Still, in the end, while the grief of families was taken on by Lizzie, the true story was whispered by the locals in the pubs and the parts of it that were impossible became a media sensation for a while, and then eventually ceased to be. Because they were impossible. The name of the town would be known forever now, but only in certain circles. As ever.
This acceptance of the supernatural among the locals, though, had, in a wonderful way, extended to an acceptance of Autumn herself. The first time she’d ventured back into the Plough after “the incident,” Rob the landlord had looked around his regulars, gone to the door and locked it, then gruffly told her her money was no good here, and that drinks would be free to her, always. And she’d found, and this had made her start crying, that everyone in the pub had started to applaud her.
Autumn supposed, in her more cynical moments, that a lot of the town’s inhabitants had opted to applaud rather than apologise. But she’d take it.
* * *
In the last minutes of Halloween, Zoya Boyko, having been able, for the first time in her life, to pay for a babysitter, found herself standing by what the other two called the well in the woods, surrounded by supernatural beings. She’d been introduced to the well a few days earlier, when Autumn had decided that, whether or not Zoya had been sort of naturally initiated when the power of the land had sorted out its book-keeping error, they should really go through with the ceremony.
Autumn had been busy with Finn arriving at all times of day and night with many messages from his father. It had all led to this. Standing around the well, listening for the distant bells of Lizzie’s church, stood Lizzie herself, Autumn, Finn, representing his father, Cummings, back in human form, representing his boss, and many other extraordinary figures, what she would have called demon and gnomes and sprites and pixies. Though she’d advised that not many of those names were accepted by the nations themselves. Autumn was holding a document, on parchment, and a quill pen. On the document was written the tortuous new agreement that would be all that would keep the supernatural nations at peace with each other.
“No more borders,” Cummings sighed. “No wonder the boss has gone back to sleep. Even being an all-powerful angel bored him a bit. But this? What will we all do?”
“Bicker,” said Finn. “Instead of frigging invading each other’s collective consciousnesses.”
“Prince,” said Autumn, a warning note in her voice. “But Mr. Cummings is correct. Under the agreement there’ll be regular meetings of leaders, committees and subcommittees. And a truth and reconciliation commission.”
“Bureaucracy instead of mythology.”
“Exactly,” said Lizzie. “Have you read the small print?”
“Actually, no. The boss told me, before he turned in, to just come along and sign whatever it was. So there wasn’t really any need for me to spend my valuable time doing that.”
“Thought not,” said Autumn.
They all reacted as the sound of the church bells chiming midnight sang across the clear night air. “All Saints’ Day,” said Lizzie.
“The end of Samhain,” added or corrected Autumn.
“The day,” said Lizzie, “when the powers of . . . other . . . go back to their places and we go back to ours. The day for new starts.”
With a flourish, Autumn signed the document and handed it to Finn. He signed, too, and handed it to the gnome beside him. Finally, having passed around the circle, the signed document got to Cummings, who tiredly swiped his signature across it with a ballpoint and tossed it back to Autumn. “Well, then—" He was about to turn to go.
“Clause eighty-seven,” said Finn, holding up the paper so he could squint at it.
“I can’t see from there,” said Cummings. With a roll of his eyes at being forced to do so, he stepped forward and bent to look at the level Finn was holding the paper.
Which was when Autumn produced from behind a tree an enormous broadsword and cut his head off with one swipe.
The head bounced off. Making all the supernatural beings who had read the small print nod approvingly.
“I think,” said Autumn, putting the sword down again, “his boss felt that was an acceptable concession.”
“He’ll be back,” said Finn. “Slightly inconvenienced. But oh, that was satisfying.”
“For me too,” said Autumn.
“I think,” said Lizzie, “that Judith would approve.”
Zoya decided, as the three of them walked home through the woods, that she was going to have to learn a lot more about this Judith.
* * *
The following June, in St. Martin’s church, presided over by a delighted Lizzie, Autumn married Luke.
The happy couple had a full church. Which, to Lizzie’s continuing joy, wasn’t an odd occurrence these days. Autumn wore a green wedding dress, which had taken some finding. Lizzie’s sermon was about how much she loved these two, how much they’d done for the town, and how she’d had to use marker pen on the bottom of Luke’s shoes because his best man from the college had written some very rude things on them for when he kneeled down in front of the congregation.
They went off on honeymoon to Canada. Where, Lizzie was sure, they would find some sort of supernatural menace. And hopefully ignore it.
Lizzie watched them drive off in the white limo through the marketplace, both of them singing, actually singing, although it did seem to be different songs. Zoya, who looked as uncomfortable in pink bridesmaid frills as Jas looked delighted, was now trusted to run the shop while the owner was away. She and Lizzie had been spending a lot of time together lately. And she’d stopped calling her “reverend.”
“So, Lizzie,” she said now, “all back to yours after?”
* * *
Lizzie did bring a few back. And there were a few toasts for the happy couple, who’d texted from the airport to say Lizzie wouldn’t believe what those with magical senses would encounter at Heathrow. Eventually, because Zoya was making the most of, and this was still rare for her, engaging a babysitter, all that remained were her and Lizzie, sitting up late with glasses of whiskey.
“So,” said Zoya, looking at her over the rim of her glass with really quite a piercing gaze. “Are you ever going to come out to Autumn?”
Lizzie was proud of herself for not even disturbing the surface of her own drink. She’d kind of expected the question. She let her gaze meet Zoya’s. And let it stay there. “Perhaps at my own wedding,” said Lizzie Blackmore.