The Crone of Solstice Flames: Myrtlewood Crones book 2, page 20
The stone they stood around glowed with power, and Delia savoured the ancient strength flowing through her. It was wild and strong, the complete opposite of the Order's dark magic.
The Dragon was now ensnared in magical ropes, the great dog baying at her, and yet the Order was in chaos.
“Let’s combine our power!” Marjie suggested.
“Alright, on the count of three. One, two, three!" Ingrid cried.
The crones raised their hands, and Delia felt a great furnace surging through her with such force that the Order members approaching, weaving strange spells in the air and holding ancient swords and bows, were blown back.
The ground surged up, like ripples in the water and mud of the swamp, covering the soldiers with mud. A great gale, like a tornado, blasted them back, and then fire singed their hair and clothing – a warning this time, at least.
Next time, Delia might not be so controlled.
She smiled a satisfied smile as the older members closest to them squealed and screamed and scampered back. Even their dog beast retreated in the face of the tremendous Crone power.
She thought she caught a glimpse of Jerry, singed right down to his underpants, running away like a little rabbit.
That made her giggle, which was apparently infectious, because moments later, all four of the Crones were rolling in the mud and laughing hysterically.
The dragon came to rest behind them, huffing out some steam from its nostrils in a way that reminded Delia of Ingrid. Delia wasn't sure if she was unimpressed, as the forest witch tended to be, or if she was just having a little rest. After all, that was a lot of exertion for a creature trapped in the earth for perhaps hundreds of years.
"I call that a success," said Marjie. "But I think it's time for some tea."
“That’s for sure,” Ingrid agreed.
“And some sherry,” Agatha added hopefully.
Marjie cast a quick cleansing charm over all of them, making Delia feel a tingling fresh sensation as if she’d just stepped out of a good shower into clean clothes. “I really must learn that one,” she muttered, looking at her friend in awe.
They began trudging through the swamp, back into the forest towards Agatha's hut.
The dragon, without any coaxing at all, followed on behind them, her heavy footsteps beating a steady drum into the earth.
Ingrid behaved as if this was the most normal thing in the world, while Delia kept turning her head back to catch a glimpse of the beautiful being if only to marvel in awe at the entire situation.
She wasn't afraid at all of the creature.
The earth dragon seemed old, beyond words, and with wisdom to match.
She wasn't a pet, and could never be anything so diminutive, but her magic was somehow linked with the Crones in general and with Ingrid in particular.
If Delia wasn't so in awe, she'd be green with envy. “Imagine having your own dragon,” she muttered.
"Perhaps we all do," said Marjie. "After all, there are four of us. There are four elements. Why wouldn't there be four dragons?"
"I don't know about that,” said Ingrid. “I've heard dragons were hunted to extinction. What are the chances there are four?”
“Do you think all dragons are elemental?" Delia asked.
"Who knows?" said Agatha. "They’re ancient creatures. It's a bit like asking about the dinosaurs. Nobody has any clue. They just pretend they're all scaly when actually it's possible they had feathers according to more recent theories.”
“It makes them seem less like big scary lizards. More like giant Muppets," Delia said, but nobody laughed at her joke. Perhaps none of them had ever been exposed to the children's show, given that none of them, as far as she knew, had any children of their own. She wasn't about to start asking questions.
They continued on through the forest, on a surprisingly smooth path, no doubt aided by Ingrid's magic, or perhaps by the dragon. Delia was too tired to ask. The trees seemed to move out of the way for them, and the earth rolled out like a carpet, soft but not too muddy underneath.
It was magical and dreamlike. Delia almost felt as if she were drifting along.
Before long the hut appeared before them; the lights were on, shining warmly through the windows.
They burst into the warm, cosy atmosphere. Stew was bubbling on the stove, and Delia found herself even more in awe of the forest witch than she had been before.
It's one thing to get a teapot to float across the room. It's quite another to somehow have a wholesome dinner cooked and ready when you get home, without even having a crockpot.
She added it to the list of mysteries that she would one day feel comfortable asking Ingrid about, but today was not a day for any more activity.
Ingrid tended to the dragon in the back garden while the other Crones made themselves at home.
Delia yawned and gravitated towards her window seat. She pulled a blanket over her legs, sipped her relaxing tea, and ate two bowls of stew before drifting off to sleep, the sound of an owl hooting outside, the fire crackling, and just a little bit of snoring from Agatha, until Marjie stopped it with a very cunning and enviable charm.
One day, Delia thought to herself, I'm going to be able to do more than just set things on fire. I'm going to have to do something useful. Magical housework, that's the real fantasy.
She woke with the dawn breaking, a pale light on the horizon.
Ingrid was sitting at the kitchen table, grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. It was that gritty sound that must have woken Delia from her dreams.
…dreams of flame that had somehow been more peaceful than her usual nightmares.
There were still so many mysteries left unsolved, especially about Delia’s own family, and her mind started think over them.
"Stop that," said Agatha, staring at her sternly from an armchair.
"What?" Delia asked.
Agatha squinted at her. “You're going in circles in your brain. I can almost hear it from here."
"Are you actually psychic now?" Delia asked.
“I’m not psychic,” Agatha grumbled. “I can just tell you're thinking too much."
"Maybe," Delia admitted. "There is a faint buzzing in my head.”
Agatha shrugged. “Maybe I am also thinking too much. It takes one to know one."
Marjie cooked a fabulous breakfast from supplies she'd somehow stashed in her rather small handbag.
"I’m not sure about all this modern food," said Ingrid, stuffing another pancake into her mouth followed by another scone.
Marjie and Delia made eye contact and giggled.
"So, you're going to stick around, then?" said Agatha, looking pointedly at Delia.
"I’m not sure if I want to return to London after my last performance,” said Delia. “Besides, I've already rented a house. All my friends are here. Even Kitty, for now, at least. And Gillian’s not far away and the children are coming to stay with me for a while, provided it’s safe enough now."
"That's just lovely, dear," said Marjie. "We’re so pleased to have you around. I do believe you might find that Myrtlewood is more of a home than you've ever known before."
Delia smiled. "You know, I think you might be right."
Epilogue
The Cleric's footsteps echoed in the hollow silence as he approached the high tower of the Order where the Elders met, his heart a battleground of conviction and apprehension. His mind was set; he would expose Father Benedict, the Crimson Shepherd, and expose the rot at his core. Surely, the Cleric would be exalted, perhaps even earning the title of Crimson Shepherd for himself. But the reality he faced was starkly different from the justice he envisioned.
Father Benedict, standing tall and unyielding, met the Cleric's gaze with a steely look that sent shivers down his spine. The Elders stood behind him, staring disdainfully towards the Cleric as he blustered and pointed and accused Benedict of all manner of corruption.
"You return to us with accusations, but it is you who will face judgment," the Shepherd declared, his voice resonating with a confidence that seemed to draw from an unseen well of authority.
The Cleric's protests died in his throat as he realised the tables had turned back before he’d even had a chance to topple them. Benedict's claim – that every deed he’d carried out, no matter how vile, was in service of the Almighty's will – was unshakable, and the Cleric's doubts were now a heresy against their divine mission.
As guards seized him, the Cleric felt the weight of his failed coup. He was dragged through the labyrinth of the compound, the murmurs of his once-peers now a scornful chorus marking his disgrace.
Finally, they reached an iron door, the sight of which was chilling. Blindfolds were tied firmly around the eyes of the guards that held him before they entered.
The door opened to reveal an austere chamber. The only thing in sight was a small square iron door set into the centre of the wall, adorned in intricate sigils.
The Cleric was positioned in front of this and the air grew heavy with dread as the small iron door creaked open.
The Cleric's imagination conjured up images of divine brilliance, a radiant being that would strike him with awe and compel him to his knees in repentance. But what awaited him was far from divine.
And in that moment, the Cleric realised at once what had driven Father Benedict mad with power.
Terror gripped the Cleric, along with the realisation that the Almighty he had served, the god he had envisioned, was a dark terror, so ominous his eyes could barely take in any aspect.
It was an abyss, a malevolent darkness filled with whispers that clawed at his sanity as his eyes met not with the light of salvation but a void so profound it seemed to devour the very essence of his being.
The moonlight bathed the temple in a serene, silver glow as Mathilda made her way to the inner sanctum, her heart heavy with anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of night blooms and sacred incense, and the soft murmur of the Clochar's nocturnal life whispered through the corridors. She had been summoned urgently by her elders, and the gravity of their request weighed on her.
As she entered the sanctum, the elder sisters, Gwyneth and Franwen, awaited her, their faces etched with both excitement and solemnity. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candles casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.
"Mathilda," Gwyneth began, her voice steady but laced with urgency, "the time we have long anticipated is upon us. The Crone magic, it's awakening."
Mathilda's breath caught in her throat. She had felt the stirrings, the subtle shifts in the air, but to hear it spoken aloud made it all the more real.
Franwen stepped forward, her fiery red hair seeming to absorb the candlelight. "We must act swiftly. The power of the Crones is a force unlike any other. If harnessed, it could change everything for the Sisterhood. It belongs here, rightfully."
Mathilda felt a surge of apprehension. "I understand the power belongs to the sisterhood," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "But my sister is so stubborn, and now she and her friends will be even more powerful."
Franwen’s eyes met Mathilda's, a spark of determination in their depths. "We have been preparing for this moment, Mathilda. The prophecies, the ancient texts, all point to this time. You must act swiftly.”
“Why me?” Mathilda asks.
“Ingrid is your sister,” said Gwyneth simply.
“But she’s your…” Mathilda started but stopped as sister Gwyneth’s eyes darted to the floor.
Franwen cut in. "Your connection with Ingrid can be leveraged. She will help you, even if she never listens to anyone.”
Mathilda felt a weight settle deeper upon her shoulders, a daunting burden.
"But what of the balance?" Mathilda questioned, her mind racing with the implications. "The Crones' power is part of a greater whole. To disrupt it could have consequences we cannot foresee."
Gwyneth stepped closer, her presence commanding yet reassuring. "We understand the risks, but the rewards, Mathilda, are beyond measure. This is about more than power; it's about restoration, about bringing back a divine harmony long lost."
Franwen's gaze was intense, piercing. "The world is changing, Mathilda. We must change with it, adapt, grow stronger. The Crones' magic is the key."
"I will do it," Mathilda said, her voice firm. "I will reach out to Ingrid. But we must tread carefully. She’s not easily fooled."
Sabrina Bracewell sat alone in the grand drawing room of the Bracewell-Thorn mansion, the flickering flames of the fireplace casting dancing shadows across the room as she sipped the last of her artemisia tea.
The fire crackled and popped, a comforting yet eerie soundtrack to her brooding. Sabrina's eyes, sharp and calculating, reflected the flames as she contemplated the recent events. The family records in Myrtlewood had been accessed, a violation of the highest order, and by none other than that interloper, Delia Spark. The very thought of it made her blood boil.
As she stared into the fire, Sabrina felt a surprise surge of power course through her veins. It was an ancient, primal force, one that she had long awaited but never truly expected to feel. The Crone power belonging to the Bracewell line was awakening. Her heart quickened. This was her destiny.
The fire flared suddenly, casting a bright glow across the room. Sabrina's eyes gleamed with a new intensity. The power of the fire crone was within her grasp, a force so potent and so deeply connected to her lineage.
But there was an obstacle, a thorn in her side – Delia Spark. That woman, with her audacious claim to the Bracewell legacy, was a pretender, an impostor.
Sabrina knew that Delia must be dealt with, and swiftly. The power of the fire crone was not to be shared, especially not with someone as unworthy as Delia.
Sabrina rose from her chair, her movements graceful yet filled with a newfound purpose. The fire continued to crackle behind her, a symbol of the power she was about to claim. Her birthright.
A personal message from Iris
Hello my lovelies! Thank you so much for joining me and the Myrtlewood Crones. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a rating or review to help other people find it!
If you’re ready to read more, you can order the third Myrtlewood Crones book, Crone of Elders Blaze.
If this is your first time reading my books, you might also want to check out the original Myrtlewood Mysteries series, starting with Accidental Magic.
If you’re looking for more books set in the same world, you might want to take a look at my Dreamrealm Mysteries series too.
I absolutely love writing these books and sharing them with you. Feel free to join my reader list and follow me on social media to keep up to date with my witchy adventures.
Many blessings,
Iris xx
P.S. You can also subscribe to my Patreon account for extra Myrtlewood stories and new chapters of my books before they’re published, as well as real magical content like meditations and spells, and access to my Myrtlewood Discord community. Subscribing supports my writing and other creative work!
For more information, see: www.patreon.com/IrisBeaglehole
About the Author
Iris Beaglehole is many peculiar things, a writer, researcher, analyst, druid, witch, parent, and would-be astrologer. She loves tea, cats, herbs, and writing quirky characters.
Iris Beaglehole, The Crone of Solstice Flames: Myrtlewood Crones book 2
