The Enchanted Writes Book One

All characters in this publication
are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

The Enchanted Writes

Book One

Second Edition

Copyright © 2013 Odette C.
Bell

Please note, for a short time, this
series was published under the pen name Jilly McQueen and Sarah
Good

Cover art stock photos: Aerial View
Of Chicago © maxim, Drawn fantasy landscape with frame © greglith,
and Woman Back Portrait in Evening Dress, Lady in Silk Gown, Cloth
Flying over Blue Sky, Night Clouds © inarik. Licensed from
Depositphotos.

www.odettecbell.com

The Enchanted
Writes

Book One

It took Henrietta far too long to open her
eyes that morning. There seemed to be a great weight pressing down
on them. But she managed it, then she shot out of bed like a
bullet, ripping her duvet off her stomach and arms so fast that it
fell off the bed and tumbled to the floor.

Her room was trashed. Totally trashed. The
curtains she had lovingly handmade out of old Japanese kimonos had
been ripped from the rails. The boxes of trinkets, necklaces,
bracelets, and rings that she kept on her dressing table were
scattered over the floor, some of them broken, their glass and
plastic beads everywhere. That wasn't to mention the state of her
wardrobe: the door was hanging off and all of the clothes had
fallen off their coat hangers.

As the words “what the hell” were preparing
to erupt from her mouth, Henrietta stopped.

She remembered.

Breath sharp, hands shaking, she pressed her
fingers into her mouth, her eyes widening in surprise and
shock.

Good god, what had happened to her last
night?

She sat back down on her bed, eyes never
blinking as she surveyed the mess. A cold, sickly feeling was
gathering deep in her belly and it washed over her skin in regular
waves. She had to lean down, grab up the duvet and bring it around
herself to cut out the fiendish chill and shock.

Henrietta Gosling closed her eyes. She
brought her hand up and rubbed it over her face, but try as she
might, she couldn’t erase the memory of last night.

Last night Henrietta, the mild-mannered cafe
waitress, had undergone a transformation, and she had trashed her
room in the process.

To think yesterday had started off so
innocently. In fact, apart from being late in the morning, she’d
almost had a good day. Almost, because around midday things had
started to go pear shaped.

As her grandfather clock ticked in the
background, she sat huddled on the edge of her bed. After a bit she
poked her hands out from under the duvet and looked them over. She
turned them around, staring at the fingers, the palms, the nails.
Her hands were undamaged. Which was a fantastic fact considering
what she'd been through last night.

As she sat there, she gave a huge shudder,
even letting out a gasp. She let her gaze shift across the room
until she caught sight of the grandfather clock.

“Dammit,” she spat as she jumped to her
feet. She was late for work. Again.

Before she could lean down and grab the
simple black skirt and white shirt she always wore to wait tables,
she stopped. Seriously, she couldn't consider going to work after
what she'd gone through. So Henrietta Gosling called in late that
day. Instead of waiting tables at the cafe squeezed between the
central police station and the fire station along the main road of
town, she sat on the edge of her bed or walked around her room
waving a hand at her face and swearing.

Yesterday

Henrietta was late. She was running down one
of the side alleys that cut across town and led to Sizzle Cafe
where she worked. Her handbag jostled around on her shoulder as she
ran, and her worn ballet slippers kept coming undone and almost
falling off her feet. Suffice to say, she was in a bad mood.

One look at the grey clouds gathering above
suggested her mood was about to get worse. She’d dressed for the
summer's day promised by the weatherman last night, but he’d
neglected to mention there would be a storm thrown into the
mix.

As she rounded a corner and came out onto
Main Street, she ducked to the side to avoid two burly men moving a
large couch through the front doors of the furniture store.

One of them asked whether she was in a
hurry, but she didn't have the time to stop and reply: hell yes,
she was in a hurry.

She’d been planning on getting to work early
today, so she could leave early and head over to her sister's for
dinner. It wasn't every day Marcia Gosling invited her over for
tea. Henrietta and her sister weren't on the best of terms. Marcia
was a drop-dead gorgeous, knock-out bombshell, and Henrietta was
average, and only if she bothered to put the effort into brushing
her unruly hair and ironing her unkempt clothes.

Their difference in looks didn't account for
the two sisters’ less-than-perfect relationship. That had to do
with the fact Marcia had stolen every single boyfriend Henrietta
had ever had. First was Mark in sixth grade. Minutes after
Henrietta had kissed him behind the gym, Marcia had gone in and
kissed him in full view of everyone in the yard. Then there’d been
Richard in high school. About a day after Richard had asked her to
the dance, Henrietta had seen Marcia walk through the mall with him
wearing the man like a handbag as he hung off her arm and gawked at
her.

Then... then there was John. John had hurt.
John had been Henrietta's boyfriend during her brief flirtation
with college. John had been studying engineering. John had already
bought himself a house at the tender age of 20. John had prospects,
John had intelligence, John had wit, and John had adorable floppy
hair. Several months after meeting Marcia for the first time,
Henrietta had come home to the crushing view of the two of them on
the couch.

Marcia was that callous, she was that
forward, and she was that uncaring. To Marcia it had meant nothing
that she’d stolen Henrietta's boyfriend. To Marcia, you couldn't
take flings seriously, and if you couldn't take them seriously,
then what right did Henrietta have to get upset over them?

Still, Marcia was family. That meant
Henrietta had to go over for dinner tonight. Considering who Marcia
was, it also meant Henrietta had to stop by the fancy delicatessen
on the high street and get some fresh, new, white freesias. She
would also have to trek all the way across town to get the finest
bottle of champagne she could afford.

Now that Henrietta was late, it meant she
would have to stay back at the cafe and make up her hours. It also
meant she would be late for Marcia's. Marcia would blow a gasket.
No, Marcia would do more than that; Marcia would have a full-on
shouting match with Henrietta on the porch, and then hop online to
tell all of her friends what a beast Henrietta was.

Unfortunately, Marcia was still family.

Henrietta put on a burst of speed, trying to
catch the pedestrian light before it flicked to red. She didn't
make it. When she considered jaywalking – running across the street
and taking her chance with the cars – there was a gruff laugh by
her side.

“I know you're late, Henrietta, but I have
to point out that breaking the law in front of a policeman is never
a good idea.”

She turned to see Patrick. Patrick Black.
The same Patrick Black who had dated Marcia for an entire three
months, which was Marcia's world record for the duration of any
relationship.

Patrick Black was tall, handsome, and had
the kind of build that could reassure any woman. He was also
courteous, and had one of those perfect smiles that made you think
he’d practiced for hours and hours in front of the mirror as a
teenager.

“How’s your sister?”

She forced her lips to play nice, and she
offered Patrick a controlled smile. “Oh, you know, Marcia is always
Marcia.”

She waited. There was only one question
Patrick would ask next. It was the same question he always
asked.

His eyes narrowed in interest.

“No, she isn't seeing anyone,” she got there
first.

“Oh, ah, how did you know...?” He patted
down his hair.

Basic experience with the male race, she
wanted to answer. Instead she put all her effort into maintaining a
smile. She’d lied to a police officer. Whilst Marcia wasn't seeing
anyone seriously, she was seeing men. Yes, men – more than one –
Because Marcia tended to play the field all at once. To her, the
idea of having one boyfriend at any given time was boring. Why
juggle with one pin, when you can juggle with 10?

“So, how is—” he began.

Once again she got there first. “Dad’s fine,
so is Mum.”

Patrick gave a light chuckle, his brow
crumpling in a wince. “Am I that predictable?”

Something beeped, and she turned to see the
pedestrian light flashing green. She turned back to Patrick,
shrugged, gestured wide, and nodded. “Sorry, Patrick, but one of
these days you'll have to ask me about quantum physics or how my
pot plants are, to break the mold.”

With that, Henrietta Gosling walked across
the street, leaving the confused Patrick Black to figure out what
she'd said.

When she made it through the beautiful
sanded-down, rustic doors of Sizzle Cafe, it was already 9:35 AM.
The second her soft ballet shoes padded onto the polished
floorboards, was the second the cafe's owner, the diminutive Maria,
came whirling out of the backroom, her teeth clenched as she
grappled with the string of white pearls around her neck.

It was never a good sign when Maria was
manhandling her favorite pearls.

Henrietta gave her most apologetic grimace
as Maria rounded on her.

“Late again.” Maria shook her head. “If you
weren't the best barista I have, Henrietta, I would have fired you
yesterday. Now put your bag down, get your apron on, and get to
work.”

Henrietta nodded and ran for the back room
before Maria could give her another serving.

Minutes later she set herself up behind the
whopping imported Italian coffee machine. Tying her apron around
her middle, she looked up and through the massive plate-glass
windows at the front of the store. The sky was now clear.

Her lips twitched into a thin frown. When
she’d run to work this morning, the sky had been spitting and the
wind roaring. Now the sky was clear, the wind gone, and the sun
bright and warm.

It figured. Henrietta was an unlucky
girl.

It wasn't until 12:30 that anything
interesting happened. As she made an espresso for the Fire Chief,
she looked up to see a man entering the store.

Just before she looked up, she felt a
peculiar tingling sensation prickle the skin on the back of her
neck. It was slight, it was sudden, and it was quick. It was over
in the blink of an eye, but it served its purpose; she looked up at
the right moment.

The stranger by the door flashed her a
smile. It wasn't a dashing smile, it wasn't the kind of smile
Patrick Black had practiced in front of the mirror. No, it was
awkward, crinkled, and graceless.

Blinking, she surveyed him. It was
impossible to guess his age or race. He could have been anywhere
from 20 to 40. He had the kind of face that looked as though it
never aged, but that couldn't be said for his clothes. He was under
6 foot, but his clothes had been made for a man twice his size.
They hung off him in great swathes of calico and cotton, the style
reminiscent of a monk’s tunic and pants. Over the top was a
full-length leather jacket.

He looked like someone out of a movie, maybe
a vampire hunter or something as ridiculous, except one wearing
hand-me-down clothes from a giant.