Truekind
A Mystical Tale of Our Kind
Dimelda stood over the now tepid Aga cooker, staring blindly at the kitchen wall — while the bottom-end of her ladle rose effortlessly in the thick potion. Neglected, it had no option but to rise and float in the concoction simmering on the stove.
There, in front of her urgent-matters cauldron, she brooded — so deep in thought that it paved furrows on her youthful forehead, while tufts of her wild, wiry and prematurely grey hair lay softly about her face.
Deep in contemplation, Dimelda was oblivious to Midnight coiling himself fondly around her right leg, making random creases in her long robe and basically tangling himself in swathes of wool-mix lined with some kind of silk-cotton hybrid.
Tonight, not even Midnight’s love could coax Dimelda out of her intense considerations.
…
The alarm on the kitchen counter started to beep. At the same instance, Midnight darted from under his mistress’s robes, in a bid to get to the coal-pots in the pantry — his safe spot.
The bleeping broke Dimelda’s reverie. She shivered, turned off the alarm, just as her doorbell chimed the well-known Oath to the Mystical Arts. The dratted sound came with the house. And the uselessness of it was not lost on Dimelda, every time the silly thing went off — well after she had…
