TWENTY
WARWICKSHIRE, DECEMBER 2022 AD
Alice sat on the edge of the bed holding my hand and watching me burning up with fever. The doctor had just left the house, shaking his head and taking with him a blood sample for virological analysis. She had found my temperature running at 40.5°C, dangerously high, but I wasn’t going to let them take me anywhere.
“Alice,” I croaked.
“Sweetheart?”
I squeezed her hand and hoped she wouldn’t argue.
“This is Frankie Muir’s handiwork. Black magic! Listen, I want you to go to the shops. Find a black candle and a small rectangular mirror.” Speaking was a struggle until she helped me sip from a glass of water. Refreshed, I added, “Oh, and while you’re at it, buy a pack of sea salt.” My voice had sunk to a whisper, “Is there any sage in the garden?”
I
