It’s Monday again.
I love Mondays. Everyone is so depressed about going to work that the air has a palpable tang of misery. Personally, I’m just relieved that Sunday is over. All that piety that occurs on Sunday mornings makes me want to vomit. It’s tempered slightly by the misery of Sunday afternoons when he goes to the pub and she spends hours in the kitchen cooking roast pig and three veg only to see it burn and char while he watches the football.
Sunday nights are an equal measure of piety and pleasure. On the one hand you have Songs of Praise which torments me with the good intentions of all those Christians who couldn’t actually be bothered to go to church (with, to be fair, a delicious ripple of guilt thrown in for good measure) and on the other you have the misery of half a million people channel hopping while they try to find something that isn’t a repeat or remake of a seventies TV show and the despair of children being made to have a bath.
Mondays, though, are almost always a delight. People recover from the weekend excesses, diets are re-started, and purses are counted to eke out the remaining coins until payday. If I really need to buoy my spirits, I’ll take a trip to the unemployment and benefits office where the Monday misery is served up with a scowl.
I was talking about bumping into Meinwen yesterday. She’d been to the King Stone at St. Pity’s trying to find out what had caused her headache. Her abilities led her to touch they leyline that runs through Laverstone, across the Cheviots and onward to Aylesbury. There’s a second one that runs east-west but it’s too deep for her to access, although she can sense it.
It was someone playing with the line that gave her the headache. She was surprised that I was willing to go and check it out with her – she knows what I really am and going into a Catholic churchyard with a demon isn’t something that happens everyday. I didn’t tell her that I’ve been going there for years.
She told me what she’d discovered and I took a look for myself, slipping into the ley stream and following its course northward. I found the wound at the stone at the top of Lover’s Leap, beginning to heal over in much the same way that a scratch would on your arm. If we’d left it another day it wouldn’t have been visible at all.
It wouldn’t take someone with half my intelligence to connect the disturbance in the leyline with the blood I found up there the other day. Somebody – and I’m still assuming it was a fae witch – has been tapping some serious power. Ley magic *and* blood is a powerful combination. I flitted back down the line to tell her what I’d found.
She looked confused. She’s adorable when she does that. Her mouth opens just enough to catch a glimpse of her tongue between her little white teeth. “No-one’s bought anything to do with black magic recently.”
I stifled my laugh for fear of offending her. No one with any serious intent would buy components from a fluffy magic shop in Laverstone. If they know what they’re doing, they’ve spent years perfecting their craft and have access to anything they want.
I coughed instead and patted her on the back. “Perhaps they’ve bought them elsewhere,” I said and she seemed relieved by that, as if it were a validation on her stock.
The pat on her back was a shock, I can tell you. I wonder if she knows she’s pregnant?