Witches incorporated

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According to Department records, the property was known as Establishment 743-865-928/Entwhistle.

Gathered in smoky mess hall corners, inhaling a quick cig-or a pipe, if they were particular-Sir Alec’s senior janitors, his most hard-bitten secret agents, called it “the haunted house.” Rolling their eyes when they said it. Sort of joking. But mostly not. Never elaborating; why should they? Nobody had warned them. Nobody gave them a heads-up the day before they faced final assessment. They’d sunk or swum, no half-measures. And no help. What do you reckon, Dunwoody? You reckon you deserve any different, just because someone’s told you you’re the bee’s thaumaturgical knees? Sink or swim, mate. That’s how it works. That’s how the pretenders get shuffled out of the pack. If you’re as good as they say you are, well… you’ll be laughing, won’t you?

Shrouded in a damp early morning mist, deep in the wilds of rural Ottosland, Gerald wasn’t feeling particularly amused. Cold? Yes. Apprehensive? Certainly. Beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake? Without question. But really not in the mood for a giggle.

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