Gwyneth held her hand up to the pitch black sky, her fingers reaching up and shifting across the darkness. She imagined them skimming the surface of a dark lake, the water rippling at her touch and creating circles of disturbances. But that would never happen and she knew it, for she was in possession of the truth, as were her other twelve sisters. The sky wasn’t a blackened lake or something that she could reach out and touch; it was just darkness, an expanse of nothingness shielding them from the rest of the universe and preventing them from seeing the pretty lights in the sky that she so longed to see.

“You spend too much time daydreaming, Gwyneth,” a voice echoed behind her, as sweet as sugar and as soft as silk.

Gwyneth didn’t need to turn around to see who it was, she’d sensed her sister’s presence the moment she’d stepped onto the grassy slope. “But I like daydreaming, Indigo,” she explained to the purple witch. “I like to let my mind wander, to see beyond the veil of the night, as if with a simple touch I could break the glass encasing our world and see the stars for myself.”

Indigo exhaled lightly and sat herself down by the youngest witch in the coven, her legs dangling over the edge of the cliff and her eyes finding the dark expanse above them. “One day we may, but for now we must cast our eyes to the ground.” She pointed to the path leading up to their dark castle, a riderless horse galloping across the gravel and keeping to the indents in the ground as it bolted towards the hill.

Gwyneth was instantly on her feet, the starless night forgotten about as she ran down the steady incline and rounded the corner into the courtyard. She lifted the hem of her dress to keep herself from falling over it and hurried towards the horse, grabbing hold of the reins and stopping it in its tracks.

The creature whinnied and kicked out at her, but she dodged each frantic kick and held up her hand, a spell igniting on her palm. In an instant the horse calmed, returning to its four hooves and shaking its mane as it composed itself.

Indigo jogged down the last length of the incline and rushed over to Gwyneth and the horse, her purple robes billowing around her as she ran.

“I wonder where he came from,” Gwyneth pondered aloud, keeping the spell stable and soothing the worried creature’s mind.

“I don’t know,” Indigo admitted, her eyes shifting to a frantic figure running towards them. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

The sisters stepped back as a small man skidded to a halt before the horse and took hold of the reins, shaking his head and tutting in disapproval. “I wish you wouldn’t run away from me like that, Skipper. You’re not to do that again.” He suddenly realised that there were two people watching him and stumbled back a few paces, clutching onto the horse’s reins and staring wide-eyed at the witches. He swallowed thickly and regained himself, bowing his head as he neared them. “Lady Gwyneth, Lady Indigo,” he said courteously, his voice shaking and his eyes drifting from the red witch to the purple one.

“There is no need to be afraid,” Indigo assured the man, stepping into the light of the torches positioned around the courtyard so that he could see her properly and offering him a gentle smile. “Your horse is quite spirited.”

“He is, my lady,” the man chuckled nervously. “Skipper always has been the more jumpy of the bunch, but he’s quick.”

Indigo’s smile grew and she halted just before the man, tilting her head at him curiously. “I’m sure now you have him again you’ll be on your way.”

“Actually, I was on my way here to see you when Skipper bolted.”

The purple witch raised an eyebrow and nodded for the man to proceed. He removed his hat and bowed his head humbly, and it was clear for her to see that something was troubling him. “Who are you, and what is it you require from us?” she asked kindly.

“I’m Alban, I work on the farm at the bottom of the hill,” the man explained, pointing in the general direction of his home. “My wife is terribly ill. I think it might be the Arachnid’s Fever. She was tending to the roses a few days ago and she was bitten by one of the blighters. She didn’t think anything of it but now it’s making her ill. The physicians are refusing to treat her, I don’t know what else to do.” Alban hung his head, his shoulders slumping forwards and his grip on Skipper’s reins loosening. “She’s all I have.”

Indigo nodded in understanding and gestured for Gwyneth to get the horse, waiting until she’d secured the creature’s bonds around a stable post before she led Alban inside the castle. “Fear not,” she told him. “I’m sure we have something that will help her.”

“Should I get the others?” Gwyneth inquired, catching up to the older woman and matching her pace as they walked.

“No need, sister dearest,” Indigo replied, glancing down at the red witch. “I’m sure we can handle a simple arachnid potion.”

Gwyneth bowed her head and placed her hands behind her back as they made their way towards the potions lab. She’d walked those halls so many times over the past year, learnt so much within the walls of the castle and grown a little taller too. She didn’t think she’d ever become tired of it. It had an entrancing beauty about it, an elegance that she hoped she could one day live up to.

The trio arrived in the potions laboratory and the two sisters immediately got to work, grabbing various containers and glasses bearing strange substances.

“The blue one, Gwyneth,” Indigo said, pointing to a shelf full of phials as she began to prepare the concoction. A flame spluttered from beneath the small cauldron on the work surface, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. “Oh, and the spiders legs. But be careful. Remember what happened last time.”

“That wasn’t entirely my fault,” Gwyneth said in her defence, crossing the room with the rest of the ingredients in her grasp. She placed them down beside Indigo and retrieved a knife from a draw beneath the surface, beginning to chop up various flowers and small spider’s legs.

Alban watched, entranced by their graceful movements as they prepared the potion that would save his wife. They seemed to move with a fluidity that he’d never seen before, the magic that they instilled into the cauldron slipping elegantly from their fingers as they threw in the rest of the ingredients.

As he observed, a reflection on the furthest shelf caught his attention, and unable to resist he wandered over to it, leaving the witches to their work while he sated his curiosity.

The shelf was full of strange black gems, all looking as if they’d been ripped from their placings instead of carefully removed. Some were only small, barely the size of his fist, but others were much bigger, easily able to crush a person should they fall from a considerable height. They almost seemed to sing to him, their glimmer carrying a sweet voice, and he reached out to touch one of them, just to skim his fingertips over the cold surface to see what it felt like.

“I wouldn’t touch those if I were you,” Indigo warned, making sure that Alban had moved away from the shelf before she continued with her work. “You’ll get an awful shock if you do.”

“What are they?” the farmer asked, his eyes drawn to the strange black rocks as if they were holding him in a trance. Maybe they are, he thought to himself, but he quickly shook the notion out of his head; it was ludicrous. Such a thing was not possible.

“That, my dear Alban, is obsidian glass,” the purple witch replied, carefully tipping the completed potion into a small phial and handing it to him. “It is what our world is made of.”