Ever since the Founding Families – polite invaders clad in tweed and corsetry – had arrived on the island of Hopeless, Maine more than two centuries ago, it had been tacitly agreed that the O’Stoat family held a monopoly on magic. True, the reluctant witch Philomena Bucket had upset the balance somewhat, but in Durosimi O’Stoat’s mind she remained an inconsequential blip on the island’s long and peculiar timeline. The fact that this same blip had saved his life on several occasions rarely intruded upon his thoughts.

Lately, however, things had begun to shift. Change had come to Hopeless dressed in a white lab coat and clicking heels, answering to the name Doctor Pyralia Skant.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Durosimi O’Stoat was furious. This Skant woman, recently ensconced in the lighthouse, spoke breezily of “fixing” Hopeless; unmaking it, she said. What could that possibly mean? Fix what, exactly? If she thought she could waltz onto his island and, without so much as a by-your-leave, tamper with matters that had been the exclusive domain of O’Stoats for generations, she had another thought coming. Durosimi intended to make sure of it.

As high sorcerer, hereditary master of mystical energies, and proud owner of an ego that could blot out the sun, Durosimi stood in his study muttering into a cauldron that had never been asked its opinion on the matter.

“A simple spell,” he told himself. “Child’s play. Encapsulate her precious lighthouse in ice, and if she happens to be inside when it happens… well, she’ll learn not to meddle with powers she cannot possibly comprehend.”

He added the final pinch of powdered whelk-shell (for stability) and a sprinkle of dried skunk cabbage (for spite) and began to chant. Outside, the wind stilled, the gulls fell silent, and the air smelled faintly of something that might have been panic.

Then the magic misfired.

A great crackling sound rolled across the island as a sheet of ice swept from the lighthouse, solidifying into a gleaming column. Unfortunately, Durosimi had neglected to consider reflected arcane harmonics (a beginner’s error, though Durosimi would have throttled anyone who said so). The spell rebounded spectacularly, freezing not only his own home, complete with Durosimi still inside, but also, for reasons unknown, the Squid and Teapot, whose patrons were having quite an ordinary evening until their beer tankards became ice sculptures.

It was into this scene of catastrophic overreach that Granny Bucket’s ghost glided.

“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” exclaimed Granny, casually invoking entities who would have made a point of slipping quietly into an empty stable in order to avoid her.

She sighed in the way that only a spectral matriarch can sigh.

“This stinks of Durosimi O’Stoat,” she muttered to herself. “And Philomena frozen inside the pub, unable to help me. I can’t be undoing this on me own.”

Granny wrinkled her ghostly brow. She would have to swallow her pride.

Doctor Pyralia Skant, who had been on the far side of the island at the time, was suddenly conscious of an annoying phantom voice speaking in her head with an Irish accent. A mischievous grin flickered across her face as she realised that she was being contacted by none other than her arch-rival, dear old Granny Bucket. What was the old biddy up to now? And what did she mean with the words, “Come on, girl, we have to unstick this mess before someone loses an extremity.”

Skant regarded the frozen structures with an expression caught somewhere between professional curiosity and deep annoyance. “Is this normal for Hopeless?”

“No,” said Granny, folding insubstantial arms, “this is Durosimi O’Stoat messing things up. Again. And if this is going to be sorted out, we two are going to have to work together, whether we like it or not.”

Pyralia Skant allowed herself a smile.

“What is there not to like, dear?” she asked. “I’m sure we’ll have huge fun.”

And so began an unholy alliance: a ghostly witch who disapproved of almost everything modern, and an apparent immortal in the guise of a scientist, who, like all good scientists, purported not to believe in ghosts. Somehow they had to agree to work side by side if they were going to unravel a spell that really should have been impossible to cast in the first place.

The ice shimmered faintly, humming with a low, otherworldly resonance that set Skant’s teeth on edge. Somewhere inside the frozen Squid and Teapot, Reggie Upton donned another pullover and banged on a window in a distinctly unamused fashion.

“This is going to be messy,” muttered Granny Bucket.

Pyralia Skant gave her an amused look. “Messy? My dear, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Then the ice gave a sudden, unsettling crack, as though something inside it had just shifted.

“Ah,” said Doctor Skant, reaching into her bag for an object that glowed a little too brightly to be safe, “I think it just got worse.”

To be continued…