The Witches of Gloucester by Lisabet Sarai

“Will she come, do you think?” Marguerite gestured toward the 1930’s brass Commodore clock on the mantel, which read ten minutes past four. “She looked so nervous yesterday – as if she thought we’d eat her alive.”

“Well, actually, when you put it that way...” Beryl allowed herself a lecherous chuckle.

Her companion gave her an exasperated grin. “This is not a joke. You know as well as I what is at stake.”

“Don’t worry, Mar. She’ll be here, though she may have to wrestle a few doubts into submission first. She feels the pull, just as we do, even if she doesn’t understand it.”

“Well, I do hope she arrives soon.” Marguerite surveyed the elegant table she’d set. She picked up a Blue Willow porcelain teacup and wiped away an imaginary smudge. “The icing on the petit fours is melting.”

As if in answer, chimes tinkled at the front of the house and a hint of fresh air slipped in the open door, bringing the ubiquitous tang of salt. From his corner cage, Marguerite’s mynah, Jonah, exactly mimicked the sound of the doorbell. Beryl jumped to her feet. “I’ll go show her to the parlor.”

“No, no – let Gloria do that. We don’t want to spook her with excess enthusiasm. Settle down and compose yourself. Remember, you’re a member of the Ladies’ Welcome Brigade. Refined. Polite. Proper.”

“Proper?” Beryl grinned and thumbed her peaked nipples, obvious as always through the navy blue crepe of her blouse. Her eyes fluttered shut as she relished the sensation. “Refined? Me?” 

Marguerite licked her full lips. She swept her palms over the plum velvet caftan that hid her thighs. “Try to pretend, darling. Just this once.”