Sep 14, 2026 · 20 min · 12 segments
A cozy contemporary fantasy about a chaotic witchy family and a terribly organised admin assistant, taking up residence at Frightful Manor. Set in the same world as “The Twelve Days of Witchmas.”…
Tansy Rayner RobertsHostIt could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians' war.
As they both stepped out of the car, Libby stared in bemusement at what she saw behind the castle facade.
Red Fern now appeared to be a patchwork quilt of country houses, or a Frankenstein's monster.
The outline of the castle was still visible from behind, but it was more of a silhouette, overshadowing a cobbled together diorama of half-thatched cottages, museum hallways and woodsheds, exposed to the open air, like a dollhouse with its front wall unhinged.
Suspended somewhere in the middle of the chaos of beams, damp wallpaper and sagging drainpipes, Libby spotted a bulbous glass greenhouse, so full of leafy green plants that no human could possibly set foot inside.
This was probably for the best, given that the greenhouse, at least, had no visible door.
There were three external staircases, none of which went anywhere in particular, except one which erupted between the greenhouse and half of a cottage into a large bone-dry marble fountain.
several sealed wooden crates, ancient sea trunks, and a few cardboard boxes were stacked neatly at the far side of a courtyard, as well as a jumble of the kind of furniture that might well be considered family heirlooms if they were put into a secure dry attic before it rained.
The gardens behind the house were in remarkably good shape in comparison, perfectly trimmed and elegantly arranged far into the distance, as if there was an army of Bunbury cherries to maintain it all.
There were no people in sight, certainly no staff, holding the whole mess together, except for a woman about Libby's age, effortlessly poised, sitting in an ancient leather chair with her feet up on a small wheeled bookcase, wearing a pair of designer sunglasses so vintage they might have been stolen from a museum.
We got here ahead of the bailiffs then, called Otis, doing a good job of projecting good humour.
Libby, who had no skin in this game, was working on keeping her face as neutral as possible so as not to disturb the performance she already recognised as aristocrats pretending that nothing hurts.
What part of Please Take My Heirlooms did you not understand? The boot is remarkably roomy, claimed Otis, giving the side of the car a cheerful pat.
then pushed her glasses up to the top of her head, regarding Libby with interest.
It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians' war.
As they both stepped out of the car, Libby stared in bemusement at what she saw behind the castle facade.
Red Fern now appeared to be a patchwork quilt of country houses, or a Frankenstein's monster.
The outline of the castle was still visible from behind, but it was more of a silhouette, overshadowing a cobbled together diorama of half-thatched cottages, museum hallways and woodsheds, exposed to the open air, like a dollhouse with its front wall unhinged.
Suspended somewhere in the middle of the chaos of beams, damp wallpaper and sagging drainpipes, Libby spotted a bulbous glass greenhouse, so full of leafy green plants that no human could possibly set foot inside.
This was probably for the best, given that the greenhouse, at least, had no visible door.
There were three external staircases, none of which went anywhere in particular, except one which erupted between the greenhouse and half of a cottage into a large bone-dry marble fountain.
several sealed wooden crates, ancient sea trunks, and a few cardboard boxes were stacked neatly at the far side of a courtyard, as well as a jumble of the kind of furniture that might well be considered family heirlooms if they were put into a secure dry attic before it rained.
The gardens behind the house were in remarkably good shape in comparison, perfectly trimmed and elegantly arranged far into the distance, as if there was an army of Bunbury cherries to maintain it all.
There were no people in sight, certainly no staff, holding the whole mess together, except for a woman about Libby's age, effortlessly poised, sitting in an ancient leather chair with her feet up on a small wheeled bookcase, wearing a pair of designer sunglasses so vintage they might have been stolen from a museum.
We got here ahead of the bailiffs then, called Otis, doing a good job of projecting good humour.
Libby, who had no skin in this game, was working on keeping her face as neutral as possible so as not to disturb the performance she already recognised as aristocrats pretending that nothing hurts.
What part of Please Take My Heirlooms did you not understand? The boot is remarkably roomy, claimed Otis, giving the side of the car a cheerful pat.
then pushed her glasses up to the top of her head, regarding Libby with interest.
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