Fran Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The future started to unravel while Fran was at work.

Gregor's bookshop, in central London, had a customer base of about fifty people. By Gregor's calculations, it was a 4:1 ratio of enchanters to mortals. Fran liked her job, she was paid a fortune for doing very little, and she got to meet other enchanters. Right now, the gossip was that Campbell's child was due to be born. Campbell, a hearty womaniser with a dimply smile, had recently died, and was greatly missed by what Fran refused to call the enchanting community. Not only did it sound deeply politically correct, but Fran couldn't use it with a straight face knowing full well most enchanters were stubborn, vain and self-absorbed as cats.

Fynn dropped by at lunchtime, to remind Fran to do the shopping and to ignore Gregor's smile. Fynn had moved in with Fran in what Fran's parents still considered an indecently short amount of time, and had just been promoted to assistant manager of a rather nice nightclub. This had the downside of the couple only ever seeing each other over breakfast and dinner since the bar lay in a deserted little plaza during the day. At night, it was a press of people and music.

Fran was in her favourite little corner behind the till, cleaning the old book with cheesecloth. Front cover, back cover, inside covers, edges. There weren't any silverfish in the stock, thank goodness, and hardly any mould. In fact, mould helped break the monotony.

Gregor put a hand on Fran's shoulder. "Have you actually read of any these books?"

"A few, why?"

"I've just had a phone call. 'In the land of the Wicker man, the girl is born, the woman killed.'"

"Oh, yes? Isn't the Wicker man a Cornish tradition?"

"Yes." Gregor looked into Fran's eyes and nodded. "Teleport there, then protect the girl. For Campbell's child is the Last Enchantress."

The Last Enchantress. A fallen angel redeemed. Something between demon and angel, she held the threads of time in her hands, and crushed mountains in her fist. In short, anything apocalyptic that could be said of a girl was said of the Last Enchantress. There were those who believed she would trigger off Armageddon at some point during her adulthood, but nobody was too worried because if she lived until the age of twelve she would be immortal, so that gave Armageddon a comfortably large window to work with. Once she was born, there would no need for any more enchanters, because all the enchantment in the world would be held in her. There was a tendency to look on her as a sort of enchanters' saviour. And now Gregor, one of the oldest of his kind living, had given care of this child to the youngest.

To Fran.

Fran was not inclined to self-pity, but the question 'why me?' floated through her mind as she arrived near Tintagel. One of the little tourist shops sold her a local map, on which was clearly marked the hospitals. Fran cursed. Hospitals, plural, miles apart from each other. She didn't even know the name of the mother, except that it was unlikely to be Mrs. Campbell. She was probably mortal, that had always been Campbell's taste, but that didn't narrow it down either. There was nothing else for it. She would have to check every single baby girl in every single maternity ward, and pray the non-Mrs. Campbell hadn't had a home birth. Sighing, Fran dug out her cellphone and called Fynn. She was going to be a while.