The Sorceress's Coronation: A Tale of Revenge and Royalty

Kyle Peirson had become the chinwag of the village by doctoring a poorly nag. Chucking the creature bits he knew to act as an evacuant had him pegged as a warlock. Lucy, the lass who'd taught him such tricks, came under the screws. Ere she too scarpered at the king's bidding, she hoofed it out of the country to learn how to square accounts for her brother's demise.

After years with nary a hex or hocus-pocus, it was high time to give those who'd done Kyle in a taste of their own medicine. Lucy Peirson bobbed up during the King's knees-up.

"Well, I'll be jiggered, who's this then?" Miss Marple piped up, her interest pricked as her eagle eyes followed the arrival of the twosome. "Blimey, it's Lucy, ain't it?" Mrs. Kilbride murmured, her voice hardly carrying over the gentle burble of the band.

"Strike me pink, she's been gone for donkey's years," Lady Bracken remarked, her brow wrinkling as she dredged up the memories of the shocking to-dos that had led to Lucy's sudden scarpering.

It was a top-hole evening at the King's shindig, a plush do that gathered the knobs of the British social whirl. The Lakes District, often a breeding ground for tittle-tattle and cloak-and-dagger, had its fair share of racy yarns weaving their way through the whispers of the swells. However, none had snagged the communal fancy quite like that of Lucy's brother, whose innings had been cruelly curtailed by the mitt of one of their own.

The stiff, a gallant young blade whose magnetism had drawn a fair few worshippers, had been found brown bread in the tranquil surrounds of the Lakes District. The investigation that followed had revealed a spider's web of hoodwinking and double-crossing, and it was an open secret that the motive for the bump-off had its roots in the murky belly of high society - the very place where polite veneers concealed the most warped appetites of its denizens.

As the music hit its stride and the dancers cut a rug, the chin-wag amongst the guests veered towards the abrupt bobbing up of Lucy, the victim's sister. She'd scarpered without so much as a by-your-leave in the aftermath of the calamity, leaving behind a trail of loose ends and unsettled feelings.

Miss Marple, ever the plucky peeper of the human condition, couldn't help but feel a bit of the heebie-jeebies as she clocked Lucy's graceful approach towards their cozy gathering. The woman's allure, though unscathed by Father Time, seemed to lug around a dash of the blues and a dab of obstinacy. "Evening, ducks," Lucy hailed them, her voice barely louder than a mouse's squeak. “I hope you are all well."

They knew she'd been tarred with the witch's brush and were gobsmacked when she bobbed up at the bash swathed in a scarlet frock. The whispers grew louder as the chinwag picked up again and the curiosity more piqued. What could've drawn Lucy back to this nest of adders, where the memories of her brother's bump-off still hung around like a dark specter over their lives?

Only the fullness of time would spill the beans, but the tension in the air was thick as treacle as if the spooks of yesteryears had come back to give 'em all the willies.

Little did they twig that Lucy's comeback would indeed set the cat among the pigeons, lifting the lid on a knotty yarn of passion, hoodwinking, and double-crossing that would rock the very foundations of their once-untroubled world.

As the evening wore on, Lucy moved with grace through the throng, her mince pies scanning the boats of her fellow guests. It was clear as crystal that her arrival hadn't slipped under the radar, and the whispers that trailed her like a stormy cloud spoke volumes of the intrigue and jitters that her return had kicked up. She knew there was one person present who held the key to her brother's bump-off, and as she eyeballed each of the likely lads and lasses, she felt a growing sense of grit and resolution.

Her time spent book-learning in foreign parts had kitted her out with a broad sweep of knowledge, and she'd been careful to sharpen her skills in the craft of payback, all primed to have a go at the heart of the town that had snuffed out her brother's life.

The knees-up carried on at full pelt, the music and guffaws making a right stark contrast to the dark undercurrent that lapped beneath the surface. As the clock struck the witching hour, the guests began to toddle off one by one, leaving behind a trail of empty fizz glasses and hanging questions.

As the last of the coaches scarpered, Lucy found herself standing on her tod in the grand hall, her loaf of bread racing with the possibilities that lay up the road.

The time for scheming and readying was all done and dusted, and now it was time to get a wriggle on.

With a steel-edged determination, she set forth on her quest for payback, her every move figured out and spot-on as she sought to blow the gaff and bring the killer to the beak. The town that had once seemed so like a picture now seemed a hotbed for codswallop and double-crossing as the shadows of yesteryears cast a menacing pall over its once-dapper fronts. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the hunt for the murderer ate up her every waking tick, taking her to the brink of being all in despair.

Yet still, she plowed on, driven by a fierce and unyielding sense of fairness. As the seasons swapped and the leaves started to tumble, Lucy knew that her mission was near its close. The town that had once seemed so butter-wouldn't-melt now stood on the brink of going to pot as the secrets that had festered for donkey's years were finally hauled into the daylight.

In the final reckoning, it wasn't the glittering ballroom or the trappings of the nobs that held the key to unlocking the truth but rather the quiet grit of one woman who refused to be led up the garden path by the porkies and skullduggery that had marked her life.

As the sun started its slow toddle toward the skyline, throwing a warm gold glow over the pretty as a picture harbor, a tall ship could be seen making its way graceful-like into the calm waters of the bay. Its elegant lines and towering masts spoke of capers and cloak-and-dagger, and as it slid past the shoreline, it seemed to nobble the imagination of all who clapped peepers on it.

From her view on top of the hill, Lucy could see the ship in all its glory, its sails fluttering gently with the breeze, and she felt a strange sense of old-time washed over her. It had been many years since she had last set foot on a ship, and the sight of the vessel stirred memories of her youth and the dreams of capers that had once filled her heart.

As she gazed out at the ship, her musings were suddenly knocked for six by the sound of a rap at the door, and she spun around to see the familiar figure of her old flame, Beau, standing on the doorstep, a cheeky grin dancing on his lips.

"Why, Beau, what a tickler surprise," she cried out, her voice touched with a hint of amusement. "What brings you here to brighten my day?"

Beau gave a nonchalant shrug, his eyes twinkling with devilment as he pointed towards the ship that was now slowly vanishing from sight.

"You've certainly kicked up a bobbery in town, Lucy. I couldn't resist coming to see what all the hullabaloo was about.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, her interest roused. "And what exactly have you heard, Beau?"

He chuckled softly, and she could see the sparkle of excitement in his eyes as he rattled off the latest goss and tattle that had been swirling around her comeback.

"Well, it seems that the King himself is in the know about your presence, and he has sent me here to suss out your intentions."

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. "The King himself cares about little old me? My intentions? This is my patch. Ridiculous."

Beau peered at her, his expression stony for a tick, before a grin slowly unfurled across his chops. "You know, Lucy, there's something about you that's always been a puzzle. Even after all these donkey's years, you still have the capacity to turn my head."

Was he inferring to her charm or her magick? She thought.

As the shadows stretched out and the wind bellowed through the tight lanes, Lucy found herself on her tod in her villa, the quietude magnifying the burden of her musings. She knew that her journey had only just kicked off, and the path ahead was rife with danger and dark horses.

Love and comfort were not the driving force for her homecoming to this spot; instead, revenge stoked her every stride as she sought to square accounts for her brother's death and ensure that his slayer faced the music.

As the night deepened, a shrieking noise shattered the peace, setting her ticker into a gallop, as she finally spotted the threatening figure of a bloke skulking in the shadows. Lucy was prepared for the whole bag of tricks, her senses all of a quiver as she looked about her for any potential hazards. Just before the chap met his maker at the hands of a dab-hand assassin, Lucy finally twigged to the reason behind the King's inquisitiveness.

Perched on the edge of a cliff, her Villa offered a handy solution for doing away with a body. While peckish sharks made their rounds below, Lucy could hear the distant splashes and the faint scent of brine.

***

Savouring her morning brew on the veranda, Beau popped up. "Don't you ever rap on the door?" "I did, you didn't answer." Beau's peepers fell to the ground, noticing what seemed to be claret that trailed to the edge of the cliff.

"Lucy, what's been going on here?" She cast her eyes at the ground and then back at him. She shrugged offhandedly. "What is it?" Fixing eyes he stated, "It looks like claret, and it trails to the cliff."

"You know, I heard some racket around the witching hour that roused me, then it scarpered, so I dismissed it as a mutt."

"Lucy, I don't reckon this is from a mutt. You might be in the soup living up here on your tod." Fluttering her peepers at him she asked. "In the soup from what?"

With a dismissive waggle of his bonce, he scurried off from her gaff, ready to deliver his tale to the King. Aware that she had somehow put one over on him with her magical arts, he commanded a crew of bods to nab or do away with the witch.

At the stroke of the witching hour, the night sky burst into a riveting display that defied understanding. Just like a lighthouse, her gaff disappeared in a dazzling flash, and with it, the King's bods were gone in a jiffy. Beau, the plucky leader of the hired guns, vanished without a trace after leading them to do away with the witch.

With nary a trace of any living soul, the King was chuffed that the witch dubbed Lucy and her brother were nowhere to be found in his kingdom. William, the King's only sprog, knew the score.

The years rolled on, bereft of any whisper of enchantments or maledictions, unlike the unsettling carry-on they'd witnessed in the Peirson clan. The names Lucy and Kyle were verboten, their utterance liable to public shame in the stocks.

William vanished for days on end, rendezvousing with the bonny Lucy in a woodland beyond the kingdom. "Lucy, will you leg it back with me?" "William, your old man would have me done in if he twigged I was still in the land of the living." “Make me a potion to ease his bowels, and I will tell him you helped him.”

Lucy's mind traveled back to when her brother lent a hand to a nag, a deed that sadly led to his poppings-off. Nay, she pondered, this is my opportunity to bear the bell.

Lucy persuaded William that it was nothing more than natural bits and bobs, having a taste before she popped in the final ingredient. Moons after the send-off for the King, William brought Lucy into the grand do, causing a loud intake of breath to be heard.

With William as the King and Lucy as the Queen, the Peirson name was cleared of all malarkey, even though mysterious passings were a regular fixture for anyone who meant the new toffs any harm.