There aren't many sights to see in Willingham Bay, but Debbie Morris is one of them. She's all curves, like a smile. And she has these cat green eyes, set off with flawless black liner. She used to do it on the bus on the way to school. While the rest of us rattled around, she would hold up a hand mirror, wink, and in one sweep of her hand, ink a perfect line on each lid. I was mesmerised.
       The first and only time that she spoke to me in five years of school was at the prom. We were in the girls' toilets, passing around a plastic bottle containing an unholy mixture of spirits stolen from my parent's liquor cabinet. Debbie looked at me, her liner all smudged and sparkling, and said, "Hey, can I have a swig?" I passed her that warm, sticky bottle and watched her knock back the horrible potion without flinching. She licked her lips, smiled, and said, "Thanks Sally," as she handed it back. Then she walked away. My name isn't Sally; it's Sandy. But for a moment, I considered changing it.
       I'm telling you all this because to understand how I got into this mess, you need to understand that I was hopelessly in love with Debbie Morris for years. For those tender, savage, lonely teenage years.
       We left school, and I left Willingham Bay to start a journalism degree in London. It didn't take, and a few months ago, I dropped out, came home, and moved back in with my mum. When I discovered that Debbie was still in town, working at the council and running a successful resin jewellery business as a side hustle, I decided to reach out. That is, I sat on the same bench in the park opposite the bandstand, eating limp fries every day, hoping to catch her on her lunch break.
       I'd almost given up when one day she walked right up to me, sat down beside me on the bench, and said, "Hey." And then she said: "I didn't know you were home again. When did you get back?"
       I filled her in on my movements, explained that journalism hadn't worked out and that I was pursuing other opportunities. When she asked what specific opportunities I was pursuing, I told her about the online private investigator course. She laughed.
       "Oh, that's perfect!" She leaned in close. "You're a seeker, aren't you?"
       I laughed, although it came out as a weird gurgle. "How did you know?"
       "I was there, remember? On that field trip to the bronze age village, where we all tried dowsing with the sticks? And you found that lady's earring?"
       "Oh yeah. I'm not that good."
       "Well, it'll be handy when you're a private eye, I bet." She checked her phone. "Ugh, I've got to get back. Hey -- are you free later? It'd be nice to catch up some more."
       "Sure!"
       "Great. Meet me on the pier at 6?"
       I nodded, and she stood up, then shot me a smile like a solar flare.
       "See you later, Sandy."

       As I walked home, I felt like skipping. Perhaps it was the hand of destiny that had deposited me back in Willingham Bay after all. When I got to the bottom of our hill, a car pulled up beside me. It was an old-fashioned Volkswagen beetle, mustard yellow, and an elderly woman wound down the window. She poked her head out, tufts of brilliant white hair poking out from a cerise tam o'shanter above the most wrinkled brown face I've ever seen.
       "Sandra, isn't it? Doreen's daughter?"
       "That's right. But it's Sandy now."
       "Sandy. Hop in, and I'll give you a lift up the hill."
       My calves were complaining, so I climbed in beside her. The car smelled strongly of tobacco, bluebells, and onions.
       We set off with a lurch, and she looked at me slyly.
       "You don't remember me, do you? Well, I remember you! You had some apples from the tree in my garden most summers to make a pie with the blackberries you'd picked."
       "Oh my god -- Mrs. Gloyne! I remember!"
       She chortled. "Now you're all grown up you can call me Bernadette. Here we are," she said and stopped in front of our gate. Before I could open the door, she swivelled around in her seat to face me and said: "Take care, Sandy," in what seemed at the time like a needlessly ominous tone.
       After an awkward pause, I said, "Thanks for the lift!" as breezily as possible and slipped out of the car.
       "You're welcome, dear. Pop in anytime," she said and rumbled away.

       It was a crisp salt evening with an ice cream-coloured sunset. As the light faded, the sea grew dark, and the lamps came on with a chemical hum. I was early, and I leaned on the rails looking back at the town. The season was over, so the funfair was quiet and still, but all along the seafront street lights glittered on the black waves, rolling and churning softly below the promenade, while a group of teenagers on the sea wall threw chips at the gulls.
       There were a few people on the pier: a couple snogging and two middle-aged men fishing awkwardly beside them. Feeling whimsical, I climbed over the barrier onto the spinning teacup ride and sat inside a mint green cup to wait for Debbie. They were a lot smaller than I remembered, so I had my knees up to my chin when she appeared.
       "Hello there," she said as I clambered out of my tea cup.
       "Hi! I was just, you know... For old time's sakes."
       She laughed, and we started strolling towards the end of the pier, falling into step with each other.
       "Did you miss it here? When you were away, I mean?" Debbie asked.
       "Eh... Some things. My mum. The sea. The tea cups. But mostly, no. I was dying to get away."
       She looked surprised. "Really? Why?"
       "Oh, the normal things. I wanted to reinvent myself. I wanted some adventure."
       "And did you find it?"
       "No. I did not. I mean, I'm sure it was there; we just never hooked up."
       She laughed and said, "Oh, Sandy," as if we were old friends. I didn't understand the game, but I was more than happy to play along. We reached the end of the pier and leaned on the railing, looking into the shifting night air.
       She sighed. "We've had some adventures here recently, but they're not as much fun as they sound." She looked at me sidelong. "In fact, I was hoping you might be able to help."
       "You have a case for me. Is that what you're saying?"
       "Something like that."
       That's how I learned that her neighbour, and our former art teacher, Mrs. Mona Halloran, was missing. She'd disappeared from her job and her home about four months ago, leaving only a note to say she had gone to travel the world and find herself. Since then, no one had heard from her. According to Debbie, the police seemed satisfied that she'd just up and left, a midlife crisis of sorts. But Debbie was worried.
       As she talked, I watched the waves through the gaps between the boards under our feet and thought about Mrs. Halloran. She was a cheerful woman with a lisp and bright orange hennaed hair in a blunt bob. She wore glasses with thick black frames, striped hand-knitted jumpers, and silver rings on every finger, including one set with a blue glass eye which had always fascinated and unnerved me.
       She was fond of Debbie, who was good at art, but she was also kind to me, who wasn't. I hoped that she was all right.
       Debbie was looking at me expectantly.
       "Uh... I don't think I can find a whole person. It only works for little things, objects, you know. I'm sorry."
       She looked crestfallen. "Maybe you could look into why she left? Or find out if anything happened to her? Maybe you can find something that the police missed."
       "I guess. But what if I... find something? Are you sure you want to know?"
       "I've got to know. She was my friend. More than my friend, she was my mentor. I'd never have started practising seriously without her."
       "Your jewellery?"
       "No -- my craft." She looked at me sidelong and lowered her voice. "You know, I'm a witch now. Mona taught me everything she knew."
       I couldn't say I was surprised. Debbie's social media feed was full of crystals and bunches of sage alongside her resin creations. Sometimes the sage ended up inside the resin. But Mrs. Halloran? She didn't seem like someone who was interested in power.
       I pretended to think it over. "All right, I'll give it a shot. But I can't promise anything."
       She beamed. Even then, part of me knew I was in trouble. But I didn't care.

       The next day I was standing outside Mona's cottage. I reached out with my seeking and felt a bounce from a flowerpot on the nearest windowsill. I lifted it up, and there was the key. I felt triumphant, and then I felt foolish. Anyone could have guessed it was there. My gift is so small and unreliable that sometimes I wonder if it's worth using at all.
       Once, I asked my mum about the seeking, and she'd just said, "Oh, that," and sighed before taking another bite of toast. "It's handy, sometimes. I'd keep it under your hat, though; otherwise, people will forever be asking favours. Find this, find that. A seeker's no substitute for keeping track of your things, that's what I say."
       "Can you teach me how to use it?"
       "I can teach you what I know, but it's not much, I'm afraid. My mother never got anything from her mother, and I'm afraid you won't get much from me."
       We had fun for a while, hiding things from each other in ever stranger places. But after I managed to find a green button buried in our neighbour's garden, she said, "There, you've surpassed me," and kissed me on top of my head. We never talked about it again.
       As I let myself in, I felt a pang of envy, wishing someone had taken me under their wing like Mona had Debbie, first with her art and then with her magic. Standing in Mona's colourful, cluttered living room, I reminded myself that this time Debbie was counting on me.
       It smelled of sugar paper and dust and sandalwood. There was a dark carved bookshelf that nudged the ceiling. Two worn peach-coloured armchairs faced the cold fireplace, a faded rag rug on the floor between them. On the mantelpiece stood a selection of crystals, glass bottles full of feathers and dried flowers, and a roll-top bureau nestled in a recess next to the fireplace. I wiggled open the bureau to find a chaos of letters, postcards, dried leaves, bills, leaflets, scraps of fabric, and school paperwork, but nothing that seemed like a lead. I looked over the books, inspected the bottles, and peered into the crevices of the armchairs. I poked at the ashes in the grate. I even looked under the rug.
       Sadly, seeking doesn't work well with abstractions such as 'a helpful clue,' but sometimes, if I let my mind go quiet, and there is something nearby that's out of place, something that means a lot to someone, something that wants to be found -- don't ask, I don't understand it either -- then I'll feel a little tug. So I closed my eyes and let my heart wander. For a few moments, I felt nothing. Then there was a twitch in my senses, like a fishing line pulled taut, and I knew there was something in the next room that didn't belong there.
       Soon I was opening every cupboard in Mona's kitchen, looking for a missing something. Saucepans, crockery, tins of pineapple... I rifled through the cutlery drawer, scanned the small shelf of recipe books, checked the crispy plants on the windowsill, and looked over the postcards and shopping lists on the fridge. Nothing seemed especially significant or out of place.
       I tried listening for the object again, but I was too annoyed to hear anything. The kitchen shared a wall with Mona's bedroom, so I searched there instead. Wastepaper basket: empty. Dresser, nightstand: nothing. Nothing under the bed except some old shoes and a Turkish Delight wrapper. But when I slid my hand under the mattress, my fingers connected with a definite Something. I pulled out an opened envelope with a greeting card inside, no address and no postmark. On the front of the card, a cartoon panda with eyes of unsettling proportions cried beneath a speech bubble that read, "I'm So-wwy." Inside was written:
       'Darling.
       I feel awful. Simply awful. Can't we put this behind us? I just want to grab my broom and sweep it all under the carpet (witch joke, ha ha!)
       Let's not throw 10 years of friendship away over a silly row. I miss you, sweetie. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you.
       Tricia xxx'
       Bingo. A fight with a friend wasn't much to go on, but it was a start. In a small town the stakes are high if you get the boot from your bridge club, let alone your coven. I know from my mum's dispatches (she works at the library) that there are pensioners here who've been nursing a vendetta for 20 years, glaring at each other over their Mills & Boon.
       As I walked back into town, I called my mum.
       "Hey, this is a weird question, but do you know any Tricias? Here in the Bay, I mean?"
       "What?"
       "Just humour me, please. Tricias?"
       "Strange child. Well, there's Pat from the deli counter in Somerfield. There's Trish, you know, Phil Bennett's daughter. Phil, who does our windows."
       "Sure."
       "Oh, and there's Tricia Clovelly. She runs Betty's now, except it's got a new name... Drat, what is it -- something spooky?"
       "The Little Cauldron," I supplied. Another witch joke, presumably. "Thanks, Mum."
       "Will you be back for tea?"
       "No, I'm meeting Debbie. See you later!"
       Strange to think that was one of the last times I spoke to her. Or at least one of the last times she knew I was speaking to her.

       The Little Cauldron is the only café on the seafront, in a prime spot to hoover up tourist trade. The best seats in the house are the padded benches in the window where you can look out over the bay. On stormy, grey days when I was little, my mum and I would go down to the café (back then, it was Betty's Tea Room) and watch the sea hurling itself around the harbour like a caged wolf.
       It looks more or less the same now: all chintzy cushions, dark wood chairs, thick carpet, and white tablecloths. There's a miniature city of glass and mesh domes on the counter full of fat golden sponge, glistening lemon drizzle, crackled brownies, and gleaming fruit tarts.
       I took a seat at a small table in the corner and scanned the clientele. A couple of elderly women, deep in conversation over scones. A table of young men with gelled hair and shiny suits laughing over greasy cheese toasties, and a blonde police officer silently demolishing a Ploughman's.
       On every table was herbal tea in a glass teapot; I hadn't expected fancy tea to be so popular among the good folk of Willingham Bay. Then it hit me. Tea. It was perfect. The perfect cover for a witch about town. Who knew what was in it? She could mix in anything that might help her control the person who drank it. And the leaves: a snapshot of the fates and fortunes of the whole town, cup by cup. Tricia Clovelly could hold the whole of Willingham Bay in the palm of her hand by magic or blackmail.
       She arrived in a cloud of perfume, something floral with a spicy undertone. She was in her late 40s, I guessed, and her hair was dyed deep black with a plum-coloured sheen. Her skin was deeply tanned to a rosy salon orange, and her damson lipstick was flawless, glossy and dark. She beamed at me with brilliant white teeth, and her eyes sparkled under heavily dressed lashes. She wore a black polo neck, and silver bangles jangled on her wrists. Her nails were long, almond-shaped, purple, and gleaming.
       "Hello darling, what can I get you?"
       "Hi. I'll take a black coffee and a slice of carrot cake, please."
       After glancing around, she leaned in close and said, soft as leather: "I'll let you in on a little secret, sweetheart -- our coffee is awful!" She put her hand to her brow and shook her head, laughing. "Really dreadful. Like burnt toast! I keep it for the tourists," she whispered. "I think you might prefer something else." She made a show of scanning the menu before tapping it with a purple-tipped finger. "How about a Blueberry Blitz?"
       "No, thank you, I'll take my chances with the coffee."
       "Are you sure? It's a new blend. On the house, if you let me know what you think."
       "I'll take a black coffee. And a piece of carrot cake."
       The smile flickered in her eyes for just a moment before she lifted her notepad with a flourish. "No problem at all, darling. Just don't say I didn't warn you!" She winked and walked away.
       A pale teenage boy approached with a tray, then scuttled away as I dug into my cake. There was a pleasing low babble of conversation like a stream, punctuated now and then by Tricia's loud, silvery laugh. She moved between the tables collecting the cups and exchanging a few words with everybody. I sipped my coffee. Even in triumph, I was forced to admit: it was truly awful.
       As the tea time rush passed, Tricia came back to my table.
       "Well, what do you think?"
       "You were right. It's bad."
       She laughed her tinkly laugh.
       "What can you tell me about Mona Halloran?" I asked quickly.
       Her eyes widened for a moment before she cast them down under her thick lashes and slid onto the seat opposite me. When she looked up again, her eyes were shining with tears.
        "She was my best friend, you know."
       "Was?"
       "We had a dreadful row just before she left. All over nothing."
       She dabbed at her lower lashes with her fingers to catch the tears gathering there, muddying her mascara. I offered her a paper napkin.
       "It was all so stupid." She shook her head. "I had a book I was terribly attached to. I lent it to her, and somehow she thought I'd given it to her as a gift. To keep." She dabbed at her lower lids again, leaving black Rorschach spots on the napkin. "When I realised, I was mortified. I asked her to give it back, and she was upset. She seemed to think I was insulting her, but it was all just a big mistake."
       "I see. What was the book?"
       "Oh, just an old favourite. I'd made notes in it, you know."
       "Did you get it back?"
       "No. I lost them both." She sniffed. "I can't help thinking it's my fault she left." She held the crumpled napkin to her nose again and mouthed "thanks love!" to a departing customer over my shoulder.
       "Then you think she's left town?"
       "Of course, darling. What other explanation is there?"
       I tried to look stern.
       She laughed sharply. "You're young, sweetie, and it might seem impossible to you that someone could throw everything away one day because it just doesn't feel right. But believe me, most people are just one bad day away from running off to join the circus. Maybe Mona was just braver than the rest of us."
       We watched each other for a moment more, then Tricia stood up. "Was there anything else you wanted to know, darling?"
       I shook my head and reached for my wallet.
       "On the house, dear. It's been so nice meeting you. And I really do hope we hear from Mona soon. I miss her too."

       Debbie and I had arranged to meet at the Nelson for nostalgic reasons. By day it was a maritime-themed family pub where greasy-haired teens ferried baskets of scampi and chips from kitchen to table under fishing nets festooned with rubber starfish and plastic lobsters. By night it was Willingham Bay's premier underage drinking spot.
       We settled at a sticky table underneath a fibreglass figurehead, a stern-looking woman with an ample bust, paint worn away at the nipples by generations of 15-year-olds. I told Debbie everything about the card, how I'd found Tricia, about Tricia's story. She listened gravely, stirring her drink and watching the whirlpool unfurl in her glass. She was wearing one of her resin pieces, a bracelet of clear plastic with Skittles sealed inside.
       "Could you find it? The book? It might lead us to Mona."
       "Perhaps. There were a bunch of books at her cottage; I'll go back again tomorrow."
       She nodded, then leaned in and said: "Let's get out of here."
       We crunched over the shingle on the beach and stood looking out across the glossy waves, gleaming like chipped obsidian.
       Debbie bent down and picked up a round grey pebble. She held it in the palm of her hand and covered it with her other hand, murmuring something under her breath. Then she dropped it into my hand. "This is for you."
       It was a perfect heart in flawless white stone.
       She said, "I'm glad you came back, Sandy," and kissed me on the cheek as the earth tilted on its axis.

       The following afternoon I was sitting in Bernadette's kitchen drinking strong tea from a mug decorated with chickens, and I decided to ask her straight out what she knew about the Willingham Bay witches.
       Her bushy eyebrows disappeared briefly into her thatch of white hair. "Well, now. There has been some nasty business, yes." She sighed. "You haven't been here, so you won't know about the other cafés."
       "Other cafés?"
       "Two, two other café that opened up on the front."
       "Competition for The Little Cauldron?"
       She nodded. "Well, one burned down. That is to say, it was burnt down deliberately. By the owner. While they were still inside it."
       I grimaced. "And the other?"
       "Flooded." She looked at me with meaning.
       "...By the owner? While they were still inside?!"
       "Yes. Not a drop of water on the pavement outside or in the properties on either side. It just filled up like a bath, with the owner floating on top, tangled in a light fitting."
       "That's horrible!"
       "It's bizarre, is what it is. The fire could almost make sense. A suicide. A botched insurance claim. But who drowns on their living room ceiling?"
       "Did the police look into it?"
       "No. Tricia Clovelly's got them stitched up. And the Council. Even the Mayor."
       "We have a Mayor?"
       "Well, it's mostly a ceremonial role. But she got to him too."
       "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"
       "Because I didn't want you to get hurt. The best thing you can do is walk away from all this. Just let sleeping dogs lie."
       "What happened to Mona?"
       Bernadette said nothing, but levered herself to her feet and picked up the mugs.
       "Let's have another. I've got some cake here as well...."
       "That's all you have to say?"
       "What is there to say, my duck?" she said, refilling the kettle. "Whatever happened, it sounds like you should leave well alone to me."
       "But I promised Debbie."
       Bernadette was silent for a moment while she levered two slices of extremely solid-looking fruit cake out of an old biscuit tin.
       "Maybe it would be better for Debbie, too," she said, finally.
       The kettle bubbled furiously.
       "No. I've got to find the book before Tricia does. I'm sure it's the key to all of this."
       The kettle clicked and sighed. Bernadette turned and set the cake down in front of me. She looked very tired all of a sudden. I stood up to leave.
       "Well, I know better than to try and unmake a mind," she said.
       "Thanks for the tea. Sorry... I should have said -- I don't like fruit cake."
       She sat down and picked up her slice. "Never mind, duck. More for me," she said and took a gigantic bite.

       That night, I went back to the cottage. The moonlight slid through the window like syrup, giving the empty rooms a strange, underwater quality. I went straight to the bookshelf and opened all the ones which looked the most occult. Tricia had been deliberately cagey about the title, so surely it must be a grimoire or a spellbook or something with power.
       I found some histories, herbals, and poetry but no spells.
       I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I listened for the lost book. Immediately I felt a tug, stronger this time than before. I kept my eyes shut and let the feeling lead me forward, out of the living room, until I was standing in front of the source. Reaching out, I let my fingertips find the book's spine. When I opened my eyes, I was holding a recipe book: 101 Vegetarian Soups and Stews.
       Hidden in plain sight, under cover of glamour. A good glamour, too; it had blurred my seeking sense last time. Or maybe I did that myself with my own impatience. Either way, now I could feel the slightest vibration of magic in my fingertips as I turned the pages.
       I heard footsteps in the corridor, and Tricia appeared in the doorway, wearing a long black cloak and an anxious expression. "Sandy, darling," she said softly. "Why don't you give it to me? I won't tell anyone you were here."
       She took a step towards me, and I pushed past her, head down like a bull, clutching 101 Vegetarian Soups and Stews to my chest. As I tore down the corridor, I heard her call out, "Sandy, wait!" but I was already scrambling through the door.
       I ran up the lane without looking back until I reached Debbie's house. I hammered on the door, and when it opened, I tumbled inside.
       "I've got it!" I panted. "I've got the book!"
       She led me into the living room while I explained breathlessly about the cottage, the glamour, and Tricia. We sat down on the salmon-pink velvet sofa.
       "Let me see it!" she said, and I pulled 101 Vegetarian Soups and Stews from my hoodie and passed it to her. She took it with both hands and laughed. "Oh, Mona," she said and leafed through it.
       "Debbie... Did you hear me? I think Mona might be dead. I'm so sorry."
       Leaning over, she took my face in her hands and kissed me, then pressed her forehead to mine.
       "Thank you, Sandy," she whispered. "I knew you'd find it." She sat back. "Let's have a drink to celebrate -- wait here."
       She went out to the kitchen, and I sat back. As I began to relax, I felt that nagging tingle again, as if something in the room was pulling at my sleeve. This time, I decided to listen. I stood up and was drawn to a rattan box on a shelf.
       I pulled it out and found it was full of Debbie's resin jewellery pieces; flowers, leaves, candy, and other small items frozen in resin blocks like ice cubes. There, looking sadly up at me from its own lump of resin, was a blue glass eye set in a silver ring. Mona's ring.
       I heard a soft step behind me and looked over my shoulder, still holding the box. Debbie stood in the doorway holding a bottle of rosé and two glasses.
       I looked at her. She looked at me. The doorbell rang.
       She rolled her eyes, dumped the bottle and the glasses on the coffee table and went to get the door. I slid the box back onto the shelf, my brain jumping like a stuck record.
       Then I heard voices in the corridor, and everything finally began falling into place.
       "Hello darling," Tricia said sadly from the doorway. Bernadette followed her into the room and sank into an armchair. Tricia perched on the sofa and picked up 101 Vegetarian Soups and Stews as Debbie sat down beside her and reached for the wine.
       Bernadette gave her a hard stare.
       "I was going to bring it to you first thing tomorrow," Debbie said, pouring herself a glass. "I was just using my initiative."
       Bernadette scoffed. "Don't try to girl-boss me, Debbie; it won't work."
       Debbie's green eyes glittered with defiance. Bernadette sighed.
       "Sandy, I think we owe you an explanation."
       "No, no. I get the picture." I turned to Debbie. "You didn't like Mona cramping your plans, and you got rid of her. But you couldn't find the spellbook she stole, so you used me. Am I close?"
       Debbie looked away and took another sip of wine.
       "Spot on, darling," Tricia said apologetically.
       "Why don't you tell Sandy what happened, Deborah?" Bernadette said.
       "Don't call me that!" Debbie snapped. Bernadette chortled while Tricia tried to hide a smirk.
       Debbie twirled her glass. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to hurt her; I only meant to frighten her into handing over the book."
       "What did you do?"
       "I transformed her. Into a mouse."
       I stared at her.
       "Except the spell didn't work. Not completely. She was sort of...."
       "Mangled," Bernadette supplied, and Debbie glared at her.
       "It wasn't a clean transformation. And she... died."
       My head was already pounding, and now I felt sick. "And what now? What about me?"
       They fell silent.
       "You're not going to let this go, are you?" Bernadette said softly. "So I don't think we can't let you go either."
       Panic scratched at my chest. "So you're just going to kill me too?" My voice came out as a squeak. "What about the people who'll come looking for me? Where does it end?"
       "Now we have the book back, we can tie up any loose ends much more neatly," Tricia offered.
       "Oh well, that is a relief," I snapped, my mind racing with possible escape routes.
       "This is your mess, Debbie; you clean it up." Bernadette said and stood up wearily. "I'm going home."
       She reached out to Tricia, who reluctantly handed her 101 Vegetarian Soups and Stews. "I'll get started on this. What an enormous waste of everyone's time this has been. I'm sorry, Sandy. Debbie: don't screw it up."
       As she walked out, I tried to lunge for the door, but my limbs were locked in place.
       Debbie was holding her hands up in front of her, concentration on her face. "Don't worry," she said. "I've been practising...."

       So here I am. Thankfully I survived the transformation. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse.
       I was furious at Debbie; for weeks I could barely look at her. But we don't choose who we love. I know I shouldn't, but I do. She'll change me back when this has all blown over; we just need to lay low for a while. She's got plans for Bernadette; that's all I can say.
       It's not a bad life. No rent to pay and no coursework. Free food. Comfy bed. And walkies, which are more fun than I could ever have imagined. And I'm so cute! Who doesn't like a sausage dog?
       I miss my mum. I miss having thumbs. But it's not forever. And Debbie gives a mean belly rub.