Witch's Bell Book One

nervous, ashamed, irritated, unsure – and whatever other mix of emotions was shaking up in Ebony's stomach in a cocktail of desperation?
    The room didn't reply. So Ebony just made up her own mind. She ran over to the wardrobe, her face pressing into the kind of twisted expression you have before you get hit by something hard, heavy, and painful.
    She just grabbed at whatever clothes came to hand First, a blouse that looked like it belonged in a rendition of an 80's musical, with kaleidoscopic colors and sleeves so puffy you could comfortably hide whole sandwiches in them. Then she grabbed at a skirt, a svelte little thing that was cut just above the knee out of a beige satin. It looked more like it belonged on a bed in a questionable hotel, and less like a functioning piece of clothing, but Ebony didn't have time to question it. She didn't have time to question anything. She just threw on the clothes, stooping down to grab a pair of shoes on her way. Her shoes were surprisingly low, manageable, careful little items, that looked like, and probably were, hand-me-downs from a grandmother somewhere. They were low, brown, and had a small fake crocodile skin insert running down to the toe. They were, however, exceedingly comfortable.
    Ebony didn't have time to look in the mirror after she'd thrown on her curious ensemble. If she had, she'd have probably thrown up. But she did think to herself how curious it was that she even owned these clothes. She didn't remember buying them. It was as if things were now popping up in her wardrobe, unbidden, from some great resting place of hideous, unloved, clothing.
    But once again, Ebony didn't have the time, or magic, to imagine the possibilities.
    She thundered down her stairs, wondering what she'd do about breakfast. Did she have time to go the pizza place? Would they even be open? Ebony just shook her head, flying towards her door and pulling it open. She really needed to move on to cooking again. She was, after all, an excellent cook, all witches were. Ebony would make the kinds of soups, stews, sauces, puddings, cakes – and various other delights – that would set a person's mouth watering, and heart overflowing. She could cure your cold with a pancake, give you a good night's sleep with a chocolate brownie, and mend a broken heart with a full glass of home-made lemonade.
    But that was all magic stuff, Ebony assured herself, and she simply wouldn't know where to start now. So she'd stick with pizza, for now, and maybe branch out to various other take-out cuisines later in the week.
    She'd try and steal whatever she could from the police station, she assured herself. Ben always had various chocolate bars secreted about his person and his desk, like a squirrel preparing for winter.
    Five minutes after Ebony had flung herself out of her door, and down the street, she was back again, face a picture of ashen annoyance. With teeth biting into her make-up free lips, Ebony went back for her wallet and her house keys. With the frustration making her want to punch a rubbish bin, Ebony locked up her house. It wasn't something she ever did, as a witch. Why use a lock as a deterrent when you could cast a proper protection spell on the place? And the same with her wallet. She very rarely carried it unless she knew she was going to do human-style shopping. For the day to day business of a witch, Ebony didn't need the ordinary currency of people – the magic world had a far more direct system that didn't involve silly paper notes and plastic cards.
    Ebony struggled, trying to get her key to work in her lock. She hadn't locked the damn house since she'd bought it three years ago, and now the thing seemed rusted over. But she persevered, teeth clenched so hard she was sure she was about to break her jaw.
    Finally she set off to work. Who knew what the time was, certainly not her. Maybe nine-fifteen already, maybe even nine-thirty?
    As Ebony rushed down the street, she realized with a horrible jolt that she didn't even know the bus schedule, the train schedule, or any other useful titbit of information about the public transport system. She didn't even know where to wait for a bus. While Ebony didn't have a car of her own, she hardly ever took public transport. It was another thing about being a witch – Ebony simply found a way, when she needed one. She would ask, politely, and the universe would deliver.
    But now Ebony was streaking down the street, her comfortable granny-loafers padding