Rebecca Smythe: Witch in Training || ONC 2021

Becky the Mistaken

Rebecca stared blankly at the small man before her. Had he just said the Witches Protection Program? And if she had, in fact, heard him correctly, would she even qualify for such a program? Despite what Judge Andrews had decreed yesterday, she was decidedly non-magical but perhaps by some ridiculous twist of fate she had gotten the second shot at life that she had wished for.

"I'll just need your signature along the line here," the man pushed a large stack of papers and a feather quill towards her. The indecipherable black ink marks seemed to swim on the page before Rebecca. She had never needed to sign anything before. She didn't even know how to spell her own name. "Then I can grab you a starter kit from our storeroom and transport you to your assignment."

"My assignment?" Rebecca managed to stammer out. "I'm sorry but I think you may have the wrong person."

"Ah, my apologies. Got a bit ahead of myself. This is actually only my third case." The man admitted with a tinge of embarrassment. "My predecessor passed away rather suddenly on Thursday due to a teleportation error. Accidentally left all of his internal organs behind while picking up some pastries for an office birthday party. Must admit we were all pretty torn up about it, I was really looking forward to trying something called a cheese danish." The man trailed off, lost in thought. "Anyway, here I am and more importantly here YOU are, Rebecca Smith."

"Actually it's Rebecca Smy--" Rebecca tried to correct him but it seemed that once the man had opened the verbal floodgates there was just no closing them.

"Right you are, Rebecca! First: introductions. I'm Alston Mayfield, your case coordinator and bureaucratic warlock." Alston beamed with pride. "Our goal in the program is to protect all accused witches and provide them with gainful employment in safe-haven cities."

"Safe-haven cities?" Rebecca asked. This was the first time she had heard this term.

"Yes, you know, cities like Steling or Prittington, places where magical folk can live openly." Alston said as if this was the most obvious concept in the world. Rebecca had no idea what he was talking about but managed a feeble nod.

"What about people who aren't witches? The falsely accused?" Rebecca asked tentatively. She was eager to explain to Alston that her appearance in his office might be the result of a clerical error but she was beginning to think this might not be the wisest approach.

"Unfortunately, our program only covers witches at this time but trust that we are actively discussing the extension of our services to members of the non-magical community." Alston said, confirming Rebecca's suspicions. He looked a bit miffed that Rebecca wasn't more impressed with the offerings of the Witches Protection Program and began rifling through a stack of papers in front of him.

"You have been assigned to work as a governess for the Plimpton family in the city of Codwater. The Plimpton's have two children and are convinced that their sons could have latent magical potential as a great-grandmother on the father's side was apparently a conjurer." Alston regained a bit of his enthusiasm as he detailed her assignment. "This should be a pretty straightforward assignment for you considering your extensive experience with early childhood education." Alston's blue eyes met hers and Rebecca tried not to look away. Did he suspect something? It was clear to her at this point that Smith was not just a creative mispronunciation of the word Smythe and that indeed this assignment was meant for another person entirely. She shuddered to think of the real Rebecca Smith, burned to a crisp somewhere while she sat in a cozy armchair in Alston Mayfield's office.

Alston was looking at her as if awaiting a response. It was only then that she remembered the quill in her hand and the papers in front of her needing a signature. She was mere moments away from a new life but this could spoil it all. Whoever Ms. Smith might have been, Rebecca had a sneaking suspicion that the woman could probably read and write.

"Er, sounds like a most suitable placement, Mr. Mayfield," said Rebecca using the voice she typically adopted when imitating Elizabeth Clark. She dipped the quill into the nearby ink-pot, conscious of the slight quiver of her hand.

The wall of text ended with a large X followed by a long line. Rebecca inferred that this would be the most appropriate place for her to add her signature, if she only had one. She placed the quill onto the page and ink immediately bled out into a fat black bead on the paper. In a panic, she dragged the tip of the feather through the excess ink, spreading it out in a long thin line. Miraculously, it did sort of look like it could be a signature and with a furtive glance upward she saw that Alston appeared satisfied. Cautiously, she set the quill back down on the desk.

"Excellent," said Alston, rising from his chair. He pulled the stack of paper back towards him and with a practiced motion put it on top of a mountain of other files on his desk. Based on the sheer number of pages in the stack, Rebecca was convinced he would never so much as glance at it again. "I'm just going to pop out for your kit- it contains all the basics- a wand, some travel-sized healing crystals, rune stones for divination. Then I'll bring you to the Plimptons'."

Alston slid his portly body into the small space between the desk and the overstuffed cabinets and let himself out through a large wooden door behind Rebecca. The door snapped shut behind him, hiding the hallway beyond. She was alone in the room. In the silence she could hear her heart beating frantically inside her chest. Had it really been that simple? Was she actually going to survive this? Her mind was racing. At some point, someone was going to realize they had the wrong Rebecca. Maybe Alston would be reading her file one night or she would mention something to the Plimptons that would identify her as an imposter. The truth would come out and she would eventually be burned at the stake. If only she had more information on this other Rebecca, then she would have a better idea of who exactly she was supposed to be. Rebecca's eyes rested on the stack of papers on Alston's desk. She knew where she could find more information. The file.

Rebecca heard shuffling sounds coming from the hallway and in one decisive instant leapt up from the chair. Rushing over to the desk, she grabbed the stack of papers at the top of the pile and shoved them down the front of her dress. She could feel the paper pressing against her stomach but thanks to the thick fabric she was wearing, it barely showed. She was just about to sit back down in the armchair when Alston opened the door.

"Eager to begin, I see?" Alston asked when he saw her already standing. He was holding a small brown leather satchel. Rebecca gave him her best social smile but she only managed to bare her teeth awkwardly at him.

"Alright then," he continued, seemingly resolved to ignore her complete lack of social graces. He entered the room and shut the door behind him. Gesturing for her to stand next to him, he turned to face the door he had just come through and muttered a few words under his breath. Rebecca thought she caught the words "stupid cow".

"I'm sorry what did you say?" Rebecca asked indignantly.

"Transloteum Quore," Alston said, looking offended at her tone. "Basic transportation spell." It seemed like had had enough of her because he shoved the satchel into her hands and opened the door. Instead of revealing the corridor she had seen earlier, the door opened onto a broad stretch of road leading up to a large white, stone house.

"One more thing," said Alston hurriedly as he guided her towards the door. "Understandably, none of our host families would be thrilled to have their children cared for by convicts. As you may have noticed in your contract, we omitted any mention of your trial. As far as the Plimpton's are concerned, you are a recent graduate of the Merlin Institute. I trust that for your own sake, and for the sake of the program, you will remain discrete." He was practically shoving her through the door now. She stepped out onto the gravel path.

"What's the Merlin--" she heard a door click shut and whirled around. Alston and the door leading to his cramped little office were gone.