Agatha Stormlove was ruined, in all senses of the word. At age 65, she was as good as bankrupt, had been unceremoniously evicted from her home by her nephew, and had just lost the last remaining person she could call family. As she materialised out of the gloom at the edge of Spellhaven Village, there was a huge clap of thunder and a crack of lighting, before a deluge of rain began to obscure the view of tall gates in front of her.


    “Looks about right” she thought, rolling her eyes. The weather matched her mood perfectly. She peered through the rain now dripping from the brim of her tall black hat, and squinted to make out the writing on the crooked sign hung on the imposing gates. The Spellhaven Home for Retired Witches, she read. This was the place. The huge gates gave an ominous creak as she pushed them open, and if she’d looked back, she’d have seen the sign fall from its remaining hinge and land in the mud. Oblivious, Agatha took a deep breath, hitched up her battered suitcase and her long skirt, and began to trudge up the driveway toward her new home.


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