The Witch Who Failed Her Flying Test

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Agatha Grimble had survived three centuries of curses, two inquisitions, and a marriage to a man who collected haunted teaspoons. She dangled from an oak branch outside Blackthorn Castle, one boot hooked over the wood, her hat covering half her face, while her black cat, Pickles, sat on the broom that had betrayed her. Below, a skeleton made a note on his clipboard. “Unscheduled dismount,” he announced. “Failure to maintain altitude. Improper use of tree.” “The tree attacked me!” Agatha shouted. “Trees have right of way,” replied Inspector Mortimer Bones. “Section thirteen, subsection bark.” On the pavement, a younger witch named Elsie clutched her own broom and watched in horror. “Does everyone fail the first time?” she whispered. “This is her seventeenth,” Mortimer said. Agatha tried to climb down, tore her sleeve, and landed in a patch of nettles that had been planted to discourage trespassers. “I demand a retest!” she cried. “You have already had three today.” “Then I demand a recount!” Mortimer tapped the form. “Your score is minus forty-two.” Agatha glanced at the wooden obstacle course. One traffic cone had fainted. “It was a perfectly respectable landing,” she insisted. “You landed upside down in a tree.” “A creative interpretation of vertical parking.” Mortimer pointed to the castle tower, where the official examination flag hung in tatters. “You also flew through the headmistress's bedroom.” Pickles meowed and produced a smug expression that cats had perfected long before humans invented disappointment. Mortimer closed his clipboard. “Your provisional flying licence is suspended until you complete remedial instruction.” Agatha went pale. “You cannot mean...” “The beginner's course.” Agatha arrived the following morning wearing her most threatening cloak. Her instructor, Prudence, greeted her with a sunflower badge. “Welcome, Agatha! We're going to learn that flying is fun!” “Flying is an ancient art of terrible power.” “And fun!” Prudence handed her a foam helmet shaped like a pumpkin. “Safety first.” The first exercise was gentle takeoff. The apprentices rose like dandelion seeds. Agatha's broom shuddered, sneezed green sparks, and shot backward into a compost heap. “Wonderful enthusiasm!” Prudence called. “Try directing it upward next time.” She was beginning to suspect that her broom hated her. At the end of the lesson, Prudence gave everyone a gold star. Agatha received a sticker reading MOST IMPROVED AT NOT SETTING FIRE TO THE FIELD. “That is a very specific award,” Agatha complained. “Last week you set fire to the field,” Prudence reminded her. “It was cold.” “It was July.” “Precisely. The weather has become unreliable.” The apprentices giggled, and Agatha felt the sting of being laughed at. She had spent so many years making people fear her that she had forgotten how to survive their amusement. That evening, Pickles jumped onto the kitchen table and pushed forward a folded letter that had been wedged beneath the broom's binding. Agatha opened it. The heading read: NOTICE OF MANDATORY BROOMSTICK RETIREMENT. Its magical steering enchantment was expiring. Agatha sat down heavily. She had blamed it for failing her, never considering that it might simply be tired. “You should have told me,” she whispered. The broom leaned against her shoulder. For three nights she sat beside the retired broom, polishing its worn handle and remembering their adventures. Nightwhisper had never been the fastest broom. It had simply never abandoned her. The broom gave one creak. Pickles rubbed against its handle, and Agatha finally understood that retiring a friend was not the same as forgetting one. The next morning Agatha marched to Mortimer's office and demanded a new broom. “Certainly,” said the inspector. “The department provides a modern, fully certified model.” He unveiled a bright pink broomstick with silver tassels and a cheerful bell. Agatha stared. “I'd rather ride a rabid hedgehog.” She mounted the new broom. A sugary voice chirped, “Hello, valued flyer! Please state your destination!” “The castle.” “Would you like to share your journey with friends?” “Absolutely not.” The broom rang its bell and announced, “Sharing is caring!” Then it uploaded a magical portrait of Agatha's furious face to every crystal ball in the county. Prudence visited that afternoon. “Perhaps you don't need a faster broom,” she said. “Perhaps you need to understand why you fly.” It had never been about speed or impressive tricks. It had been the first time Agatha felt that the world was larger than her fears. For a moment she saw herself as a child again, standing in her grandmother’s garden with a broom too big for her hands. Her grandmother had told her that courage was not the absence of fear; it was choosing where to go despite it. Agatha had remembered the flying and forgotten the lesson. “I want to fly because I love the sky,” she said at last. Prudence smiled. “Then let's begin there.” They returned to the meadow at sunset.