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It was a dark and stormy night, and the Antichrist-apparent was afraid of thunder.
Nanny Ashtoreth was approaching her wits’ end.
She’d tried everything.[1] Warlock’s favorite lullaby.[2] Yelling at plants together.[3] Shadow puppets. Guided visualizations of grinding stormclouds under heels. Even — a last resort — snuggles.[4]
Warlock still couldn’t sleep.
Thunder crashed.
Finally, Ashtoreth stood. “Alright, Hellspawn, I know what to do. Get your mackintosh.” She paused, then remembered to add, “Spit spot!”
Warlock was so interested, he forgot to be scared about going outdoors.
Hurriedly, Brother Francis ushered the dripping pair into his cottage; the water evaporated from their raincoats as they crossed the threshold.
“What,” the gardener inquired over Warlock’s head, “are you doing here?”
“Visiting you.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“We noticed.” Ashtoreth hung Warlock's coat on the doorknob.
“It’s pouring out!”
“Noticed that, too.” Ashtoreth grinned. “So we came in.”
“What if someone had seen you?”
Ashtoreth gave Francis a long stare.[5]
Another crack of thunder rang out; a mingled yelp/yawn reclaimed Francis’s attention. “Oh, dear.” The gardener sighed. “Young Warlock, we’d best get you to bed.”
Perhaps it was the comfort of having both godparents present; perhaps the way the thunder seemed abnormally muted by the cottage walls; perhaps Warlock, having learned wiles from the experts, had been angling for exactly this outcome all along; perhaps it was simply the lateness of the hour finally overriding the fear of the storm.
Whatever the reason, tucked into Francis’s seldom-used cot, godparents sitting guard on either side, Warlock fell asleep almost immediately.
“Now.” Francis kept his voice low. “Explain.”
“He was scared,” Ashtoreth whispered defensively. “'S your thing, innit?”
“Scared children are my thing?”
“No!” Ashtoreth hissed.
“What, then?” Francis frowned.
Ashtoreth mumbled something.
“What?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
“...Ssstorms, alright?” Ashtoreth flushed. “You make people feel safe in storms. I remember.”
“...Oh.”
When the nostalgically charged silence had run its course, Francis reluctantly murmured, “Should you take him back to his room?”
“Hm.” Ashtoreth hesitated. “He might wake up, don’t you think?”
“So he might.”
“Growing children need sleep,” Ashtoreth added.
“So they do.” A bucktoothed smile bloomed on Francis’s face. “Better not risk it until closer to morning, then.”
“Better not,” Ashtoreth agreed. She settled back in her chair. “Did you hear there’s a new exhibition at the Serpentines?”
Rain fell; lightning flashed; thunder pealed.
In the gardener’s cottage, safe and sound, a child slept as his godparents whiled the night away.
1 Except for singing My Favorite Things. She had to draw the line somewhere.[^]
2 You know the one. It was not My Favorite Things.[^]
3 The plants were from Brother Francis. That particular attempt to foster Warlock’s loving treatment of all living things had backfired.[^]
4 Snuggles had been Nanny Ashtoreth’s first resort too, but she wasn’t about to admit it.[^]
5 Are you really questioning the ability of a demon and the Lord of Darkness to go unnoticed? the stare asked.[^]