Sophie and her husband, Oliver, returned home after a delightful birthday dinner at their favourite restaurant. The evening had been perfectpacked with family, friends, and a few of Olivers colleagues Sophie hadnt met before. Not that she minded; if Oliver had invited them, there mustve been a good reason. She wasnt one to arguelife was simpler when she just went along with his plans.
“Sophie, are your keys buried in that black hole of a handbag? Fancy fishing them out?” Oliver teased.
She rummaged through her bag, then yelped, dropping it with a thud.
“What was that for?”
“Something stabbed me!”
“With the amount of clutter in there, Im surprised it wasnt a stapler,” he laughed.
Sophie said nothing, plucking out the keys with care. Inside their flat, she barely gave the incident another thoughtshe was exhausted, aching, and desperate for a shower. But by morning, her finger was swollen, red, and throbbing. She remembered the prick, dumped her bag upside down, andlo and beholdout tumbled a rusty needle.
“What on earth?” She couldnt fathom how it got there. Shrugging, she tossed it in the bin, cleaned the cut, and bandaged it. Off to work she went, but by lunchtime, she was feverish and achy.
She rang Oliver. “I feel awful. That rusty needlemustve given me some ghastly infection.”
“See a doctor, love. Could be serious.”
“Its fine, Ive disinfected it.”
But by evening, she was worse. She cabbed home, collapsed on the sofa, and dreamt of her long-deceased grandmother, Evelyna frail, bent figure whod terrified others but comforted Sophie. Evelyn led her through a field, teaching her which herbs to pick for a healing tea. “Someone wishes you harm,” she warned. “Stay alive to fight back.”
Sophie woke in a sweatonly minutes had passed. Oliver gasped when he saw her: “Blimey, look at yourself!”
Her reflection was ghastlydull hair, hollow eyes, skin like porridge. Then she remembered the dream. “Gran told me what to do”
“Youre delirious. Were going to hospital.”
“No! She said doctors cant help.”
They rowed violentlyfirst time ever. Oliver threatened to drag her there “by the scruff of your neck.” She wriggled free, stumbled, and smacked her hip on the table corner. Fuming, Oliver grabbed his briefcase and stormed out.
He returned late, apologetic. All Sophie said was: “Take me to Grans village tomorrow.”
By morning, she looked like death warmed up. Oliver pleaded, “Sophie, stop this madness.” But they went.
The moment they neared the village, Sophie woke from her daze. “There,” she pointed weakly. She staggered into a field, found the herbs from her dream, and brewed the tea at home. Each sip revived her slightly. Later, her urine turned blackproof, Gran had said, that the poison was leaving her.
That night, Evelyn returned in another dream. “The needle was a curse. My remedys temporary. Buy needles, enchant the longest one, then slip it into Olivers bag. Whoever cursed you will prick themselveswell know them by their rage.”
Sophie obeyed. Days later, Oliver mentioned: “Odd thingIrene from accounting jabbed herself on a needle in my bag. Gave me a look that could curdle milk.”
Sophie froze. “Oliver whats between you and Irene?”
“Nothing! Its always been you.”
But Irene had been at the birthday dinner. Puzzle solved.
That night, Gran revealed Irenes plan: magical sabotage to steal Oliver. Sophie performed the counter-curse. Soon after, Oliver mentioned Irene was critically illdoctors baffled.
The next weekend, Sophie visited Evelyns grave for the first time in years. She tidied the plot, laid flowers, and whispered, “Sorry I stayed away. Without you, Id be gone.”
A breeze brushed her shoulderlike a ghostly pat. Sophie smiled. Shed be back.
