A storm over a tea cup

Margaret saw Vivienne from halfway down the street. The way her red hair was styled, it made her head look like it was on fire. She wore a bandage dress made from strips of old clothes and heavy duty pit boots.

It was Margaret's opinion that Vivienne did a disservice to herself, women in general and their coven in particular. Sipping her tepid tea, she thought of casting a glamour. Avoiding the attention Vivienne was clearly courting. She settled for enjoying the cool summer breeze instead.

This part of London had been left to decay at the end of the second world war. Its few residents stayed out of necessity and tended to keep to themselves. Even the cup Margaret drank from had seen better days. It was off-yellow and chipped to the point of being dangerous.

"This had better be important," Vivienne slumped into the creaking deck-chair opposite and immediately lit a cigarette.

"It's certainly good to see you again," Margaret fanned the air, trying, and failing, to dismiss the cloud of smoke.

"What can I get you ladies?" The waiter appeared suddenly, as if rising out of the pavement.

"I'm fine," Margaret said.

"Coffee, black and if you have it a shot of whiskey." Vivienne accompanied each word with a gesture.

"I'm sure I can satisfy you," The waiter leered. He put Margaret in mind of some lecherous BBC sitcom star.

Lingering, he licked his lips and pretended to write something upon a scrap of paper. A swollen grey cloud passed the sun, casting him in shadow.

"I think we are done here," Margaret's tone told the waiter it was time to leave.

"You are going to have to give me that spell one day. Men just don't seem to want to listen to me once they have the horn," Vivienne said.

"It's not a spell. You just need to have courage in your convictions. Most people get through life without access to..." Margaret stopped, noticing the faded image stenciled onto the other woman's top; a swastika with the word destroy above it.

"Is that really necessary? Surely the country has had enough of that." Margaret pulled at her tights and straightened the hem of her skirt, so it sat just below her knee. Exactly where it belonged.

"Maybe the people who were alive back then have." As Vivienne talked the sky began to rumble "but our generation? We've been bred into apathy and need images to shock us out of it. Wake people up and show them...."

"Yes, it's all very...what was it your friend Malcolm called it on TV the other night...punk" The word tasted wrong in Margaret's mouth. She needed to expel it before it tainted her in some way.

A raindrop splashed into her cup, then more bounced upon the Formica table. As it pattered against her suit's shoulder pads, Margaret cast a spell keeping the table and, more importantly, her perm dry.

"You're being a little petulant don't you think, I asked you here as we are the last of our kind. The final two practitioners of magic in this once great nation and all you can do is..."

"You sound like you are canvasing for some party or other...oh, shit." Vivienne's jaw went slack, the remains of her cigarette dangerously close to falling into her lap.

"That's why I wanted to meet, I need you to confirm something for me." Margaret swallowed the last of her tea. Looking into the cup and she saw an all too familiar pattern of browning leaves clinging to the porcelain. To anyone but Margaret and Vivienne it was a stain to be cleaned, to them it was something so much more.

Rain came down in force upon the rest of the street. It hit the pavement and bounced back to knee height. Large puddles formed and bled together. The gutters overflowed and light flashed like the world was blinking in and out of existence.

Sliding the cup forward, Margaret settled back in her chair and placed her hands neatly upon her lap. Vivienne said nothing for a moment and then cast aside her cigarette and picked up the cup.

"Has it been the same every time?" she asked.

"Yes, at first I thought it might not have been washed properly but that will have been the fifth time the leaves have formed that pattern." Margaret fiddled with the hem of her skirt, trying not to think about the hideous symbolism she had seen at the bottom of the cup.

"Obviously we can't let this future come to pass," Vivienne said without looking up.

"I don't plan on it," Margaret sat a little straighter, as a beam of pure sunlight broke through the dark clouds smothering the sky.

"You think their vision of the future is any better?" Vivienne nodded to the cornflower blue pin on Margaret's lapel.

"Would you rather I stood for that," Margaret pointed at the swastika.

"The freedoms women gained during the war are being eroded. If we allow men to continue dictating our future and our lives, then we will find ourselves shackled to the sink once more or worse. You preach about waking the young from their apathy..." The sunlight warmed Margaret's shoulders as it broke through and pushed the storm further away.

"Stop. With your power...what you're suggesting...it's beyond madness it's..." Vivienne returned the cup to the table.

"We're the last of our kind precisely because we let those who feared our power take it from us."

"I need nothing more than your reading of the divination. I had so hoped I was wrong. Tasseomancy was never my strong suit but...if that is our future then it's up to me." Margaret looked up at the sky and dissolved the spell.

"That's what worries me, I'm not sure I trust your vision either..." Vivienne started.

"Then why don't you..." Margaret shook her head.

"I thought the rain would never stop, not that I would be upset seeing your white dress soaked." The waiter slithered out with a mug of coffee clasped in his pudgy sausage fingers.

Placing it before Vivienne, with a theatrical bow, he snuck a glimpse of her legs beneath the table. Hands behind his back, he was about to say something, when a bolt of lightning cracked the air and struck him.

Smoke drifted up from his thick black hair as he swayed, then fell backwards onto the pavement with a dull thud.

Margaret nodded at Vivienne and said "We are the only people who can change this country for the better" before rising from the table, stepping over the fallen man and walking off down the street in search of a taxi.

"You do know the difference between better and not as bad?" Margaret was too far away to hear Vivienne. Seeing the waiter's blackened fingers reaching out towards her calf, she took great pleasure in standing upon them.

A pained squeal was followed by a wet snapping noise as Vivienne stood and began to chase after Margaret.