Christmas dangled just out of reach on the horizon as Blythe transcribed the Chief Constable's notes in small, precise script. It was one of the more important tasks that the young secretary was entrusted with at the constabulary, and one she typically took great pride in. Today, though, the celebration of the birth of the Lord—one of the greatest wizards of all time!—made ordinarily enjoyable tasks rather pale in comparison, and as the afternoon began to wane, Blythe was eager to return home.

(True, Aunt Temperance was at full force throughout advent, but this time of year also saw the woman at her softest, not that this said a great deal.)

With daylight beginning to fade (and Blythe's six o'clock departure still the better part of two hours out), the witch side and set down her quill before moving to illuminate the lanterns about the constabulary proper, smiling shyly to herself as she lit the lantern nearest Constable Woodcroft's desk. He, like most of the men working, was out on patrol; indeed, it was only the Chief Constable in his office, door shut, and Blythe herself on site. Even the two holding cells sat empty, a testament to a quiet afternoon.

But all good things, of course, must come to an end.

It was none other than Constable Woodcroft himself who came rather loudly through the door, one of their regular drunkards (a Mr. Cratchitt) in tow. From the look of it, Mr. Cratchitt had put up a bit of a fight in the process—poor Constable Woodcroft looked rather worn, or perhaps merely resigned—though a quiet expert on many of his expressions, some remained difficult still for Blythe to decipher.

She did not meet either wizard's eye as she moved diligently to open the door that separated the central portion of the cramped office from the holding cells.

It all happened so quickly—a fist to the side of Constable Woodcroft's head saw Mr. Cractchitt freed long enough to make a beeline for the door of the constabulary—a route that Blythe was now blocking. O Lord.

"Stop," offered reluctantly as he paused briefly to consider her, more of a question really than an order, one offered by a girl who thought she could no more affect this man's choices than she could the cycle of day and night.

Blythe let out a small scream as Mr. Cratchitt appeared to be hurling himself towards her—only to realize, rather belatedly, that his motion was neither of his own accord nor likely to cause a collision between them. Indeed, both Mr. Cratchitt and Constable Woodcroft were now in something of a heap upon the floor, and Blythe's heartbeat pounded with abandon in her ears and temples. The energy of the situation had her positively jittery, and the young witch could not take it upon herself to do anything that might be construed as useful.

For a fleeting moment, Blythe wondered why Constable Woodcroft wanted to use her wand instead of his own—then she realized that he meant for her to use it.

There were a number of reasons that this was something of a fool's errand in Blythe's estimation, not least of which was the fact that the young secretary did not function well under pressure. Her wand was tidily holstered in its designated pocket of her skirt and then it somehow made it to her hand but, God as her witness, anything even vaguely useful that she might do with it seemed to evaporate like a puddle on a hot summer's day.

And so she stood there, eyes wide and panicked and imploring Constable Woodcroft to tell her what to do.

Well, she certainly fired a stunning spell.

And it certainly hit a target.

Unfortunately, due to a mixture of her nerves and inexperience, and the fact that they were so close to one another, the target had been the young constable rather than Mr. Cratchitt. As Constable Woodcroft's grip on the other man slackened and he fell to the floor, Mr. Cratchitt stopped and stared in confusion before Blythe, fully mortified, fired another spell at the drunkard.

Now she had two unconscious men on her hands. The implications of that would come to her only later, but for now, Blythe set about dragging Mr. Cratchitt into the holding cell. It was tiring work, and eventually, she resorted to levitating him (she only managed half his body, but it did the trick) into place before shutting the door firmly and letting out a small, exhausted sob. Constable Woodcroft was still on the floor, and neither her desire to run to his side nor to run and hide seemed likely to win out any time soon.

She instead stood there. Staring at him.

"Constable!" Blythe gasped in shock at the man's curse before realizing—belatedly—that if he could swear (her cheeks were decidedly quite pink at the fact that he had), that meant he was awake, which meant her efforts had not accidentally killed him. A good thing.

"He-he's in the cell," Blythe answered quietly, still wide-eyed and worried that she had done something wrong. Well, she had, but something other than stunning the constable by mistake. "I stunned him," she added sheepishly.

"Oh!" Blythe exclaimed, eyes widening once again. She hesitated a moment before reaching her hand down to Mr. Woodcroft, trying to ignore the telltale tingling of blush upon her cheeks.