Disclaimer: Howl's Moving Castle is property of Diana Wynne Jones

Set just after the end of HMC

Fragrant

"Howllllllll…"

He had tried dragging them apart, and he had tried shouting. He had even practiced a nice little spell that resulted in a dramatic explosion. But while he had gotten a reaction, he still lacked their complete attention. So several hours later, Michael was whining pitifully as he could manage, interspersed between much soft sighing and moaning and other indications of abject misery that would not further strain his throat.

"Calcifer…" But the fire demon merely cackled at him with wicked delight.

He made to get up and have another go at Howl's elegant sleeves, but Martha pushed him down again and leaned back in her chair, resting clasped hands and whirling thumbs on his head. "I do wish you would stop pestering them. It's so nice to see Sophie properly happy again!"

But he was not nearly ready to give up yet. "Howl…" he tried again, "it's time for supper."

The wizard did not seem to hear him, for his hands were still attached to Sophie's. He also had a rather foolish grin permanently magicked onto his vain face, quite unlike the charming and dashing expressions he used when courting young women. But maybe his mussed locks of hair, less radiantly blond than usual, enhanced that unusual appearance.

"Howl, we're hungry. I want to cook for my Lettie."

"You may as well call me Martha now," she interjected. "Since everyone else seems to be losing their disguises as well."

Michael waited, hoping for Howl to ask why he did not simply stop wailing and cook, or for Sophie to offer.

"Calcifer won't bend down to let me cook on him, and I can't bully him like Sophie does. And it's raining, so he won't leave the chimney so I can build my own fire."

Still, his plea aroused no sympathy from the otherwise occupied lovers.

Martha patted his head. "We can both survive on bread and cheese for a while. And if you'll stop sulking, I'll be off to Cesari's to find us the perfect cake to celebrate."

Cake did indeed sound perfect, but he doubted Howl and Sophie would join in the celebration. He glanced at his Lettie—Martha, Sophie's sister, not her great-niece—and stated matter-of-factly, "They're beginning to scare me. Do you think Miss Angorian cursed Howl's heart?"

"You look every bit as foolish yourself."

Michael frowned, not enjoying that thought. Howl always looked impressive and stunning, and so his apprentice should attempt as well. "Do I? I don't want to know." He shook his dark head resolutely. "I don't think I can stand to watch them anymore."

"You absolutely must!" she retorted in her most strong-minded way. "I'm going to Cesari's to get that cake, and someone has to be paying attention in case they," here she gestured at the couple, "do something disgustingly romantic. They'll get around to it sooner or later, and I want to be able to tell the embarrassing story to all our ten children."

"Ten children?" Michael echoed. "Did I agree to this earlier?"

"Do you object?"

He considered it thoughtfully for a moment, then replied, "No, I don't mind. But we'll have to start soon, won't we?"

She smiled, her thumbs a delighted peach whirlwind. Michel was distinctly certain that an expression as absurd as Howl's was creeping onto his own face, if Calcifer's snickers were anything by which to judge.

Martha hopped up from her chair, slender and fair and happy. "What do you think of a double wedding?"

"I'm not so sure." Imagining the scene, he frowned. "Between you and Howl, I'd be completely outshone."

"Then you're a fool. Howl's far too vain and showy, and I like you just the way you are." She strode over to the door, turned the knob yellow-down, and disappeared into the evening.

Sophie was still clinging to Howl's hands, looking radiant and giddy. Occasionally the two had made little sarcastic arguments with each other, but, as Michael reflected glumly, they were truly useless and off in their own private world.

He hardly believed that Sophie the terror, the horribly clean member of their strange family, could be the same mouse of a young woman his Lettie—Martha—had worried over. Why had the spell come off then, anyway? Shouldn't it have vanished with Miss Angorian?

Howl had said Sophie was keeping the spell on herself, which seemed a singularly odd thing to do. She was an undeniably pretty girl, so there was no point in her being an old woman. But then, Lettie had told Michael that her sister had always seen being the eldest as an excuse to run away from the risks in life. Maybe the Witch's curse had been a catalyst—and when she saw there was no point in being afraid and cautious anymore, when she found her courage and spunk, then she let go of all her excuses.

Now she was simply Sophie. Witch Sophie and Sorcerer Jenkins.

Happily ever after. The idea, as Howl had informed her, was truly hair-raising. But they would manage. Heartless Howl had gotten his back, and, reflecting on his disheveled appearance, she knew he must finally be ready to love if he had forsaken his daily vanity rituals in order to save her.

Sophie suddenly had one of her wickedly curious ideas. Eagerly, she leaned closer to him. Today Howl would not exude the fragrance of various flowers, and this might be her only chance to discover what he really smelled like. Not that she minded him scented fresh as a garden, but she was feeling invigorated and nosy, and the Welsh man would only slither out of this curiosity later.

She leaned into his shoulder, inhaling deeply and savoring—

Beer. She pulled away rather abruptly, having forgotten that the wizard was hung-over. Disappointingly, the reek of the previous night's alcohol completely covered whatever his natural scent was. The frustrated part of her wondered if he had done it on purpose; she would not put it passed him to spite her, slithering out of her attempts to discover all the truths of the mysterious Howl.

Blinking out of his daze, Howl examined her for a moment. "Excuse me, Miss Nose, but did you just sniff me?"

Calcifer was nodding rather dumbfoundedly in the fireplace, Michael having asked him the same question.

"You smell like a drunkard, and you look like one as well." Sophie poked him viciously. "I ought to clean you up like an honest, respectable husband."

Howl threw his hands up dramatically. "Someone preserve me, she's a terror even in her tender years. I'll have you know I have never been, nor ever shall be, respectable." He caught sight of his tattered sleeves dangling about his face, and began mending them magically. "And I am terribly dishonest. I cling to that."

Sophie ignored him and went into the bathroom. "Hot water, Calcifer." Howl shrugged and sailed in after her, shutting the door.

Michael and Calcifer sat in silence for a few moments.

"Was that disgustingly romantic?"

"No, I think they're being disgusting as normal."

…
End
…

-Windswift