“And how does that make you feel?”
 
Internally, Miranda Storm groaned in mental agony.
 
St Mungo’s had an onsite therapist that Miranda could have chosen to see. That would, unfortunately, have meant making a staff member aware that she had a problem. Miranda Storm didn’t have a problem, but she could certainly admit that she was stressed. She’d not even been married a year and there’d been an attempted murder on her new husband’s life by her demented criminal ex. Therapy was going to do bugger all.
 
“Vulnerable.” Miranda was currently sat on the edge of a chaise longue, legs crossed and her back pin straight. She was dressed in the black dress and tall stilettos that she’d worn all day at work. Her dark hair was pulled back into a pristine ponytail that fell down her back. Dark rimmed glasses had been pushed up onto her head and she was frowning uncomfortably.
 
“That’s a start.” Hillary Jabberworthy smiled encouragingly at her newest patient. Madame Jabberworthy was the third therapist for Miranda to try. Patrick Harpalot, the first, had smelt strongly of onions and dared to ask Miranda about her private life in the bedroom. Justine Fingerwickle, the second, smiled too much. So far, Jabberworthy hadn’t proved intolerably annoying and neither had she pried where no one should. Therefore, they were in the middle of their second session. The first had been spent with Miranda staring at the witch, expecting the whole process to occur within minds. Apparently, Jabberworthy had insisted, speech was also necessary for catharsis. At that point, Miranda had nearly walked out on her third therapist.
 
“Perhaps you need to tell him that.”
 
“My husband or the ex that tried to kill him?” Her tone was deadpan, calm. “Both know I may as well bring a rotting banana to a wand fight, yet I’m the one being looked at like a monster right now.”
 
“Mhmmm.” Jabberworthy frowned and looked down at the pad of parchment on her lap. She’d been scribbling on it throughout the whole session; something which greatly irked the witch who was used to being in control. “Do you not think your husband should know, Miranda?” Jabberworthy was a witch in her early 70s with short grey hair and kind grey eyes. Those eyes were gazing across at her in such a way that Mira felt she was trying to dig into her soul.
 
“Why would he want to?”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“I was a Durmstrang professor when I met Ignan. A cold-hearted bitch. Not some emotionally unstable wreck.”
 
“What do you think you are now?”
 
“The wreck.”