Chapter 4 #2
He scratches the door and howls pitifully.
Abandoned! I’ve never known such neglect! I’ve been awake all night shivering in this cold room!
“I can see a Rafe-shaped dent in the jumper I left behind on the counter, and you clearly procured yourself breakfast, so stop this performance. I brought you some clothes.” I step over the former rat and drop the stack of Warrick’s clothes down on the counter.
Rafe gives them a poke with his paw, then hops on top of the pile and curls his tail around himself.
He starts kneading the sweater. “No, they’re not for sitting on.
These’re so you can be in your human form without me having to look at your winkle.
They belong to my husband, so no clawing them up. I think you’re both a similar size—”
Rafe leaps off the pile and, with a look of utter disgust, swipes it off the counter. Neatly-folded shirts and creased jeans bounce on the paint-splattered drop cloths.
A second later, human Rafe is sitting naked on the counter, shaking his head as he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten down the two tufts that stick up like cat ears. “I refuse to wear your husband’s hand-me-down clothes.”
“You can’t work naked.”
“I can and will.” Rafe kicks a jumper. “This is polyester. Do I look like I put polyester against my skin?”
“Once we open and I make some money, we can do some online shopping and I’ll buy you something that you choose. But to get to that stage, I need you to put some trousers on and stop complaining.”
“I get to go shopping with your credit card?” Rafe leans forward, his chin in his hands as he regards me with sparkling ocean eyes. “You’ll let me buy whatever I want?”
“Within reason.”
“You didn’t say that before, so it’s not legally binding. Oh, you are going to regret this promise. I have both expensive and exquisite taste.” Rafe leaps down and riffles through the pile of clothes. “After I don these monstrosities you dare call garments, what’s on the agenda today?”
“We um—” I get distracted by Rafe’s exquisite arse. I shake my head. Stop that, Autumn, keep your eyes on the prize. And I don’t mean that prize derriere. “We need to put the next coat of paint on the walls, and then I’ll find a carpenter to make the shelving and tables.”
Rafe pulls on a pair of black boxers, and I find myself swallowing down the tiniest bit of disappointment. “And you brought the gothwaffles?”
“The gothwaffles?”
“The spellbooks that will have a cure for my curse. You called them gothwaffles last night.”
“Oh, right. The grimoires are right here. I thought we could look over them at lunch and see if there was anything useful. But speaking of gothwaffles, Celeste is open, so I’ll head next door and get us some breakfast while you get started.”
I duck through the door to Glazed and Confused. Pax’s voice thunders through the small bakery as he thumps down sourdough loaves for customers. Celeste is wiping down tables. She goes in to hug me.
“How are you doing this morning?” she asks.
“I found out the identity of our ghost,” I whisper. “It’s Rafe the cat. He’s actually a cat burglar named Rafe. He tried to rob the Widow Hardcastle, and she turned him into a cat.”
“I actually meant, how are you holding up with Warrick gone? Have the police found anything new? But I think I have my answer.”
Oh, right. I’m supposed to be the worried wife. I shake my head. “Nothing new. I’m distracting myself with shop stuff. And Rafe is definitely a distraction. He can now turn back into a human if he’s near me. He’s your cheese-stealing ghost.”
Celeste snorts. “I should have known. That cat is a menace. Can you imagine someone being silly enough to rob Widow Hardcastle? What did she even have of value anyway? I wonder if it has anything to do with her murder.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I say. “And the police won’t follow that because they don’t take witchcraft seriously. I promised Rafe that I’d try to break his curse, but I think it’s all connected. I’m going to look into it.”
“Count me in for whatever you need,” Celeste says. “And that goes for Warrick things, too. Did you and your menace of a cat need breakfast?”
I glance up at the breakfast menu. Every week, Celeste does a few cafe-style breakfast options in addition to her baked goods. My eyes land on the waffles, and a silly idea occurs to me.
“Could you make us some gothwaffles?”
“Some what?”
“Gothwaffles. Waffles that are goth. I don’t know what that would involve, but it’s a running joke between Rafe and me.”
“Gothwaffles. I love it.” Celeste disappears out back. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll bring them over when they’re ready.”
“He even looks like Rafe the cat,” Celeste whispers to me as she clears away our plates.
The gothwaffles were delicious. She’d written RIP on them in chocolate drizzle and placed them upright like tombstones in a garden of salted caramel crumb and fruit “flowers.” Rafe declared her a genius and seems to have forgotten entirely that he hates the smell of wolf.
“Well, Rafe the cat, if he were a lingerie model. He’s stunning. ”
“He is? I haven’t noticed.”
My cheeks burn. How is it that I can’t even think about that man without blushing?
“You’re a terrible liar, Autumn Abernathy.” Celeste winks at me. She heads back to her shop. “I’m leaving this door closed so the paint fumes don’t put off my customers, but feel free to come by for lunch.”
After Rafe licks both of our plates clean, we get cracking on the next coat of paint.
Rafe steals my phone and puts on a playlist. I expect to hate his music because he’s a criminal and I assume criminals don’t enjoy art and beautiful things, but he’s put on a mix of British folk rock and medieval music that makes my hips want to sway. He whistles along as he works.
“I love this music,” I tell him as I load up my roller tray with more paint. “It makes me feel like I’m walking into a real fantasy tavern.”
“You sound surprised,” he says. “You think because I’m a thief, the only songs I listen to are Jailhouse Rock and Folsom Prison Blues?”
Yes. “No.”
“Autumn Abernathy, that is a lie. I wasn’t always a thief, you know.
” He kneels. Warrick’s trousers fall over his narrow hips as he carefully cuts in around the oak beam on the windowsill.
“I wanted to be a musician, truth be told. I’ve always had a gift for it – I’m one of those people who can pick up any instrument and figure it out.
My mammy said I had the voice of an angel.
My pappy said music was a waste of time, and I was never going to be a rockstar. ”
I think of all the creative ideas Warrick talked me out of over the years, and a ball of fury churns in my stomach that Rafe had been told to give up something he enjoyed.
“I’m sorry he said that to you. Not everyone can be a rock star with millions of fans and a career, but everyone should get the chance to enjoy making something and giving their songs to the world. ”
In the empty shop, my words echo strangely, louder and more certain than I expect.
The air between us hums, as if it’s filled with a swarm of bees. When Rafe speaks, I get the sense he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Pappy was trying to be sensible. Life never dealt him a good hand, and he had no reason to believe any different for me. He was a gardener, like the Widow Hardcastle. His garden was his pride and joy – he could feed our family of six with the vegetable patch and the fruit trees, and used to win awards every year. He even had a display at the Chelsea Flower Show once. He made a little extra money from it on the side, propagating exotic plants for collectors. My sisters were smarter than I, so they were focused on schoolwork, and Pappy viewed the garden as men’s work, so he made me help him. ”
“You garden?” I look at Rafe’s long fingers, imagining the softness of his skin. I can’t believe that man’s ever had dirt under his nails.
“I was hopeless,” he admits. “I don’t have the patience, and I don’t find digging my fingers into fresh compost quite the joy that others do.”
“Why, I’m shocked.” Digging into fresh compost is one of my absolute favourite things. It’s like baking a complicated recipe you’ve never tried before, and then pulling an absolutely perfect cake out of the oven.
One of my bees walks along my earlobe.
Don’t think about the compost.
“But I liked the flowers Dad grew,” Rafe continues. “Rare things, expensive. I always wanted things I couldn’t afford. That’s why I became a thief. It’s the same reason all young men become ratbags. Wanting.”
“How did you end up on the wrong side of the law?” I ask.
“You want my villain origin story?” He makes a purring noise in the back of his throat. Without turning around, his tail moves the paint bucket closer so he can dip his brush.
“I didn’t mean—”
He whirls around, his lips curled back into a wicked grin as he catches me staring. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, Supreme Commander of the Bees.”
“I don’t have a villain origin story.” My heart races. “I’ve never even got a parking ticket.”
Two bees on the windowsill buzz in lazy circles.
“I find that hard to believe.” Rafe shoos one of the bees away so he can paint around the window frame.
“But I’m not ashamed of being hired by one rich toff to steal from his mate down the road.
It’s pure Keynesian theatre. But you asked how I got into crime.
I quit school at sixteen, and I was working as a forklift driver in a warehouse.
I used to take my lunch breaks with a rough crew from the garden centre next door.
Those guys always had the latest stuff – brand new iPhones, fancy sneakers, bought their lunch every day instead of having to eat ham, cheese, and pickle sandwiches from home – all the shit you care about when you’re a poor kid.
They were always whispering to each other, talking about ‘jobs’ that I gathered weren’t jobs at the garden centre.