Chapter 5 #2
When we came to the stairs, my ghost cat disappeared into the front of the tea shop.
I peeked in to see her exploring. A witch’s broom and hat sat with a miniature bale of hay in the corner.
Small tables dotted the room topped with mini cauldrons filled with red and orange flowers.
The shelves held Halloween-themed teacups, some shaped as pumpkins, others adorned with tiny bats and ghosts.
A whimsical black feline figurine perched on the windowsill—no wait, that was my cat.
She stretched, then gave me an imperious glance.
“Why are you trying to solve Isabella’s murder?” Frank asked.
Because I couldn’t stand the thought of Frank’s or Lydia’s lives being ruined over other people’s prejudice.
I started climbing the stairs. “The only way we can prove you—or Lydia—didn’t do it is if we find out who did.”
“What if I did do it?”
I froze and turned to face him. He stood in the stairwell, watching me with his shadowy gaze. A small shiver ran down my spine while my heart twisted. No. Not Frank.
He passed a hand through his dark hair. “I remember taking the potion, I do. And Isabella had never let me down before. But this time… I can’t recall what happened after I took it.
It’s like I blacked out, and when I awoke, I was laying in bed wearing my plaid pajama pants and shirt that my mom gave me for my birthday. ”
“Besides the potions, did you take anything else? Alcohol, sedatives?”
Huddled this close on the stairs, Frank’s broad shoulders filling the stairway, somehow felt even more intimate than outside in the bright daylight. He shook his head. “I know better than to consume anything with the wolfsbane potion, especially on the night of a full moon.”
“Maybe you took it and went to bed and you just forgot the getting ready part?”
“Maybe. But the thing is, I don’t normally sleep in pajamas.”
Instinctively, I leaned a little closer to him. “What do you sleep in?”
He lifted an eyebrow, and my cheeks blazed. I straightened, shoving my glasses up the bridge of my nose and clearing my throat.
“I see.” My voice had an odd, raspy sound to it. “Right, um, should we continue?”
I quickly ascended the steps, entering a lengthy hallway. I found the second right-hand door and pushed inside, willing my warm cheeks to cool.
The flowery decor and pictures on the wall told me that this was Isabella’s room.
She’d said she buried her journal in the false bottom of the last dresser drawer. I walked to the dresser and knelt, opening the bottom drawer. My spectral feline trailed me into the room and jumped onto the mattress.
An amused smile was on Frank’s face and he leaned against the doorjamb as he studied me. “I asked around about you.”
I combed through the pile of clothes, my heart taking a little leap. “And what did you discover?”
“I discovered you haven’t changed at all—still as private as ever. Always reading, avoiding making a spectacle, keeping to yourself.”
His description made us sound worlds apart.
Perhaps we were.
“Sounds about right.” I shoved the clothes to the side and scraped my fingers along the smooth wood, not meeting his gaze. Here it came, the admission that he didn’t understand me.
“And you’re still willing to help a certain fae when he desperately needs it, like the time you helped me find Duchess.”
The ghost cat suddenly perked up and jumped from the bed and wrapped herself around Frank’s leg, purring.
I glanced up, wide-eyed, butterflies flitting about in my stomach. “You remember that?”
“How could I forget?” He stared at me, his intense gaze growing soft. “I admire that. Caring for others and yet not giving a crap about what others think of you.”
I paused. That wasn’t the response I was expecting.
Frank gave me a gentle smile. “Maybe that was why you chose to play the piano at the Netherfield party?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t go searching for people’s disdain. And everyone cares about what others think about them to some degree.”
He chuckled. “You are quite the mystery, you know?”
Now I laughed. Me? A mystery?
“I mean it,” his warm voice pressed. “One moment you’re banging on a piano, singing your heart out, and the next you’re shyly ducking your head in a drawer, trying to avoid eye contact. I find your behavior very contradictory.”
I paused, finally glancing back at him. “That’s why you used the line from the poem.”
His charming smile nearly undid me. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”
I buried my face into the drawer to hide my heating cheeks. Frank Churchill had a way of making the blood rush to my head.
Where was that blasted false bottom?
He examined the bedroom, taking in the pictures and polo trophies and sighing. “I suppose I should start searching. It’s just this room and her scent.” His face fell. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
He moved over to the bed. My ghostly feline followed.
Duchess? I’d forgotten the name of the cat we’d looked for that day.
But by the way she was fawning over Frank and how she’d reacted to his words, that had to be her name.
Should I mention something to Frank? But what should I say?
Hey, so I think your dead cat is following me around.
Because that wouldn’t make me sound crazy.
Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a small plastic container filled with what looked to be all sorts of bottles and ingredients. My curiosity peaked, but I forced myself to focus on my task.
My fingers hit the crack in the hardwood. Bingo. I pried it up.
The brown leather journal sat at the bottom of the small compartment. Eagerly, I cracked it open.
The first part of it seemed to be a collection of ingredients for medicines and…
potions? I peered closer. Yes, some of her concoctions involved potions only witches were able to brew.
Was this how Lydia had gotten involved? Even Lydia wouldn’t escape a scolding if Mom found out she was making potions for Isabella to use in her fae remedies.
I flipped farther into the journal, finding the actual diary part. I quickly scanned the pages to reach Isabella’s final week. Everything appeared normal, but I stopped at a passage that I couldn’t tear my eyes from.
I’m brewing a potion for Mr. C to help with an ailment. I can’t wait to see him again and tell him how I have missed him. Soon he will realize how much he means to me and we can finally be together.
I stared at the line, the butterflies within me dying a swift death.
Mr. C… Churchill. Did Isabella and Frank have a relationship?
Was that why he’d looked so sad at church?
Or did Isabella have unrequited feelings for Frank?
He knew her security code. He knew where her bedroom was located.
He’d been here before. Was he just desperate to find out what happened to her?
I thought he was flirting with me, but perhaps I’d missed what was going on under the surface. I tended to miss those subtleties.
Fank released a frustrated groan. “There’s no wolfsbane potion here.” He sat back, his face twisted in consternation. He glanced over at me. “What did you find?”
I slammed the journal shut and rose. But really, what was I hiding?
“I found this.” I hesitated only a moment before stepping toward him and handing it over. “There are recipes for different concoctions in the front.”
He opened the journal and flipped in a few pages. His gaze lighted. “Here. Her recipe for wolfsbane potion.” He held it, allowing me to see. A list of ingredients and in-depth instructions filled the page.
He brought the book back. “There is a little bit of simple fae magic involved, but most of it requires brewing and witchcraft.”
Brewing and witchcraft.
Everything that I discovered was pointing more and more toward Lydia. If she was assisting Isabella, could she have messed up the brewing? But why might she want to sabotage Frank’s potion?
What if it was all an accident?
“Frank, have you ever actually turned before?”
He frowned. “Once, after I was first bitten.”
“Do you remember what happens when you turn?”
“I’m not in control of myself. No werewolf is. But that doesn’t mean when I change back that I have no recollection of anything.” He shuddered. “That’s what makes it so strange. Usually I can recall every horrible moment.”
I adjusted the borrowed skirt that fell too short for my tastes. Each answer only made everything more confusing.
Frank handed the journal to me. “Would you brew this for me? It takes almost two weeks. We’d have to start right away to have it ready for the coming full moon.”
I opened my mouth to decline. Brewing potions wasn’t my forte. In fact, I’d spent most of my life eschewing witchcraft.
He watched me with hopeful eyes. I was likely the only witch—besides Lydia, who was looking increasingly suspicious—who understood he was a werewolf and was able to make the potion before the next full moon.
And even though I worried I might ruin everything with my poor brewing skills, I found myself nodding.
That smile that I adored spread across his lips. “I knew I could count on you.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it, his warm, long fingers making my heart race.
I swallowed. I was delving headfirst into witchcraft and death magic, and now I was helping a werewolf evade the law. My life, my beliefs, the light of the sun had been completely turned on its head.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary indeed.