Chapter 2
Iturn the rose quartz forty degrees to the left, my nose crinkling as I scrutinise it. Finally, after several long seconds, I turn it back to its original position and then move the moonstone beside it twenty degrees to the right.
With a sigh, I make myself take a step back from the glass display case containing neat rows of healing stones and crystals. I’m hyperfixating and I know it. Shaking my head in annoyance—mostly at myself—I pick up the empty cardboard boxes and head into the back room of my new shop.
It’s been almost a month since Dad and Pop drove me to London, their Jeep packed to the brim with my belongings. I could barely move in the backseat with boxes and cases stacked around me. I’ve got to hand it to Pop, all those years of playing Tetris really paid off.
The flat above the shop had been included in the shop’s rent, which was perfect for my needs.
It also came fully furnished, which meant I only needed to bring my personal belongings.
Okay, so it is tiny, especially considering I’m used to a sprawling farmhouse set on acres of land.
Now I live in a one-bedroom flat with a small living room and an even tinier kitchenette.
The size doesn’t bother me. It’s cosy and all mine, although after the silence of the Devonshire countryside, getting woken up by sirens at all times of the night and hearing the pubs empty out a few streets over has certainly taken some getting used to.
I make sure to meditate every night—well, as best as I can—to try and stay focused, locking out all the unwanted emotions of others. It took a lot of concentration when I first arrived, but it’s getting a little easier.
The shop itself is along a quieter side street in Islington. I don’t have any signage out front, not wanting to invite too much foot traffic to stampede through my store, ogling the stock like it’s some new age occult fad.
I’ve spent years building up my business and running it from the farmhouse, providing online instruction and guidance for those just starting out in the craft.
I also sell specialised ingredients and other things required for magic working.
Many of my regular customers had often expressed a wish to meet in person or have a retail space to visit where they could peruse specialist items for spellcraft, but it didn’t seem worth renting a space back in Devon, and I certainly didn’t want people tromping through my home.
When I first made the decision to move to London, I’d looked through reams and reams of listings, and this particular place had jumped out at me. It had everything I needed and allowed me enough space to continue to run my business.
I knew that being in a busy city like London was going to be a big enough adjustment for me, and I didn’t want to open my shop to the public.
Ames Magical Emporium is predominantly by appointment only.
I have no doubt I’ll get the odd walk-in, and I’m not opposed to that, but at least it won’t be a constant stream of people who are just looking to dabble in the occult and call themselves pagan.
My business is for people who are very serious about the craft, who search for knowledge and a deeper understanding of the earth and the magical world around them.
Flattening the empty stock boxes, I stack them in the corner to be recycled and survey the back room.
It’s perfect. Bigger than the retail area at the front, which suits me, it’s large enough for me to work and also for me to cast a circle for my own rituals.
The flat upstairs doesn’t have the space or the right feel to it. This, however, is perfect.
It was a small tattoo shop at one point, which would explain the size of the back room and why there’s a small toilet leading off it and another long, narrow room, which I’m using to store stock.
At the moment, I buy all my herbs from a lovely Wiccan woman called Norah, who cultivates and harvests them back home in Devon.
It’s something I’d like to do myself eventually.
I’ve always loved getting my hands in the earth and watching things grow, but there’s no chance of that while I’m living here.
Still, it’s not like this is going to be permanent.
I have no doubt that I’ll move back home eventually.
But right now, I need to learn to live on my own without the safety cushion of my parents.
I meant what I said to Dad; no thirty-year-old man should still be living at home.
Time just passed by so quickly. One minute I was an awkward, gangly teenager learning not just the craft but how to control my magical abilities, the next I looked up and ten, then fifteen years had passed in the blink of an eye.
Now, I’m an awkward, gangly man, and still trying to wrangle in my magic. I think part of not being able to control my gifts is due to feeling so conflicted about who I am and where these abilities come from. I’m hoping that once I figure that out, I’ll be able to go home and be content.
I exhale heavily and come full circle to the reason I was hyperfixating on every tiny placement of items in the shop.
Avoidance.
It’s been three weeks, and I still haven’t ventured to Whitechapel.
I know who my birth mother is, I know where she lives and works, but I’ve been putting off going to meet her.
It’s so ridiculous. She’s not expecting me.
I doubt she’d even know who I was. She wouldn’t even recognise my name, considering Dad and Pop changed it when they legally adopted me.
She gave me up and didn’t look back. She never tried to find me or contact me, not so much as an anonymous birthday card or—
I pinch the bridge of my nose and focus on my breathing. Anxiety grips my ribs and squeezes. I know what Dad told me about her giving me up. That she was scared of something, although she never said what.
When pressed, Dad had admitted he’d sensed shadows all around her.
He’s always been sensitive to portents and omens.
It’s why he’d taken it so seriously when she’d asked him to take me and protect me.
Intellectually, I understand it, but the sad, lonely, little boy inside me still feels the sting of rejection.
Was it because I was different? Had she somehow been able to sense that I wasn’t normal? Was that why she’d given me up?
Logically, there’s only one way for me to find out. I have to face her. Thanks to my ability to read others, I don’t even need to introduce myself, and even if I did, she wouldn’t be able to lie to me. I’ll be able to feel exactly what she was feeling if I allow myself.
And that’s the crux of it.
Is it really better to know the truth? Or should I just give up, even if it means spending the rest of my life in this unsettled state of limbo?
I’m driving myself crazy.
But surely it’s better to just rip the plaster off quick and deal with the fallout. Whether Vivienne Wilson wants to deal with me or not, she has answers about my life only a mother could provide.
Turning to the mirror mounted on the wall beside me, I take in my appearance, from my pale, freckled skin and what Pop always called my cornflower-blue eyes to the polished brogues, slim-fitting trousers, checked shirt, and bow tie.
Raising my hand, I smooth down my bright red hair, which I’ve styled ruthlessly into a neat side parting that causes my thick locks to almost form cresting waves.
I’ve always disliked my hair. It’s too thick, too unruly, too colourful, too everything.
Does she have red hair? My mother, I mean. It’s funny, I don’t ever remember asking my dad what she looked like. He has always just described her as a scared kid. She’d been barely seventeen years old when she had me.
I’ve never even seen a picture of her. My dads didn’t have one, and why would they? She dumped me and legged it out of the door before the ink was dry on the birth certificate.
Okay, so I might have some lingering resentment.
Shaking my head, I reach up and grab my jacket from the hook next to the mirror and slip it on.
You’re just going to get this over with, I tell my reflection firmly. Then you can stop stewing on it and get on with your life.
Grabbing my keys and my wallet, I head out of the shop, locking up firmly behind me, and step out onto the street.
It doesn’t take long to make my way up to Highbury and Islington station, and I arrive five minutes before the train I need is due.
The journey itself takes less than twenty minutes, and I find myself jiggling my knee restlessly the whole way there.
I don’t seem to know what to do with my hands either. I hate feeling nervous and unsure. It really brings out the waspish side of my personality.
What on earth am I going to say to the woman?
Trying to push that thought from my mind, I recount all the healing crystals I can think of in alphabetical order. When that doesn’t work, I begin reciting them all backwards. When that doesn’t work either, I sing the song my dads taught me softly under my breath.
A is for amber, amethyst and aventurine…
I get off at Whitechapel, still humming quietly as I pull out my phone and bring up the maps app.
There’s labradorite and malachite, and not forgetting selenite…
My heart is pounding hard as I follow the directions and find myself facing an almost deserted alley that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Jack the Ripper period drama.
Calcite and Danburite… I murmur, my steps slowing… and back to Amazonite.
I stop in front of a huge, terraced Victorian building that’s at least three storeys high, possibly four when taking into account the dormer windows protruding from the roof.
It might have a cellar too. A lot of Victorian properties did.
On the ground level is an old-fashioned shop frontage which reminds me of an old apothecary. The faded paint on the wooden sign reads Whitechapel Occult Books & Curiosities.