A Blend Of Magic
1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Eight Years ago
I t was the black cat’s fault Willow was there, but to her surprise, it was nowhere to be seen, not even lurking in the shadows with the estate agent, Clive. His reluctance to show her the property showed in his every step. There was no cheerful spiel telling her the highlights of the location or jovial banter as they walked through the labyrinth of cobbled streets in the coastal town. Only the call of the seagulls, waves crashing against the harbour wall, and the squeak of Willow’s battered Converse boots filled the silence. The suave man she’d met moments earlier shrank further into his oversized coat the closer they got, like a turtle retreating into its shell. The swagger he had in the estate agency was reduced to a slow shuffle. His grey face matched the turbulent clouds rolling in, and his perfectly groomed hair drooped in the fine drizzle. In contrast, hers took advantage of the damp to ping into a mass of blonde, frizzy curls to match the increasing bounce of her pace. She checked the property details again.
The Old Apothecary
Black Cat Alley
Fenwick’s Yard
Whitby
North Yorkshire
His colleagues had stood open-mouthed at her request to view it while his boss instructed Clive, the youngest employee, to take her. His face flashed with anger when he cast his judgemental eye over her appearance, taking in her ripped jeans and battered coat, convinced it would be a fruitless viewing, a folly, and a waste of his time.
Once they entered the covered snicket, he thrust the bunch of rusty keys towards her and refused to go any further, citing a dust allergy.
‘Not scared, are you?’ she joked, only to receive a frosty glare. Willow could understand his trepidation; the enclosed courtyard lived up to the nickname one estate agent spluttered out: the Witch’s Yard. Clive’s dislike was clear, but to her, the unkempt and abandoned building emerging from the trapped swirling fog was a thing of beauty, even with its peeling paintwork and missing roof tiles. It bulged as if its red-bricked neighbours were trying to remove the blight of the town by force. Their overlooking windows were bricked up years ago to avoid seeing it, and the large old gas lamp above the alley entrance failed in its duty to light up the square. Two bay windows flanked the store’s door, which, to her delight, had an intact stained-glass window above. With a clean, she could make the colours gleam.
She inserted the key into the lock. It stuck.
‘Come on, please.’
She jostled it until it clicked, and the door creaked open.
Willow stooped to avoid a large cobweb hung low across the doorway. Darkness loomed in front of her and she floundered against the wall to locate the light switch. The empty property had lingered on the estate agents’ books for decades; no one knew if the electricity was even still connected. The lights switched on, but it made no difference; the bulbs were hidden beneath a thick shade of webs and dust.
She stepped in. The floorboards sprang beneath her feet, causing her to proceed gingerly, and she sneezed as the dust motes danced. Maybe Clive had a point. Through stinging eyes, she saw a wall covered with shelves full of boxes and jars with yellow peeling labels, and opposite an old wooden counter ran the length of the long room. She couldn’t resist trailing her hand along it, feeling the wood beneath and its potential. To her joy, the removal of a ghostly cloth revealed a traditional brass cashier’s till. A satisfying ting rang out when she pressed a stiff button. Despite the display showing shillings and pence, it would have to stay.
She turned to face more shelves which rose to the ceiling, lined with jars full of things unknown and drawers of all sizes, many tiny. A large pair of scales stood on the counter, and a miniature brass version for precise measurement stood on the workspace behind. When Willow looked up, she saw the shadow of her smiling reflection in a mirror speckled with age declaring, ‘Brightly Beans cures all’. The property details were right. It was an old apothecary, or a chemist at least.
At the back of the room, Willow noticed a door hidden in the gloom of the shadows. Locked. She juggled her phone to switch on the torch to hunt for a matching key as the dim overhead lights refused to reach this corner. The air grew cold; goosebumps formed on her arms while the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
On a nearby stool sat an old man hunched over the counter, sifting through paperwork. The distinctive outline of an overall coat covering a suit grew more distinct, and a dark tie came partially into view. She could see his furrowed brow as he peered in concentration over the metal-framed glasses perched on his crooked nose. His nimble but arthritic fingers flicked through the barely visible pages. He stopped, sensing her as she sensed him.
Okay, not just a loop of time then , Willow thought.
Was this the ghost that provoked Clive’s allergies and the reason the property had remained empty for decades? They studied each other, his eyes scanning her up and down. Biting back her fear, she smiled, and to her relief, he returned the smile and nodded before continuing his eternal work.
Once through the labyrinth of shelves stashed full of dusty boxes, the next room opened up to be a deceptively large office. An old desk sat beneath a sash window while an aged coke burner for heat stood in the corner. She sat on a saggy, cracked-leather armchair and studied the room.
Would that heat the water? she thought, before acknowledging for the first time the spark of an idea she’d had on her midnight stroll had formed into a distinct possibility.
Willow made her way up the shop’s creaking, gloomy staircase and explored the flat. It’s another time warp. Just a different decade. Thick dust gathered on the kitchen cabinets, dulling the cheery yellow beneath. She screwed her nose up at the dark sticky residue on the faded, peeling wallpaper and ceiling near an aged cooker, revealing the last owner’s love of a fry-up. She hid her displeasure when she saw two chairs sitting opposite each other over a chipped Formica table, as if the occupiers had hastily left. Maybe the gentleman downstairs wasn’t the only resident in the building. The gaudy geometric carpet in the living room would have to go, she decided. Even in its muted state, it promised hallucinations or migraine if she looked at it too long. The windows overlooked the front of the shop, and Willow watched as Clive rubbed his hands and stamped his feet with cold. She would put him out of his misery soon, after she had explored the garden she’d spied from the bedroom window.
While secret yards like this were common in the town, hidden from tourists and treasured by locals, private gardens were not. Willow forced the back door open, and it hit the weeds and brambles threatening to climb the building like its own fairy-tale castle. The plot’s size was manageable, though it would take grit and hard work to clear. It was perfect for her own witch’s garden. Movement along the wall caught her eye. A dark shape emerged from the shadows; one she was expecting.
***
Willow always struggled to sleep, or rather, stay asleep. When darkness fell, even with a burning night light, sleep would evade her, and when her eyes finally closed, lung-crushing panic would wake her. Often snatches of the dreams fled before she had a chance to catch and analyse them, leaving behind anxiety and unease. Other times, they were filled with memories she would rather forget. She’d tried herbal concoctions, spells, even hypnosis, before she succumbed to seeking help with conventional medication, but that led to her being trapped in her fear, unable to escape, paralysed until the drugs wore off. Never again, she had decided, so she ran. She sprinted through the night until exhaustion took hold and she collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
Last night was no exception, despite her hopes the sea air and cosy room in Mrs Ramsey’s B&B would act as a sleeping draught and lull her to a deep sleep. Willow found herself on the clifftop bending over her burning thighs, fatigued from climbing the famous 199 stone stairs which wound up the hillside to St Mary’s Church and Whitby Abbey. She forced herself to sync her breathing with the waves crashing on the rocks below. Inhale. The salty, fishy air shocked the anxieties silent, a numbing relief from the continual scream left over from her disturbing nightmares. Exhale. Her fears and crushing panic were released into the brisk North Sea air. Her heart rate slowed, and body calmed. She uncurled and stretched, allowing herself to look down at the slumbering town and harbour. Shrouded in the darkness, the rambling streets she had left were quiet, a contrast to the hustle and bustle she’d experienced earlier in the day. The occasional light shone from houses, and Willow wondered what the residents’ stories were. Were they awake soothing a crying baby, burning the midnight oil for a deadline, or were they like her, haunted by dreams they couldn’t escape from?
The cool breeze hit her face, urging her to unclasp the clip holding back her hair. With her face tilted to the heavy moon, she stretched and felt alive, revitalised after a long hibernation. If Louise could see her now, she would have burst out laughing, encouraging Willow to savour the moment and hold it tight, like she did the last time they were here. On this cliff.
A nudge and pressure against her legs forced her to look down. A black cat wound itself around her. Its intense amber eyes, glistening in the moonlight, stared at her. She bent to stroke the silky feline, but it disappeared, only to materialise metres away on a wall. As she approached, it darted away towards the steps, urging her to follow. It led her past the shops and cottages of Church Street, through lanes and short cuts she recognised and some she didn’t. Disorientated, she saw the cat once more in the entrance of a shadowy ginnel. Instinct took over common sense, and she entered the dark, damp alley. Moonlight led the way as it shone on the courtyard ahead, revealing the derelict shop. The cat waited on the step before it faded away. Willow stood enchanted, not by the store with its twin bay windows, but by the tingle of excitement bubbling inside her and the potential she could see. For the first time, the wanderlust that had seen her travel and live from a backpack vanished and was replaced with the desire to stay and have a place to call home. The battered For Sale sign propped against the wall clinched the idea.
***
Now, with the sun straining to filter through the clouds, the witch and the cat met again. They acknowledged each other and Willow whispered her thanks before it melted away. Witch’s Yard was where she belonged. It was the perfect place to put down roots. The perfect place to hide.