16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
H uddled over the workbench, Willow blew into her blue hands. Hot air billowed from the fan heater but lost the battle against the icy draught seeping through the outside door. Originally an outhouse full of junk and old boxes of bygone products, a coal bunker and outside loo, the workshop never lost its chill. While she appreciated the coolness on blistering summer days, temperatures struggled to rise in the depths of winter. Shivering, she sipped her tea to halt her chattering teeth. The long hot soak in the bath had failed to ease the deep ache in her freezing bones, so had curling up under the duvet, breathing in Nate’s aftershave on the pillow. Well, no one forced you to sit outside in your pjs on one of the coldest nights , she scolded herself. True, but as she watched Nate leave, she sank onto the doorstep where they’d met and her body refused to move, paralysed in shock that when she needed him most, she’d pushed him away. Vincent’s constant nudging and mewing finally broke the spell, forcing her into the building. Her heart ached when she discovered the cup of tepid tea, with its matching saucer, on the kitchen table, and it shattered into shards when she lifted the tea cosy to reveal a warm pot. With no teabags in sight, he had performed the ritual of tea making for her.
Don’t think, just work. This mantra had got her through bleak times before so it could again. Was it always this hard? Emotions swirled, consuming every part of her mind. Visions of him versus snapshots of the degrading online messages she was compelled to look at until she locked her phone away. Crushing grief versus gripping fear, and the desire to hide against the surge of adrenaline urging her to flee. All emotions fought for supremacy. Vincent had no conflict about the situation. He stood on guard outside. No matter how much she tried to entice him inside with treats, his need to protect took precedence over cuddles and comfort.
She lit more candles and a vintage paraffin lantern. If nothing else, they would add much-needed heat and light. The bright overhead light remained switched off. Its brightness dazzled and aggravated her brewing headache. She fumbled with a stopper of the bottle, sniffed it before adding two drops into the cauldron. Once the bubbling liquid released a satisfying fizz, she turned over the hourglass. The trickle of sand fell, and she took a deep breath, inhaling the floral aroma; her racing pulse calmed beat by beat. She was in her workshop. She was safe.
Of all the places in the Emporium, this was her favourite. It was truly her space, her haven. Created to her specifications, it was a blend of old and new. A collection of plants growing in the window’s light and herbs drying above her bench were reminiscent of Grandma Jax’s kitchen. Shelves and cupboards she rescued from flea markets and skips lined the walls and were full of meticulously organised ingredients and books. Handmade tiles decorated with alchemical symbols and sigils lined the wall behind the workbench. An extravagance she couldn’t resist when she saw them online. She balanced her guilt of reckless spending with the cleanliness and hygiene requirement of the area. They were easy to wipe any creative or spell disasters away and they added to the ambience of the room. Despite the traditional tools of a witch, such as the cauldron, crystal ball, mortar and pestle, and wands standing next to modern appliances, it resembled a mad chemist’s laboratory. A radio played softly when she wanted company, but most of the time, she was happy to work in silence, except today. She notched up the volume higher in desperation to drown out the incessant ringing of the shop’s phone drifting through the walls. It was driving her insane.
Thank goodness the shop was closed until New Year’s Eve; she wasn’t ready to face people. Or ghosts. Another benefit of this room, it was ghost free. No pitying looks or opinions about her love life, much to Mrs Marley’s frustration. Earlier, in the office, Willow saw her roll back her shoulders, ready to launch into an attack on Willow’s actions, so she took delight in slamming the interconnecting door shut, leaving the ghosts behind.
The beat of the music drowned out the tentative knock. Willow jumped when the door flew open and a running child slammed into her.
‘Thank you,’ he squealed.
‘Alejo.’ Willow ruffled his hair. Looking over at him, she saw Rosa standing in the doorway. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Alejo wanted to say thank you for his Christmas presents and so did I. You spoil him.’
‘The thanks could have waited.’
‘I know but … Okay. I needed a break from my mother.’ Rosa rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘And we were strolling along the beach when I bumped into John who said he saw you with a shiner at the pub with a man. And you were laughing!’
‘So, you came here for the gossip?’
Rosa grinned and nodded. ‘Of course. He wasn’t lying about your bruises. They look nasty. I’ll put the kettle on, but first, what is that stench?’
They both looked at the old, rickety door in the shadows at the back of the room. A green glow shone through the cracks and wisps of an emerald mist escaped. While the workshop was hers, the room beyond was not. Willow stroked the jar she’d received in the cracker.
Protection.
More ingredients were added into the cauldron and the resulting fragrance overpowered the sulphurous odour from the back room. Unsure what to say, Willow was relieved when Alejo interrupted.
‘Frog legs. Are you cooking frog legs?’
‘Frog legs. No. Slippery, slimy slugs maybe, but I can tell you there were no frogs involved in that brew,’ she replied, looking at Rosa.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. Why don’t you see if there are any lollies left over in the jar?’ He ran across the room, dragged a short stool to a table to reach for the treats. He mouthed a song to help him decide the flavour before choosing the red one, as he always did. Ever since she made the first batch of lollies using Grandma Jax’s recipe to soothe a nasty sore throat, Alejo expected them to be available for every visit. From the original honey and lemon, she experimented with calming lavender, refreshing raspberry, and numerous combinations. Red, whatever the flavour, always won.
Rosa placed a fresh drink next to Willow but cradled hers for warmth. ‘Mum got a French cookery book as a present, much to her disgust. She muttered about frog legs and snails all Christmas Day, much to Alejo’s fascination. Personally, I fancy trying them, but in Paris after I have shopped in all the boutiques. She loved your present and so did I. Are you sure about it? It is very extravagant even before the offer of babysitting that little rascal.’
‘Of course, I’m sure. You deserve a day being pampered and Alejo and I’ll have a splendid time. It’s a win-win situation. You can go there guilt free.’ A new spa had opened in a local hotel earlier in the year and Willow knew Rosa had drooled over the idea of jacuzzis, massages, and pampering until she registered the prices. She works hard , thought Willow, it would do her the world of good to have a treat .
‘Thank you, but don’t dodge the subject. Who is he? Where is he? And what did you do to your face?’
‘He was Nate and I imagine he is, if the traffic is clear on the M25, heading home.’
Willow returned to her work, hoping that was enough information.
‘Not a local then. Come on, Willow, I’ve been cooped up with Mum for days. I need more. Where did you find him then? When are you seeing him again?’
Willow sighed and briefly recounted their meeting and Christmas, glazing over the last evening and a few hours. ‘I’m not seeing him again. He is gone. It was just a fling.’
‘You don’t do flings.’ Rosa checked Alejo was out of earshot. But bored with being in a room where touching anything was forbidden, he’d slipped into the garden under the watchful eye of Vincent. Arms wide, he spun in circles, making engine noises, reminding Willow of her emergency room visit and Nate. A hard lump formed in her throat; she would not cry. Not now. Not in front of Rosa.
‘Pardon,’ she said, aware Rosa was waiting for a reply.
‘I said you don’t do flings. One-night stands occasionally but never more than a few hours. It must have been some shag.’
Willow blushed and ground the herbs in the pestle harder. ‘He knew what he was doing.’
‘Damn. Vincent brought you a hot hero. Was he wealthy?’
‘Strangely, I didn’t ask for payslips, but he seemed to do okay.’
‘Does he have any brothers?’
‘Two actually. One married with two kids and the other is married to his phone and work as a globetrotting influencer.’ Willow might have been unsure about what the role entailed, but, judging by the look of glee and excitement on her friend’s face, Rosa was not. ‘Enough please, Rosa. It was a Christmas affair. It’s over.’
‘It’s a shame, that’s all. John said you looked happy despite being bashed up. Are you sure you’re okay? You look knackered and your eyes red. Has he broken your heart and you’re plotting to poison him with a spiced green tea?’
‘Of course not. I ended it with him, and the eyes are from burning frog leg stew in there, which has nothing to do with him.’ They both studied the continual swirl of mist seeping from the far door. ‘Tell me more about your Christmas?’
Willow allowed the chatter to wash over her and nodded hopefully in the right places.
The slap of a tabloid newspaper on the bench regained her focus on her visitors. Her face and Sabrina’s shared the front page with a headshot of Clara. The feud between the two actors had intensified. A twisted plot they had dragged the store into.
‘That’s all we need. No wonder the phone has not stopped ringing. Even Old Percy has got fed up and pulled the phone from its socket for some peace.’
‘It will calm down when Clara drinks your tea. Did you see Libby has made her way home for Christmas?—you have another loyal fan, though Clara is blaming you for her need to search for new staff. It’ll be good though. Free publicity.’
Willow snorted. ‘I don’t want publicity. Have you seen the comments on Twitter? Some are lewd and …’ Willow wanted to tell her about her gripping fear when she read the words on the screen, but it would open up part of her history she couldn’t share with her friend, or anyone.
‘They are just trolls. Don’t let them get under your skin, otherwise they’ll do it more. Ignore them and they will disappear under the bridge where they belong. Trust me, this will put the Enchanted Emporium on the map, and it will go from strength to strength.’
Not if I have anything to do with it , thought Willow, decanting the current brew into a jar.
Willow stayed in the workshop as long as she could. Darkness fell, and Vincent groaned with hunger.
‘Sorry, boy, I got distracted. Things to catch up on, you know.’ Lies. More lies, but unlike Rosa, Vincent didn’t believe her. For the first time since she moved into the flat, she didn’t want to go home. The rooms were too empty and too large without Nate’s presence. How could someone who flitted into your life for less than seventy-two hours leave a gaping hole so wide in her heart she doubted it would heal? The cheer on the TV amplified her distress, music reminded her of his foolish dancing, but the silence fuelled her fear. The fear ignited the paranoia of being watched and found. She flinched at every sound, convinced it was Rafe. Every room was checked for monsters and internet trolls in case they’d invaded her physical space and her mind. Satisfied she was safe, she curled up on the sofa exhausted, watching the flames dance in the hearth. Vincent draped himself over her until she gave him more space and she succumbed to heart-wrenching sobs until her throat hurt and eyes burned. She used the cuff of the jumper he had left behind to wipe away her tears and switched on her phone, hoping among the endless notifications there would be a text or a missed call from him. Nothing. There were messages from Amber and a missed call from Glenn. A return call would wait; she couldn’t face talking to him. Hope rose with the receipt of an incoming text message and was dashed when it was just Glenn. Opening it, she sobbed at the influx of Christmas Day photos, the party hats, the sharing gifts, and the indulgent meal. Joviality filled each image. She studied the selfie capturing everyone, including Vincent squeezed on the sofa. They looked happy. Nate fitted into her life and she had pushed him away. At that moment, she’d had it all, but she had thrown it away.
‘I had to,’ she told Mrs Marley, flickering in her peripheral vision. ‘It wouldn’t be right to land him in the shit that is coming.’ Ever since she decided to put down roots in Whitby, she’d feared discovery, knowing one mistake could bring Rafe back into her life. Time and distance had made her complacent, but the message was a warning. The bruises he’d inflicted might have faded, but his final threat remained real. As much as it hurt breaking up with Nate, it was better this way. Being single was her destiny.
An alarm shrilled. It was time. Vincent stayed close as she opened the aged door. With a scarf wrapped over her mouth, she went in. Rosa and Alejo were right, this potion stank and made her eyes sting. While the Emporium welcomed her presence, and the workroom was hers, this room never would be. It belonged to the original owner and hummed with a deafening energy that often overwhelmed her. She rarely entered. Builders had discovered the tiny room hidden behind a brick wall during the renovation. Their initial excitement dissolved the moment a witch’s lair was revealed under a century’s worth of cobwebs. Cupboards full of bottles and shelves of aged, handwritten grimoires lined the walls, leaving a space for the workbench already prepared for the witch’s return. The intense atmosphere made the builders pale and tremble. Willow made strong tea to calm them, but one refused to return to work. Willow knew this was the hub of the store’s power and the origin of the courtyard’s name, the Witch’s Yard. The walls resonated with the residues from the previous witch’s magic, light and dark, and her emotions, love and hate. It was this extreme energy Willow needed to tap into. She had every faith in Amber’s protection spell, but she required it to do more. She added a few drops of Amber’s potion to the potent liquid brewing in the ancient cauldron and recited the words she had found in the dusty grimoire. The now-sludgy-green vapour retreated into the pot and the air cleared. The spell was complete. Willow ladled the potion into a bowl and locked the room.
Outside, she walked the perimeter of the garden, painting sigils on each wall, gate, and door with the viscous liquid. She repeated the actions at the front of the Emporium, drawing the final pattern at the snicket entrance. Satisfied she’d warded every potential entrance, Willow retreated to her flat.
The night deepened. A mist formed from the ground, swirling upwards. It thickened. A black brume bellowed into the street from Black Cat Alley until it shrouded the town. With the help of a sleeping draught, Willow slept.