27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
M ay’s glorious sunny weather brought tourists to Whitby, with many finding their way down Black Cat Alley to the Emporium, forcing Willow out of the workroom onto the shop floor. The endless stream of questions and serving kept her busy and, to Amber’s relief, she seemed happy. More like the Willow she used to know. In the jovial atmosphere, Amber enjoyed working side by side with a fellow witch. She loved Rosa, and they shared a laugh, but the pressure of being the one who could answer any questions beyond the available tea blends lay heavy on her shoulders. Amber finished serving her last customer and mopped her brow with her cardigan sleeve. Witch’s Yard was a sun trap and even with the fans on, the temperature was baking in the shop.
With the shop empty, both witches became aware they were alone for the first time in months. The silence grew, and Old Percy paused, waiting to see who would speak first.
‘How’s college?’ Willow asked.
‘It’s fine.’ The more detailed responses Amber longed to say stuck in her throat. Where could she start? Her worry about her upcoming exams, Jack and Artie? Recent events and worries had tangled in a tight ball and were difficult to unpick.
‘So, everything is okay? Your dad said he has hardly seen you since half term.’
‘I’ve been busy revising. You know, at Jack’s.’
As soon as she said it, she mentally kicked herself. Willow would detect the lie. No one could study in a house full of activity, with the loud TV blaring, arguments raging between his brothers, his mum’s singing, and the tantrums of the toddler. Jack always studied at hers. Nothing happened. Willow didn’t react.
‘Ah, Jack. How is he doing? You both must be looking forward to the summer of freedom. No study, just fun until uni. Maybe when your exams are over and you have time, we could get back to our lessons.’
‘That’d be good.’ Amber nodded. It would. She missed the hands-on magic, creating and blending the store’s lotions, potions, and tea. The workroom allowed her witch side to be free without interruption and being seen as odd or as something to fear. She loved it. Until now. Tempting as it was, working alone with Willow and needing to relax for the magic to happen was too risky. Amber couldn’t let her guard down. Willow wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
‘You could tell me what your secret ingredient for the last batch of Wishing Spell sleeping lotion you made was. It has had rave reviews.’
There is no special ingredient , thought Amber, surprised Willow didn’t know.
The only difference between the spells Amber created was the proximity to the old witch’s room; the closer you were when casting the spell, the more potent the effect. She privately named the room The Cobble, an abbreviation of her mum’s favourite word and one which made her giggle as a toddler—collywobbles. The nervous sensation that produced the telltale roll of the stomach and queasiness. It was obvious whenever Willow approached the rickety door; she had an attack of them. If she could, Amber was sure she would brick the relic room up again. In contrast, Amber loved the room. She itched to enter and explore. If being close to it conjured up powerful magic, what could it contain? The rare times Willow opened it in her presence, she saw the poky space was a time capsule from centuries before when they feared and forbade witchcraft. Its heavy protection spell held its power despite the degradation in time. Driftwood-made shelves filled the space above the cluttered workbench and were full of old leather books and warped glass bottles hidden beneath the cobwebs. One book, with yellowing parchment and faded ink, lay open on a stand. The answers to her problems would be hidden in there. If only she had access to it.
‘Aren’t you hot in that?’ Willow pointed at Amber’s cardigan.
‘No.’ She shook her head and pulled the sleeves down further. For the last few weeks, she had avoided any confrontation about her tattoo by covering her arms. The cooler weather helped until this week’s mini heatwave. Time was running out and everyone would know. She stretched towards the top shelf, returning the recently used jars and humming a song she had heard on the radio.
‘Amber, tell me you didn’t?’
‘What?’ She followed Willow’s gaze to her arm, where her sleeve had crept up to reveal the bottom of her tattoo. She snatched it down. ‘Okay. I didn’t.’
‘No, don’t. Show me before the shop fills again.’ Willow sidled up to her, giving her no choice but to peel off her cardigan, and she held her arm up for Willow to have a closer look.
‘What do you think?’ Still red at the edges, a delicate dragonfly was inked in flight on her pale skin. The green haze shimmering around it added to the magical effect.
‘It is beautiful. One of your designs?’
Amber nodded. ‘It felt right. A dragonfly to remind me Mum is always around and how far Dad and I have come.’
‘The presence of spirit and transformation. It’s perfect. I just hope you were careful and went somewhere reputable.’
‘Of course, I did. I’m not stupid.’ She snatched her hand away and regretted her reaction when she saw sadness flash across her mentor’s face. ‘I researched places and their hygiene ratings. It was fine.’ It wasn’t another lie. She had spent hours looking at places and written a list of her top places to go, but Bones Ink didn’t come up in the search. If it had, she would have rejected it for its run-down fa?ade and dusty reception, but once she saw Artie in an immaculate clean room, she knew she was making the right decision. She trusted him.
‘Please don’t tell Dad. He’ll kill me.’
‘You know he won’t do that.’
‘Please, Willow. He won’t understand.’
‘Okay, I won’t, but he’ll be fine.’
‘Maybe.’ She struggled to define her feelings. Tattoos never came up for discussion at home, so she didn’t know if he liked them or not, but she couldn’t stop thinking she had pushed an invisible boundary and was unsure of the fallout. What if he hated them? It was fine, Willow telling her Glenn would be okay. She knew the new Dad. The happy, confident, and sober version, but memories of when he raged over simple things sneaked in at times; she couldn’t stop them. The fear remained that the old Dad would reappear, and she would discover their close relationship was an illusion. No one understands , she thought. That’s not true, Artie understood . To her relief, when she showed him her art, he didn’t laugh, but nodded while flicking through the rest of her work. After discussion, they decided on one of her prolific drawings of the favoured insect. He was easy to talk to and listened as a modified version of her childhood came out and she spoke of her reluctance to leave home. He confided in his complicated relationship with his mother, also a reformed alcoholic. Learning to trust was the key to move forward, he explained, as was talking. It made sense, but if she spoke to Glenn, everything could be revealed. There was too much at stake. For Willow. For her.