Chapter Seven
All Augustine could do was stare at him.
She’d imagined that when he came back, it would be just before closing. She’d be calm and collected, tucked safely inside her sage-and-salt circle, prepared for whatever havoc — or awkwardness — he might bring.
She had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined she’d be wedging him in between Mrs Clayton and the yummy-mummy yoga crowd. Inconvenient didn’t even begin to cover it.
“You’re back,” she remarked, her voice flat. “I thought I told you to get out.”
“I need your help,” he replied. “I need you to—”
“I know what you need me to do, but I told you already,” she said, doing her damnedest to keep her voice steady while mentally counting the steps to the till and the safety of Maddy’s magic. “I don’t do what you want me to do. I can’t.”
He nodded slowly. “I remember what you said.”
“Great. Okay. Love that for you. But unless you’re here to buy some incense or a tea-light holder — they’re fifty per cent off, by the way — I think you need to leave.”
He swallowed, and the movement of his Adam’s apple was stark against his throat.
“I remember what you said,” he repeated, his tone low and calm.
He had the kind of voice that had the ability to do funny things to Augustine’s stomach, and she pointedly tried to ignore the feeling. “But I don’t believe you.”
The audacity. The utter audacity of him to be that attractive as well as infuriating.
Augustine crossed her arms over her chest, taking another step towards her till. “You don’t believe me?” she asked him, stepping again. “Well, that’s inconvenient, because I promise that whatever you’ve heard about me, it isn’t true.”
“I haven’t heard much,” he clarified, eyes tracking her movement. “Just that you—” He stopped suddenly as she took one more step. “Um, what is that?” he asked, nodding to the floor.
“Nothing,” she replied hurriedly.
His eyes returned to hers, lingering so that heat rose in her cheeks. There was an intensity to his face which made her pulse pick up slightly, her skin tingling as he continued to drink her in. The odd thing was that it wasn’t unpleasant. No. His eyes on her felt almost welcome.
“Why do I get the feeling,” he said softly, “that I shouldn’t believe you again?”
The audacity.
Another step though, and Augustine was safely within the sphere of salt, sage and sisterly magic. She exhaled in relief, trying to ignore the tingles that were still running down her spine, before turning back to him.
“Fine. It’s decorative,” she lied, sitting rigidly on her stool. “Halloween is coming. I have pumpkins in the window and hanging bats on the ceiling.” She shrugged. “I thought the floor needed something too.”
He frowned. “So you threw some salt on the floor?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, it looks to me like you’re hiding behind this work in progress.” He frowned. “Why are you afraid of me?”
“Well, because you . . .” she tapered off suddenly, a frown forming on her lips.
She was supposed to be finding out what he knew about her, not the other way around.
Augustine sat taller on her stool, gazing at him curiously.
He was wearing the oversized coat again, and his hair was flopping slightly in his eyes.
Eyes that were gazing upon her face, wide but steady, the colour of the sky on a cloudy day.
She chewed on her lip, abruptly lost for words.
“I don’t know you,” she finally answered, her words slow.
“For all I know, you might be an axe-wielding murderer. A candle-hating psychopath. The kind of person who stands on the left on the way to the Tube. You know, truly evil stuff.”
A hint of a smile crossed his face, but it was just a hint, before he held his hands up in a placatory gesture. “Look, I don’t mean any harm. Not to you, or anyone else. I’m not an axe-wielding murderer — I don’t even own an axe. Nor do I have any strong feelings towards candles.”
“And the Tube?”
“I always stand on the right, and carry bags and buggies up the stairs for people when needed,” he replied without missing a beat, and something inside her eased a little.
“Look, I told you that you’re the only person who can help me,” he carried on.
“Why would I want to hurt the only person who can help me?”
He had her there. She gazed at him, weighing up what to do.
As ever, she recalled her mother’s words.
You’ll never know them for a witch hunter until he decides it's your time to die. The thing was, this guy didn’t feel like the malevolent boogie man of her childhood nightmares.
He didn’t look like the shadow that had followed both her and her sisters into adulthood, living in a perpetual state of wary anxiety.
Still. All the same. She needed to know. She needed to check.
“You carry bags and buggies on the Tube?” she asked. “You’re saying you’re helpful?”
“I try to be.”
“Great. Do me a favour then, will you? Can you hand me that pumpkin? The big one, over there.”
She gestured to one of the gourds in the window and watched as he looked towards it, then back towards her.
“Okay,” he said slowly, eyeing her oddly. He walked to the window and picked up the largest pumpkin without hesitation, and Augustine held her breath as he turned back towards her. He took one step and then another, before stepping over Maddy’s salt circle spell like it wasn’t even there.
He deposited the pumpkin on her desk, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.
It was kind of cute.
God, he still smells like a cinnamon roll, she realized, as a waft of earthy sweetness seemed to wash over her. Why does he smell so good?
“Thanks,” she said, looking down quickly. He nodded.
“What do you need it for?”
“Oh, umm . . .” Augustine floundered. She now had a giant pumpkin on her desk she had exactly zero plans for. “I thought I’d, uh, carve it.”
“But there’s still two weeks till Halloween.”
“I know.”
“It will rot before then.”
“Oh.” Augustine thought for a moment. “I guess I’ll, uh, preserve it somehow.”
“Salt’s a preservative,” he remarked wryly, before gesturing to the floor. “And I think you might have some already.”
She couldn’t help it. She flushed a deep red, and she could feel his eyes on her, noticing the new colour in her cheeks.
To his credit however, he didn’t mention it.
“Look, I’ve done you a favour,” he said instead. “Now maybe you could help me?”
She sighed. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe this guy was just a bereaved man clinging to the idea of one final conversation with a loved one from beyond the grave.
“I know what you want. You asked me to speak to the dead,” she replied. “But I was being honest before. I can’t help you.”
She spoke evenly, hoping her firm but polite words might be the end of it. But if anything, he seemed to stand taller, gazing at her with those steady blue eyes.
“But you’re a divination witch,” he argued. “Divination witches . . . they can read the cards, speak to the dead—”
“No, stop it,” she interjected, her gaze scanning her shop for anyone who might be listening. “You’re wrong. You’ve been misinformed. I’m not a . . . a witch.” She whispered the final word, just in case.
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. You are a divination witch."
“And who told you that?”
“Well, uh . . .”
“Yes?”
He took a deep breath. “Well, actually . . . you did.”