Chapter Forty-Five
She almost didn’t see them at first. Two figures, standing a little way down the hospital hallway.
One of them looked over, excitedly waving at her.
Augustine couldn’t make them out. Who could possibly know her here?
She considered turning around and walking the other way.
She was hurting and needed to go home. She didn’t want to make small talk in an over-bright hospital. Didn’t want to talk to anyone at all.
Anyone but Theo, that was.
The woman waved again though, more insistently now, and Augustine blinked, her focus sharpening as she grew closer to them.
“Mrs C?” she asked slowly. “Is that you?”
Mrs Clayton stood there, her ever-present pearl bag clutched loosely in one hand. This time however, she wasn’t alone. Beside her stood a man. He was old but gentle-faced, and he looked a little uncertain, like he wasn’t quite used to being there yet. All the same, he was smiling.
Smiling at the woman beside him. At Mrs Clayton.
Mrs Clayton’s smile widened as Augustine approached, her expression softening into something warm and pleased. “Well,” she said. “There you are.”
Augustine stopped a few steps away, her gaze flicking between them. “You found him,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Mrs Clayton nodded. “Told you I would,” she replied. She reached over, taking the man’s hand — his solid, real hand — and gave it a small, affectionate squeeze. “Augustine, this is my Dennis.”
Dennis Clayton inclined his head politely. “Lovely to meet you.”
Augustine swallowed, managing a small, slightly dazed smile. “You too. I’ve, um, heard a lot about you.”
There was a strange lightness to him. To both of them. Like whatever had held Mrs Clayton here for so long had finally . . . let go. Or maybe, Augustine suddenly realized, it had been fulfilled.
“It’s time for us to go now,” Mrs Clayton said gently, and Augustine nodded, because, of course, it was. Mrs C had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Of course she would be keen to hurry on to whatever came next. “But I couldn’t go until I’d said goodbye.”
“Thank you,” Augustine said simply, and she smiled. Tears still stained her cheeks, and Mrs Clayton must have noticed them, because she sighed.
“No, dear, thank you. Thank you for the company. For listening to a lonely woman ramble on.”
Something in Augustine’s throat constricted, but she shook her head faintly. “You helped me. More than you know.”
Mrs Clayton’s gaze flicked past her then, towards the room Augustine had just left. Towards Theo, still lying there, still waiting.
“Don’t be so sad, dear. He’ll wake up soon.” She sounded so certain. So utterly convinced. “And then you’ll find each other all over again.”
Augustine followed her gaze, her expression unreadable, before she looked back, a small smile on her lips. “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, but maybe I do,” Mrs Clayton replied. “I mean, third time’s a charm and all. Isn’t that something you witches say?”
Augustine let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Something like that.”
“Well, let me tell you this — you and your man belong together. You belonged together then, you belonged together now, and you’ll belong together in the future, too. And unlike you, I don’t need to be a divination witch to see it.”
Augustine gave a small smile, but Mrs Clayton smiled more. Then, with one last fond look, she turned — her hand firmly in her husband’s — and together, they began to walk down the corridor, side by side, unhurried and entirely at peace.
Augustine watched them go. Watched as they grew fainter and softer. Watched until there was nothing left of them at all, just an empty hallway, and the quiet hum of a hospital carrying on, as if nothing had happened at all.
Augustine stood there for a long moment, looking at the space where they’d been.
Then she took a deep breath and decided to go home.
* * *
Augustine returned to the flat in Greenwich, even knowing now as she did that it wasn’t really home.
It never had been home. It was just somewhere she’d stayed, somewhere she’d waited out the past few muddled months of her life.
She struggled with the key in the lock, meeting the same stubborn resistance as always, swearing under her breath at the metal sticking and refusing to turn cleanly.
At least this is for the last time, she told herself as she wrestled with the metal in her hand.
The lock finally gave, the key sliding home with a dull click, and she pushed the door open.
The flat looked exactly as she’d left it. No, actually — it looked exactly as her landlord had left it. In 1992.
Augustine stepped inside, her gaze moving slowly over the room, taking stock of what belonged to her and what didn’t, all the while making a list in her head.
Call my landlord. Give notice. Pack my clothes. Box up the few things I actually bothered to bring here. Get Bird. And Roy . . .
Roy. Augustine’s mouth pressed into a thin line, because, yes, Roy. She’d need to deal with him, too.
Tiredly, she walked into the living room, sinking into her usual sofa. Bird immediately hopped into her arms, and for a few minutes she stroked his back thoughtfully.
“I know you were his first,” she said softly, rubbing her cheek on Bird’s sleek head. “Sorry I couldn’t bring him home for you.”
Bird purred in response, and it lightened something in Augustine’s heart. Something that still ached for Theo, and what might have been.
“Well,” said a familiar voice, dry as old paper, “this is deeply touching, but I do feel I should point out that if you had, in fact, brought him home, I would have had to move out. Which I wouldn’t on principle, because I was here first.”
Augustine didn’t startle this time. She just lifted her head, still absently stroking Bird, and looked over. Roy was exactly where he always was — sprawled in his usual chair like he’d never left it, one leg slung over the arm, watching her with mild disapproval.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” she replied.
“Nonsense,” Roy replied. “It suits me beautifully. I’ve had years to perfect it.” His gaze flicked down to Bird. “And for the record, that cat is getting dangerously above his station.”
Bird blinked slowly, completely unbothered.
A small smile tugged at Augustine’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Roy watched her, something a little sharper settling in beneath the humour. “Well? Go on. Tell me then. How did it go with lover-slash-ghost-slash-coma boy?”
Augustine exhaled, leaning back into the sofa. “That depends. Do you want to hear the whole album — or just the hit single?”
Roy considered that. “I’ll take the hit single tonight. I’m feeling emotionally fragile. The whole album might actually finish me off.”
She shrugged. “I let him go. Sent him back,” she added. “To himself.”
“Right.” Roy nodded. “I’m going to pretend I understood everything you just said, and tell you that it was the right thing to do . . . Probably.”
Augustine didn’t answer straight away, just kept her hand moving over Bird’s back in slow, steady strokes, her thoughts turning over something deeper now. “It was the right thing to do, and I think . . .” She paused.
“You think?”
“I think I want to do more of the right things,” she said eventually. “Going forward. And less of the wrong ones.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly qualifies as ‘wrong’, in your current philosophical framework?”
“Letting what happened to my mother hold me back,” she said firmly. “Letting guilt dictate everything I do.” Her fingers stilled briefly in Bird’s fur. “Not exploring this new power I have.” She hesitated, before adding, more quietly, “And not helping the people who I know need my help.”
Roy’s expression shifted slightly at that. “You went out to talk to a man and came back this enlightened after letting him go? That’s a two-hour glow up. I mean, who are you now, Melinda Gates?”
Augustine laughed, she looked at Roy with soft eyes. “Do you need my help, Roy?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t deflect, for once, and Augustine tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady now.
“My help,” she clarified. “My . . . special help.”
This time, Roy didn’t look away. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean—” Augustine began, before she thought the better of it. Instead, she sat back, running her hand over Bird’s back once more. She exhaled lightly. “I’m moving out tonight, Roy. I won’t be back.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t leave,” Roy replied, a little too quickly, his tone almost bordering on indignant, “No, absolutely not.” He sat forward in the chair. “We’re only halfway through Stranger Things.”
Augustine let out a breath, something fond and aching threading through it. “Roy—”
“No, I’m serious,” he cut in, his voice sharper now. “You can’t just abandon me mid-arc. That’s not fair. We’ve got unresolved plot lines. Emotional investments. You have the Netflix login. What am I supposed to do without you?”
She shook her head gently. “I’m sorry, Roy. I have to go. I want to go home.”
Roy’s mouth opened, then closed again. “This is your home,” he finally argued.
“It isn’t. It never was. I live above my shop. That’s where I’m going back to. My real home.”
Roy leaned back slowly. “And what?” he asked eventually, his voice dry again. “I’m just supposed to sit here and wait for the next unsuspecting tenant to wander in? Start the whole charm routine over again?”
A small, sad smile tugged at Augustine’s mouth. “No,” she said. “No, you don’t need to wait for anyone, Roy. You need to move on, too.”
“Move on?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. You know what I mean by that, don’t you?”
Roy didn’t answer.
“I did some research recently,” Augustine went on. “After Steven came the other day. You remember Steven, don’t you, Roy?”
“He’s the landlord,” Roy replied with an easy shrug, and Augustine winced.
“Yeah. But you knew him before that. In the eighties.” She took a deep breath. “Before you died.”