Chapter 4 Salt in the Sugar #2
“I’m afraid that rather comes with the nature of the undead,” Maggie said, managing a soft smile between old friends.
Some older than others. While she had the pretty, fresh-faced appearance of being in her mid-twenties, modest and tidy with her pale blonde hair always pinned simply at her nape, Maggie had stopped counting her own years now that the Victorian era was creeping close to having ended a century ago.
Time really did fly when one was a ghost confined to haunting the four walls of an antiquated house.
Sage had done all the research she could around Maggie’s circumstances and had come to the unsatisfactory conclusion that it was simply down to an unfortunate, complicated error of fate, double-sealed in wayward town magic.
When Maggie had tried to pass over, following her untimely death at the hands of tuberculosis, as so many nineteenth-century folks before her, she had stumbled at the veil, found it solid and unwelcoming to her passing through.
She was left with no choice but to turn back, now altogether more spectral and see-through, and return to her previous home at the cottage.
“And with the nature of a somewhat more alive museum curator comes instructing the youth about the olden days. To ignite passion and pride in a new generation!” Maggie continued excitedly, giving Sage a shake on the shoulder, which was probably meant to be stirring and motivational but was mainly a little cold and slippery.
Sage, unaffected by the familiar touch, gave her a sardonic look. “And that’s just the gift shop.”
“Aye and thrilling it sounds too,” Maggie marvelled, swooning against the countertop. “A valiant cause, I’d say. How many of those peculiar little bouncy articles do you think you’ll sell?”
“Erasers? A lot. Boys like throwing them at one another on the coach home.”
Maggie had shyly revealed herself to Sage for the first time just three days after the witch moved into the humble house that lay close to the centre of Port Sylvan.
The housekeeper’s bravery was rewarded when Sage barely batted an eyelid at the sight of a nervous, indistinct figure waiting in the kitchen to present her with a pan of honey-drizzled porridge for breakfast. She simply dove straight into the accompanying homemade berry compote while asking any and every question about the supernatural theorem involved in her haunting.
She and Maggie had instantly become firm friends, and Sage had penned several well-received papers on poltergeist mechanisms since.
Fortunately, Sage Hemlock was far and away the most easy-going mistress of the house that Maggie had faced in all her 126 years of ghostdom (there or thereabouts).
There’d first been Amos, the railway telegraph operator, who’d then died in a train accident and left the house to his wife, Eliza.
She was a milliner of a nervous disposition, so those had been lonely years for Maggie, mostly spent picking up the hatpins that were dropped everywhere.
Another widow followed, named Beatrice, whom Maggie was rather fond of and enjoyed conversing with nightly over knitting.
Mr. Douglas, the clockmaker, wasn’t much of a talker, followed by a nurse called Joan who was hardly ever home, then a pair of unbearable artists called the Lyles.
The smell of linseed oil still haunted Maggie in return, but at least there’d been a lot of cleaning to pass the time.
A couple, Sandra and Ted, with a newborn named Gracie, had followed.
It had broken Maggie’s heart, the way they fled from the house when she finally felt brave enough to reveal herself to congratulate them and offer her nannying services.
Her own mother had been a nanny to a girl, and she had been excited to perform the role herself.
Sage was her very first witch, and the fateful pairing had worked out rather well.
“Any food going?” Sage asked, managing to avert her cup of tea from the incoming cat, who had spotted an available lap.
“What manner of household would I be running if there were naught to eat?” Maggie tutted.
“There’s sausage plait pastry waiting in the larder.
” The ghost moved in a floaty sort of way towards the pale-yellow door at the back of the kitchen.
“And might there be a soul or two inclined to partake in your plans this coming weekend, madam?”
“Maggs, how many times?” Sage interrupted her enquiry. “It makes me feel nine thousand years old every time you say ‘madam.’ ”
Maggie cleared her throat meaningfully.
“Not that there’d be anything wrong with being supernaturally aged, you understand,” Sage said, hurrying to correct herself. “No offence.”
“None taken,” Maggie replied, brightening quickly as her form passed back through the larder door without opening it. “Although I may take some, if it encourages you to answer my question. I was wondering how many to prepare supper for, is all.”
Sage gave a bad-tempered tut.
“Not even Mr. Everald?”
“Oh, well, yes,” Sage said, batting a hand dismissively.
“Seeing as I distinctly told him that tomorrow was a crucial day in our careers and we’d have plenty of last-minute work to get through, he’s obviously made plans for us to be…
sociable.” Sage gave a shudder at the word, but her eyes lit up at the sight of the golden-brown flaky pastry that Maggie placed on the table.
The buttery scent, combined with rosemary and black pepper, made her mouth water.
“Anyway, he’s always around. He doesn’t really count.
We’ll be meeting Robin and Laurel at the pub in the evening. ”
“Of course, your brother and sister! How lovely that you’ll be seeing them too.
Again…” Maggie said blithely. Sage could sense the tone.
Maggie was always encouraging her to try to widen her social circle, given she couldn’t leave the house herself.
Seeing as Sage generally despised meeting new people and tried to avoid such a thing at all costs, the ghost had picked the wrong witch to try to live vicariously through.
Determinedly sunny and bright in all ways, there were only ever very rare moments when Maggie let her fate get her down, and Sage admired her for that. They were both strong-willed in their own ways, wrapped up in the unpredictable natures of fate and magic, and appreciated that about each other.
“Thank you for the gentle reminder that my social life is about as fruitful as a broomstick with vertigo. As you well know, I tend to repel anyone who comes within a mile radius of me,” she said through an unmannered mouthful of sausage plait.