Chapter 78
GOLDIE
Thick, smoky sage fills my nostrils as I follow Great Aunt Maggie up her aged oak stairs. She’s been purifying again, which means she’s unsettled.
I admire the enormous picture window as we enter.
I’ve always thought of this room as Maggie’s aerie, with its glorious view over Driftwood Pointe Harbor.
Today, the room is far more cluttered than usual.
Her magic book takes pride of place in its dedicated slot on the bookshelf, with its colorful, hand-drawn symbols on its front pages.
The illustrations of plants, flowers, stars, and planets, hand-painted by her ancestors, are exquisite.
It’s true: the magic book has always lured me with its secrets.
“I knew you were coming,” Maggie murmurs. “Dusty wasn’t right for you.”
I grin. “You always know.”
She surveys me with her navy eyes. “You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Are you still telling locals their fortunes?”
Maggie turns toward me, one hand propped on her rounded hip, the other sweeping back tendrils of steel-gray hair behind her ear. “I provide prophecies for those who seek them.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Do you still set up your séance room and use that old crystal ball?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Not always. Sometimes I read palms or cards. The only change since your last visit is that my séance room has moved to the spare bedroom.”
I remember Maggie used to run a successful little business in her shop downstairs, selling local produce to customers who often stayed for a reading from Maggie.
The locals and tourists alike valued the secrecy and privacy—nobody knew if they were there to purchase fruit and veg or to receive a reading.
Maggie has always been incredibly proud of the magic book and all the tinctures, candles, herbs, and flowers—knowledge passed down from her Scottish ancestry. She considers being the third sister of a third sister a sign that she was gifted with abilities that should be shared.
“Can I put my cases in the spare bedroom?” I ask.
Maggie nods. “Of course. You don’t need to ask.”
I notice the painting of the beautiful woman on the wall as I leave the room. The small portrait has hung low on the wall for years, but Maggie has never disclosed the identity of the mysterious woman.
Reaching the bedroom, I open the door and take in my surroundings.
“You’ve changed the drapes,” I call to Maggie. “I like the tartan.”
“Me too,” Maggie says, appearing behind me. “The tartan is a tribute to the Scottish coven. One should never forget one’s roots, as you know.”
I smile. “I love that.”
“They remind me whenever I come in here,” Maggie mumbles.
She falls quiet for a moment, no doubt in silent remembrance of her ancestors.
“Are we related to any of the witches King James killed in the 1500s?”
I grimace, recalling the book I read about the witch trials.
The men in power at the time were jostling to raise the greasy pole of self-advancement by agreeing with the king’s unhinged views that witches were plotting against him.
The men captured clearly innocent women and imprisoned, tortured, strangled, and burned them.
“Yes, we are. Fortunately, only one of our ancestors was taken. The poor girl was caught up in the horrific North Berwick witch trials. Our female line is strong, though. Our relations were healers, so here we are, keeping the magic alive.”
“What about my mother? She never talks about our ancestors or anything witch related.”
“She has the gift, but she hides it because she’s embarrassed. It wouldn’t go down well with her posh political fundraising friends.”
I laugh at Maggie’s acidly accurate description of my mother. “Mom and Dad always behave as if that part of our lives doesn’t exist, and they won’t speak about it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says, her lips pursed in disapproval like she’s sucking on a lemon.
Glancing around, my gaze lands on drying herbs and flowers hanging in bunches from the ceiling beams. It makes me wonder how Maggie got them up there.
More herbs, a pestle and mortar, candles, and tincture bottles adorn the shelves. The bottles also feature hand-illustrated labels. I pluck one of the more ornate amber glass bottles labeled Elecampane from the shelf.
Maggie grabs it from my hand as if I’m a toddler. “That one’s not for you. And don’t touch anything,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “Nothing was safe in the shop downstairs anymore. I had to bring everything up here so no one could take it.”
I drop my heaviest bag onto the bed, instantly relieved to be rid of the weight. Wondering about her strange behavior, I notice the damp in the bedroom has worsened. That could be black mold; I need to get a better look. It’s not good for Maggie, but I decide not to say anything right now.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she says.
Maggie uses tea like a magic potion. Happy? Cup of tea. Sad? Cup of tea. Indigestion? Cup of tea. It’s her solution to everything.
I can’t help but smile as Maggie yanks up her knee high socks -again as she leaves the room.
Onyx, her constant feline companion, follows her with a self-important strut.
He is one of a magical litter of black kittens with a single white mark.
, Onyx has a white snip on his back left paw.
The cats live around town and each adopted their owners for a reason.
I’m unpacking my clothes when the bedroom mirror catches my eye. Instead of my reflection, a beautiful young woman appears. She’s a vision. I don’t know who she is, but I feel like I’ve seen her before.
She’s perhaps in her twenties, with long, light brown hair hanging loose on her shoulders.
Dressed in a long green loden coat and walking shoes, she appears to be walking across a heather moorland.
She comes to a stop, her opaque green eyes meeting mine from the mirror, her image entirely replacing my reflection.
She looks directly at me as if searching for something, and then she disappears.
It all happens so fast, making me question my perception.
My hand is pressed flat against the wardrobe door.
I don’t remember reaching for it. The room feels different—not cold exactly, but still, as if the air was frozen and is only just remembering to move again.
I stare at my reflection where the woman was, half expecting her to reappear, but there’s nothing now except me, looking pale and slightly stunned in the afternoon light.
She wasn’t frightening. That’s the strange part. She felt almost familiar, the way a name does when it’s right on the tip of your tongue.
Still, I’m a little shaken. Why did she appear?
“Come into the kitchen when you’ve finished unpacking,” Maggie shouts.
I join Maggie in the kitchen, planning to ask her about the strange image, but she speaks before I can voice my question.
“I’ve had awful problems with a dreadful man called Jasper.”
I frown. “Who’s Jasper?”
Maggie averts her gaze as she tucks a few strands of wispy steel-gray hair into her low ponytail. “Jasper is my sworn enemy.”
“Oh, Lord, tell me you didn’t embroider his name into your shit list cushion.”
Maggie turns to me, her cheeks pink, her hands fisted at her sides as she glares at me. “Perhaps.”
If he’s on her cushion, it’s serious. No matter how much people scoff at Maggie’s eccentricities, her predictions are usually proven right.
“Go and sit in the front room. I’ll make you a drink and tell you all about it,” she says, waddling toward the kettle. “The man’s a menace!” she calls over her shoulder.
I nod, noticing she’s becoming more unsteady on her feet these days.
“Thanks, Maggie,” I say a few minutes later as she hands me a cup of lukewarm tea and a plate with a slice of fruit cake.
The cake looks like it’s a century past its sell-by date, the edges dry and curled up.
It’ll be a challenge getting my teeth through it without cracking a molar, but if I refuse it, she’ll be offended.
I wonder if I can tip it into one of Maggie’s flowerpots when she’s not looking?
Onyx gives me a gloating look, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Maggie yanks up her knee high socks as she returns to the kitchen for her own tea and cake.
I glance around the crammed room, noticing the peeling wallpaper and black mold in here too. This is worrying, especially as Mom mentioned Maggie hadn’t been too well, and was having chest problems.
Onyx threads around Maggie’s ankles as she returns with her tea, purring like a little engine.
He reminds me of a royal monarch; he’s so grand, giving me imperious looks.
It’s clear he doesn’t like me invading his territory.
I like cats, but he makes me nervous. I tolerate him because he’s Maggie’s familiar, reflecting her mood and protecting her.
“It must have taken you ages to move everything up here from the shop,” I say as Maggie sits in the armchair opposite me.
“I wasn’t going to risk the safety of my treasures.”
“Tell me about this Jasper. What’s he done that’s so bad?”
Maggie opens her mouth to answer when the doorbell rings.