Chapter 1 #2
Everyone in the village whispered she was a witch, which I think is hilarious considering just how many witches and other supernatural beings live unseen in Argleton.
But as well as being a witch, she was cantankerous – not the best quality for a shopkeeper, which might explain why the store was now empty and available for rent.
Available for rent.
My heart skitters.
Stop that. It’s a silly dream. You can’t go chasing silly dreams while your husband is missing.
Can’t I?
I push the bakery door open and step inside. I’m halfway to the counter when I realise that I don’t have any money. I rarely leave the house, and Warrick gives me a strict weekly budget in cash for groceries, so I don’t carry a purse or wallet. I’d been so focused on leaving the garden that—
Now it’s too late. The red-framed head of Celeste Lucas beams as she catches my eye from behind the counter.
Celeste and I used to be in a book club together before I quit because Warrick didn’t like that the club didn’t allow men.
“Autumn, hello!” She hands over the tongs to Pax, her towering, bearded assistant, and bustles over to throw her arms around me.
“I heard about your husband. I’m so sorry, you must be beside yourself with worry. ”
“Oh yes, it’s terrible.” I focus on a spot over her shoulder because otherwise the warmth of her greeting will send me into what Warrick would deem my ‘hysterics’. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know that the last time someone hugged me was my mother on her deathbed.
Unfortunately, the spot I’ve chosen to focus on is a narrow door that connects the two sides of the building. Celeste has always kept it closed when I’ve been here in the past, but now it’s open a crack with a sign on it about the lease. I’m itching to move closer and see what it says.
“I’m glad you’ve come into the village to take your mind off things. We miss you at the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven. What can I get for you today?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I’d get a pastry, but I just realised I left my wallet at home—”
“Sit, sit. Women whose husbands have disappeared get whatever they want on the house. It’s a bakery rule as old as time. Would you like an Eccles cake?”
Celeste has an uncanny knack for remembering everyone’s favourite treat. I only ever came here with Warrick (pre-wellness journey), and Eccles cakes were his favourite, so that’s what we had.
“Actually, if you’re sure it’s okay, I’d love one of your cream doughnuts. And a pot of Earl Grey.”
“Coming right up.” Celeste seats me at a table close to the narrow doorway and bustles off to get my order.
I stare through the door at the flower shop.
It’s been cleared out in a hurry – shrivelled flower stems litter the floor, and there are towers of baskets and pots stacked under the window.
The space is a mirror image of the bakery, with an old wooden counter and display shelves made from a warm walnut.
One of my bees leaves my collar and hovers in the doorway, as if giving an inspection.
Imagine barrels behind the counter with shiny taps, and a display of honey with handwritten labels, and comfy chairs beside the fire…
Celeste returns with a tray of tea and treats. I see two rum truffles and a tiny mince pie next to my cream doughnut. I accept the cup gratefully. “Do you know anything about the shop next door?”
“Didn’t you hear? They found Old Widow Hardcastle dead inside, slumped over the counter with her shearing scissors in her back.”
“What?”
Someone killed the Widow Hardcastle?
“Right? It’s been all anyone in the village has talked about since.
The police have no clue. Apparently, the CCTV cameras around the green had a glitch, so they have no footage of anyone entering or leaving.
No witnesses. And no one even noticed she was missing until a tourist said it’s a shame the shop wasn’t open, and Pax went next door to check on her.
The shop’s been empty ever since – it was over six weeks ago, now – which is rare in the village.
Shops on the green are pretty sought after, but I think everyone’s avoiding it.
” Celeste lowers her voice. “I know people like to say that Old Widow Hardcastle was a witch, and I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but I think the shop is haunted. ”
“You do?” My heart rattles in my chest as I sip my tea. I thank Celeste silently for carrying this conversation so I don’t have to.
“Things go missing from my kitchen. I’ll open up in the morning and discover a corner cut off the butter, or I’ll slice out ten bits of salami for the pizza bread, but when I turn away to get the olive oil, two of them disappear.
Just yesterday, I put a whole chicken I was roasting for a catering job on the counter to cool, and that disappeared.
A whole chicken. It’s not just food. Sometimes, my chairs are tipped over, or the cushions in the snug will be piled on the floor.
When I’m firing up the ovens in the morning, I swear that I hear someone next door.
But when I go over to look, there’s never anyone there.
Well, Rafe’s always there, but he doesn’t count. ”
“Rafe?”
“He’s Old Widow Hardcastle’s cat. He’s hard to miss – he’s a flame-point Siamese with a big voice and an even bigger ego.
We’ve been trying to catch him so we can take him to the SPCA, but he’s a little escape artist. If I didn’t know for a fact that cats couldn’t open my industrial fridge, I’d suspect him of being the butter thief.
He doesn’t like me very much.” Celeste touches her hair, and I instantly understand her meaning.
Celeste is, after all, a werewolf.
Yes, Argleton is that kind of village. Magic congregates here for boring-but-thaumatologically-important reasons, so we have a plethora of supernaturally inclined residents.
I’ve lived here my whole life – I grew up in the cottage that Warrick and I now own with my mother and grandmother, who were also witches.
It’s not the werewolves and vampires who made me feel unsafe.
Life in Argleton could be worse. I could live in the other kind of quaint English village. A murder village.
Although by the sounds of what happened to the Widow Hardcastle, and with Warrick gone…maybe I do.
No one is supposed to know about Celeste’s particular supernatural disposition.
Werewolves normally live in family packs in wild areas and have kept out of the public eye for so long that even most supernatural beings think they’re mythological.
But witches – especially hedgewitches like me – have a sense for these things.
Celeste leaves me to greet some new customers.
I dislocate my jaw to take a huge bite of doughnut.
Oh, that’s bliss. Back when we were trying to have children, Warrick did a bunch of research about a low-carb, low-fat, low-sugar diet that claimed to improve my fertility, so he declared himself the food police.
Since not even my grandmother’s fertility spells worked, I doubted that a diet that villainised pasta would give us a baby, but what I do know is that butter is back in my life and I’m not sad about it.
I finish my tea, doughnut, pie, and truffles, licking cream off my fingers in a way that Warrick would never have allowed. As I stand to leave, Celeste hands me a paper bag containing a second doughnut. “For the road,” she says with a grin.
“You’re an angel. Is it okay if I pop into the shop next door and take a look around?”
“Of course, as long as your bee friends follow you. I don’t want them hanging around the food.” Celeste claps her hands together. “Do you think you might be interested in renting it?”
Yes.
I am interested.
I am the most interested, ghost and grisly murder and belligerent cat and all.
“I don’t think so. I’d have to talk to Warrick and—” I shrug. “That might be difficult. But there’s no harm in looking.”
“You keep telling yourself that, and maybe we’ll be shop neighbours.” Celeste waves goodbye. I collect my goodies and slip through the door into the empty shop.
Beneath the dust, the cobwebs, the smell of old potting mix, the unsettling dark stain by the counter, the mice heads lined up on the windowsill like hunting trophies, Old Widow Hardcastle’s distinctive cabbagy scent, the trowels dotting the floor like Carl’s alarm traps (I’ll definitely be singing at ear-splitting volume if I stood on one), and the general vibe of neglect, is a fizz that can only be described as pure magic.
It’s exactly what I’ve been imagining.
My little secret. The place in my head where I go where Warrick’s words can’t follow me.
My meadery. A medieval-style tavern serving my enchanted meads and hearty snacks, where you can listen to some jaunty music, play board games with your friends, or hide in a dark corner with your sword and plot the downfall of a cruel king.
A cosy place where people come to escape the modern world for an hour or two, a place of joy and whimsy for no other reason than that’s what I crave whenever I feel sad (which is more than I’d like to admit these days).
I’ve never told anyone about this dream because I know it’s bonkers.
I can just imagine what Warrick would say if I told him I wanted to open a meadery.
He’d give me that sympathetic look he gets when he’s about to say something that will upset me.
“This is why I make the money, and you make our home cosy – you just don’t have a head for business.
Your mead is delicious, babe, but it’s nowhere near commercial quality alcohol, and you’re terrible at talking to customers and dealing with the money and paperwork, and who would visit a meadery when they could go to the pub? No one even knows what mead is.”
He’s probably right. He was right about my history degree and my honey stall. He’s been right about everything else in our lives. But Warrick’s not here, and I’m standing in the doorway, staring at my dream, and it’s real.