Chapter 20
Erica watched as Gabriel’s van skidded away, the tyres kicking up loose gravel as it sped down the narrow track.
From the kitchen window, she followed its tail lights until they disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the trees.
Something lodged in her stomach – not quite guilt, not quite anger, but a cold, unsettled mix of both.
All that over Wi-Fi.
She replayed the conversation, the way his voice had hardened, the way he’d looked at her as if she’d crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known was there.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she had been too caught up in London life to see what really mattered here. But surely, he’d call again, wouldn’t he? Apologise, explain. It had to be a misunderstanding. Yes, that was it.
Shaking off the thought, she turned back to work, absently scratching behind Lucky’s ears as her laptop screen filled with dense text.
She had unearthed records on eight more women accused of witchcraft in the same area, but still no mention of Isobel.
A dead end, or a sign she needed to dig deeper?
Erica breathed out, rubbing her eyes. She was doing that thing again – slipping too far inside work until the rest of the world went slightly out of focus. It was comforting in its own way. And right now, it was easier than thinking about Gabriel.
She needed a break, something to pull her back before she spiralled.
The night was creeping in, though it was still early. The shops would be open for a little while longer. Maybe a walk would clear her head.
She pulled on her light oatmeal-coloured wool coat over her white jeans – a small, stubborn nod to London neatness – and grabbed a torch from the hook by the door before heading out into the wind.
By the time she reached town, the dusky light had swallowed everything, turning the world into deep blues and velvety greys.
One by one, the streetlights flickered to life, their warm golden glow pooling onto the cobbled pavement, halos of light catching the drifting mist. For a moment, the street felt almost enchanted.
She had precisely three seconds to enjoy the moment before a swanky, far-too-shiny car came hurtling past, sending a tidal wave of grimy puddle water straight at her.
With a shriek, she leapt onto the pavement with an undignified flail, only to land spectacularly into another, even deeper puddle.
Cold water slapped up her shins, drenching her once-pristine white jeans into a pitiful shade of puddle-water grey, while her buttery-soft wool coat took on the unmistakeable weight and smell of a damp sheep.
She stood there, blinking, rainwater trickling down her face.
Lovely. Just lovely.
Before she could properly mourn her dignity, something big and striped materialised in front of her.
Margery’s cat.
Not in his usual post, lazily sprawled across the witchy shop’s window display. Out here in the wild, the massive tabby looked even more beast-like. He regarded her with the flat, unimpressed stare of a creature with no time for human nonsense.
Then, with a dismissive flick of his overly fluffy tail, he let out a throaty meow and sauntered off to the shop, slipping through the slightly ajar door as if he owned the place. Which, knowing Margery’s cat, he probably did.
Erica, still sopping wet, had little choice but to follow.
The moment she stepped inside, the world shifted.
Warmth met her at the door, along with scents of dried lavender and cinnamon. The decor had changed: fairy lights drifted lazily across the ceiling, tangled with bundles of herbs and strings of tiny glass potion bottles that caught the shop’s golden glow.
The soft purr of Margery’s cat drifted past her as he settled into his rightful throne atop the counter.
And, for a moment, Erica almost forgot she was dripping onto the floor like a woman who had absolutely lost a fight with the weather.
Almost.
Margery appeared, holding out two ugly mugs. This time in a questionable shade of yellow-green, like pea soup gone wrong or a regrettable 1970s bathroom tile.
“Thought you might need something hot,” Margery said, her eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”
Erica, still dripping and vaguely resembling a drowned squirrel, accepted the mug and followed Margery to the back of the shop, with the faint, uncomfortable sense that this was exactly where she’d been expected to end up.
A small iron stove flickered there, casting golden light across a plush red velvet chaise longue, its fabric worn but still inviting. The stove ticked and hummed softly, a small, steady sound in the quiet of the shop.
Margery settled onto the chaise and patted the cushion beside her. “Come on, love, sit before you start growing moss.”
Erica sighed, peeling off her damp coat and sinking down, the room wrapping around her like a heavy quilt. She curled her fingers around the ugly mug, letting its heat thaw the chill that had seeped into her bones.
“Things going well at the cottage?” Margery asked, her voice mild, but her eyes quietly alert over the rim of her mug.
Erica frowned. Gabriel storming out had settled on her like damp clothes – clinging, cold, impossible to shake. She’d tried to distract herself with the dramatic views on her walk down, the picturesque rooftops, until she was baptised by puddle water – but still, it lingered.
“You know already don’t you?” Erica said slowly, watching Margery’s body language. “I’ve found those carvings.”
Margery’s mouth quirked up. “Well, I did presume a girl with a historian’s itch wouldn’t rest until she uncovered something interesting.”
“Well, you’re right. Although it’s stirred up more than I expected.
” Erica took a sip of her cinnamon-laced drink, the heat spreading all the way to her toes.
She hadn’t realised just how cold she was, how the damp had worked its way deep, or how the exhaustion had curled around her muscles like a weight.
Between late-night research spirals and the uneasy dreams that tangled her in seaweed-like tendrils, she wasn’t getting much rest. Worse, in the mornings, the dreams faded, leaving behind only a vague restless feeling like she’d woken halfway through a thought she couldn’t quite remember.
She regarded Margery over the rim of her mug.
Surprisingly, she felt comfortable in her presence. At ease. Even if she’d had misgivings at first. Margery was kooky, sure – but there was something about her. A warmth. A steadiness. A rare kind of openness that Erica hadn’t really known before.
Which, of course, made her suspicious.
People didn’t give without expecting something in return.
Did they?
Before Erica could decide what she thought about that, the fire gave a sharp crack and then—
BANG.
The front door burst open, sending a rush of wind and rain through the shop along with a tumble of voices, boots, and laughter. Children spilled in first, followed by a woman talking loudly into her phone, her words tumbling over one another as she tried to wrestle off coats at the same time.
The cat took one look at the chaos and vanished, puffed up like an offended feather duster, diving behind a bookcase.
Margery, on the other hand, looked delighted.
“My darlings!” she cried, arms wide as three children collided with her. A tall, all-elbows boy, a smaller whirlwind of a child, and a toddler with a halo of curls who went straight for Margery’s skirts as if she belonged there.
“Sorry, Mam,” said the woman with the frizzy red hair, still half on her phone. She looked worn out and windswept, but when she noticed Erica, her face softened into a bright, friendly smile. “Oh – hello!”
Margery kissed the older boys’ heads, then scooped up the toddler with practised ease. The little girl immediately curled against her, utterly content.
“I always love to see my wee cushie doos,” Margery said, bouncing her gently. “Don’t I?”
She turned to Erica. “These are my grandchildren – and this is my daughter, Agnes.”
Agnes reached out a slim, delicate hand. Erica took it carefully, suddenly aware of how out of place her usual crisp London handshake would feel here. She adjusted mid-grip, softening, trying not to seem stiff or awkward.
“Lovely to meet you,” Erica said, managing a small smile.
“Erica’s living in the cottage on the cliffside,” Margery added.
Agnes’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Oh I love that place,” she said. “We used to play up there all the time, didn’t we, Mam?”
Margery laughed. “Seems half the town did.”
Erica shifted slightly, that familiar sense of being on the outside creeping in. Everyone spoke as though there were a shared story she hadn’t been given the first page of.
“Mum, could I leave the kids here? I’m so sorry it’s last minute—”
“Whatever it is, go,” Margery said brightly. “I’ll be delighted to entertain my wee cushie doos. How about mini pizzas for dinner?”
The children erupted in cheers.
Agnes, already half on her phone again, mouthed thank you and slipped out the door but not before Erica caught the faintest look Margery sent after her. A flicker of worry, soft and fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“Right then.” Margery clapped her hands. “Let’s get you lot fed. I’ll close up and we’ll batten down the hatches. It’s going to be a wild night.”
Erica glanced at the shop window. Rain lashed against the glass, wind rattling the frame as a passer-by hurried along the pavement, hunched beneath a soaked jacket.
“Oh dear,” Erica murmured.
Margery looked over. “What is it?”
“I walked here,” Erica said. “There’s no way I can—”
“Come to mine,” Margery cut in easily. “I’m just a few doors down.”
Before Erica could object, Margery had gently but firmly deposited the toddler into her arms.
Erica froze, arms locking into place.
The little girl was warm and heavy and smelled faintly of biscuits. Erica held her like a fragile parcel, elbows stiff, terrified of dropping her.
“Oh hello,” she murmured, unsure where to put her hands.
The child blinked at her, unimpressed.