Chapter 28
Margery opened the door in her slippers, a floral wool shawl wrapped loosely about her shoulders, spectacles slipping low on her nose. She took in Erica’s overnight bag and Lucky clinging to her coat.
She tutted as if Erica had arrived ten minutes late for tea. “Come in out of the weather.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know where else to go,” Erica said as the warmth hit her first, making her cheeks warm.
“Well,” Margery replied, stepping aside, “you’ve come to the right place then.”
Behind her, another woman appeared at the end of the hallway.
She was striking in a completely unforced way. Barefoot and olive-skinned, her silver-streaked dark hair caught in a loose braid, she looked right at home with her cardigan sleeves pushed up and a wooden spoon in hand.
Immediately Erica regretted coming. “I’m sorry … I should have—” She stuttered.
The woman’s eyes assessed Erica in a single, kind sweep.
“Don’t worry, Erica, this is Rosa,” Margery said. “Rosa, this is Erica.”
Rosa’s smile came slowly, as if she’d already decided something about her. “Ah,” she said gently. “La brujita.” Her accent softened the word. “You are very welcome here.”
Erica nodded, suddenly unable to trust her voice.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Margery announced, wrapping her shawl around her with a brisk tug. “In the meantime, take a seat before you fall down.”
They sat in the same sitting room as before but it felt different tonight. It felt smaller somehow. Books lined the wall on one side, a woven blanket lay across a deep green armchair by the window. The fire was roaring and well-fed, the flames shifting quickly drawing Erica close.
Lucky slipped from Erica’s arms and claimed a cushion near the firelight.
Margery returned with two thick mugs that strangely looked like medieval goblets. She set one in Erica’s hands. The heat stung her palms, but she welcomed the feeling.
They sat.
The clock ticked.
After a while, Erica said, very quietly, “I think I want to leave.”
There, saying it out loud made it real.
Margery blew across her tea. “Mm.”
“You’re not going to ask where.”
“I imagine you don’t know yet.”
Erica let out a thin breath that might have been a laugh. “Or why?”
Margery took a slow sip, letting the silence settle before she shifted in her chair. “There’s been talk,” she said, her voice mild. “About a stone for the women. Something more official.” She arched a brow, her gaze narrowing just a fraction. “Is that why you’re so keen on clearing out?”
“A stone?” Erica scoffed before she could stop herself. “They deserve more than that.”
“Perhaps,” Margery said. “But people start where they can.”
Erica stared into her tea. “Apparently I’ve forced myself into local matters.”
Margery’s steady gaze watched her. “And have you?”
“I only asked questions.”
“Well, that wasn’t what I asked.”
The fire shifted, wood settling with a soft crack.
Erica rubbed her hands together. “I just don’t know anymore. I like to know the answers but …” She trailed off, thinking of the cottage, of Gabriel, her head muddled with Leah’s and Andrew Peters’ words.
“When things don’t go the way I expect … I feel it building. Like pressure. And then I snap. And afterwards I’m exhausted.”
Margery nodded once, not alarmed.
“It’s like …” Erica searched for it. “It’s like everything is too close to my skin. Too loud. Like I’ve no room.”
“That sounds uncomfortable,” Margery said simply.
“I just see red sometimes,” Erica admitted. “And I hate that I do.”
Margery took a slow sip of tea. “We can all see red sometimes, Erica. Heaven knows my grandchildren go straight to ten. That’s what comes from high energy and stubborn genes.
” She shook her head with a chuckle. “Have you ever tried stepping outside before the red comes? Doing something else first to dispel the anger?”
“What, like a child on a naughty step?”
“No,” Margery said dryly. “Like a grown woman who knows when she’s reached her limit.”
Erica stared at the fire. “It’s more than all that, Margery. Not just a temper.” She gazed at the flames, already exhausted from trying to work out her own problems. “I thought I could come up here and just … be quiet,” she said. “Disappear into something smaller.”
“Mm.”
“But it follows me.”
Margery’s mouth curved faintly. “Most things do.”
“Even here?” Erica asked.
Margery didn’t answer straight away. “You talk about witches,” she said after a moment. “But what unsettles people isn’t magic. It’s women who don’t quite fit.”
Erica looked up.
“Alone,” Margery continued. “Not easily managed. That’s always made folk twitchy.”
The statement wasn’t dramatic. Just a knowing, that Margery’s years gave her a better understanding of the world than Erica.
“There’s more to it,” Erica said, her voice thinning. “I think something’s wrong with me.”
Margery studied her for a long second. “Something happened,” she said, nodding, but didn’t ask the question.
Erica hesitated. The hospital. The burnout. Maisie’s face. Gabriel at the door.
“It all feels tangled,” she managed. “Like I’m reacting to things that aren’t even there.”
Margery nodded. “That’s usually a sign there’s something underneath.”
“I don’t even know what that is.” Erica placed her head in her hand.
“Well,” Margery said calmly, “that’s a place to start.”
Erica looked up. What was she expecting? That Margery would offer her some grand advice?
Instead, the fire continued to crackle and Lucky stretched out in front of it; Margery leaned over, stroking him. He purred loudly for all to hear.
No fixing. Just company.
Just that.
From the kitchen came the soft rhythm of Rosa chopping, the low murmur of a tune half sung in Spanish.
“I’m tired,” Erica admitted.
“Of course you are.”
Margery rose carefully from her chair. “You’ve been bracing yourself for weeks.”
In the hallway sat an old telephone on a narrow table beside a small dish of keys.
“Shall I ring your sister?” Margery asked, not turning around.
“No.” The word came too quickly. “She’s angry with me.”
“What for?”
“I let her down.”
Margery absorbed that without commentary.
Rosa appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth. “?Todo bien, mi amor?” she asked softly, her hand brushing across Margery’s shoulder as she passed.
Margery reached up and squeezed her fingers briefly without looking. “Sí,” she said. “We’re just at a crossroads.”
Rosa’s warm gaze rested on Erica, but was unreadable. “Then you sit,” she said. “You eat. Tomorrow you decide.”
It wasn’t advice. It was instruction. One that Erica accepted, for now.
The clock ticked steadily on the wall.
Margery turned back to Erica. “There’s a spare room made up. Sheets are clean. You’ll stay.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
Margery snorted softly. “You’re not heavy enough.”
Despite herself, Erica’s mouth quirked upward.
“Rosa’s making lentils,” Margery added. “With far too much garlic. You’ll sleep like the dead, or scare the vampires away!”
Rosa smiled from the doorway. “Like the blessed,” she corrected lightly.
Lucky trotted over to her at once, tail high.
“Come, pequeno,” Rosa murmured, scooping him up with easy familiarity. “You help me.”
The scent of garlic and olive oil drifted through the room, warm and steady.
Erica stayed where she was, listening to the ordinary sounds of another life unfolding around her – cupboard doors, water in the sink, Rosa’s voice drifting in and out of a tune, Margery’s steady tread across the hall, setting the table for dinner.
Just an evening carrying on.
Her shoulders, which she hadn’t realised were up near her ears, eased by a fraction. The tightness in her jaw loosened. And Erica allowed things to just settle.
The noise inside her didn’t disappear. But it softened.
Like someone had turned the volume down a single click.
Not gone.
Just … less.