by Alys West
“Cunning. I’d never have known.” He unloaded the books, stacking them in wobbly piles on the floor. Peering in, he reached inside until his fingers touched the back panel. “Okay, tell me what to do.”
Of course, she moved nearer to do it. Stood right beside him — close enough that he could smell lavender and something else, something sweeter coming off her hair — telling him where to press and what to slide until his thoughts were tangled and the blood in his body was heading to his groin.
“Give a man some light, will you? I can’t see a thing with your head in the way.”
“Sorry.” Instantly, she stepped back. “I was trying to help.”
Helping him get a hard-on. Not helping him reach the grimoires. His groping fingers finally slid the panel back and he touched worn leather. “I’ve got them.”
Jenna stepped back. “There’s three. The smallest one’s really old. Be careful with it.”
The smell of old dust assaulted his nostrils as he slid each book to the front of the shelf and handed it to her.
Chapter 17
Awkwardly, balancing them on her good arm and using the injured one to keep them in place, Jenna carried the grimoires over to the chair by the window. Then she couldn’t put them down without using her left arm. She bent her knees, intending to slide them onto the chair bottom and then Winston was beside her.
“Here, let me.” As he took the books from her, his hands brushed against hers and she fought the urge to meet his gaze. “Impressive bit of work with the bookshelves. I’d never have guessed.”
“Dad made them. The other one is the same depth so you can’t tell there’s a hidden space.” Gesturing for him to put the books on the floor, she moved to the desk and took a gulp of tea. When she turned back he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a grimoire open in his hands, turning the pages with a look on his face that in anyone else she’d have described as awe. Perhaps it was. He’d been surprising her all afternoon. Why not with this as well?
Returning to her chair with her tea, she sat down. His bent black head was close to her knee. It felt odd having him sitting by her feet. Too intimate for the state of their friendship. If that’s what it was. When he’d teased her about her middle name, it felt almost like flirting. Not the patented ‘Dr Grant’ charm he used to inflict on her. She’d defences against that. This had been fun but with an edge because, for all his many and varied faults, he was gorgeous. Not that it meant anything to him. She was sure of that. Flirting was as natural to him as breathing and he probably gave about as much thought to it.
His hair fell forward over his face as he read. Turning a page, he brushed it back. He had good arms. An impressively shaped bicep curved beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt. On it was a tattoo of one downward line crossed half way down by three shorter ones. “Is that a rune?” As his head turned to her, she pointed at it.
“This?” His hand briefly touched it. “No, ogham. It’s Ngetal. It’s the sign for the month of my birth.”
She should have guessed. The ogham alphabet was important to druids. “Which is?” she asked.
“November. Why?”
“Just curious.” And she was. She couldn’t help it. He gave so little away and yet wanted to know so much.
“These are incredible. I can’t believe I’m reading Nina Stewart’s grimoires.” Putting one book down, he opened the smallest and oldest grimoire. “Why’s this one on black paper?”
“It’s a Norse thing, I think. Spell books were traditionally written on black paper in Orkney, Shetland and Scandinavia.”
He nodded, his face softening as his attention became focused on the words on the page. Did he apply that kind of concentration to his work; immersing his mind in the ancient worlds he was investigating in the same way he was soaking up the spells in these books?
Finishing her tea, she put the empty mug on the floor and wished she’d brought the scones. It was nearly half-past eight and she was starving. Dad had eaten without her, leaving a note on the fridge to say her tea was inside. She’d heard the TV in the sitting room and been unsurprised when he’d not come to meet Winston. The druid was the first person with magic who’d been in the house since Mum died, it was bound to be hard for Dad.
Standing, she walked to the desk, opened the top drawer and took out the card with freesias on. She’d decided when she’d stood by Mum’s grave that she had to try to be honest with him, to talk about the difficult stuff no matter how much it hurt. If she didn’t and the storm witch hurt someone else she’d never forgive herself.
“Winston?”
“Hmm?” His head came up belatedly as if he couldn’t tear his gaze from the book he held.
She held the card out to him. “This is the letter Grace sent Mum.”
His eyes met hers briefly before dropping to the card in her hand. He took it, opened it then looked at her again. “Are you okay if I read it now?”
“Yes, I want to talk to you about it.”
His dark head bent again, the fine hair sliding forward. There were one or two grey strands in it. She wondered if he knew, if he cared.
He closed it, turned it over. “Was the envelope with it when you found it?”
“No, it was tucked inside a catalogue. Why?”
“There’s no date on it. Not that I’m surprised Grace doesn’t date her letters but it’d be helpful to know when she sent it.”
“It would.” She hesitated, knowing what her next words would lead to. “There’s one way to find out.”
“You mean ask Grace? It’s got to be worth a try. She might have kept Nina’s letters.”
She should do it but she didn’t know how to explain why she’d acted as she did. “Will you? I mean, I know it should come from me but…” Swallowing hard, she looked out of the window. Mist had blanketed the bay, stealing the light. He’d have to be careful on the way back to Kirkwall.
“Aye, I can ring her. If you’ll give me the number, I’ll do it when I get back to Glasgow.”
She’d thought he’d make it a lot harder for her than that. “I’ll email it to you. And, thanks.”
“No worries.” He smiled at her briefly before his eyes turned back to the book in his hand.
Was that it? Was that all he was going to say? She’d envisaged endless questions and long discussions ending, as they seemed to, with her in tears. Well, that was fine but there was something she needed to say. Something he should have picked up on, seeing as he was so smart about spotting witch bottles and hag stones.
“If you’re right about the hag stones and everything—” her hand gestured a little wildly at the window “—Not that they did any good, did they? Then Mum definitely knew what was coming.”
She’d got his full attention now. “Were there any other indications of that?”
“Only that everything was in order. She got a will drawn up two months before, her accounts were done, her tax return filled in. That wasn’t like Mum. She was always last minute with that kind of stuff.”
“Aren’t we all?” Unravelling his lithe legs effortlessly he stood, picked up his tea and leaned on the windowsill facing her. “Thinking you need protection is a long way from foreseeing your own death. I think we need more to go on than hag stones, witch bottles and an uncharacteristic degree of organisation.”
“Like what?” Her voice rose. That was always a bad sign. Tears would be next. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself.
“Let’s wait and see what Grace has to say before we jump to any conclusions.”
“Don’t theorise ahead of the evidence you mean?”
“You can take the druid out of archaeology…” he trailed off with a grin which she weakly returned.
“Alright, but just saying she did know, why didn’t she leave something behind so we’d understand? Write a letter like they do in films? I mean, she was a seer, for Christ’s sake! How did she not know how Dad would take it? Did she not see that?” Her vision blurred and frantically she blinked back tears. She rea
lly didn’t want to cry in front of him again.
“Is it possible that she did and whatever she left got lost in the break-in? You said there was paper everywhere.”
“I guess.” Her fingers picked at a loose thread at the edge of the bandage. “I had a look round before we started the clear-up and I didn’t see anything but I guess it could have got mixed in with everything else and then thrown out.” She wasn’t sure that helped. To think they might have lost Mum’s last words was worse than thinking there hadn’t been any at all.
Putting his mug down on the desk, he picked up his jacket. “I need to go. It’ll take ages to get back in this fog.”
“If you take the coast road through Evie it might be better.”
“Alright, I’ll try that.” He gestured to the grimoires neatly stacked on the floor. “Can I take these with me?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Dad’s a bit hung up about this room. He said I wasn’t to let you take anything away.”
“Oh.” Disappointment flashed across his face and was swiftly erased by a hopeful half-smile. “Will you mind if I pop back to read them some other time?”
“Will reading them help to find out who killed her?”
“I don’t know.” He zipped up his jacket. “Possibly.”
“Okay, take one. If Dad asks I’ll say I’ve got it.”
“Thank you. There’s some fascinating stuff in here.” His smile seemed genuine as he bent and picked up the grimoire he’d looked at first. “And you can trust me, I will take care of it.”
Automatically she nodded to acknowledge his words and then belatedly the emotion hit. She did trust him. On this stuff, at least. How had that happened? To hide her confusion, she opened the middle drawer of Mum’s desk and took out the pile of papers about The Order. “I found these earlier too. Will you take them and see if you can find anything that I’ve missed?”
“Sure, if you want.” Unzipping his jacket half way, he stowed them in the inside pocket. “Keep on with the research, will you? Something useful might turn up.”
“Okay.” She moved towards the door. “I’ll show you out. I thought I might try the Crystal Goddess site. You know, the one the storm witch was on.”
The mist was thicker than she’d realised. It was like stepping into cotton wool, the edges of everything obscured, every sound muted. Even the sea, usually a ceaseless background to everything that happened in the garden, was barely audible.
“Been on it. Bunch of amateurs talking a load of shit. Waste of time.”
“What have you got against amateurs? They’re not doing any harm.”
“They’re not doing any good either. They piss me off, pretending to be magical when they’ve got about as much magic as your dog. No offence to the dog.”
As she laughed, she had an urge to reach through the fog to touch him, just to reassure herself he was still there. “Jet wouldn’t mind. He’s very forgiving like that. The gate’s over here.”
Reaching it, she was relieved to feel its steady wooden strength beneath her hand. Abruptly, she didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want to be here on her own with her dad, like the old times, the bad times. “Will you let me know you’ve got back alright?”
“You’re worried about me?” The look of incredulity that went with the words made her wish she’d not spoken.
“You’re the only person other than me who knows there’s a dangerous storm witch loose on these islands. I’d rather you didn’t die under a lorry on a blind bend.” She crossed her arms and then uncrossed them as she didn’t want to look as defensive as she sounded.
“If that’s what you’re worried about I’ll do my best not to die under a lorry or any other vehicle that might be out there. And if you really want, I’ll text you when I get back.”
“Email’s better. I don’t get a mobile signal here.”
“Sure.” His hand closed around the latch on the gate. “Let me know how it goes on Friday when the stitches come out.”
Her right hand cradled her injured arm. “Okay.”
He swung the gate open. “I’ll see you when I get back. Any trouble though and you ring me.”
“I can’t ring you. You’ll be in a conference.”
He turned back, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Stuff the conference. Ring me.”
Confused by his vehemence, she said, “Alright, I’ll ring you.”
“Good.” He nodded once, sharply, as if he was giving an order before turning and walking away. By the time he reached his bike, he’d become a blurred silhouette. Before he rode away and disappeared into the whiteness, Jenna shut the gate and hurried back inside.
Chapter 18
Why was it when she didn’t want to see The Orcadian it was everywhere? Each time she saw the screaming headline it triggered memories of the stone falling. Everywhere she turned on the ferry someone had been reading the newspaper. If they knew what she’d done, that it was all her fault, they’d hate her. Carrie, of course, had an opinion on it and didn’t hold back as they’d cleared up at the end of their shift. Feeling the tension beginning to build, Rachel kept her answers as short as possible and concentrated on keeping her breathing even. She could not lose it again like she’d done on Saturday.
For once, it was a relief when her feet touched solid ground. She could do less damage here. Hurrying along Victoria Street she’d turned up Church Street but not before she’d seen the board outside John Rae’s repeating the headline in three-inch-high capitals. The Sutherlands would have to manage without their paper this week. There was no way she was going in the newsagents.
Stepping through the front door, she let out a long exhale. Even before she put the kettle on, she checked her emails on her phone. She must be on the world’s most rubbish mobile plan because she was always running out of data. It was so frustrating that she could only pick up her emails at home or if she loitered outside The Commercial Hotel taking advantage of their free Wi-Fi.
Seeing the name Sarah Parry some of the tension left her shoulders. She wasn’t on her own with this anymore. Sarah was going to help her. Resisting the temptation to open the email immediately, she made a cup of tea, took a couple of biscuits from the packet and hurried through to the sitting room. Once she’d kicked off her shoes, she opened her laptop and logged into her email account.
Sarahdipity’s name was Sarah Parry. She lived in the Lake District. Rachel had been worried about revealing her name and email address when she joined the mentoring programme. She’d Googled Sarah and found her on Twitter and Instagram. She’d spent ages scrolling through both. There wasn’t a photograph of Sarah herself but loads of her two dogs, Treacle and Briar and her rare-breed chickens. It was clear that Sarah didn’t hide her practice of magic. Her Twitter feed was full of pictures of rituals and potions and chats with other folk about magic. Rachel wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Nina had engrained the importance of secrecy in her, explaining that in a world which had embraced science and rejected magic it was their duty to protect the rest of the population from a truth they couldn’t begin to understand. Rachel didn’t think she’d ever be able to take Sarah’s approach. Especially after she’d caused so much harm. But Sarah seemed like the real deal which was what mattered.
Sarah’s email was shorter than she’d expected. As she read it, a fluttering of excitement started in her stomach. Sarah was pleased with the exercises she’d done so far and thought Rachel was ready for basic elemental magic. She had to keep working on visualisation but Sarah had sent her some rituals to practise.
Rachel fist pumped once. She was making progress! Thank the Goddess. Clicking on the attachment containing the rituals, she tapped her finger on the keyboard as it slowly downloaded. Then she began to read.
***
In The Noust, Winston pushed his empty plate away and spread The Orcadian over the table. He was going to have to stop eating like this. They served chips with everything and it was adding up. His jeans were definitely tighter. As the waitress appeared to
scoop the plate away, he ordered a black decaf coffee. At least that wouldn’t add any more flab.
Curiosity had got the better of him when he’d seen the headline outside of the newsagent. It read “Dream Wedding Destroyed – nine injured at Cathedral” with a picture of Amy looking distraught as she left the Cathedral, a bloom of blood on her dress where her bouquet should have been. On page two there were photographs of the exterior of the Cathedral in the immediate aftermath, a close-up of the smashed window and a shot of Duncan on a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. There were comments from the minister who’d been conducting the service, the head of Orkney Islands Council and Dougie Skebister, Kenny’s father. The article concluded with an announcement by the Council that they had commissioned a full structural survey of the Cathedral and that there would be an investigation into what had occurred.
He felt some sympathy for the person landed with the investigation. Deranged storm witch was hardly going to figure in the parameters of the inquiry. They’d reach the same conclusion everyone else had that freak weather was the cause and someone would be blamed for inadequate maintenance of the Cathedral.
Scanning the rest of the paper and flipping past reports on cattle prices, local sporting endeavours and Stromness Shopping Week, he found himself interested in an article about the archaeological dig on Westray. Winston shook his head. How had Jenna got him reading The Orcadian? He needed to be back to Glasgow. Even if it was only for a weekend.
Once he’d put the paper aside, he opened his laptop and typed ‘Andrew Stewart Property Developer’ into Google. Drinking his coffee, he waited for it to load. This would probably be the very reddest of red herrings but the other thing he’d learned from cop shows was to work every lead. Jenna wouldn’t investigate her uncle but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.
A string of entries relating to Steambridge Developments Limited came up and an article from Highland Living magazine described as ‘an intimate picture of Andrew and his wife Felicity in their stunning new home in beautiful Orkney’. He clicked on that first. He wanted to see how bigsie the place really was.
