I stand and stretch but can’t shake the general feeling of unwellness. I feel a tad nauseous, and I have a headache. I do get migraines sometimes after doing spells, but what happened in the hospital was so positive and uplifting that I’m surprised it’s had a detrimental effect. If it was that. The house feels… odd. The atmosphere is dark and heavy, something I’ve never felt before at home. I feel depressed and close to tears, and there’s a knot in my stomach, around my solar plexus.
Frowning, conscious that sometimes negative psychic energy can feel like this, I walk around the house, checking for anything unusual. When I go into the kitchen, I feel it immediately—a dark, dragging energy, sucking all the light from the room. Merlin stands in the doorway, refusing to enter the room, barking non-stop. With shock, I stare at the big pine table in the centre. The apples and bananas in the fruit bowl look as if they’re a month old—brown and oozing, covered in flies. In the sink, the flowers that Imogen bought me are dead and decaying. Gingerly, I lift the clean tea towel that rests over the batch of muffins I’d left on the worktop, and I recoil at the sight of the maggots crawling out of them.
Disgusted, I find a rubbish bag, tip the fruit, flowers, and muffins into it, and take it outside. Then I come back into the kitchen and get all my cleaning products out from under the sink. It’s the festival of Ostara, so I should be spring cleaning anyway, and I set to it, ignoring the uneasy feeling in my stomach, and spending the rest of the afternoon up to my elbows in disinfectant, scrubbing every surface until the whole place gleams.
By the end of the day, I feel a whole lot better. My sickness has gone, and so has the dark, dragging feeling. Hoping to ensure it doesn’t return, I light an essential oil burner and mix some lavender with tea tree and peppermint to cleanse the room, and leave it burning while I knead some dough to fill the house with the comforting smell of warm bread. By the time the light starts to fade, I’m sitting in the living room eating cheese on toast, feeling right as rain.
“So what was that about?” I ask Merlin, who’s soaking up the heat from the fire. Someone had placed a curse on me; I’m certain of it. I’m not an expert in curses and prefer not to have anything to do with them, so I’m not sure quite how they did it, but it’s clear that somebody meant me harm.
Was it the murderer? It wouldn’t surprise me, as I already know he or she can do magic. But why come after me? What have I done?
Unbidden, I think of Matthew Hopkins and his dislike for me. Surely, he’s not responsible? He couldn’t be a witch and hate witches at the same time, could he?
There are no answers, so I wash up the tea things, then curl up on the sofa and settle down for an evening in front of the TV with a glass of wine. Tomorrow is Monday, and I’ll be picking up the ruby. It could be the start of something big—or maybe an end, if it doesn’t work. I don’t want to think about that, though, so I concentrate on thinking about Arthur and hoping for the best, and put on a romcom I’ve seen before, but I know I’ll enjoy.
Halfway through, my mobile rings. I pick it up, see Imogen’s name on the screen, and answer with a smile. “Hey you.”
“Hey. How are you doing? Have you recovered yet?”
I consider telling her about what happened in the kitchen, but decide not to worry her. She’s got enough on her plate. “I’m feeling much better. Had some cheese on toast and now I’m having a glass of wine.”
“You feel okay?”
“Umm… yes. Why?”
She hesitates for a second, although I might have imagined it. “The session at the hospital really seemed to take it out of you, that’s all.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Well, I’ve just heard from Christian, so I wanted to tell you…” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Baby Cassie’s vitals improved this afternoon, so much so that Rachel was allowed to hold her.”
Joy fills me. “Oh, I’m so pleased.”
“And apparently the other three babies have also shown marked improvements. You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Will Cassie be able to go home soon?”
“Well, hopefully. But it means that you, Gwen Young, are an amazing woman, and I love you to the ends of the Earth. You know that, right?”
Tears prick my eyes. Goodness, I’m so emotional at the moment, and it’s not even that time of the month. “Aw, Immi…”
“Christian wants to take you out to dinner to celebrate. Actually, he wants to take me out to dinner, but I refuse to take any of the credit.”
I laugh and rub my nose. “You should totally go and have fun.”
“I will, when we—”
“—catch the murderer, yes, I know.”
“I mean it, Gwen. You truly are amazing. And you do it all with such quiet fortitude and grace. I’m so full of admiration for you.”
“Oh, stop it. The baby’s better because of the love of her parents and the care of her nurses. All I did was help it along a little bit.”
“You can be as unassuming as you like, I still think you’re wonderful. You stay safe, do you hear me? And good luck with the ruby tomorrow. Let me know as soon as you discover if it works.”
“I will. Have a good evening, Immi.”
“See you soon.” She hangs up.
I turn off my phone and put it on the table, thinking about her last words. You stay safe, do you hear me? I’m sure I didn’t imagine her hesitation either when she asked me if I felt all right. Did she know about the dark energy in the kitchen? And if so, how?
If she was anyone else, I might have wondered if she were somehow the cause of it, but I’ve known Immi most of my life, I love her to bits, and I am one hundred percent certain that even if she knew about it, she wasn’t the cause of it.
But it still means someone else was.
I’m not going to be able to figure it out today, though. Baby Cassie is feeling better, and that’s great news and truly something to celebrate, whether I was responsible or not. So I lift Merlin onto the sofa beside me, prop my feet on the coffee table, take a sip from the red wine, and begin to leaf through one of Harriet’s Book of Shadows, while the romcom plays out cheerfully in the background.
I’m halfway through the glass of wine when I come to a page with a protection spell. My great-grandmother has written a paragraph above the instructions in her neat, slightly tilted handwriting. “There comes a time when each of us needs to think about protecting ourselves. Whether it’s from a nosy neighbour, an over-zealous suitor, an aggressive co-worker, or something more sinister, there are ways a witch can protect herself from unwanted attention.”
She goes on to give the ingredients of the spell. I think about Liza and the murderer, and the dark energy I felt earlier. I’ve often done my oatmeal cookies for protection, but I’ve never felt the need for anything stronger before. Now, though, I know I would feel safer if I thought I had some magical help.
So I get up, go into my nice, clean kitchen, and start collecting the various ingredients. I gather three cloves, angelica, rosemary, sage, and a pinch of salt, and place them in one of my hand-stitched cloth sachets that I sometimes use for spells and tighten the top. I then set about making the clove snaps that Harriet has suggested. I sift flour, cloves, cinnamon, butter, and salt. In another bowl I cream the butter, add egg, sugar, and orange zest, mix it all, then stir in the flour mixture until it’s all combined. I knead the dough, then say the spell that Harriet prepared as I picture a protective shell around me, keeping me safe.
“Sun and moon, wind and rain, please protect this witch from pain, Goddess bless and bind this charm, keep this hedge witch free from harm.”
As I roll out the dough and cut it into cookie shapes, I think about Harriet’s use of the term ‘hedge witch’. I tend to call myself a kitchen witch, but hedge witch or green witch are other terms for the same sort of thing—witches who work on their own, often from their kitchen, utilizing the ingredients around them to make their spells.
I put the tray in the oven and the sachet into my
pocket, pour myself another glass of wine, and go back into the living room until the cookies are done. Once they’ve cooled, I eat a couple for my supper, and also give one to Merlin, as I figure he deserves to have some protection, too. He sneezes as he eats one, which makes me laugh—the cloves give the cookies a spicy warmth, but he still finishes it.
Well, I can’t do much more than that to protect us. As we settle down for the rest of the evening, I keep the image of the protective shell in my mind, hoping it works.
Chapter Sixteen
On Monday morning, I approach the Avalon Café at around seven thirty as usual. Mackenzie’s Jewellery Shop won’t be open for at least another hour, but I like to get to work early so I can start baking and fill the café with warm smells before people begin coming in for their first coffee, to tempt them to buy a breakfast muffin or something for their lunch.
As soon as I round the corner, though, I can see something is wrong. The café door is open, and Delia, Cooper, Allison, and Joss are standing there talking, all looking very worried.
“Hey you,” I say as I approach them. “What’s up?”
“It’s Sir Boss,” Delia says. “He’s gone.”
I stop in my tracks and stare. The knight always stands just inside the doorway, as if he’s welcoming customers into the café. The spot is now empty, and the only thing to mark the fact that he was ever there is the slight mark of the knight’s two feet on the tiles. Merlin sniffs there, then sits down, looking forlorn.
“Did you move him?” Allison asks. “Please say you moved him.”
“No, it wasn’t me.” My mouth has gone dry. What’s happened? Has Arthur somehow managed to come to life even without the ruby? Has he just up and walked? Instinctively, though, I know that isn’t the case. He’s tied to the soulstone. Someone else has moved the knight.
“I know who’s done this.” Rage rears up inside me, and my hands curl into fists. Without another word, I turn and walk away.
“Gwen,” Delia calls after me, but I don’t stop. Instead, I quicken my speed and head for the centre of town. Merlin pads beside me, his step as purposeful as mine. Together, we march down to the office of the local newspaper.
The door is locked—it’s not even eight o’clock yet. Inside, though, I can see a figure in the room out the back, lifting a kettle, making a cup of tea. I raise a hand and bang on the glass. “Matthew Hopkins!” I yell. “Come out and face me, you coward.”
The figure inside turns, so I bang again. Eventually, he puts down the kettle and approaches the door. He studies me, smirking.
“Let me in!” I yell.
“We’re not open for another thirty minutes,” he points out.
“Open the door,” I tell him, “or I’ll break the glass and come in anyway, I swear.”
“I’ll call the police,” he says, looking alarmed for the first time.
“You think I care about that?” I bend and pick up a large stone lying on the grass and lift it as if aiming it at the window.
“All right, all right,” he mumbles. He undoes the door, opens it, and steps back.
I go inside, then turn and face him.
“You actually did it,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “You had the suit of armour removed.”
“I told you I would.” He speaks mildly, with some amusement, which annoys me even more. “The knight was dangerous—that sword could have killed me.”
“Knocking some sense into your thick skull is all it would have done.” I stop, my chest heaving, angry and frustrated. What can coming here truly achieve? He’s not going to change his mind and call the council to have them return the knight. He’s won, and all he’s going to do is gloat and make me feel bad about it.
“Why did you do it?” I whisper, unable to stop tears of fury and disappointment filling my eyes. “I loved that suit of armour. You know I did.”
“They’ve moved it back to the Adventure,” he says, “that’s all. It belongs there anyway; I don’t know what it was doing in the café. It’s clearly old, and anyone could have damaged it. I truly didn’t want anyone to be hurt by it.”
“I don’t believe you.” I dash away a tear that falls. “You wanted to hurt me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He looks surprised by my declaration. “I like you, Gwen. I’ve asked you out to dinner enough times.” His eyes darken then. “But this witchcraft thing has got to stop. It’s evil and destructive, and I want to save you from yourself.”
I move closer to him, unmindful of my own safety. “You know nothing about it,” I say softly. “If there’s anything evil and destructive in this world, it’s you. Writing slanderous accusations and doing your best to cast aspersions on innocent people. I don’t know how you can call yourself a human being.”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he asks, closing the gap between us, so he’s looking down into my eyes. “Every single person on this Earth is capable of harming another human being. Murderers aren’t special cases. We’re all evil at heart.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s the truth.”
I’m shaking now. “I don’t care what you think. I don’t believe we all begin evil. We all begin innocent, and only some of us are corrupted as we age.” I refuse to believe that baby Cassie is going to have to fight against a tendency to be evil.
“You have such a fiery spirit,” Matthew murmurs, his gaze caressing my face. “I know I should despise you for what you are. I know you need saving. But when I look at you, all I feel is desire…”
Before I can move, he cups the back of my head with a hand and kisses me.
Outside, I hear Merlin bark, his nails scraping at the glass, but unfortunately, I’ve let the door swing shut, keeping him out. I go rigid and squeal at the feel of Matthew’s lips on mine, my whole body burning with resentment. I brace my hands on his chest and push, but he’s strong, and he doesn’t move.
At that moment, there’s a loud bang and a shower of sparks, as if a firecracker has exploded between us. Matthew is thrown back, and he lands on the floor about six feet away, yelling with pain.
I don’t stop to query what’s happened—I turn and leg it out of the office, sprinting up the high street. With Merlin running by my side, I run until I reach the café and realize that Matthew isn’t following me.
I slow to halt, breathing heavily, my mind spinning at what just happened. And then I remember—of course, the protection spell! The cookies I ate, and the sachet that’s still in my jeans pocket, protected me. Harriet saved the day. Oh Goddess, what a relief.
*
The others force me to sit down, and Cooper makes me a coffee while I relate what happened, leaving out the bit about the explosion and instead substituting a knee in the groin as the reason I was able to get away.
“Only what he deserves,” Delia says fervently. “What a horrible man. Are you going to report him to Imogen?”
“You know, I think I might.” Imogen would love the excuse to take him in for questioning, if only to ruffle his feathers a little.
“Morning, everyone.” It’s Duncan coming through the door, stopping with surprise as he sees me sitting down, which I rarely do in the café as I’m always busy. “Everything all right, Gwen?”
“Matthew Hopkins stole Sir Boss and then attacked her,” Cooper says rather dramatically.
“Attacked?” Duncan looks horrified.
“It’s okay.” I wave a hand. “I’m all right. I wasn’t attacked. He tried to… you know… kiss me, that’s all.”
“Gwen kneed him in the nuts,” Cooper adds colourfully.
“We’re all very pleased about that,” Delia says.
“What have you got there?” I ask Duncan in an attempt to distract everyone. I point to the large scrapbook under his arm.
“Oh, I found this in the archives.” He lays it on the table. “I took it home last night to have a leaf through. It’s quite interesting. It has photos of the winner of
the River Brue Fishing Competition every year for the last fifty or so years.” He opens the cover and shows Cooper the top photo. “Look at that perch that Brian Welch caught last year. What a beaut.”
I’m not that interested in fishing, but I’m happy to be distracted for a while, plus I like anything to do with history, so I leaf through the pages, Cooper watching as he makes his father’s coffee, the two of us laughing at some of the pleased expressions of the top fisherman with their magnificent catches.
“He’s super proud,” Cooper says, pointing to one fellow who’s beaming at the camera as he holds up his fish. He looks in his late forties. A little blonde girl stands by his side, holding his hand. She must be about three years old. His daughter or his granddaughter?
I look at the description of the winner. “Henry Billingham, holding up a champion roach, 1994.”
“Mm.” I blink, staring at the photo. My brain’s whirling, but I can’t put my finger on why. I don’t know the name. Why does something about the figures seem familiar?
“Crikey, it’s nearly eight thirty,” Cooper says. “We’d better get a move on, Gwen.”
His words shake me out of my reverie, and I sigh, get to my feet, and hand the scrapbook back to Duncan.
“What are you going to do about Sir Boss?” Duncan asks.
“He’s only in the Adventure,” I tell him. “He hasn’t gone far. I’ll talk to the Council and see if I can get him moved back if I promise to sort out the dodgy right arm.”
“Good,” he says. “Place looks weird without him.” He collects his coffee, gives us a wave, and leaves.
“I’d better get baking.” I tie my apron and head out to the kitchen. “Muffins don’t make themselves, you know!” I put Matthew Hopkins to the back of my mind. The man doesn’t deserve any further thought.
I spend several hours kneading dough and making sausage rolls, pies, and muffins, and then around eleven, I decide I need a break. Asking Delia to hold the fort, I put on my jacket and head out. Merlin picks himself up from where he’s been lazing in front of the window, and the two of us head into town.
One Dark and Stormy Knight Page 11
