“Do you work here?”
I jump. A delivery guy in a red DPD coat is standing patiently with a cardboard box.
“This is a tracked delivery. From Italy. I need you to sign for it.”
I look around, and see that the shopkeeper is gone. She must have slipped out while I was comparing and contrasting crystals. My notepad still in my hands, I realize that the delivery guy must think I’m taking inventory. I feel a bit proud, thinking I look old enough and cool enough to work in a shop like this. Thank God I changed out of my uniform at school.
I peer at the box. Judging by the packaging, it’s a shipment of tarot. Italy has the best tarot in Europe. Fiona and I have already started talking about convincing our parents to let us do an exchange there. Even though, as I keep grumbling, it would mean having to speak Italian.
The man is still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Um…” I cast a glance around again. “Sure, I can sign for it.”
Now he’s sceptical. “You do work here, right?”
“Yes. This is my mum’s shop.” Wow, what a surprisingly easy lie. “I help her out.”
He shrugs and hands the electronic pad over. I scrawl something vague and he doesn’t even look at it. The machine spits out a little receipt and he hands it to me along with the package.
“All right, have a good day, Miss Evans.”
I stiffen. Miss Evans?
Somehow I manage to put the box on the counter, without letting it fall to the floor, and just nod at the DPD guy until he leaves the shop.
I read the label on the package.
Fionnuala Evans, Divination, 56 Peter’s Street, Kilbeg.
Evans. The shopkeeper’s last name is Evans. Harriet’s sister? No, that can’t be. She’s told me her sister’s name before. It was something witchy. What was it? Willow?
Fionnuala Evans. Evans.
Maybe not a sister. A cousin? A coincidence?
What was her sister’s damn name? She mentioned it again when we had that conversation about sensitives. Yes. I was standing right here, beside the crystals. What was it? And where is she?
My hands start to sweat, soaking the receipt in my hands. Finally, I put the box on the counter and lay the delivery receipt on top of it. That’s when everything clicks.
F. EVANS. F. EVANS.
I line it up in my head like an algebra equation.
H. EVANS.
Heaven. The shopkeeper called her sister Heaven.
All this time, I’ve assumed that the shopkeeper was keeping her own name a secret because of some kind of business-like privacy. Her way of saying: Hey, I like you, kid, but don’t get too close. I remember the last thing she said to me when we were stuck in that psychic vision together, right after she tried to cast me out of her shop.
Don’t bite off more than you can chew.
Clearly, Heaven, or Harriet, had done this and lost her life in the process.
“Maeve.”
She’s back. The library of freshly cut herbs, I realize, is also a hidden door. Fionnuala is standing next to it as it hangs ajar, and a dark stairwell is just about visible behind it. She must live upstairs. She might even own the whole building.
“I signed for your package,” I say, my voice quavering. “Fionnuala.”
She sits down at the stool perched behind the till and looks bleakly at the box.
“Thank you,” she says limply. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. I’m beginning to suspect she went upstairs for a quick power nap, or possibly to take some kind of medication.
“Why…?” I don’t know where to begin. Why anything, at this point? I stop. Recalibrate.
“You knew I summoned the Housekeeper. From the day we came in.”
“Asking about that silly school project. Yes.”
There’s so much pain, so much exhaustion in her voice. I can’t even summon the good sense to be angry with her.
“What’s wrong with you?” I finally ask in frustration.
She laughs a little then. Not a cruel laugh, by any means. More the laugh a heart surgeon might give if you asked her what, exactly, she got up to all day.
“I’ve got nothing left, Maeve. I’m out.”
“Out of what?”
“Of everything. Of magic. Of power. Of energy. Of my mind. I’ve spent the last three weeks using everything I have to protect you, and I’ve got nothing left. As I said before …”
She drifts a little, as if she’s about to fall asleep right there on the stool.
“… I’m just a kitchen witch. Not a sensitive. Not a sorceress. Just a garden-variety middle-aged Wiccan with a little stolen magic trying to help a girl who can’t help herself.”
“What do you mean? What … what have you been doing?”
“Haven’t you noticed that the nightmares have begged off? That you seem to be able to slip out of dangerous situations a little too easily? Jaysus, the sweet arrogance of youth. What I wouldn’t do to get it back.”
I think for a moment. The nightmares … they have stopped. There was the one I shared with Roe, where we both saw the shoe floating down the Beg, but I hadn’t had any nightmares about the Housekeeper by myself in ages. Even the shoe dream wasn’t a nightmare as such. It was a warning, a clue, a poster on the great cosmic bulletin board. I had assumed that I had just gotten stronger by myself, but no, Fionnuala has been shielding me.
“You’ve been casting protection spells on me?”
She nods. “Every night. I only know when I see you whether they’ve worked or not.”
I think for a moment, carefully sifting through the last few weeks. “There was a riot at the Cypress. People were hurt. Badly hurt. But I walked out of there without even giving the police a statement.”
A brief smile, a slight roll of her eyes. “Well, isn’t that nice?”
“Why? Why were you doing this? You barely even know me.”
“Because, Maeve, I’m old enough to know when history is repeating itself. Every day of my life I have to live with what happened to Heaven. Do you know what that’s like? To have failed your own sister, and then to see another sensitive come waltzing in thirty years later? It rattles you, pet. It rattles you.”
“And … you knew about the Housekeeper? Straight away?”
“I had my suspicions. Especially when the weather started to turn, and all this craziness with those fundamentalists started kicking off. You’re right, by the way. That boy, that blond boy…”
“Aaron.”
“Aaron. Aryan. Jaysus. It’s like his parents knew he was going to be Hitler Youth.”
I laugh a little, despite everything. She smiles back, pleased to have found the energy to make a small joke.
“He smelled the weakness. The imbalance. Like a shark smells blood in the water. Children of Brigid was a tiny, hateful little speck, based way up the country. They had about five followers. And suddenly, this boy and his American money shows up here, just as the weather turns. I knew something was happening. And I didn’t want another teenage girl to be at the centre of it.”
“When I first met Aaron,” I say, puzzling out the memory, “he would barely interact with me. Even when I was at his gross meeting, playing his emotional blackmail games … it was like I smelled of bad milk.”
Roe. Roe was the one he had wanted. And I thought that my strength and self-confidence were the reasons he wouldn’t come close. God, she’s right. I really am that arrogant.
“He could smell the protection spell. Or sense it, anyway. If he knows what he is, you can bet your life he knows what you are. He’s probably been waiting for weeks for whatever is protecting you to run out of juice.”
He remembered me. Straight away, he knew me as the girl in the wedding dress, even though I had been at the back of the shop the whole time. Even though Fiona was the beauty, the fire, the one with her bare leg out, the one everyone was looking at as she shouted about atheism.
A terrifying thought crawls into my head on its bel
ly. My conversation with him at Bridey’s. My boyfriend’s gig. My sister at college. Aaron has been circling me. He can’t get to me, so he’s going for the people who are closest. Slowly weakening my barriers until I give up or give in.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Because I knew the more I told you, the more you knew, the more you’d get involved. So I just thought that maybe – oh, I don’t know – that if I kept a bubble around you, the phase would pass without you doing anything stupid. The balance would correct itself. It often does.”
“It hasn’t, though.”
“No,” she says, massaging her closed eyelids with the tips of her fingers. “And I have nothing left to give you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Magic isn’t endless. It’s like a crop. It has to have time to renew. And I’ve spent every last ounce on you, Maeve Chambers. So you don’t end up like Heaven.”
“Why do you call her—?”
“It’s time for you to leave, Maeve.”
“What?” I almost screech. “You can’t tell me all that and then expect me to go home.”
“Nevertheless, I am. Leave now. I don’t want to see you in here for at least a week. And for the love of God, don’t do anything before then. I don’t have what it takes to protect you.”
“OK,” I say slowly. “I’ll just buy these then.” I put the candles, the crystals and the herbs on the counter.
Fionnuala grits her teeth fiercely. “Maeve,” she says, her voice low and authoritative. “If you think I am selling you anything for a ritual, you obviously think I’m a much stupider woman than I am.”
“But Fionnuala…”
“Sweetheart. I’m too weak to stop you. I’m only just about strong enough to ask, so I’m asking you now: please, please do not try to end this in a ritual. Don’t overestimate your own power.”
“You don’t understand. The Housekeeper, she has my…”
Fionnuala puts up one finger to silence me. There must be a drop of magic still left in her, because somehow, it does. My mouth clamps shut.
“I cannot stop a ritual I do not approve of. But I can refuse to profit off it. I will not line my pockets with your mistakes, Maeve. Now go.”
And, empty-handed, I leave.
The nightmares start again the same night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
TEXT MESSAGE FROM FIONA.
SPELL SUMMONING CHECKLIST:
SATIN: I got us a TON from the dress material shop. Also, I’ve been practising knots!
HERBS: Roe, lol that your mum actually does have a herb garden. Protestants!!! Lots of rosemary y/n?
CHANTS: MAEVE, I’m depending on you to give us some real Lizzo level chants. Rhythm! Energy! SASS!
Fiona went back to Divination herself on Friday afternoon and tried to buy the supplies. Fionnuala was not convinced. Apparently, she was basically monosyllabic with Fiona, despite Fiona’s pretence that this was once again for a school project.
Fiona, Roe and I have gone over Fionnuala’s warning again and again. Picking at it from all sides, biting it like a prospector checks for gold.
“Surely,” Fiona began, full of passion, “if her protection spells aren’t working any more, then that’s even more incentive for us to finish the Housekeeper? Right? Clearly, Aaron is working his way to you, Maeve. He knows you’re a special.”
“A sensitive.”
“Whatever. Same thing.”
Roe was quiet for a long time after I told him. Measured and logical, reluctant of Fiona’s over-confident bravado.
“Heaven died,” he says, simply. “We have to remember that, Fi. Heaven died.”
“Heaven died. Yes,” I reply, trying to mimic his mature delivery. “But Heaven was probably on her own, for one. And for two, Heaven actually wanted her father to die. He was beating the family. She wanted her mum to get a divorce, but the referendum didn’t pass, so she summoned the Housekeeper.”
“Did Fionnuala tell you that?”
“No.” To my own shame, I had barely even asked about Heaven/Harriet. I had squandered my remaining time in Divination asking only about myself. By the time I got around to asking about Heaven I was already being kicked out. “But it’s obvious. Sister A basically told me herself.”
“And,” Roe adds, “her dad died. He didn’t go missing. He didn’t disappear into the Beg river. It was life for a life. It’s not … nice, but it’s black magic. She knew what she was doing. As opposed to you, who accidentally summoned the Housekeeper, and now Lily is accidentally stuck in a sort of … in-between. She’s not dead. So there’s no swap to be made. We’re just balancing the books.”
The logic of this feels firm to me. It feels firm to Fiona, too. So we decide to go ahead with the ritual, crystals or no.
I think we need 3 chants: 1 for cutting the satin into ropes (I’ll bring a kitchen knife), 1 for throwing the knot and 1 for pulling it in. That OK, Maeve???
I text back, K.
Also – can we all wear blue or black?? Saturn’s colours.
And another.
I can’t believe it’s tomorrow?!
I put my phone on airplane mode. Sure, I’ll wear blue. Or black. I’ll wear whatever.
I haven’t mentioned the nightmares to Fiona and Roe. It feels like I’ve given them enough to worry about, and this whole “sensitive” thing is already more hassle than it’s worth. I’ve spent the last sixteen years of my life trying very hard not to be the kind of girl who needs a lot of looking after. The realization that I’ve been protected by a near-stranger for almost a month is like boasting about being really good at a video game then finding out everyone’s been letting you play on easy mode.
So, no. I don’t mention the nightmares. It’s only the same old crap anyway. The Housekeeper. The river. The sense of Lily, near by and watching, waiting and snarling. On Saturday morning I wake up before 5 a.m., feeling heavy, hot and sick. It’s still dark outside. I take my pillow into the bathtub, feeling the cool porcelain against my skin. Eventually I drift off again, drooling onto the soft cotton case.
I’m alone at the river again. It’s a bright, early morning and Tutu is with me. I search around for the Housekeeper. At this stage, I’m used to seeing her statuesque, quasi-human form. It’s not a comfort, but it is a guarantee. This time, I don’t see her.
At least not right away.
Across the river, sitting on an upturned milk crate, is Aaron.
What is he doing here? Is Aaron really visiting my dreams now that the protection spells have worn off, or is this just my subconscious, working out its growing fear of him?
There must be a beam of light streaming through the bathroom window and dancing off my closed eyelids because a rainbow is darting around on the ground in front of me. It moves as I do, bouncing and refracting off the water.
Aaron is wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, smiling easily as the morning sun plays on his tanned face. There is something in his hands. I squint. The sun is almost blinding me, and he’s too far across the river to see very well. But he is definitely stroking something in his lap. Something dark and glossy, like a cat. A cat but bigger than a cat.
“Are you really here?” I ask. And despite the fact I haven’t raised my voice, he can hear me. He looks up. “Is it really morning?”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods, and keeps stroking whatever is in his lap. Tutu starts to bark. Fiercely at first, but the noise quickly gives way to an anxious whine.
A flash of white teeth from across the river. Aaron is smiling at me.
My eyes finally adjust to the light. I can see Aaron a little better now, and more importantly I can see what he’s holding.
Lying in Aaron’s lap is the head of the Housekeeper.
For a sickening moment, I think it’s her disembodied head, hacked clean off her body. But no: perhaps even more terrifyingly, the Housekeeper is merely resting on Aaron’s lap while he slowly separates her long black hair with his fingers. Each
satin band slips through his fingers like water, and there seems to be true affection in the gesture. Almost tenderness. He smiles again. Another flash of white across the river.
“What are you doing? Why are you here?”
Ssssh. She’s sleeping.
“What do you want from me, Aaron?”
Ssssh.
I turn around, refusing to face him. Wake up, Maeve. Wake the hell up.
If I were you, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to wake up. It’s hard out there, y’know. It’s hard for people like us.
“What are you talking about?”
He goes back to stroking her hair.
Isn’t it sweet, Maeve? You are more afraid of her than anything, and she’s just a pet to me.
I shut my eyes. I don’t want to look at him any more.
I could smell you, you know. The first time. I could smell you from the elevator.
“Shut up.”
It’s going to be so interesting, he murmurs. If you live.
The prism of rainbow light moves and my eyes flutter open. The room is full of blinding early morning sun, bouncing off the white tiles. My entire body is shaking, my teeth crackling together like someone who is cold in a cartoon. His final words are still rattling around my head like loose change.
It’s going to be so interesting. If you live.
As dispassionately as I can, I try to imagine myself dead. Another Harriet Evans, or Heaven, or Harry, or whatever she was called. I imagine being outlived by Sister Assumpta, the oldest woman in the world, and her praying rosaries for me to some other idiot girl that was conned into cleaning her car. Maeve doesn’t get to be with Him, so I still pray for her, my God is a forgiving God, wah, wah, wah.
My teeth start to snag on my nails. As the sweat from my dream settles and dries on my body, I feel sticky, strange.
All Our Hidden Gifts Page 26
