Way of the Witch

by Cate Dean

  A promise he had made years ago would finally be fulfilled.

  “That must have been startling,” Grace said. “To have her react so violently.”

  “I think she’s been basing every part of her business on the fact that she is related to Anya.” Spencer sighed, and carefully leaned back. His side still ached, pain digging into him if he moved wrong. “Losing that might have been her personal breaking point.”

  “You’re certain about the heart-shaped birthmark?”

  He nodded. “It’s been recorded, with every birth. Anya left a daughter and a son behind, one of them illegitimate. Any record of legitimacy was lost when Givens and his cohorts burned what papers they could find.”

  “Givens?” Grace looked surprised. “The same Givens as yours?”

  “Unfortunately.” Spencer rubbed the bridge of his nose. Another headache was coming on. He hadn’t told Maggie about them; she had been worried enough, without him adding that to it. “He sold the cup we found to Maggie’s great aunt years ago. I remember her telling us that he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. If he feels that way about Anya’s cup, he will not be happy about the book.”

  “From these scrolls.” Grace scooted to the end of the sofa and patted her lap. “Down, Spencer. Let me do something about that headache.”

  He shook his head. “You spook me, sometimes, being able to read me like that.”

  “When you love someone, you know when they are feeling poorly.”

  He couldn’t say anything to that, just feel guilty that he didn’t care for her the same way.

  Her magic fingers eased his headache, and he let himself drift, random thoughts flitting through his mind.

  One of those thoughts snagged, and he sat. “She knew.”

  “What?”

  He turned to Grace. “Regina knew she wasn’t related to Anya. I remember now—just before she jumped me, there was an expression on her face. Guilt, and fury at being caught out.”

  “That was no excuse to attack you.” Anger vibrated through Grace’s normally quiet voice. “I will never forgive her for what she’s done. Never.”

  “And I won’t ask you to.” He reached up, and closed his hand over hers. “You know I care about you, Grace. I just—I can’t lie, not about this.”

  “I know.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Can you hand me the amber bottle?”

  He grabbed the bottle off the coffee table, flinching when his fingers met liquid. “I think it’s leaking.”

  “Oh—I must have dripped some the last time I used it. I want you to tell me more about your book. I’ll order supper from the pub, and we can have a quiet evening.”

  “I’d like that.” Relief spread through him. He had been braced for another argument, but Grace seemed to finally accept that their relationship wasn’t meant to last. “Would you like some wine? I can’t indulge yet, with my painkillers.”

  “The red would be nice. Thank you.” She kissed him, then stood and set the bottle on the side table before she grabbed her mobile. “I’ll head down. Ring me if you need anything.”

  Spencer watched her leave the flat, then stared down at his hands. No matter their differences, he would miss Grace.

  “Can’t have both, mate,” he muttered. “And stringing her along will only hurt both of you.”

  With a sigh, he pushed to his feet and headed for the sink. He wanted to wash the oil off his hand before he got it on anything, like the scrolls.

  When he pulled her favorite red wine out of the cupboard, he leaned against the counter, staring at the bottle. Ending his relationship with her was turning out to be more difficult than he expected. But he couldn’t lead her on, not when he knew his feelings wouldn’t change.

  He would enjoy her company while she was still here, then say goodbye.

  It would be the best thing, for both of them. Even if she didn’t agree.

  Five

  Maggie spent her first full day back at the shop making arrangements for her absence. She started by sitting Ashton down at the table in the back room, before they opened.

  “Maggie—what is it?”

  She handed him the contract she’d had her solicitors draw up and email to her. “I want you to read it, and think before you give me an answer.”

  Frowning, he unfolded the contract. His eyes widened when he read it.

  “Maggie—you can’t—ˮ

  “I can. Things in my life are changing, Ashton, some quite dramatically. I told you about the documentary.” He nodded, clutching the contract. “They plan to film the entire restoration, which will take months. And the producer wants me to be there for a good portion of it. I love this shop, and I will never give it up. But I can’t be in two places at once. This is my solution.”

  “A partnership,” he whispered. “I never—I am so flattered, Maggie.”

  “It means more work, and more commitment from you. No more free weekends; those will be spent haunting estate sales, boot sales, combing the countryside for items one of us can restore and add to stock. I did write in six weeks of holiday time, which you can spread out, or take all at once. And I mean to hire a part time employee, to open or close, depending on how you want to arrange it.”

  “You really have thought about this.”

  “I trust you, Ashton, and I know how much you love this shop. The flat will also become yours, as part of the partnership. You can continue to live there, or rent it out, if you would prefer to move. I only ask that I meet any potential renters.”

  “I—of course. I love the flat, and my short commute.” A brilliant smile spread across his face, and he stood, dropping the contract on the table before he hugged her. “Yes, to all of it. I don’t need time to think, Maggie. I can’t imagine being anywhere else, doing anything else. I would be honored to be your partner.”

  “Good.” Relief spread through her. “We can hammer out the specifics later. I will have the final say in the big things, Ashton, but you will be free to make decisions about the day-to-day running of the shop. Now,” she stood, glancing at her watch pin. “I have an employee to hire.”

  “You already know who you want.”

  “I do.” Maggie smiled. “And it’s going to take some fancy negotiating to get her.”

  ***

  Maggie was right—she spent an hour talking Lilliana into agreeing.

  But by the time they were done, her bubbly part timer, Shelly, was now working for The Ash Leaf. She had just graduated from LSE, and was still deciding on her next step. Until she did, Maggie was happy to give her all the work hours she wanted.

  There were still details to be worked out, but Maggie felt good about the arrangement, and confident that she was leaving her shop in capable hands. Her mobile rang as she headed back to the shop; when she looked at the screen, her heart started pounding. It was Martin’s producer, Heather Kent.

  “Hello?”

  “Time to start, Ms. Mulgrew.” Heather’s loud, surprisingly gruff voice had Maggie holding the phone away from her ear. “I need you at the manor, yesterday if possible.”

  “Will an hour work, instead? I misplaced my time machine.”

  The loud bark of laughter jolted her. “Martin told me you had a wicked sense of humor. One hour, Ms. Mulgrew.”

  “Maggie will do.”

  “Call me Kent, never Heather. I’ll meet you in front at precisely 12:17. Don’t be late, Maggie. I can put up with eccentricities, but late ain’t one of them.”

  Heather ended the call before Maggie could respond, or even say goodbye.

  “That was—interesting.”

  “What was interesting, love?”

  She turned to find Martin behind her, smiling like he already knew the answer.

  “Your producer just phoned me. I’m meeting her out at the manor at 12:17.”

  He smiled. “You told her one hour, am I right?” She nodded. “Heather takes time literally, and hates—ˮ

  “Tardiness. She told me. She also told me not to
call her Heather.”

  “I am one of the few who can get away with it, because I’ve known her so long. I am sorry we couldn’t arrange a meeting before this. Heather can be an acquired taste.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I like trying new things.”

  He laughed, and wrapped his arm around her waist. “You will be brilliant at this, Mrs. Martin.”

  Nerves crept in again. “I hope so. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

  “Be yourself, and forget the camera is there.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Pretend you are explaining to a customer, with the love and enthusiasm you always have for the piece you happen to be talking about. You are already half in love with what Cragmoor can become. Let that shine through.”

  “Okay. Were you nervous, when you first started filming documentaries?”

  “Terrified. Heather had to talk me down more than once. I came off like a mannequin, then I graduated to robot.” He smiled at her. “We did so many takes of my first documentary, I had to pay for the extra film. But by the end of it, I had found my rhythm. You will do the same, love, and much faster than I did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen you with customers in your shop. You sparkle, Maggie.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “Say thank you, and kiss me.”

  Maggie laughed, and turned into him. “Thank you.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, letting out a muffled gasp when he dipped her.

  Smiling against his lips, she held on. Applause had him lifting her and setting her on her feet. She had completely forgotten about the regular tour group that showed up at this time. They had been closed for the winter, and this was their first Monday back.

  Martin bowed, waving to the tourists. “Thank you. We are here all week.”

  Laughter followed them into the shop, along with the tourists.

  “Your punishment for that is to help Ashton while I’m gone.” Maggie patted his cheek when he stared at her. “My new help doesn’t start until tomorrow. Have fun, and order lunch in. My treat.”

  She smiled at him and walked out of the shop, stopping long enough to watch the women who recognized Martin flock around him. He took their attention in stride, smiling at them as he answered their shouted questions.

  Maggie headed around back for her Rover, wanting to have plenty of driving time. She still twitched every time she traveled along the road where Craig Cragmoor had tried to run them off the cliff.

  “You’ll have to get used to it,” she muttered, unlocking the driver’s door and climbing in. “You’re going to be driving it all the time.”

  She fired up the engine and put the Rover into gear. At least there wasn’t anyone trying to kill her this time. She could enjoy the scenic drive, and use the time to calm the nerves that kept threatening.

  Trucks lined the road half a mile from Cragmoor, and heavy equipment had dug new, temporary side roads, all headed toward the manor. Glad that she had driven her beat up Rover rather than Martin’s sports car, she found a parking spot close to the front, and walked the rest of the way, stopping in front of the manor at 12:16.

  A tall, lanky woman rounded the corner a few seconds later, her short, white blonde hair sticking up from her head, like she’d been pulling at it in frustration.

  “Maggie.” She swooped in, grabbing Maggie’s hand and pumping it. “Pleasure. Good to see you’re as prompt as I’d hoped. Come inside, and we’ll start working out angles.”

  “I—okay.”

  Heather dragged her into the manor, and Maggie’s jaw dropped at her first look.

  Gone were the heavy, wood paneled walls of the once dark and forbidding foyer. Crips white plaster replaced them. It was unfinished, but Maggie could see how stunning it would look when it was done. Heather walked into the front parlour, which was also in mid transformation.

  “They are working too fast. Too fast, I told you!” She shouted at the man in the far corner of the room. He just grinned, and waved at Maggie. Startled, she recognized him under the plaster dust.

  Ted Bayley, the restoration expert that had been recommended to her. She didn’t expect him to be on site, scraping walls along with his crew. He stood, slapping dust off his hands as he approached her.

  “Maggie, good to see you again.” He waved at the parlour. “What do you think?”

  “That you’ve wrought miracles already. I can’t believe the difference in the foyer.”

  He smiled, and pulled the safety glasses off. Dust created a ring around his green eyes. “That plaster was hidden under the paneling—which was a crime against decoration. It needs a bit of refining, but it’s in remarkably good shape. Whoever committed the crime by hanging wood in nearly every room did us a favor.”

  “I can’t wait to see some of that paneling come down.”

  “You’re in time. Come with me.”

  He led the way out of the parlour. Maggie followed him, and saw Heather frantically gesture to the men lounging near the foyer. They picked up their equipment and followed, sending Maggie’s nerves into overdrive.

  She forgot all about the cameras when Ted led her into the library.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered, and headed straight to the closest wall. Green, velvet-flocked wallpaper covered it, and looked like it had been hung yesterday. “This was under the paneling? It’s gorgeous.”

  “And original. The paneling was a rush job, nailed into the crown,” he pointed up at the truly hideous crown moulding. “And the baseboard. I was planning to replace them, throughout the entire house. Someone with incredibly bad taste redecorated this house. I’ll take it back to its original glory, and with great pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Ted.” Maggie shook his hand, then pointed at the bookcases. “What will you do with the bookcases?”

  He slid one hand along a shelf and started to explain. Maggie asked questions, expanded on points, then thanked him for taking the time away from his work.

  He winked at her. “You’re a natural, Maggie, with a fine eye. I might have to hire you away from your current employer.”

  “Since I am my current employer, that would be an interesting conversation.”

  Ted burst out laughing. “I may still ring you. I can always use someone with your knowledge.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  Ted left her in the library, and she wandered the rest of the huge room, checking the wallpaper every couple of feet. Heather’s gruff voice startled her.

  “Explain what you’re doing, Maggie. Look at me every once in a while.”

  She turned around, and found Heather standing behind the cameraman. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” After taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved closer to the wall and faced the camera. “This is the best example of Victorian flocked wallpaper I’ve ever seen. Like Ted mentioned earlier, whoever redecorated this manor house did us a favor, covering up what makes it special.”

  On impulse, she waved at the camera. “Come closer, and I’ll show you what makes this different from other wallpaper.”

  She talked, and explained as she moved around the library, until Heather finally called for a break. Maggie’s throat was dry, and she felt wiped out. Heather brought her a bottle of water, and waited until she took several long drinks.

  “You’ll do,” she said, then slapped Maggie on the shoulder. “Be back here tomorrow. 12:17 sharp.”

  “Okay.” That was all Maggie had the chance to say before Heather strode out of the library. “Wow,” she whispered, and smiled as she lifted the bottle.

  The next few months were going to be interesting.

  Six

  Spencer found a note on his desk when he came back from lunch.

  It was an order to report to Dr. Givens, as soon as he arrived.

  He spent the walk to the director’s office bracing himself for what was probably a sacking, and waited for Givens’ secretary to announce him.

  “He is waitin
g for you,” she said, pointing to the double doors. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, silently cursed himself for dressing down today, and opened the door. “You wanted to see me, Dr. Givens?”

  The older man stood, and stared at Spencer, his face reddening. “I have just been informed that your exhibit centers around the witch of Dell, and the man who accused her, Robert Givens. My ancestor.” His voice grew louder with each word until he was shouting. “I will not have my name dragged through the mud for the amusement of the hoi polloi!”

  “Sir—this was already approved. Your ancestor has not been demonized in any way. He was right about Anya—she was a witch. My exhibit—”

  “Is being dismantled by maintenance as we speak.”

  Spencer stared at him, then sprinted out of his office.

  “Knight! Get back here this instant, or it will be your job!”

  Spencer hardly heard Givens; he was too focused on getting to the third floor before the ham-handed maintenance men broke something that could never be replaced.

  He skidded to a halt, blinking in surprise. Two men, in the blue uniform of museum maintenance, sat on the floor in front of the main display case, huddled over an advanced copy of Spencer’s book. The display was untouched.

  Able to breathe again, Spencer walked over to the two men. “Enjoying the book?”

  The man not holding the book looked up, and froze, obviously recognizing Spencer.

  “It’s—what? Stop jabbing me—” He lifted his head, and almost dropped the book when he saw Spencer. “Sir—we was getting ready to take down the display, like Dr. Givens ordered. Shame, I said, cause it’s one of the most interesting I’ve seen here. Then I spotted the book. I grew up near Dell—that place is haunted, scared me near to death the one time I worked up the courage to walk through it. You were there?”

  “I was,” Spencer said, smiling at the man’s enthusiasm. “And you’re right. It’s haunted.” The man had no idea the bullet he’d dodged. “Thank you for becoming distracted. The exhibit will go on, as scheduled.”