“I may have underestimated your skills, Ms Payne.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
Chapter Seventeen
I stand under the shower until the water runs lukewarm, but I can barely bring myself to turn off the water. My mind is stuck on repeat. All I can see is me and Edward. The two of us standing there on the side of the road. Mud clinging to our hemlines, dust on our faces.
And there we are, staring into one another’s eyes like two loons.
I haven’t been on a date in months. The dry spell is the only reason I’ve got stodgy, stuffy Edward Thomas stuck in my head!
As soon as we got back from the Cotswolds, he dashed upstairs to his flat, barely calling out a goodbye. Men never seem to moon over moments the way we women do. In fact, he probably put the entire scene out of his head before even climbing back into the car.
On that note, I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a bath sheet and opening the window so the steam can escape. Pushing Edward out of my thoughts, I focus instead on the Johnstons. I really thought one of them must be the murderer, but I suspect their alibis will hold up to police scrutiny.
If it wasn’t either of them, I’m out of ideas of where to go next. What other deliveries come into the college kitchen? Milk? Bread? Wine? I’m pulling at straws, but I’m not ready to dismiss the idea that it is someone from the Cotswolds. There’s something niggling in the back of my brain, but with the problems with the magic, gala planning and now Edward occupying my thoughts, I can’t figure out what it is.
I use a hand towel to wipe steam off from my mirror. Maybe it’s the security guard, and that’s why there’s no evidence of a break-in. Do any of them commute in from the Cotswolds? I make a mental note to ask Harry when I return her keys and give an update on our trip. Neither Harry nor Dr Radcliffe will be pleased to hear we’ve eliminated the last reasonable suspect. Hopefully, the news that we’ll have regular fruit and veg deliveries again will cheer them up.
I stare at my reflection, wishing she could step out of the mirror and take over some of my responsibilities. I’ve still got a ton to do for the gala on top of identifying further suspects. “Come on, magic. Can’t you clone me already?”
My reflection blinks but otherwise remains silent. She doesn’t seem to have any more ideas than I do. She also isn’t jumping at the chance to help. “If being angry with my reflection is a sign, I think it’s saying I need to go on a holiday.”
A nearby church clock tower chimes the hour, reminding me to get a move on it. Digging through my closet, I hunt for an outfit which will fill me with optimism instead of the dread and worry sitting in the pit of my stomach. A pale pink fabric catches my eye. I wrench out a skirt, decorated to look like a perfect cupcake, a pale pink bottom transitioning into a sea of pastel confetti. If I pair it with a simple white shirt and cardigan, I should be able to get away with it.
Once dressed, I put the finishing touches on my hair and make-up, giving a final spin before the mirror before I go. This time my reflection smiles, enthusiasm brightening her eyes.
If I speed walk, I can make it to Harry’s office and then the dining hall before it closes. After lunch, I need to grab H to see how his conversations with the other Eternals have gone. Hopefully, he’s convinced them of the necessity of bringing someone else into the magical fold. They all know Harry better than I do, having worked alongside her for all these years. Even if she doesn’t know the Eternals exist, they’ll have had ample opportunity to see her, in both good times and bad. If the Eternals don’t trust her, that will be telling.
Once I’ve got all of that done, I’m looking forward to a few hours working with my assistants. Will promised to have demo tapes of bands to share with us, and Jill should have an update on centrepieces. I can only imagine what Edward would have to say about listening to music being part of the planning process.
❖
After such a long day, I’m relieved to slide into my seat when I meet Mathilde and Kate for dinner. We’re tucked away in a back booth at a posh new cocktail restaurant on the roof deck of the Westgate. The place is nearly empty because of a combination of a mid-week evening and the typically terrible British weather. Everyone else in Oxford must have stayed in and ordered a curry.
We spend ages pouring over the menu. All the cocktails have trendy, incomprehensible names, so we have to read all the ingredients to find one we each like. By the time we get to the food options, we throw our hands in the air and opt for a dinner of mixed appetisers.
When my drink arrives, it is wafting a pink smoke into the air that perfectly matches my skirt. I don’t know whether to take that as a good sign or be nervous to put it into my body.
Across from me, Mathilde has an array of multicoloured test tubes and an ice-filled glass in front of her. “I think I overpaid; I wasn’t expecting to mix my drink.”
“We all overpaid,” I reassure her. “These places
