We remained pleasant while she showed us around and then she said, “Tilda, take Lucy to choose the fabric for her bags.”
“Of course,” Tilda said, immediately abandoning her unpacking duties to do what her boss told her. I wished Violet could witness such excellent employee behavior.
Tilda took me out to the main pub area, where a long wooden pub table sat empty. I pictured women packaging the pots so vividly, I suspected that’s what the table was used for. She kept going, and in a corner alcove under a window was a fancy sewing machine and a modern cabinet beside it. She opened a drawer and revealed a selection of fabrics. Her hands moved over them. “Mother’s Day, gifts for teachers, ah, here we are. Brides.” And she lifted a stack of samples.
Sylvia was instantly bored and drifted away. The fabrics were all pretty and ranged from prints with cocktail glasses and lipsticks to hearts and doves and, finally, a selection of floral patterns. I chose a print with pink roses on a green background.
“What do you think?” I asked Tilda, holding up the sample.
“I think it would be beautiful. I’ll enjoy working on the bags for your wedding. What a joyful thing a wedding is.” She held her ringless left hand up. “Not that I was ever so fortunate. I was never a beauty. ‘If you can’t be pretty, be useful,’ my mother always said. And so I learned to cook and sew and mend things. With no man about to help me, I’ve learned to do most things for myself.”
She didn’t sound sorry for herself, just matter-of-fact. I had no idea how to respond and luckily didn’t have to. Karmen returned.
“Come back to my cottage, and I’ll make you some tea.”
I was pleased to get into that lovely-looking thatched cottage, and also, I wanted to talk to her about that hex, and I preferred to do it without a mortal assistant listening in.
As she led us in through that black door, I felt something in the air. Like a quiver of dark energy. And yet the décor was beautiful. It was like a high-end B&B with overstuffed chintz chairs and gleaming antique furniture. Tasteful paintings graced the walls, and a basket of wool with a partially completed sweater sat beside a comfortable couch. A fire was laid in the big fireplace under a black-beamed mantel. With a snap of her fingers, she set the blaze going. The walls were painted a rich, buttery cream, and the flagstone floors were covered with plush carpets. The ancient beams crisscrossed above our heads, and the fireplace was done in an old herringbone brick pattern. I was no expert, but I was fairly certain this was mostly original Tudor.
As I gazed around, I said, “Your home is beautiful.”
And yet there was that strange sensation of chill darkness that wafted over me now and then. It was as though I were standing in a field of lavender and then caught a whiff of skunk. Strange feeling.
She busied herself in the kitchen and then returned carrying a tray containing blue and gold china mugs, not teacups, I was pleased to note. I still hadn’t gotten used to the tiny amount of liquid available from a teacup.
I sniffed the brew appreciatively. It’s kind of a witch thing. We all had our own special recipes, and hers contained lavender, rosehips, that hint of licorice, and other things that I couldn’t distinguish. I took a sip and definitely approved. It was a rich blend with a hint of spice.
“This is delicious,” I said.
Sylvia either took a cautious sip or pretended to and then agreed that it was very nice. I knew that I was either going to end up drinking her tea as well as mine or she’d chuck it in a nearby potted plant when Karmen was out of the room.
We three settled in chintz armchairs, and then Karmen said, “Tell me about yourself.”
But this wasn’t really a social visit. I paused and said, “I’m part of a coven in Oxford led by Margaret Twigg.”
Her glorious full lips thinned slightly. “Ah, yes. Margaret. She does keep coming up.”
“She’s the head of my coven and sort of a mentor.” When she wasn’t being a pain in my behind. “We recently had to reverse a hex that we think you may have sold.”
Her lips tilted in a pleasant smile, and I could see the amusement lurking at the back of her big, almond eyes. Had I really expected her to apologize?
“I sell a great many hexes.” And didn’t sound the tiniest bit guilty that she did so.
“This one almost killed my assistant, who is also my cousin. Perhaps you recognize it? It was a goat’s skull with various symbols scribbled on it and the words ‘Grow ugly, wither and die’ written in reverse. Does this ring any bells?”
If anything, her amusement deepened. “You sound so fierce, I’m nearly frightened. As I said, I sell many hexes. And I’m fairly certain your cousin isn’t dead. I’d have heard.”
And I was fairly certain I wasn’t getting through to her. I couldn’t believe this woman. I leaned forward. “No thanks to you.”
She made a tsking sound. “Come now, Lucy. You’re not that naïve. You know as well as I do that often spells and curses are metaphorical.”
“There was nothing metaphorical about what happened to Vi. I saw her hair falling out. Her teeth were falling out. She was getting these horrible skin breakouts. And then we reversed the curse and sent it back where it came from, and the—” Here I looked at her directly. “And the person who bought that hex from you did die.”
Honestly, you’d think I was
