“Alaric is throwing out his swords.”
“Yes.” Reginald’s hands on the wheel are white.
“Can you make sure they don’t end up in the skip? Hide them in a cupboard or something. I have an idea.”
“As you like, Ms Preston.”
By the time we pull up in front of the bakery at the top of Butcher Street, I’m a human limpet from holding on for dear life. I manage to un-jellify my legs enough to slide out of the ungainly vehicle, and Reginald gives me his mobile number and says that he’ll be having dinner at the Rose & Wimple, and to call him when I’m done.
I walk along, listening to the sounds of merriment from the pub across the village green and thinking about the poor person who got murdered the same night I was moaning into the mouth of my future boss.
Lights blaze through the windows of Nevermore Bookshop. In the gloom, the building appears even more strange – the different architectural styles piled on top of each other as if the building is caught in some kind of temporal rift. (Patrick was a big Doctor Who fan. He thought the Doctor would enjoy hisfavourite Riesling.)
I step up to the door, but stop when I notice the CLOSED sign pasted angrily across the mottled glass window.
Oh no. Maybe I have the wrong night?
“Croak.”
I jump. “Who’s that?” I glance all around, but there’s no one else on the street, except …
A large, black raven sits on a planter filled with dead flowers next to the door, peering at me with large, fire-rimmed eyes.
“Croak?” The raven inclines his head toward the door.
“I’m here for the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven,” I tell him. “But I think I might have the wrong night. The shop’s closed.”
Why am I talking to a bird?
The raven flaps his wings and flies at the door. He grabs the corner of the sign with his beak and flips it over.
The other side also says CLOSED.
“Oh.”
The raven grips the handle in its talons and yanks sharply. The door swings open, revealing the long, narrow hallway. Someone has turned on all the lamps and fairy lights that line the shelves, so the hallway glitters like the entrance to a fae realm. The raven swoops down the hallway and disappears around the corner, croaking at the top of its lungs. From somewhere deeper in the shop, I can hear voices and laughter.
“Hello?” I call out.
“Winnie, is that you?”
Mina appears around the corner, with a handsome golden retriever at her side, wearing a white and yellow harness. The raven is now sitting on Mina’s shoulder. Am I imagining it, or does that bird look smug?
“Quoth told me you were here.” Mina pets the raven’s head. It nuzzles her hand, making anyuh-nyuh-nyuhsound in the back of its throat. She beckons me to follow her. “I’m so happy you made it. We thought we’d scared you off.”
“Nope, but I did get confused by the closedsign on the door.”
“Sorry about that. That’s my husband Heathcliff’s idea of a joke. Or maybe it isn’t. He doesn’t like customers, which I understand is a silly thing for someone who runs a bookshop, but that’s Heathcliff – a master of contradictions.” Mina leads me through the main room I’d seen last time. “Come on through. This is my guide dog, Oscar. We’re almost all here now. Arabella is late, but that’s nothing new.”
Mina pushes open a door and leads me into a large event space. The walls are hung with impressive artwork. I recognise scenes fromA Midsummer Night’s DreamandGrimm’s Fairy Tales. This is the room I could see from the street, but as my eyes adjust to the twinkling of even more fairy lights, I realise that what I thought was a hexagonal turret is actually a pentagram shape, which strikes me as irregular for Victorian architecture … but what do I know? That corner of the room is mostly in shadow, but the turret appears to contain only a lumpy object on some kind of plinth, covered with a purple cloth. A couple of bookshelves in the opposite corner display a small selection of romance and fantasy novels, and the rest of the space is taken up with a circle of mismatched chairs, an overstuffed Chesterfield, and several beanbags arranged around a table groaning under the weight of cakes, sandwiches and open wine bottles.
Several women around my age already occupy the seats, steaming cups of tea or glasses of wine in their hands, and books scattered about their feet. Suddenly I worry I’m intruding.
“Winnie, you came!” The redhead – Isis – leaps to her feet and throws her arms around me. She’s wearing a red cottagecore dress with bell sleeves that’s covered in a print of what looks suspiciously like poisonous plants. She has purple streaks in her hair now that perfectly match the purple lumpy thing in the corner. “Have you read this week’s book? We’re discussingButcher & Blackbirdby Brynne Weaver. It’s Komal’s pick. That girl may look innocent, but she can’t get enough of dark romance.”
“Sorry not sorry,” pipes up the black-haired girl who flies helicopters, according to Reginald. She flips her long plait of shimmering dark hair over her shoulder. “I always crushon the villains.”
“Me too,” I say, daring a smile that I hope doesn’t wobble too much from nerves.
