‘You must continue to practise your craft, Cynthia. It’s like any skill. The more you train, the better you shall become. And just think what you’ll show us when we come for our first visit.’ Ellie’s eyes filled with tears at the reminder of Cynthia’s impending departure, which started another round of sniffling hugs.
‘We must go. I promised Aunt Rowan I would work at the apothecary this afternoon, and you have deliveries to make, Ellie.’ Clio’s calm voice belied the emotions sparking in her golden eyes.
Clio and Ellie left with promises from one to see Cynthia at the ball, and from the other to visit her in the country as soon as the busy summer season at the apothecary slowed.
Cynthia determined to focus on anything other than Helena for her last few days in London, but she found her thoughts wandering to the red-haired siren despite her best efforts.
‘If only I didn’t have to leave. If only you could find the courage to admit you love me.’ She thought of the love potion Helena’s mother once made. If she had access to such magic, would she use it?
She recoiled from the idea. Cynthia could never hex the woman she loved with a potion stealing her free will. Cynthia had lived most of her life with few choices. She was just beginning to understand the power of personal autonomy. The devastation of stripping that away from anyone, even in the name of love, was a crime she could never commit.
No wonder Helena was terrified to willingly give her heart to another. Cynthia could hardly blame her for her fears. But it didn’t lessen the pain of knowing she would never be with her one love. Because Aunt Rowan was right. Even if Helena couldn’t see it. Their souls were intertwined.
What happens when your soulmate rejects you?
You create a new life in the Cotswolds.
23
Helena couldn’t stop thinking about Cynthia. She took on extra shifts at the apothecary to keep herself busy, but it did no good. Her heart jumped every time the bell rang and plummeted each time it wasn’t Cynthia.
She joined Ellie on her rounds as she delivered magical potions and lotions, and non-magical but delicious baked goods to some of their elderly neighbours, people her soft-hearted cousin had taken under her wing. But the kindly folks started to grumble about Helena’s acerbic comments and baleful glances. After the third complaint, Ellie gently suggested Helena speak with Uncle Lachlan about assisting him at Scotland Yard.
He was no help. When Helena begged him to allow her to investigate any leads they had on Hubert’s murder, amongst much foul language and stomping around his cluttered office, he delivered the infuriating news that the case was at a standstill. Damien Sinclair’s power over the poor people of Seven Dials was an impenetrable force. No matter what bribes they offered, how many threats his bobbies made, or what promises they gave of forgiving past crimes, no one was talking. And to make matters worse, he was being sent to Bath to consult with the superintendent there on a rash of robberies taking place amongst wealthy members of the peerage.
‘Does that mean you’ve given up on finding Hubert Burrows’ murderer?’ Helena couldn’t stop the outrage soaking her words in acid.
‘We’vefoundhis murderer. It’s Damien Sinclair, as clearly as this is the nose on my face. I just canna prove it. Yet. But mark my words, lass. He’ll slip up. And when he does, we’ll be ready.’
When Helena pointed out Uncle Lachlan could hardly be ready to catch the bastard if he was in Bath, Uncle Lachlan’s lethal glare reminded Helena the man had once been a deadly and fearsome soldier in her majesty’s army. She took her leave with Hamlet close on her heels.
In desperation for distraction, Helena volunteered for the one job they all hated at the apothecary: inventory.
She worked late into the night, long after the last customer left the shop, counting and recording every pot of wrinkle salve, sachet of bath salts, vial of skin serum, and bushel of cleansing sage.
The idea of going home where Aunt Rowan would no doubt be working on healing an ailing plant at the dinner table while Ellie baked something delicious in their oven should have filled Helena with warm joy. But instead, emptiness echoed in her chest. Because her once full life suddenly felt hollow.
Fumbling the bottle of witch hazel tonic infused with crushed crocus petals harvested during the vernal equinox, Helena cursed her slippery fingers. She had already broken three of the anti-inflammatory potions as condensation gathered on the glass. Puddles kept forming around her feet, and she would need to mop the floor before heading home or there would be water stains waiting for Clio in the morning.
Her magic had been malfunctioning since Cynthia left. Usually, she could ignore people’s thoughts unless they were especially emotional, or if she purposefully delved into their minds seeking secrets. But of late, it was like a constant murmur invading her head whenever she left the house. Water gathered on her fingers, her clothes were always damp, and her eyes flashed silver more often than grey.
‘This is ridiculous. I need to get over her.’
Hamlet, who had made himself at home on his special pillow in the corner next to the counter where they collected money and kept the ledger of sales, raised a knowing brow and whined.
‘Holding onto her isn’t fair. Love isn’t an option for me, and she deserves love.’
Curling his upper lip to show a row of sharp teeth, Hamlet growled as his hackles rose. Even her familiar wasn’t on her side.
‘Hamlet!’
He barked, a piercing sound in the quiet room.
Anger rose like a swollen river. ‘Don’t scold me! I hated sending Cynthia away. I hate every moment we are apart. But I can’t help my past. Or the legacy my mother left. And I won’t risk becoming like her, Hamlet. I won’t be so blinded by love, I lose sight of the truth.’
Her mother’s love had been a desperate thing. An all-consuming whirlpool sucking everything into its depths. And the blacksmith’s desire for Willow had twisted, warped, and destroyed her. The love they had shared was toxic. Poisonous. Devastating.
But Cynthia would never hurt me.
