Rafe pulls back so sharply that I lose balance and stumble into him. He steadies me, then backs up again.
“We shouldn’t,” he says, gently but firmly.
It’s the loveliest rejection, but it stings.
“Why?” I whisper.
Rafe turns his head away, his gaze on the pub. His shoulders shudder, and a tiny sigh escapes his lips.
“Come on, My Favourite Disaster.” He throws an arm around me. “Let’s get you home.”
X
Rafe sleeps on my bed again, his cat form rolled in a perfect little doughnut. I stroke his soft fur, my mind racing, unable to sleep.
I keep replaying the moment. Over and over, I lean in to kiss him, drawn by the softness in his eyes and how safe he makes me feel even when he’s being bonkers. How he let out that little sigh as he turned away, as if he couldn’t bear it.
How could I be so stupid?
Of course, Rafe isn’t into me.
I’ve been reading the signs all wrong. He wants to keep me happy because of our bargain, because I’ll help him break the curse and turn him back into a person.
I’ve been so starved of affection, of friendship, that I’m clinging to the first man to show me kindness. And it doesn’t help that that man has a cute naked butt and a smile that makes bees dance inside me. For my own sake, I need to stop fixating on Rafe, which means breaking his curse so he doesn’t have any reason to stick around. I hadn’t even gone over to Nevermore Bookshop to look at their occult books yet, and Rafe hasn’t reminded me.
Tomorrow,I whisper to myself.
After the local handyman told me that my job was simple and wouldn’t take too long, but he couldn’t fit it into his schedule for another six weeks, I decide that we’re going to do the fitoutourselves. I go back to YouTube for more tutorials, and after lots of bickering and amateur dramatics from Rafe, we manage to knock up a couple of shelves that appear to be structurally sound enough to hold my mead barrels. Rafe decides that he’ll tackle tables for me so I can get on with the business of breaking his curse.
I guess he can’t wait to get away from the shop, and from me.
“I need to see your occult collection,” I announce to the surly-but-rather-attractive proprietor behind the desk of the Nevermore Bookshop. I’m guessing this is the husband Mina warned me about. He is exactly how one would imagine Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff if he ran a bookshop. “I need information on curse magic. Specifically, how to break a curse that has turned someone into a cat.”
“You should leave it cursed. Trust me, an uncursed cat is more trouble than they’re worth,” Heathcliff mutters.
“Meow?” A black cat pops its head up from behind the desk and hisses at Heathcliff, who lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Mina!” Heathcliff bellows at the ceiling. “Another loony one for you.”
He stomps off into a dark corner. Rafe and the black cat hiss at each other. Mina appears in the doorway, one hand holding the harness of her guide dog. “Don’t mind him. He’s had a bad decade. I take it you want to look at the occult collection?”
“Hi, Mina,” I wave at the girl before cursing myself inwardly when I remember that she’s blind. “It’s Autumn.”
“Oh, yay, hello again.” Mina beams at me. “How’s the meadery coming along? Did the paint work okay?”
“The paint is perfect, and the place is looking wonderful. We just have to pass a final inspection, and then we’ll be able to open.”
Mina returns into the office, reaches into a drawer in the desk, rummages around, and emerges carrying a large, ancient key. “I can’twait. You need to know about curse magic, right? And did I just hear cats hissing? We only have one cat.”
“Your cat is a bit spooked by Rafe. I hope it’s okay that he’s with me. I can’t seem to get rid of him. I’d say he’ll be no trouble, but that would be a lie.”
“Medium-trouble animals are fine.” Mina touches her dog’s harness. “Oscar won’t react to him while he’s working. Follow me.”
She leads me up a narrow staircase lit with bright fairy lights wrapped around the balustrade and LEDs lining the edge of each step. She explains that she has Retinitis Pigmentosa, and has some light vision and can use the light to navigate the shop. She leads me straight to a dark wood door, which she unlocks and pushes open.
The magic hits me before anything else – a wave of concentrated energy that sizzles against my skin. My mother always taught me that spellbooks hold potential magic – all the possibilities, good and bad, of the spells within. Judging by the hot, sweaty ache on the back of my neck, not all of these spells were written to help people.
I step into a pentagonal room, all five sides covered with bookshelves. Even the door, when it swings shut behind us, holds several books in small niches. Some of them are chained to their shelves, as though they might escape at any moment. Others are protected with runes and sigils – markings I recognise from some of my mother’s more extreme protective charms. One looks identical to the scratches above the shop door. Mina runs her fingers down the spines of the books, where someone has lovingly applied a Braille label to each one.
