Page 111 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“Oh.” Mrs Clayton blinked. “Of death, dear. I died in the fire here, didn’t I?”

Augustine blinked. Once, and then once again. “I’m sorry. You what?”

Mrs Clayton looked back at her, perfectly composed again, seemingly unaware she had just said something utterly impossible. “The fire,” she repeated mildly. “I died in it. Stock room of the café. Faulty wiring. Went up in minutes. I was closing up that day. Got caught in the fumes from the vinyl tiles. It happened before I even knew what it was.” A small, practical shrug. “Just one of those things.”

Augustine stared at her, her mind trying desperately to make sense of what Mrs C just said. It failed miserably. “You . . .” she started again, her voice thinner now. “You . . . died?”

“Yes.”

Another beat. Augustine’s gaze flicked instinctively and wildly around the shop. The shelves. The counter. The floor beneath Mrs Clayton’s feet. Everything was exactly as it had always been, although everything was suddenly and completely and utterly wrong.

“You’re—” Augustine swallowed. “You’re a—”

Mrs Clayton raised an eyebrow. “Ghost?” she supplied. “I suppose I am. Didn’t you know?”

Augustine shook her head. She was stunned. Genuinely and wordlessly stunned.

“Well,” Mrs Clayton went on, smoothing her skirt as if this were the least remarkable thing in the world, “I wouldn’t go advertising it. Bad for business. But yes, dear.” She gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “I’m a ghost. I’ve haunted this place since the day I died.”

Augustine let out a slow, unsteady breath, her mind still struggling to catch up with the conversation. “A ghost,” she repeated faintly.

Mrs Clayton inclined her head, as if confirming something entirely ordinary, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, hesitantly, Augustine found her voice again.

“Why . . . haven’t you moved on?” she asked gently.

Mrs Clayton’s fingers stilled on her pearls. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I have to wait, don’t I?”

Augustine frowned slightly. “Wait?”

“For my Dennis,” she said simply. “For Mr Clayton. It can’t be long now,” she added, almost to herself. “Not with his health being what it is.”

Augustine felt something twist in her chest, but Mrs Clayton looked back at her, her expression calm and collected. “I’m like you. I can’t quite let go. But I’m dead. I’m not wasting my life. You are.” Mrs Clayton sighed. “Why are you like this, dear? That was the part I could never figure out. Where you learned to feel like you had to carry everything.”

Augustine’s throat tightened. “It’s because of what happened to my mother,” she whispered. “And the fact that it was all my fault.”

Chapter Forty

The first time Augustine realized something might be wrong with her mother, she was twenty-one.

It was an ordinary Thursday evening. Augustine was at the kitchen table, half-buried in notes for a psychology lecture the next day, highlighter in hand, the steady scratch of pen on paper the only real sound around her.

Clem was outside in the garden, as always. Rain or shine, her little sister was drawn to the wildness of the great outdoors. By now, she was probably covered in mud or grass, probably a mix of both. Maddy was in the sitting room, the low murmur of the television drifting through the walls in uneven bursts of laughter and canned applause.

“Augustine?” Her mother’s voice carried from down the hall, and there was something in it. Not urgency or fear. But still, something.

Augustine looked up, frowning slightly. “Yeah?”

“Come here a moment, love.”

She set her pen down, pushing back her chair, and followed the sound of Eglantine’s voice into the dining room. Her mother was standing by the table, hands resting lightly against its edge. She looked composed. Perfectly composed, in fact. Maybe too composed.

“Can you do me a favour?” her mother asked.

Augustine nodded immediately. “Of course.”

There was a small pause.

“Can you read the cards for me, please?”