Page 115 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“No. Probably not.” Augustine let out a small, tired breath. “But it was fine. I’d have been a terrible psychologist anyway, after all that. After Mum.” She shrugged again. “I didn’t mind though. Clem and Maddy needed someone. And if it hadn’t been for me . . .” Her voice caught. “Mum would still be here.”

Mrs Clayton’s expression softened. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. And I owed it to her to take care of the girls.”

“No, you didn’t owe her that,” Mrs Clayton insisted gently. “You didn’t owe her anything. Your mum wouldn’t have wanted it that way.”

“Well,” Augustine said, “she wasn’t around to tell us what she wanted, was she?” She glanced at Mrs Clayton. “Do you want to hear something stupid?”

Mrs Clayton tilted her head. “Go on.”

Augustine gave a small, ironic smile. If you were going to confess something idiotic, she thought, a ghost was probably the safest audience you could hope for. No judgement that mattered. No consequences. Just someone already — quite literally — on the other side of things. Forget taking a secret to the grave. Mrs Clayton was already there.

She looked down at her hands. “I got my cards out,” she said. “Not long after mum disappeared. Maybe a few nights.” Her fingers curled slightly as she recalled the blurred evenings after her mother first disappeared. “I thought . . . I don’t know. That maybe I could reach her. Across the veil, or the beyond, or whatever you want to call it.” Her mouth tightened. “I thought maybe that was it. My moment. That something would . . . switch on.” A small, self-conscious laugh. “That I’d finally be as powerful as everyone kept insisting I was.” She shook her head. “The simple truth was that I needed her. I needed my mum.”

“You poor dear,” Mrs Clayton uttered with a sigh.

“Not that it worked,” Augustine added. “There was nothing. No sign. No voice. No presence. Just . . . cards. Ink and paper and silence.” She swallowed. “So I put them away. Packed them up, shoved them to the back of a drawer. I didn’t touch them again until . . .”

Mrs Clayton watched her carefully. “Until Theo,” she finished softly.

Augustine’s lips pressed together; she nodded once. “Until Theo.”

“What an awful lot you’ve been through,” Mrs C said, and Augustine glanced at her.

“Celestine had Mum declared dead after seven years,” she said. “It was a legal necessity, apparently.” A faint, bitter edge crept into her voice, and she exhaled slowly. “I used my share of the inheritance to open my shop.” Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the sign out front, as if she could see it from here: The Priestess Reversed.

Mrs Clayton’s brows lifted slightly.

“It’s not just a name,” Augustine went on. “It’s a warning. To always be careful. To always question. No matter what. No matter who.” Silence stretched between them. “I was, too,” she added quietly. “Careful. Suspicious. Sensible. Until—”

“Until Theo,” Mrs Clayton said gently.

Augustine closed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “Until Theo.” When she opened her eyes again, Mrs Clayton was watching her carefully.

“It’s not just a warning,” the older woman said. “It’s a tie too. A constant reminder of what happened, and why you can’t let go.” She sighed. “Do you really want that hanging over you forever? Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it.”

Momentarily, Augustine rested her head against the countertop, exhausted.

There was truth in what Mrs Clayton was saying. Augustine recognized that. She’d spent so long trying to carry others that she didn’t know when to let go of the load. She’d never been able to let go of her sisters. Of the memory of what happened to her mother. Of the guilt at feeling responsible.

Was Theo the same? Was he another thing she was trying to hold onto because she couldn't bear to lose anyone else? Or was loving him different?

Augustine closed her eyes. She’d spent years confusing love with responsibility. Years believing that if she just held on tightly enough, if she just loved someone enough, she could keep them safe.

Theo never wanted me to save him, she thought to herself, opening her eyes and sitting up again. He only ever asked me for the truth. And to save myself.

She turned to speak to Mrs Clayton, but the older woman was gone. Leaving Augustine, for once, to only carry herself.

Chapter Forty-Two

The bell above the shop door didn’t ring, and nor did the air crackle. The candles didn’t flicker, and the atmosphere didn’t shift. In fact, there was no warning at all.

One moment, Augustine was alone, and the next, he was there.

Theo stood in the middle of the shop as though he had simply stepped out of a shadow, solid and unmistakable. Augustine’s mind reeled, because she couldn’t quite reconcile it, couldn’t quite make all the pieces of this puzzle fit together.

Yesterday he’d felt real. Warm and alive in a way that felt nothing to do with ghosts or magic or illusion. She remembered it perfectly — the weight of him beside her in the bed upstairs, the heat of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing. The way his body had responded when she’d touched him. The way his naked skin smelled beside her. Cinnamon, yes — but something else underneath it. Something entirely his. Familiar in a way that had sunk into her bones.