Page 12 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Augustine hesitated, torn between whether to tell Maddy the truth or lie. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Maddy — she absolutely did. But Maddy was a talker, and liked to gossip. Augustine would often share something with Maddy only to have Celestine on the phone the next day, wanting to talk it out, or worse yet, Clem on the phone, wanting to send her a healing herbal remedy which would inevitably taste like soap and goat’s breath.

“Ags . . .” Maddy suddenly urged her, and Augustine took a deep breath. She went over to her display of crystal bracelets, absently picking one up and working the stones between her thumb and forefinger.

“Interesting choice,” Maddy remarked drily, and Augustine looked down, taking in the jet-coloured stones in her hand.

Black tourmaline, she realized. A grounding crystal.

“You know those crystals are used for creating a protective energy shield from negative forces,” Maddy carried on, before she sighed. “Tell me what’s going on, Ags. You’ll feel better if you do.”

Augustine nodded slowly, knowing Maddy was right. Maybe she should tell her. Maddy might have been nine years younger than her, but she was sharp and practical. She was adamant in her belief that problems could be solved if you just applied the right spell or spoke to the right person.

“A customer came in yesterday,” she said quietly. “Late. Just before closing.”

“Oh.” Maddy sat on the stool by the till.

“He asked me to read the cards,” Augustine said. “Asked me to speak to the dead.”

Maddy went very still. “Speak to the dead? But you don’t do that.” There was a nervous edge to her voice.

“I know.”

“So, why would he think that you did?” Maddy paled. “Why would he think that?”

Because someone told him that I did, Augustine instantly thought, her body tensing. She couldn’t tell Maddy that though. Her sister was already spiralling. “I don’t know,” she lied.

She watched as Maddy took several deep breaths, fiddling with the lace on her remaining boot.

“He might have just been . . . misinformed,” Augustine suggested, recalling Roy’s words, and Maddy nodded.

“Maybe.”

“Loads of people read the cards. Loads of people say they can talk to the dead. Most of them work in shops like mine. He probably just got the wrong idea.”

“Maybe,” Maddy repeated.

“I don’t think he was . . . was one of them.” She felt nervous even just saying the words, and Maddy responded by jumping to her feet, grabbing the black tourmaline bracelet from Augustine’s hands and clutching it tightly in her own.

“Of course not,” Maddy said, her voice oddly clipped. “We’ve all been too careful. Nobody knows about us. We moved after what happened to Mum. Took a new name. We’re hiding really well. Of course he wasn’t one of them.”

“For all we know, they’ve forgotten about us anyway. It’s been ten years since . . .” Augustine took another deep breath. “Well, since they got Mum.”

She spoke to reassure, but the serious expression on Maddy’s face didn’t change. If anything, she looked more worried, more pensive, and Augustine felt her stomach turn over again.

“We’re being ridiculous,” Augustine carried on, trying to reassure herself now. “He was just a customer. A misinformed customer. But still, just a customer.”

Maddy nodded again, but the look of concern on her face hadn’t faded.

“I mean it. He was just a customer. He wasn’t one of them.” Augustine tried to sound firm. “Maddy — I promise he wasn’t a witch hunter.”

Chapter Four

Witch hunters. Half a warning, half a threat; the knowledge that witch hunters not only existed but were actively out to kill them had always haunted Augustine and her sisters.

“They don’t rest. They don’t stop. They’re born and bred to hunt us down and take us out,” Eglantine had told her daughters. “And the worst thing is, you’ll never know who they are until you meet one, and he decides it's your time to die.”

Augustine knew her mother told them this, not just to frighten them into caution, but to temper use of their gifts. Her words were a reminder that power, if indulged in too freely, always drew attention. Witch hunters were men who had made it their life’s work to destroy witches, a grim vocation handed down from father to son like an heirloom no one wanted but everyone kept anyway. They noticed when witchcraft was strong. They noticed when women were powerful.

Being able to sense power felt suspiciously like a power of its own.