Page 19 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“Which is why some people are able to make a fortune purporting to speak to the dead,” Roy went on. “They take advantage of grief. Take advantage of sorrow.”

“I never have,” Augustine argued automatically. “I would never do that.”

Roy nodded slowly. “I know. But all the same, maybe this customer of yours — the one who asked you to commune with the spirits — maybe he’s not out to get you, like your sisters seem to believe. Maybe he’s just grieving. Maybe he’s just sad. Maybe . . . he just wants to reconnect with someone he lost.”

That sad possibility had never even crossed her mind. She’d been raised to always be on her guard. To always expect the worst. That this man might be grieving — might just be wanting to speak one more time with someone he’d lost — made sense, and Augustine felt a sudden stab of guilt for the way she’d spoken to him in her shop. She knew what it was to lose someone she loved. Knew what it was to grieve.

She could’ve been kinder to him. She could’ve been less wary.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “When he comes back—”

“If he comes back,” Roy corrected her. “He might’ve found himself another fake psychic witch to pretend to commune with the dead for him.”

“No.” Augustine shook her head. “No. He’ll come back. I told you, I can feel it. In my bones.”

Roy gave her a long look, and a flutter of something a little like anticipation, or maybe warning, slid down her spine.

“When he comes back,” she carried on, trying to ignore the feeling, “I’ll be nicer to him. I’ll stand in my protective circle and try to be more understanding.”

“Protective circle?” Roy repeated, raising an eyebrow at her, and Augustine flushed.

“Maddy did it, just to be on the safe side. It’s mainly salt, a little sage—”

Roy held up a hand though. “Thank you, but the only circles of salt I need are the ones that line the rim of a margarita. So, you’re going to be nice to this guy, and not instantly imagine he’s out to kill you in some Uranus inspired anti-witch rage?”

She nodded, her mind made up. Bird kneaded her stomach, utterly unconcerned with celestial warnings, witch hunters, or family expectations, while Augustine leaned back into the sofa and gazed at the ceiling. Her skin was still prickling; unease sitting heavily in her throat. She had the uncomfortable sense — again — that the universe was clearing its throat, wanting her to listen.

But this time, it sounded like it was about to say her name.

Chapter Six

Augustine opened the shop at precisely ten o’clock, knee-deep in pumpkins and losing an increasingly one-sided battle with autumn as she wrestled them into what she hoped might eventually resemble a tasteful seasonal window display.

She was an idiot.

She’d meant to order three large pumpkins. Three.

Somewhere between exhaustion, poor internet, and blind autumnal optimism though, she’d apparently ordered thirty extra-large ones instead, which had arrived just after opening that morning and promptly colonized half the shop.

Forget one turning into Cinderella’s carriage. These bastards were so big they looked capable of transforming into an Airbus A380.

She was still crouched by the window, gourd braced awkwardly against her hip, when her first visitor of the day appeared.

It was Mrs Clayton. It was always Mrs Clayton, although she was Barbara Clayton to those who knew her best, and Babs to her husband. Every day without fail, the lady would pop up during Augustine’s mid-morning coffee and start a round of complaints, settling into the refurbished sofa, her embossed clutch with a dozen fake pearls stitched into the handle clasped securely in her hands. Augustine smiled patiently, as she always did, because Mrs Clayton had been coming to her shop for as long as she could remember, and had owned it once upon a time, too, back when the building had still been the café.

“I spent my youth in this place,” Mrs Clayton had told her just after she’d opened The Priestess Reversed, a wistful fondness stealing over her face. “Before all this touristy nonsense, when Greenwich was still London proper. Jellied eels we served. Pie and mash. Chips so deep-fried in oil you could see your reflection in them. Proper grub it was. We were the busiest café this side of the Thames. At least we were until the fire, that is.”

Augustine couldn’t help it. She liked Mrs Clayton. She never bought anything, hardly even looked at anything, but she was a stalwart of her morning routine and Augustine had grown used to the familiarity of her presence.

“Hey, Mrs C,” she said that morning, pumpkin still in hand. “How’s things? How’s Mr C? Any improvement?”

Mrs Clayton sighed. “No improvement today. I’m off to the Queen Elizabeth next to hear what the doctors have to say.”

Augustine nodded. Mrs Clayton’s husband had been felled by a heart attack a month ago, and the little old lady, still besotted and eternally in love, hardly left his side. Augustine suspected her visits to The Priestess Reversed offered her a break of sorts.

Mrs Clayton looked down, and for the first time, seemed to notice the ring of salt on the floor.

“Might want to put the pumpkins down and get out the sweeping brush, dear,” Mrs Clayton said airily, and Augustine blushed.