Page 21 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“Again? What are you talking about?”

Mrs Clayton stiffened, but her finger began tapping on her clutch again. It was a nervous tell, Augustine realized.

“Well, you must have, uh, been in love at some point in your life?”

“No.” Augustine’s tone was set. “Never. Not unless Regé-Jean Page counts.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was in Bridgerton.”

“What’s that? Like Antiques Roadshow?”

“No, it’s this regency show and—” Augustine stopped mid-sentence, taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t met my Dennis yet, is all I’m saying.”

And nor am I likely ever to meet him, she thought. Keep to myself, keep quiet, and no one will get hurt.

Mrs Clayton nodded, but even as Augustine turned back to her pumpkins, she could feel the old woman’s eyes lingering on her, watchful and curious. Clearly their conversation hadn’t gone the way Mrs Clayton intended.

“Don’t you need to go and see your Dennis now?” Augustine asked. “Visiting hours after lunch, remember?”

Silence.

Curiously, Augustine glanced over her shoulder.

Mrs Clayton was gone.

The bell above the shop door hadn’t rung, and Augustine hadn’t heard her leave. Perhaps she should pop to the hardware shop a few doors down to pick up some WD-40. Clearly, her bell had seized up. And as for Mrs Clayton . . .

It must be some kind of stealth pensioner trick, Augustine decided, even as she frowned again. Sneaking out like that. Or maybe it’s her orthopaedic and rubber-soled shoes. Those wide fit, arch-supporting monstrosities don’t make any noise at all.

In the new quiet, however, Augustine found her gaze drifting, unwillingly, to the same bookcase Mrs Clayton had been preoccupied with a moment ago.

There’s nothing upstairs I need to worry about. So why then did Maddy think there was? And why did Mrs C get so nervous when I brought it up?

She blew out a breath. She was being ridiculous. Mrs Clayton had been very clear. It was storage space, and nothing more. The estate agents had used it for years. End of.

And yet.

Augustine crossed the shop before she could think the better of it. The bookcase loomed taller up close, stuffed with tarot decks and paperbacks on herbal remedies. She moved to the side, placed her hands against the wood and pushed.

It didn’t budge.

She huffed and adjusted her footing before pushing again. Her upper body strength was useless. Maybe she should hit up the yoga studio instead of just selling plastic tat to its clientele.

She huffed again, and finally — finally — the bookcase began to shift forward with a low, reluctant scrape. When she’d moved it forward by a solid inch she stopped, peering behind it curiously.

It was just . . . wallpaper. The same green as the rest of her shop, faded and slightly worn to the touch. It was entirely undisturbed and entirely unbroken. It was also, entirely and somewhat disappointingly, a completely solid wall.

Just like she’d always known.

Augustine gazed at it for a long moment. “Well, congratulations,” she lectured herself. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”

Still, she stood there for another few seconds, chewing on a nail. It was like trying to find the answer to a riddle she knew couldn’t possibly exist. She’d decorated the shop herself. Put the wallpaper up that she was now staring at. She knew there was nothing behind the bookcase. So why had she doubted it?

The bell above the shop door rang, the noise bright and sudden, and Augustine jumped.

The yoga crowd. Right on schedule. “Welcome to The Priestess Reversed,” she called automatically, recovering herself and smoothing down her cardigan as she turned towards the door. “Let me know if you’re looking for anything in particular.”