Page 23 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“You carry bags and buggies on the Tube?” she asked. “You’re saying you’re helpful?”

“I try to be.”

“Great. Do me a favour then, will you? Can you hand me that pumpkin? The big one, over there.”

She gestured to one of the gourds in the window and watched as he looked towards it, then back towards her.

“Okay,” he said slowly, eyeing her oddly. He walked to the window and picked up the largest pumpkin without hesitation, and Augustine held her breath as he turned back towards her. He took one step and then another, before stepping over Maddy’s salt circle spell like it wasn’t even there.

He deposited the pumpkin on her desk, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

It was kind of cute.

God, he still smells like a cinnamon roll, she realized, as a waft of earthy sweetness seemed to wash over her. Why does he smell so good?

“Thanks,” she said, looking down quickly. He nodded.

“What do you need it for?”

“Oh, umm . . .” Augustine floundered. She now had a giant pumpkin on her desk she had exactly zero plans for. “I thought I’d, uh, carve it.”

“But there’s still two weeks till Halloween.”

“I know.”

“It will rot before then.”

“Oh.” Augustine thought for a moment. “I guess I’ll, uh, preserve it somehow.”

“Salt’s a preservative,” he remarked wryly, before gesturing to the floor. “And I think you might have some already.”

She couldn’t help it. She flushed a deep red, and she could feel his eyes on her, noticing the new colour in her cheeks.

To his credit however, he didn’t mention it.

“Look, I’ve done you a favour,” he said instead. “Now maybe you could help me?”

She sighed. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe this guy was just a bereaved man clinging to the idea of one final conversation with a loved one from beyond the grave.

“I know what you want. You asked me to speak to the dead,” she replied. “But I was being honest before. I can’t help you.”

She spoke evenly, hoping her firm but polite words might be the end of it. But if anything, he seemed to stand taller, gazing at her with those steady blue eyes.

“But you’re a divination witch,” he argued. “Divination witches . . . they can read the cards, speak to the dead—”

“No, stop it,” she interjected, her gaze scanning her shop for anyone who might be listening. “You’re wrong. You’ve been misinformed. I’m not a . . . a witch.” She whispered the final word, just in case.

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. You are a divination witch."

“And who told you that?”

“Well, uh . . .”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “Well, actually . . . you did.”

Chapter Eight