Page 78 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

I have a flat above the shop. That’s where I live.

She’d told Theo that. In the memory. She’d brought him to The Priestess Reversed, kissed him at the door, and told him she lived upstairs.

Upstairs. In the flat everyone told her didn’t exist.

“I lived upstairs,” she said aloud, the words coming faster now as they formed. “There is a flat upstairs.”

Her head snapped towards the bookcase. The one she’d already checked, again and again. The one that had shown her nothing.

Augustine crossed the room, her pulse picking up again. Not with hope, not quite, but with something close enough to make her rush.

“I checked it,” she whispered to herself, hands already reaching for the edges, for the seams, for anything that even gave the smallest hint that it didn’t quite belong. “There’s nothing there. It’s just a wall.”

Her fingers pressed against the wood, sliding along the grain, searching. She slid her fingers behind the bookcase and over the wallpaper, at the solid feel of stone beneath the floral print.

There was nothing. Nothing. So, unless this wasn’t really a wall—

Augustine froze.

It’s not really a wall. It just looks like one, she realized.

“A glamour,” she breathed. “It’s a glamour. Witchcraft.”

The word settled into place with unsettling ease.

A witch could do that. Hide something in plain sight. Make you see what isn’t there instead of what is. And if someone had gone to the trouble of tearing memories out of her mind piece by piece . . .

Well, what was one hidden door?

Her hands moved faster now, more certain, pressing, knocking lightly, testing for hollow spaces—

“You look like hell, Augustine.”

The voice cut cleanly through her focus, and Augustine jumped, spinning around too quickly, her heart lurching into her throat.

Mrs Clayton stood in the doorway, expression somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised, like she’d walked in on exactly what she expected to find. Her pearl-embossed handbag was clutched tightly in her hand, and she primly walked towards Augustine’s till, sitting on the old stool and staring at Augustine expectantly.

Augustine stared right back at her, breath uneven, fingers still curled slightly from where they’d been searching the bookcase.

“I—” she started, then stopped, because there were too many things to say and not a single one of them made any kind of sense.

Mrs Clayton’s gaze flicked past her, landing briefly on the bookcase before returning to Augustine’s face with a small, knowing sigh. “What are you doing, honey?”

“Looking.”

“For what?”

Augustine didn’t even blink. “You know what.”

Mrs Clayton didn’t reply. She just kept staring at her.

It might have been comical, in another life, this silent, immovable stand-off. Augustine, wild-eyed and breathless, standing in the middle of her own shop like she’d just crawled out of a storm. And Mrs Clayton, neat as ever, handbag in her lap, posture perfect, her wrinkled gaze unwavering.

Pensioner versus witch. Not that it was much of a contest, because somehow, Augustine had the distinct feeling she was losing.

The silence stretched, and then stretched on some more. Finally, Augustine could take it no more. “You used to work here,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth, sharp with urgency. “You know this building better than anyone else.”

Mrs Clayton blinked, but she didn’t move.