Page 99 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Augustine’s vision blurred, tears welling before she could stop them, hot and sudden, her chest tightening painfully as the memory and the present collided in the worst possible way.

“Don’t cry, Ags,” Maddy softly urged. “Please don’t cry. And don’t hate me either.” So, so quietly, she added, “I couldn’t bear it.”

A choked sound escaped Augustine, and the tears spilled over properly, unstoppable now.

Because she knew. She knew.

It wasn’t a suspicion any more. Not a theory, not a possibility twisting itself into something logical and distant. It was the truth. It was Maddy.

Maddy was the witch. Maddy was the one who had torn them apart. Maddy was the reason Theo had died.

“Why?” Augustine managed again, her voice shaking, breaking under the weight of it. “Why would you do this?”

Maddy exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping for just a moment before lifting back to Augustine’s tear-streaked face, and when she spoke, it was careful and certain. “Why?” she asked. “Well, because you asked me to, Ags.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The next time Augustine properly registered where she was, she was standing in line at Starbucks.

Starbucks. Of all places.

Her eyes wandered blankly over the menu, not taking in a single word of it, as the reality of the situation settled over her in a slow, unfamiliar wave.

Her sister — her baby sister — had just calmly admitted to being the witch responsible for dismantling her life, erasing her memories, and quite possibly orchestrating the death of the man she loved.

And now here they were. Getting coffee. It was, Augustine decided, completely ridiculous.

“I’m getting a pumpkin spice latte with cinnamon whip,” Maddy announced brightly beside her, as if this were any other day. “You’re still vegan milk only, right? Even though it tastes like regret, sadness and bad decision making?”

Augustine didn’t respond. She stood stiffly, arms folded tightly across her chest, staring blankly at the menu, her jaw set.

Maddy glanced at her, undeterred. “Okay, cool, cool, I’ll just—” she gestured vaguely at the menu — “make an executive decision on your behalf. I do that for my boss all the time. Honestly, the man will only wear suits and ties by Armani and went to flipping Eton. You’d think he’d be the black coffee only type, but no. Oh no no no. He can drink down a white chocolate mocha frappuccino with extra whip and caramel syrup like the best of them.”

“Don’t,” Augustine said, sharp and unimpressed. She glanced around, noting the barista barking out names, a man aggressively typing on a laptop, the woman taking photos of her drink from at least thirteen different angles. Her life was falling apart and here she was, in the realm of frustrated novelists and food influencers.

Maddy winced, but only slightly. “Right. We’re not there yet. Fine. I’m still getting you something — and I bet you haven’t eaten today, right?”

Augustine said nothing, and Maddy nodded knowingly as she stepped up to the counter and began to order. “Thought so.”

* * *

“Come on,” Maddy said, once they each had a coffee in hand. “Walk with me.”

“Why?”

“Because this conversation requires privacy, potentially a plausible escape route, and enough forward motion that you can’t dramatically storm off halfway through.”

“Maddy—”

“A river walk,” Maddy decided. “And just so you know, I’m giving you the upper hand here. Water’s your element, not mine.”

Augustine relented, nodding tightly, and they ended up walking along the Thames towards Limehouse.

Augustine walked a step away from her sister, every inch of her posture closed off. If she could have physically leaned further away from Maddy without falling into the Thames, she would have.

Maddy, on the other hand, looked entirely at ease. Too at ease. She was walking almost breezily, sipping her coffee like this was a casual catch-up and not the villainous reveal of Augustine’s life. Her coat was still hanging open, which Augustine noticed immediately.

A familiar lecture rose instinctively to her tongue — button your coat, Maddy, it’s October. Do you want to get pneumonia? — and she hated, suddenly and fiercely, that some stubborn, automatic part of her still wanted to say it.