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To be fair, there was an uncanny resemblance, Brooke had to admit that, but persuading Elsie to stop voicing that fact loudly and frequently was proving impossible. Brooke had tried sending her pointed looks, she’d given a little shake of her head, she’d adopted one of her most severe frowns—nothing had worked.

Elsie had made up her mind that the woman looked like Tripalot, the fictional witch, and she wanted to talk about it, which was also unusual because it took her a while to open up to people she didn’t know.

Elsie directed her questions at Mabel, oblivious to her mother’s discomfort. “Did you read the book when you were a child?”

They were seated at the table in a cosy kitchen where snow swirled past the windows and heat pumped from the range cooker. The black cat—Crumpet, Brooke reminded herself. His name is Crumpet—was nestled on Elsie’s lap.

Two other cats were curled up under the table, enjoying the warmth.

Brooke was enjoying the warmth, too. The bottom of her dress (dry-clean only) was soaked and her feet were wet. Why had she worn a dress? What had felt both stylish and festive when she’d dressed now felt embarrassingly impractical. She’d imagined herself floating up to the front door of her parents’ home clutching perfectly wrapped gifts adorned with extravagant red bows, looking like a heroine from a Christmas movie. It turned out that although burgundy corduroy might be a winter trend, that didn’t mean it wanted to be exposed to actual winter. She longed for a hot bath and a change of clothes. Her hair was curling madly and she knew she probably had mascara smudged under her eyes. A major repair job was needed before arriving home, or she’d never hear the last of it. Her mother considered leaving the house without wearing lipstick to be a greater crime than running a red light.

Brooke glanced at Matt, who had simply swiped his fingers through his damp hair and now looked ruggedly handsome. His black chunky sweater appeared to have repelled the water, unlike her dress, which seemed to have absorbed every last flake of snow.

There was no justice.

To take her mind off it she focused on the woman who was in the process of lifting a set of brightly coloured mugs from a cupboard as she considered Elsie’s question. “The book sounds a little familiar.”

Brooke refrained from pointing out that the book hadn’t been published when this woman was a child. She would basically be saying that as well as looking like a witch, she was old, which was about as offensive as you could get. They’d be thrown back into the blizzard with nothing more than the heat of their humiliation to keep them warm.

“You can look at my copy if you like,” Elsie said generously. She held it out, steadying the cat with her other hand. “Mummy rescued it from the car. It belonged to her and it’s precious. It’s my favourite, too. Whenever I trip over something I pretend I’m secretly a witch with special powers. I have every book in the series except one that got lost when we moved house. We think Poppy hid it.”

The woman put the mugs down on the table and took the book. “This looks like a very well-loved book.”

“It is. Mummy used to sleep with it.”

The woman opened the book carefully and stared at the first page.

“That’s Tripalot in her kitchen,” Elsie said helpfully. “Don’t you think she looks like you?”

“I don’t see much of a resemblance, but she does seem like an interesting character.” The woman closed the book quickly and handed it back to Elsie. “Thank you. You should keep this safe.”

Elsie tucked it close to her. “Can you do spells? Do you have a broomstick?”

Oh, dear God.

Distraction, Brooke thought desperately. What they needed was distraction.

“What a beautiful kitchen,” she said brightly. “Elsie, isn’t this a beautiful kitchen?”

Elsie frowned. “Yes, but—”

“So warm and inviting. I didn’t think it was possible to feel cosy with the storm so wild outside, but this room feels safe.” She jumped as the windows rattled. Was it safe? Was anywhere safe in this weather? She saw Elsie’s mouth open again and ploughed on. “It’s a beautiful house. Not that we were able to see much of the outside through the snow. Have you lived here long, Mrs.—Miss—er?”

“Call me Mabel. And I’ve lived here awhile.” The woman put two large mugs of tea in front of Matt and Brooke. “I’ll make the cocoa next.”

Brooke took the tea with a smile of thanks, warming her hands on the mug. Mabel was guarded, and she didn’t blame her. Elsie’s interrogation skills were second to none. Brooke lived in terror of what she was going to ask next.

Now she thought about it, Mabel had been cautious and guarded from the moment she’d opened the door to them. But was that so surprising? If Brooke had been at home alone and a group of strangers had banged on her door in a snowstorm, she would have been cautious and guarded, too.

She looked at Matt for support but he was hugging Poppy, trying to warm her up.

Brooke had wiped the blood from his head and she could see the small cut above his eyebrow.

They’d been lucky, she thought, moving her shoulders to assess the discomfort in her ribs. It could have been so much worse.

Despite Matt’s attentions, Poppy was still shivering. She seemed to have forgotten her need for the bathroom.

Mabel paused her hot chocolate making, disappeared from the kitchen for a moment and returned carrying a thick blanket.