by Cate Dean
“And a percentage of the sale.”
Aunt Irene shook her head, smiling again. “A young entrepreneur after my own heart. Very well, twenty percent, split between you.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “Forty percent.”
“Twenty-five, and not a pence more. Now get, before I change my mind and charge you for the privilege of rummaging through my inventory.”
Maggie held out her hand. “Done.”
With another smile, Aunt Irene shook it, sealing their bargain. “Leave what you find in the solarium. I want both you and Spencer as clean as you can possibly make yourselves with the garden hose before you step foot in this house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie waved at her and sprinted back to the carriage house. She let out a shriek when she almost ran into Spencer. “Spence—you scared the breath out of me.”
“That was quite the shriek, Maggie. Can I hire you for my haunted house?”
“Hilarious. Why are you lurking in the shadows?”
“Ready for a quick getaway.” He winked at her. “Just in case.”
“A grown man, running from an old woman.”
“Mags!” He clapped one hand over her mouth. “Never let her hear you say that. I witnessed the verbal takedown of the last fool who said those words in front of her, and it wasn’t pretty.”
After prying his hand off her mouth, she shook her head. “I have, and I will again. Aunt Irene knows I’m playing with her—unlike the villager—ˮ
“Tourist,” he corrected.
“That explains it. No one who lives here would call her an old woman, unless they were planning a quick move, far, far away.”
He relaxed. “Just promise me one thing. Never, ever speak those words when I’m around.”
Her shout of laughter echoed around them.
Flashing his heartbreaking grin, Spencer grabbed her hand and pulled her into the cool carriage house.
***
They spent hours digging through Aunt Irene’s collection. Her aunt loved haunting estate sales, boot sales, church sales—any type of sale that had the possibility of a good antique, at a cheap price. Aunt Irene would lovingly restore the pieces and sell them in her antique and consignment shop, The Ash Leaf.
Maggie had been tagging after her aunt since she had begged to go to an estate sale, during her second visit here. She had only been eleven, but Aunt Irene didn’t once call her a child, or too young to understand what she was looking at.
Instead, her aunt had patiently answered every one of the hundred question Maggie had thrown at her—and they both discovered that Maggie had an eye for antiques. After that first trip, Maggie had joined her on at least one antique hunt every summer.
To her surprise, Spencer had also expressed an interest in antiques—one Aunt Irene indulged, teaching them both everything she knew. Now, Spencer was in his third year at uni, with an eye to working at one of the museums in London.
“Mags?” Spencer’s muffled voice pulled her out of her memories. “Can you—ouch—ˮ
“Spence.” She moved toward where she heard his voice—and burst out laughing.
“Not—funny.”
“Oh, I think that your legs sticking straight up and flailing is hilarious.” She moved to him, and wiggled through the space between the stacked chairs and the desk he had balanced himself on. “What did you find?”
“This.” His hand appeared, inches from her face. She jerked back—then leaned forward again when she saw what he had in his hand. “Take it, Mags—I’m about—to lose my grip.”
She eased the tarnished silver cup out of his hand and worked her way backward, careful not to jar her hand or the cup. By the time she freed herself, her fingers ached from clenching the thick stem. She sank to the dirt floor, staring at the decoration on the rim of the cup.
Spencer joined her, dirt streaking his face, and cobwebs tangling in his sun streaked blonde hair.
“Is it what I think?” he whispered. “I couldn’t see it very well.”
“Yeah.” She spoke in the same, awed whisper. “It’s a ritual cup.” Carefully, she turned it over, and looked for any maker’s mark on the bottom. What she found had her blinking, sure she was seeing it wrong. “Look at this, Spence.”
She handed over the cup, watched him handle it like it was the most fragile bone china. Not many twenty-year-old men would have understood—or cared enough—to treat the cup like a precious object. Spencer was different, always had been—and she loved him for all those differences.
“John Wilkes.” He stared at her, the same awe in his blue eyes. “He made custom items for witches—ˮ
“In the 15th century.” She brushed her finger over the decoration, just under the rim of the cup. “This wasn’t only to make the cup look pretty. Certain symbols represented the witch he had made it for, the coven, if she belonged to one, and the ritual. Don’t quote me, but I think the witch who owned this lived in Dell.”
His face paled. “The deserted village? The deserted, haunted village?”
“No such thing as ghosts, Spence.” She said it almost absently. Spencer had tried to get her on his side since they first met. But Maggie was far too practical to think that something so otherworldly walked around, invisible to everyone but crazy people—and rabid believers, like Spencer. She ignored the memory of her aunt warning her away from Dell. “We can check the history collection in the Holmestead library. I remember seeing at least one book on Dell.”
She stood, tucked wild strands of red hair that had worked themselves loose from her ponytail, and dusted herself off as she headed for the hose that was always coiled on the side of the solarium, near the vegetable garden.
“Wait—Maggie—ˮ Spencer caught up with her, holding the silver cup in both hands. “Shouldn’t we tell your aunt about this?”
“Not yet.” She turned on the hose and held it up. “Set the cup down and wash your hands. We need to get over to the library before it closes.”
“But—ˮ He cradled the cup. “What are we going to do with this?”
“I’ll hide it in my room. Aunt Irene doesn’t dust in there anymore. When I turned sixteen, she figured I was old enough to dust, or as she put it, live in the environment of my own making.” He stared at her like she was proposing to hide state secrets. “We’ll tell her about it once we have more information.”
“You can tell her—after I’m home, and safely locked in my bedroom.”
Maggie laughed, and waved the hose at him. “Come on, Mr. Timid. Let’s get cleaned up.”
***
Holmestead Library, located at the bottom of the high street, had been one of Maggie’s favorite places, ever since she discovered its existence during her first summer. It resided in a former 16th century manor house, next to the village’s small museum.
The high ceiling, age darkened oak beams, scarred wood tables, and quaint, oddly shaped rooms were a haven to a young girl who had spent her life surrounded by ultra-sleek, ultra-modern, impeccable furnishings.
They made it with an hour to look around. Maggie waved at the librarian, admired the Halloween decorations in the main room, then made her way through the rooms to the history collection in the back of the building. Spencer followed her, hovering over her shoulder as she scanned the titles.
“There,” he said reaching past her. “Dell’s Wicked and Haunted Past. I told you—I’m not the only one thinking the place is haunted.”
“You take that one.” Maggie found the book she’d been looking for. “I’ll tackle this one.”
She held up her much bigger, thicker book. A Concise History of The Witches of Dell.
“Fine,” he said. She waited, biting back a smile, for his dramatic response. He didn’t disappoint. “You read all about the history.” He waved his book, then leaned in to whisper. “I’ll read about the truth.”
“You do that.”
They sat at the opposite ends of the single table, and started reading. It didn’t take Maggie long to find w
hat she was looking for; a list of the witches, along with the symbols they used to represent themselves.
She pulled the piece of paper out of the pocket of her jeans and unfolded it. Before she left, she had copied down the symbols, so she wouldn’t have to memorize them. Using them as reference, she scanned down the list, and her finger halted when she found a match.
“Spencer,” she whispered. He leapt up and joined her, leaning over the book. “This is her; the witch who owned this cup.”
He took over, and read the short description. “Anya Trimble, a powerful witch of Romany descent. She was accused of plotting the death of Lord Trimble, her husband, who knew naught of her wicked, secret life. On 31 October, in the year of our Lord, 1496, she was sentenced to burn, in the place she had carried out her forbidden rituals: the standing stones outside Dell. Before her rightful sentence could be carried out, she was found in the center of the standing stones, deathly still, but still breathing. She never opened her eyes again. Despite the evidence that she had plotted his death, Lord Trimble spoke for her and was allowed to take the hollow shell of her body to his home. He cared for her, until her body disappeared from her bed, one year later, on All Hallows’ Eve.”
They stared at each other. “Halloween,” Maggie whispered. “Whatever happened to her, it was on Halloween.”
“That’s tomorrow. We need to go, Mags.”
Part of her shuddered at the thought of walking through the deserted village on Halloween, or anytime close to it. All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil between the living and the dead was thinnest. She may not believe in ghosts, but the stories surrounding Dell, and how every villager had simply disappeared one night, would make going there a chilling experience anytime. On Halloween—
“Maggie?” Spencer’s voice jerked her back. “Not afraid of ghosts, are we?”
“Just the reason for the entire village going walkabout, at the same time.”
“Right.” He sat on the edge of the table, and ran one hand through his hair. “You do know the Trimble House is still standing, fully intact.”
Her hesitation disappeared. “Is it? Maybe we could find some clue—ˮ
“Some say it hasn’t fallen to ruin, like the rest of the village, because of a spell laid on it.”
“That I believe.” Going to school in L.A. had exposed her to a whole new world, including a roommate who also happened to be a practicing witch. “But,” she stood, ready to dive into the mystery of a woman who had disappeared centuries ago. “If we take her cup, it might be our way in. That is, if you’re up to facing your ghosts.”
“It won’t be bad. In daylight. Even if a ghost or two does show up.” He took a deep breath. “We can head over there first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She smiled up at him, and hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Fingers crossed for a clear day.”
***
Dark clouds filled the sky when Maggie peered out her bedroom window. It didn’t smell like rain, but the gloom would lend an atmosphere she wasn’t all that sure she wanted, heading for a deserted village that hid so many secrets.
But her need to find out more about Anya Trimble overrode any sense of creepy.
She had loved mysteries since she read her first one, and drove her parents crazy with her lists, and theories about the latest news story, or a who did this article in one of the magazines she hoarded. Just like she did then, she sat at her small desk under the window, and started making a list.
Aunt Irene called her down for breakfast before she was done. She folded up the list and tucked it in her jeans, already plotting the story she’d tell when Aunt Irene asked why she was wearing a heavy sweater.
To Maggie’s relief, her aunt was too busy with her plans for the day to do more than glance at Maggie. She ate quickly, grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, and kissed Aunt Irene’s cheek.
“I’m meeting Spencer.”
“Have a good day, dear.”
“You, too.” She gave her aunt an impulsive hug. “I love you, Aunt Irene.”
“I love you, child. Now, get out of my hair. I’ve too much to do before I leave, and not enough time to do it.”
“Happy Halloween.”
Aunt Irene smiled at her. Halloween was her favorite holiday, after Christmas. “Be back in time to dress yourself up, before the little goblins arrive.”
“I will.”
She headed out of the house, fast walking down the street that led to the village. Spencer lived in a flat behind the Bonnie Prince Charlie Pub, when he wasn’t at school. The pub was an ugly, ostentatious place, run by Walter, a man who snarled at her if she darkened the doorway. To say he wasn’t fond of Yanks would be an understatement.
Spencer waited for her outside the building, bundled up, and carrying a knit hat for each of them. “You’ll be wanting it once we get there,” he said, when she frowned. “Don’t worry—we can de-electrify your hair when we get back.”
She laughed, and tucked the hat in the pocket of her bright blue wool coat. “Are your parents here?”
“Off on another long cruise. Early retirement agrees with them. I do miss them, but I love that they finally get to travel.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Say hello for me, next time you talk to them.”
“You bet. Ready?”
She nodded, and they headed up the high street, to the car park where Spencer kept his ocean blue van. He had just acquired a beat up two-seater, but she knew by next summer it would be a thing of beauty. Spencer was good with his hands, and so much more mechanically inclined than she would ever be.
There was no question about him driving; he refused to get in a car with her, ever since she had driven them the wrong way down a one way street. In her defense, there had been no obvious sign, and only one other car on the street.
But it traumatized him enough—along with her occasional drift into what she considered the right side of the road—that she would forever be known as a bad driver.
Dell stood about ten miles from Holmestead, in a small valley, surrounded by rolling green hills. It must have been a lovely setting, when the village had been alive, and filled with people. As they crested the hill, it looked—haunted was the only word Maggie could think of. Lost, trapped in time.
Many of the thatched roofs had collapsed long ago, so whatever furnishings had been left behind would be badly damaged. They drove slowly along the high street, so narrow she could have reached out the window and touched the front of the buildings they passed.
Maggie gasped when they drove around the curve. At the end of the street stood a three story manor house. It looked as neat and well-kept as it must have the day everyone disappeared. The multi paned windows were clean, reflecting the come and go sun. Two hawthorn trees stood on either side of the path leading to the double doors.
“It looks—ˮ
“Perfect,” Spencer said, his voice quiet. “Too perfect.”
Maggie couldn’t agree more.
He parked along the edge of the property, and they held hands as they walked up the stone path. As they got closer, she saw some of the ravages of time and weather; splits in the wooden window frames, boards missing from the empty window boxes, the arched doors faded and slightly warped.
But when she turned her head, out of the corner of her eye she saw a different view; of gleaming wood, bright flowers in the window boxes, the richly stained door open, welcoming.
“Spence,” she whispered.
“I see it. I think—it might be a glamour.”
Maggie let out a shaky breath. Nothing she’d read last night had prepared her for this. Even spending time with her roommate, watching her arrange her altar and cast love spells, felt like child’s play next to what she saw here. Her roommate never could have cast a spell that would camouflage an entire house—never mind one that would last for centuries.
“I didn’t—wow, Spencer. Do you think we can pass through it?”
H
e tightened his grip. “Let’s go find out. You have the cup?”
She nodded, and pulled it out of her coat pocket. They moved to the doors, Maggie holding the cup out. The air started to shimmer—and she halted when a hole opened, right in front of the cup.
“Spence—”
He took the cup and stepped between her and the hole. “Stay behind me, no matter what happens.”
“Be careful.” She grabbed the back of his coat, moving with him as he walked forward.
The hole widened, and like a curtain pulling back, it revealed the manor house.
The pristine manor house.
“Are you seeing this, Mags?” She could barely hear Spencer’s raw voice over her pounding heart.
“That’s not possible. No one’s lived here for centuries.” She tugged at Spencer’s coat. “We should go. Now, Spencer.”
“Don’t you want to know?” He looked over his shoulder, and Maggie recognized that gleam in his eyes. “I bet this kept you up half the night, reading. Can you walk away without your answers?”
She wanted to shout yes, but Spencer knew her all too well. Until the mystery was solved, one way or another, she didn’t give up.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But if anything moves—and I mean anything—we run.”
“Agreed.” He held out his free hand. Maggie gripped it, her fingers shaking. “We’ll be fine, Mags. Ghosts can tell when someone means to do harm.”
“Means to do harm?” She raised her eyebrows. “How old was Dell’s Wicked and Haunted Past?”
“Old enough to have more thees and thous than I ever want to see again.”
She smiled, some of her fear easing. Spencer was good at that; he’d talked her down more than once after a phone call from her parents left her agitated, or in tears.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Spencer held the cup out in front of them as they slowly moved forward, both of them braced for any movement. By the time they reached the gleaming arched doors, Maggie was ready to turn around. Something felt wrong about this place—her skin crawled at the thought of touching the silver door latch.