by Robin Roseau
Poor Little Witch Girl
Robin Roseau
Table of Contents
The Shop
This Or That
Friendships
Third Visit
Conversation
Explanations
Part Two
Attraction
Minding The Store
Whirlwind
Binding
Halloween
Offers
Verity
Vows
New Home
Aftermath: You Owe Me
About the Author
Copyright
The Shop
I was living my dream.
I was twenty-nine years old, still relatively young, passably attractive, and a one-third owner of a little bookstore along with my two best friends in the whole, wide world. White Candle Books wasn't a big shop, but it was all ours, and I did tarot and aura readings in a quiet little room in the back. The three of us lived in the apartment above the shop.
It was, I suppose, a cliché. But Jaime and Felicity didn't care, and neither did I.
We were happy.
Oh, we weren't getting rich, but we managed to pay our bills. The local LGBT community had been deeply supportive, and while the big box stores and Amazon had nothing to fear from our little shop, we did all right. We kept a selection of mainstream books to please an average customer, but the bulk of the shop was given to a more eccentric topics than might be found at your local Barnes and Noble. If you wanted vintage lesfic, the place to shop was White Candle Books. We had one bookcase devoted to local authors and another to Native American authors.
To me, it was a joy just to wander our bookshelves. Jaime and Felicity felt the same way.
* * * *
It was ten minutes before seven on a Wednesday evening in early April when She walked in. Yes, I capitalize that intentionally, and if you had seen Her, you probably would, too.
I was just walking George Hanson to the door. George came in every week, not always on a Wednesday, on his way home from work. He was a quiet man, and gay as the day is long, but I never saw him with anyone. He came into the shop, spent a few minutes roaming the shelves, and then always asked one of us, "What do you have I might like?"
Normally, that would be a difficult question to answer. We had an entire store. But George had been a customer for so long, we knew what he wanted. George had very particular tastes in the books he bought from us, and Jaime sometimes kept a little basket with new books to show to George.
George always bought them.
Today, George bought three books. As he always did, he avoided eye contact, but he expressed quiet thanks for helping him. Just as he always did.
But then the bell over the door tinkled. We both looked up, and I stared straight into Her eyes.
Yes, yes. I'll get over the capitalization thing soon, I promise. But really, it was fitting.
I immediately forgot about George, but it is only in hindsight that I can relay his actions. He glanced up then immediately averted his eyes, hiding his face by looking down. He moved smoothly around the new customer and was out the door moments later.
I never stopped staring at the woman.
She wasn't a classic beauty. Oh no, she was far beyond that. She was tall, with sharp features and a piercing gaze. Her hair was long and black with just a hint of grey. I thought the grey made her look distinguished. Her eyes were the deepest blue, and she didn't take them from me as she stepped forward, holding out her hand.
She was dressed, well, very expensively. She was wearing a camel colored skirt, a silk blouse, Burberry scarf, and an open trench coat. Over her arm was the strap of a Louis Vuitton purse. What the hell was someone like her doing in our little shop, which suddenly felt dingy in comparison?
I couldn't judge her age. She was old, but she wasn't, if you know what I mean. She had to be at least forty, but I'd never seen someone forty who had that kind of presence. I would learn later she was far, far older than forty.
Although she was at least ten years my senior, I was having the most visceral reaction to her that I'd ever had. My entire body tingled as I stared at her.
I couldn't explain it.
I couldn't explain her aura, either. We all have auras, much like the outer glow one thinks of as an angel's halo. They come in colors, and you could tell a lot about someone from her aura. I could glance at someone and tell you straight or gay, shy or outgoing, weak or powerful. I couldn't tell you what career path someone was on, but I could see signs of creativity, organization, or scientific thinking.
I couldn't tell one thing about this woman from her aura, and for me, that was a first, to go along with my reaction to her.
She closed the distance, and I took her offered hand, unable to take my eyes from her.
"My name is Verity Patrick," she said. She cocked her head, still looking at me. "And you are Lyra Lane, proprietor of this fine establishment."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied. I recovered my hand and tried to pull my reaction under control. "What brings you to White Candle Books?"
"For a reading, of course," she said. "I am your seven o'clock appointment. I hope you do not mind I am a few minutes early."
I had a seven PM appointment?
"Of course," I said, trying to hide how flustered this woman made me. "If you would care to browse, I will summon one of my partners, and then we can step in back."
"That would be lovely," she replied. I watched as she stepped away from me and began to wander the store. I expected to see judgmental looks, but as out of place as she appeared, she acted like any other well-intentioned patron.
I shook my head and headed for the counter. We had an intercom system, and I buzzed the apartment upstairs. A moment later, I heard Jaime's voice.
"Yo, girlfriend."
"Don't 'yo' me," I said. "I need one of you to come down. I have an unexpected client, and I need someone to watch the store."
"Oh," he replied. "Sorry about that. You have a seven PM to do a reading."
"Yeah, thanks."
"I'm on my way."
I turned back to the shop. Ms. Patrick was in our occult section. She picked up and sniffed a few of the candles, seemingly absentmindedly, while scanning the titles. Then, slowly, while not removing her eyes from the books in front of her, she reached out and set the current candle back on the shelf before pulling one of the books out. I watched as she held it almost reverently.
Most of the books we sold were new, but when it comes to vintage books, we're happy to buy used books in good condition when they're out of print. I could tell from here she was holding one of our older books. She opened the book carefully, paged through it for a minute, and then looked up, her eyes scanning the shop until they settled on me.
She made a beeline for me, setting the book on the counter between us, not lifting her hands from the cover.
"Where did you get this?"
I looked down at it. "I'm not sure, ma'am," I said. "We sometimes buy old books."
"Most of your occult books are rubbish," she declared. I pretended not to take offense, but I found the statement quite rude. "This book, on the other hand, is not rubbish."
I waited for her to get to the point.
"Ms. Lane," she said after a moment, "I am going to give you some advice. Add this book to your personal collection and never part with it." She paused then lowered her voice. "And never tell anyone you have it."
I glanced down at it again. I actually wasn't familiar with this particular book. Jaime or Felicity must have taken it in, perhaps as part of a personal collection. But it was just a book, right?
I told her that last part.
She sighed. "I wish you to either pr
omise to take my advice, or I will purchase this book from you. It would be quite unwise to allow it to fall into the wrong hands."
While I believed in auras -- I could see them, after all -- I didn't really believe in the rest of the occult. I thought it was all hogwash. Dancing sky clad and casting spells? Seriously?
"If you want the book-"
"No, I don't want the book. I already own a copy. I would much rather you promised to keep it. But if you will not make this promise, then I will take it to keep it safe."
I stared at her a moment and then I lowered my eyes to the book. I reached for it, and the woman removed her hands.
As soon as I touched the book, I felt... something. My hands tingled, and I snatched them back. When I glanced up at Ms. Patrick, she was watching me calmly, but she had an eyebrow raised.
"Just a book?"
"How did you do that?"
"I didn't do a thing," she said. She glanced down at the book then back up at me. "Ideas have power. Words have power. Some books have power."
At that point, I heard the door behind me open and close, and then I felt Jaime at my back. He moved away, giving me privacy with our customer.
I looked down at the book again. It was clearly old, perhaps the oldest book in the shop. Oh, it wasn't ancient or anything like that. But vintage can mean twenty years old. This book was older than that and was from a time when books were often bound in leather. I stared at it for a moment, a little afraid to touch it.
"It won't hurt you, Ms. Lane," she said quietly.
Carefully, gingerly, I opened the book, finding the price on the inside cover: twenty-two dollars. I thought perhaps it was worth more than that.
We had a reserve shelf. I took one of the slips we use, wrote down, "Verity Patrick," stuck the slip inside the cover so it poked out the top, then quickly moved the book to the reserve shelf behind me. When I turned back, Ms. Patrick looked disappointed, but she nodded, saying nothing. "If you will come this way..." I gestured towards the door leading to our back room.
* * * *
I knew the room didn't look like much. It was a small room. There was a table in the center of the room and two chairs. My tarot deck was waiting in the middle of the table along with two candles and a box of matches. I didn't believe in tarot, but I had patrons who did. It was a prop I used while reading auras.
The room was carefully decorated and lit, giving a mystical feel. Oh, I didn't have any sort of mumbo jumbo stuff. There were no crystals or shrunken heads or incense or any of the other occult clichés. But the walls were painted a dark color, and then they were hung with simple tapestries. The idea was to make the room feel a little like a gypsy tent.
The room didn't matter to me, but it seemed to matter to some of my customers.
I led Ms. Patrick into the room, holding the door for her then closing it behind myself. I held her chair. Once she was seated, I circled her three times, studying her carefully, then stood opposite her. I reached for the box of matches, but she captured my hand.
"We both know you don't need the candles."
I nodded. Her hand lingered before withdrawing, her fingers sliding across the back of my hand as she did so. It was sensual, far more sensual than such a simple gesture should be, and I was disappointed at the loss of contact. But I took my seat and then looked across at her.
"Tell me why you're here."
"I heard you could read auras. I wish you to read mine."
"Are you contemplating some life changes?"
She studied me for a moment. "I understand your typical appointment is a half hour for twenty-five dollars." I nodded once. She set her purse upon the table then reached in and, with precise gestures, withdrew a small clutch. She opened it and removed a crisp, hundred-dollar bill. She set it on the table between us. "I reserved an hour. Impress me, and this is yours."
I glanced at the bill then looked back up into her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, lowering the purse to the floor beside her. We studied each other.
"What would you like to know?"
"Tell me what you know about auras," she demanded.
"Everyone has one," I said. "But not everyone can see them. My partners cannot."
"Partners?"
"Business partners. You saw Jaime, perhaps."
"Ah, of course. The gay man who came to replace you."
Jaime was gay; she was right about that. But he didn't ping anyone's gaydar. Oh, it was clear from his aura, although it had taken me years to realize that was what I saw in him and some -- but not all -- his boyfriends.
"If you're a bigot," I said coldly, "You can take your money and go."
She frowned. "Why would you say something like that?"
"Why did you feel a need to describe him based on his sexual orientation?"
"Perhaps I was simply telling you something, Ms. Lane. Trust me; I am not a bigot. Well, not about that, anyway." She smiled briefly, but as short as it was, it was beautiful. "You were talking about auras."
I told her what I knew, what I had guessed. I told her what one could find from the common literature, pointing out that there was a lot of misinformation, and I'd had to carefully judge everything I read against my own experience.
"And so you are entirely self-trained, along with reading some questionable material?"
"Yes," I said.
"You did not learn to read auras from your grandmother, for instance?"
"No."
"Well then. Go on."
I told her the sort of things I could tell about a person from her aura. "If someone is considering a career change, I can often tell if it's a good idea. If a couple comes in, their auras give me clues as to the likely success of the relationship. If someone comes in alone, asking about love, I can help them narrow down what to look for."
She nodded.
I talked for several minutes before winding down.
"Well then," she said. "What can you tell me about my aura? Am I straight? Gay?"
I looked at her carefully. I hadn't ever seen someone whose aura looked like hers. I couldn't tell a thing about her, not one little thing.
I glanced down at the money on the table.
I didn't always tell people what they wanted to hear; indeed, I frequently told them things quite contrary to what they wanted to hear. I'd told people not to take a particular job, or to run from a potential love interest. I'd refused to accept as clients people whose auras were particular dark and twisted; for others, I'd been willing to act the charlatan.
We could use that hundred dollars.
But I leaned forward and slid the money back to her side of the table. She glanced down at it and frowned.
"You are refusing my money?"
"I can't answer your questions," I said. "And I refuse to fake it."
She picked up the money, holding it in both hands, then looked back up at me. "Why can't you answer my questions?"
"Because I've never seen an aura like yours," I said. "And I don't have a clue what it means. I can't tell if you're straight or gay. I can't tell if you're in love. I can't tell if you like your job. I can tell more about you from your clothing and the way you carry yourself than I can from your aura."
Ms. Patrick held the money between us, casually tapping it on edge against the table. She did that several times before saying, "You could tell me anything you want."
"That would be lying, wouldn't it? I'm not a cheat."
She offered another ghost of a smile. "Tell me what you can."
"I told you; I can't tell you a thing."
"You can't describe my aura?"
"Well, yes, but I can't tell you what it means."
"Tell me what you are able." She set the bill back flat on the table, resting her fingertips against it, but she didn't slide it back across the table. Still, she was clearly offering me a great deal to tell her nearly nothing.
"All right. Most auras are faint and composed of only a few colors. The colors sort of merge together as if you were really
seeing them reflected off a mottled surface, and it is only the reflected light being seen."
"Go on."
"Yours is far more vivid, and it extends much further from your body." I leaned forward, reaching just to the edge of her aura, a good foot and a half from her body. "To about here. It varies a little."
"And how far would most auras extend?"
I brought my hand closer, perhaps only a hand span from the side of her head. "Here, or so."
"And just near my head?"
"No, your entire body, but it is brightest here; it is brightest here for most people, and it can be very difficult to see the aura about someone's hands, for instance."
"But you can see the aura about my hands?" She lifted them from the table and held them wide, and so I moved my hand over hers, still a foot from touching her.
She nodded. "What color is it?"
"Some of it is black, and I can see that because it obscures the view past you. But I see purple and green. There is orange, just a little, here." I gestured towards her chest, immediately over her heart. "That is mixed with red, of course."
"Of course."
"It sort of shimmers and twists; it's more alive than for most people. For most, it just glows. Yours seems to dance with itself."
I sat back in my chair. "I don't know what else to tell you."
In reaction, Ms. Patrick leaned forward, her fingers resting on the money again. She slid it across the table to me, but she kept her hands resting on it. "What of your own aura?"
"I don't know. I can't see my own. I imagine if I could, it would be quite distracting."
"Can you turn off the ability to see auras?"
"Yes. I actually have to want to see someone's aura, but once I decide to look, it's right there."
"And once you look, you can unlook again?"
I nodded.
She leaned back, leaving the money, now on my side of the table. Then she rose fluidly, collecting her purse. "Thank you, Ms. Lane. This has been an intriguing hour."
It hadn't remotely been an hour. But I left the money on the table and escorted her out the door, saying little. I took her to the front counter and then retrieved her book. "A gift," I said, setting it on the countertop between us.