Way of the Witch

by Cate Dean

  “You dare—ˮ

  Martin sighed, his patience almost gone. “It wasn’t a threat, Ms. Draper. This is not London, and you cannot go around angering all of your neighbors. Unlike your neighbors in the city, they are here to stay.”

  She stared at him, and he watched the anger fade, replaced by what looked like embarrassment. “I wanted to make a new start. I’ve done a right bad job of it, haven’t I?”

  “That would be an understatement.” He nodded to her and headed for the door. “If you cannot keep a civil tone, please avoid Spencer. He and my wife are close, and as much as I would like to stand with you, I would be on his side. Please remember that you are the stranger, and that the locals must learn to trust before they will accept you.”

  She nodded, and turned away from him, heading to the back of the shop.

  Martin sighed again, and left. He was afraid his words had been in vain, but at least he had tried to get through to her. All he could do was hope some of it got through—and that he was close by the next time she and Spencer locked horns.

  He took a deep breath after stepping outside. The air in her shop was cloying, laced with patchouli and incense. The cold spring wind helped blow the last of it away. After pulling up the collar of his coat, he headed back to The Ash Leaf. He was in need of Maggie’s smile, her gentle touch, her vibrant personality.

  She stepped out of the shop with Spencer, smiling at him. When she caught sight of Martin, her smile changed. His heart pounded, recognizing that smile. She reserved it only for him.

  He strode up the high street, stopping long enough to nod at Spencer before he wrapped his arms around Maggie and lifted her off her feet.

  “Whoa—hello, Martin.” Her laughter warmed him, helped wash away the anger and bitterness left by his time with Regina. “Did you miss me?”

  She was teasing him, but he had missed her, everything bright and beautiful about her. It had been a long time since he had been near the kind of negativity surrounding Regina Draper. She was an unhappy woman, more than willing to make everyone around her just as unhappy.

  Now that he understood just who she was, he would do his best to keep her poison from spreading. Holmestead was his home now; he would protect it fiercely, for himself, for Maggie, for the people who had welcomed him.

  “Spencer.” He set Maggie on her feet and turned to the younger man, laying one hand on his shoulder. “Regina is someone you want to keep at a good distance. She strikes me as the type that will create chaos when there is none at hand.”

  “Fantastic.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Thanks, for trying to get through to her, Professor. I can always take the back way down to the museum, avoid passing her shop altogether.”

  “That would be a good idea,” Maggie said. “I’ve managed to avoid her since my first run in, but she is really fixated on you.”

  “I got that when she followed me up the high street, shouting at me to stop ignoring her.” He let out a sigh. “I may have to rethink the exhibit. If I change it, she might leave me alone.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Maggie took his hand. “Don’t you dare let her dictate your life, Spence. If you do, she wins.”

  “Right. Thanks, sweetheart.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then held out his hand to Martin. “Thank you, again. I’d best get back, before Dr. Givens finds another reason to add a black mark to my file.”

  Maggie frowned. “Is he still hounding you?”

  “Oh, no—I’m not the golden child.” He smiled. “Everyone has been under his scrutiny. He happens to be looking for a scapegoat to throw at the new museum administration, to explain the low revenue. I’m doing my best to keep under the radar. My recent promotion helps.” He smiled, and Martin watched some of the tension leave him. “As an antiquities curator, I’m working in an area he knows nothing about, no matter how much he blusters. After the first embarrassing confrontation, he’s left me alone. For the most part.”

  “Please, let me know if I can be of any help,” Martin said.

  “No need.” Spencer winked at him. “All I need to do is mention your name, and Givens does a fast turnabout. He’s not as bad as he was, thanks to you, Martin. But he is like a dog with a bone—he doesn’t let go until he’s ripped out the tasty marrow.”

  “Spence.” Maggie smacked his arm. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look the least bit sorry. “I suppose I’m channeling my twenty year old self, handling the cup, and working on the scrolls.”

  “As long as you don’t start up the Star Wars references, we’re good.”

  “Said the pot to the kettle.”

  She blushed, and Martin wondered what he had missed. Even after the secret marathon with Spencer, during one of Maggie’s day-long estate sales, he wouldn’t be able to recognize a reference from one of the films.

  “I better get back inside,” she said. “Ashton has been covering for me all morning.” She waved to Spencer, kissed Martin, and headed back into the shop.

  “She does love you, mate.”

  Martin glanced over at Spencer. “I love her more.” And he hardly deserved her. But he would never give her up.

  “Good to know.” Spencer slapped Martin’s left shoulder, obviously remembering that his right had been injured—again—during their almost deadly car chase with one of the Cragmoor brothers. “Why don’t you and Maggie come out with us one night soon, before Grace leaves?”

  “She would enjoy that. I do tend to be a homebody.”

  Spencer laughed. “So is she. Don’t worry—I won’t let you become a hermit couple.”

  He waved at Martin and headed down the narrow side street across from The Ash Leaf. Martin waited until he was out of sight before he joined Maggie inside.

  She stood in the modern Holmes section, chatting up a couple of dreamy eyed teenage girls who clutched some of the memorabilia he and Maggie had found in London. He smiled; she did know how to appeal to anyone who wandered into her shop.

  After she rang them up, she smiled at him, and met him in front of the counter. “Are you going to hang around here with me today?”

  “For a few minutes. I have a schedule to write, and phone calls to make. Maggie.” He wasn’t certain how to tell her what he needed her to know, before she officially agreed to join the documentary.

  “What is it? You look so serious.” She took his hand. “Spill, Martin, before I start thinking up worst case scenarios.”

  He smiled, twining their fingers together. “You need to know that you will have to devote hours to the documentary. Sometimes, those hours will be long.”

  “Oh.” She studied their joined hands, and he was afraid she was about to change her mind. She surprised him, again. “I have been meaning to hire extra help. It looks like I’m doing it sooner than I planned.”

  “Is that—a yes?”

  “I wouldn’t miss out on telling Anthea’s story for anything, Martin. I thought you knew that.”

  “I guess—some people balk at the time commitment, even if they believe they are passionate about the subject.”

  She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “You’re talking to someone who would be happy to spend days wandering the countryside, looking for antiques. Whatever your producer needs, I’ll find a way.”

  He wasn’t certain he could express just how much this meant to him, so he gathered her into his arms and held her. Maggie made him forget his dislike of public affection; her influence had changed so many aspects of his life, he hardly remembered what kind of man he had been before her.

  He did remember one detail. Before Maggie, he had been lonely.

  “Martin?” Her amused voice brought him back to the moment. “Did you hear me?”

  “Sorry, love.” He eased back and studied her face. That same amusement lit her crystal blue eyes. “I was woolgathering.”

  “I asked about meeting your producer. And when I would have to start clearing my calendar, and what you wanted for dinner, and if you
were—ˮ

  “I was not that deep in thought.”

  She laughed, drawing the attention of the couple browsing near the case of paperweights. “Busted. But I did ask about clearing my calendar. I’ll need some time to find help for Ashton.”

  “Help?” Ashton appeared behind Maggie, a frown on his face. “Why do you need help?”

  She turned to him, still holding Martin’s hand as she told Ashton about the documentary. That she did so spread warmth through him.

  In small ways, she showed Martin every day that he was the center of her life.

  Three

  Spencer managed to avoid Dr. Givens for three glorious, peaceful days.

  His streak ended when he started setting up the exhibit.

  Dr. Givens found him on the third floor, behind the screens that shielded the process from curious patrons.

  “Knight! Are you back there?”

  Spencer sighed, and climbed down the ladder. “What is it, Dr. Givens?”

  The stocky, bald museum director appeared at the end of the screen. “What are you doing here?”

  “Setting up my exhibit.”

  “Without my express permission?”

  Spencer swallowed the smart remark, and kept his distance. “I left a message with your secretary, yesterday. When I didn’t hear anything, I assumed you had received it, and didn’t have any questions.”

  “I did not approve this—ˮ

  “It was approved by administration.” Spencer ran one hand through his hair. “I gave you the schematics, and the summary of the exhibit a month ago. The same time I submitted it for admin approval. As antiquities curator, according to admin’s regulations, I no longer need your rubber stamp.”

  He shouldn’t have rubbed that in—and Givens proved him right by turning red, just before he began shouting.

  “You are in my employ! I don’t care what bloody rules this new administration has created—I will have the final say for what happens in my museum, boy! Do you understand—ˮ

  “Everything all right back here?” Brent Newcombe, head of the museum’s admin, stepped around the screen. The new leadership had been created after the discovery of Giles Trelawney’s rather overt, continued theft from the museum. Right under Givens’ nose. “Ah—starting the new exhibit, Spencer? I can’t wait to see it unveiled. Did the publisher ring you about the release date? We managed to move it up, to coincide with the opening of the exhibit.”

  “Publisher—what the—ˮ Givens stared at Brent, sweat sliding down his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “The translation of the Dell scrolls, of course. Spencer has been working on them for years, since he and—Maggie Mulgrew, was it?” Spencer nodded, backing away from the vibrating director. Givens looked like he was about to explode. “Since they found the scrolls as uni students. A memo was sent round, Elgin. Did you not receive it?”

  Spencer blinked. He’d never heard Dr. Givens first name before—wait, he had. From Maggie’s Aunt Irene, the day they found the cup and the scrolls. Givens was most likely named after the Elgin, of the Pantheon marbles—someone he would have considered a lowly thief.

  “Memo—I do not read memos, Newcombe. I am the one who writes them!”

  Brent smiled, obviously not the least bit offended by Givens, or affected by his ear-piercing screech.

  “If you bothered to read the admin memos, Elgin, you would know that we approved both this exhibit, and the book. With great enthusiasm, I might add.” He turned his smile on Spencer. “I believe this will generate both new interest in the museum, and a rise in the revenue that you cannot seem to generate.”

  “You—I—who do you—ˮ Givens sputtered, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Brent strode forward and took his arm.

  “Why don’t we continue this discussion in your office, Elgin? You look as if you could use a nice, cool drink.” He glanced over his shoulder at Spencer. “Carry on, and give me a shout if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Spencer waited until he heard both men leave the room, then sank to the marble floor. “I am going to get hell for that.” At some point, Givens would find a way to retaliate.

  With a sigh, he leaned against the wall, studying what he’d done so far. The display case was still a work in progress, but when he finished, it would be the highlight of the exhibit. Now that he knew the book would be ready, he’d leave a space, next to the scrolls.

  He had already told Grace not to wait up for him, any night this week; with a deadline looming, he needed every minute he could steal to finish this.

  “Time to get back to it, mate.”

  He pushed to his feet, stretched his sore back, and got to work.

  ***

  After a late night, Spencer started awake—and realized he had spent the night at the museum.

  He climbed to his feet, his back aching from too much bending, plus a night spent on a cold marble floor, and headed for the public toilet.

  By the time he finished, and made himself presentable, his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten last night.

  “I hear you.” He glanced at his watch. It was early enough that he could sneak into The Tea Caddy, and be safely in his flat before Regina opened.

  The thought of one of Lilly’s warm, fresh blueberry scones got him moving.

  He slipped out through the loading dock, and jogged up the high street. Lilly waved at him as he walked into the tea room.

  “Up early, Spencer.”

  “Too early.” He yawned, and leaned on the counter. “Please, please tell me you have blueberry scones.”

  She smiled and patted his head. “Every morning. You always miss them because you refuse to get out of bed before nine.”

  “Hilarious. I will take half a dozen. No—a dozen. I can surprise Maggie with one or two.”

  He watched her pack the lovely scones into one of her white bags, his mouth already watering. His stomach growled, demanding food, and he paid Lilly, reaching for the white bag. He could eat one between here and The Ash Leaf, if he walked slowly—

  “Spencer Knight.” Grace’s voice stilled him.

  “I’ll be in back,” Lilly said. She gave Spencer a sympathetic glance before she escaped, leaving him to face Grace alone.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned around. “Grace—”

  “Why didn’t you phone? I was so worried, Spencer.” She rushed over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him before he had a chance to say anything else. She could kiss, like no other woman he’d dated. “Where have you been?”

  “Sorry, Grace. I fell asleep at the museum. I should have rung you when I woke, but my brain is currently caffeine deprived.”

  “You’re forgiven.” She kissed him again. “Just promise me that next time you plan a late night, you will take the time to phone me, so I know where you probably fell asleep.” She smiled, and he almost forgot why he had asked her to leave. She reminded him with her next words. “I need to know you’re not with some other woman. Not while I’m still here.”

  “I haven’t... never mind,” he muttered, and disengaged himself. “I need to go. Maggie’s waiting on me.” A lie, but Maggie was the only person who didn’t ping Grace’s jealousy meter.

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “Uh—sure.” Since The Ash Leaf was close, and Maggie wasn’t expecting him, he’d have to do some fast talking to get Grace to head back to the flat.

  He grabbed the bag off the counter, and held his arm out. She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, leaning against him as they headed out the door.

  “Can you tell me what you’re working on?”

  He hesitated, but decided to confide in her. Grace was good at keeping secrets.

  “I’m putting together an exhibit about Dell. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded faint, tugging at the scarf around her neck, and staring out at the high street. “What made you decide on that?”

  He told her ab
out the cup, the discovery he and Maggie had made years ago, and the scrolls. “You’ve seen them. They’ve been taking up the coffee table for the past few days.”

  “Oh, right. I wondered what those were. Sounds interesting, Spencer.” She sounded bored, and completely uninterested. “Look, here we are.” She kissed his cheek and stepped back. “I’d best get to the tour office. Always work to do, even on non-tour days.”

  “I’ll see you—tonight,” he said to himself, when she practically ran toward the car park. He didn’t think his work was that boring.

  With a shrug, he decided to pass on a visit with Maggie, turned in the direction of his flat—and almost ran into Regina Draper.

  “You clumsy, brainless oaf.” She stared down at the tea staining the front of her blouse, then glared at him, anger glittering in her eyes. “That was intentional.”

  “It wasn’t. I didn’t see you, and I am sorry. I can pay for—”

  “I don’t want anything from you!” She waved the long, narrow bag she carried, and Spencer stepped back. “You are about to defile my ancestor, parade her tragic story like cheap entertainment. Did you stop and think, for one moment, that she deserves better?”

  Spencer ran one hand through his hair. “I know more about Anya than I can tell you.”

  Her nostrils flared, an angry red flushing her cheeks. “How dare you—”

  “Please, let me finish. I’ve spent years following up on what I learned when I acquired Anya’s scrolls. No,” he raised his hand when she took in a breath to shout again. “Let me continue.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t do this lightly, Ms. Draper. I respect Anya, and I want to tell her story. The whole story. She was a witch, and a powerful one. But you know that. What you don’t know, and what you don’t have, is the one thing Anya’s descendants all carry—a heart-shaped birthmark.” He touched the right side of his neck, just under his jaw. “Here.”