We burned Guillaume’s remains on a miserable day a few weeks later. Wizard Shadowmender had agreed to hold the ceremony in Speckled Wood, and we used the clearing. In attendance were George—who had worked hard after my request to have the remains ceded to me—Silvan, Charity, Millicent, Mara cradling Orin, Mr Kephisto, Finbarr—keeping a close eye on his mischievous pixies—and Gwyn.
We made our memorial speeches and watched the fire burn down, eventually raking his ashes, and scattering them along the paths through the wood, heading back to the inn.
“He’d have appreciated that,” Gwyn told me, the pain in her voice moving me to tears, not for the first time that day.
“He’ll always be with us,” I told her, and she apparated away. I expected her to disappear and I wouldn’t see her for days on end but found her waiting for us when we returned to the inn. Florence and Monsieur Emietter had set up a feast in The Snug for everyone and we stood around nursing glasses of sparkling wine and tucking into miniature sandwiches with their crusts cut off, petit fours and madeleines, mille-feuille and angel wings, engaging in polite conversation between mouthfuls of sugary—and delicious—treats.
Eventually people began to drift away, back to their lives, as we do when we have lain someone to rest. For us at least, time continues to move on. Silvan however, remained slouched in one of the chairs in the bar, his long legs stretched out, his lips curving into a familiar smirk every time I looked his way.
I rolled my eyes and left him to it and went in search of Gwyn instead.
“Grandmama,” I said, when I’d finally cornered her. “I have something for you.” I’d left the box on the mantlepiece here in this room, waiting for the right moment to hand it over. I slipped the Gimcrack out of its coverings and showed it to her. “Mr Wylie gave it to me, but really I think it belongs to you. He was your friend after all.”
Tears sprang into my great-grandmother’s eyes. “Oh, Alfhild,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Grandmama, you don’t have to say anything. We can place it wherever you wish. Hang it on a wall or display it behind the bar.” Gwyn nodded as I continued in a rush, wanting to get the words out before I lost my confidence. “I’m so proud of you and what you did all those years ago. You protected Guillaume just as he asked you to.”
“You’d have done the same, Alfhild.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. “Perhaps I’d have done the same because I share your DNA. I’m honoured to be your descendent, Grandmama.”
Tears spilled down her face and she smiled. We reached for each other, and though I couldn’t feel her physically, the hug enveloped my heart.
“Miss Alf! Miss Alf!”
Florence had been trying to get my attention most of the morning. This seemed unusual in itself because for weeks she’d been remarkably difficult to find whenever I’d needed her. Now here she was, dominating my line of vison.
I batted her and her feather duster away because Penelope Quigwell was demanding my accounts for the inn’s VAT return.
“Not now, Florence, I am ridiculously busy!” As usual I was well behind with my admin.
And besides... Maths. Ugh!
“Miss Alf, please!” she beseeched me, and at last I looked up from my computer screen. She hovered in front of the desk, the feather duster beating away at the surface of the paperwork stowed in folders on top of my desk. Glittering as it scattered dust, it distracted me from Florence’s eager face. I’d never noticed it do that before, but then given I wouldn’t generally know one end of a feather duster from another, I’d probably never paid it much attention before.
“Miss Alf?”
I tore my gaze away from the feather duster. “Florence? What’s up?” Her eyes were shining with excitement.
“I’ve had a letter, Miss Alf.”
“A letter?”
“Yes.” An envelope floated through the air and landed on my keyboard. It had been neatly addressed to Ms Alfhild Daemonne, c/o Whittle Inn, and it had been opened.
I narrowed my eyes. “This letter is addressed to me, Florence.”
“Well yes, but…” she grimaced, her posture awkward.
I sighed, dreading to imagine what was coming my way now. “Spill the beans.” There was no getting away from the fact that managing Whittle Inn meant there was always something.
“You see, Miss Alf. I heard that… erm… one of my favourite baking programmes—”
I groaned inwardly. “From Witchflix?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Go on.” I rubbed my temples.
Florence practically jumped up and down. “They can’t film where they normally film and they’re looking for an alternative.”
“Mmm?” Oh dear. What a shame, never mind. “What’s that got to do with us?”
“Well I wrote to them. With the help of Miss Charity.”
Oh really, Charity? “You pretended to be me? And you wrote to them?” I’d have words with Charity.
“And said they could film here.”
I did a double take. “You did what? Film here? A TV programme? Florence, what were you thinking? Our kitchens would never be big enough. Plus we have the guests to think of… and… and Monsieur Emietter—”
The feather duster swiped at my papers knocking some of them to the floor. “No, no, Miss Alf. The producers will erect a marquee up in the grounds and all the baking takes place in there. It would be wonderful publicity for the inn!”
Her words halted the panicky thread of my thoughts. A marquee in the grounds with Whittle Inn behind it? She had a point there. Great exposure from a business point of view. And on Witchflix. Hmmm.
“And the producers actually want to come here?”
“They do!” Florence could barely contain herself. “According to the letter.”
I pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope and began to unfold it. “Which programme?” I asked, grudgingly acknowledging her argument.
“The Great Witchy Cake-Off.”
Oh. I felt a sneaky frisson of excitement. All that cake.
“Okay.” I scanned the letter. Favourable terms for us. And I had enjoyed what I’d seen of that particular baking programme. Harmless fun. What could possibly go wrong?
I thought about it for a moment, trying to imagine the negatives, but quickly decided it seemed worth pursuing. “Alright then.” Florence hopped and skipped around in delight. “On one condition.” My housekeeper paused, staring at me with a worried expression. “Until they get here, you’re on your best behaviour and you keep house like you’re supposed to. Deal?”
“Deal!” Florence twirled rapidly around, her feather duster dancing with her. “Thank you, Miss Alf.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, distracted once more by the sparkling feather duster. Puzzled, I reached for it and it shimmied away from me. “Florence? Where did you get this feather duster from?” I asked.
She stopped dancing and the feather duster centred itself between us. This time when I tried to touch it, it remained in place. As my fingers made contact, I experienced a little current of energy. I’d always imagined the feather duster was controlled by Florence, using her kinetic energy the way a poltergeist will move things around a room. However, it seemed apparent this housecleaning implement had a magick all of its own.
“This old thing?” Florence asked. “Your great-grandmother gave it to me a long, long time ago.”
“Did she indeed?” I stroked the fronds of the feathers and watched as they effervesced, then reached into the pocket of my robes for my wand. “Revelare!” I tapped my wand against the feather duster and revealed it for what it actually was.
The one item Guillaume had left with Gwyn, the tool she’d had to utilise in order to hide the Gimcrack because her own magick would not have been powerful enough by itself. The final piece of the puzzle.
Gorde’s magick staff.
It had been hiding in plain sight all this time.
“Well I never.” I smiled at my grea
t-grandmother’s ingenuity. “Well played, Gwyn. Well played.”
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The Great Witchy Cake Off
* * *
When a soggy bottom is the least of your worries...
* * *
The producers of Witchflix TV favourite The Great Witchy Cake Off are searching for somewhere new to base the filming of their next series, so Alfhild Daemonne invites them to Whittle Inn.
* * *
But what seemed like a great opportunity for a little harmless Wonky Inn self-promotion backfires when, at dawn on the first day of filming, one of the contestants is found toes-up outside the famous marquee.
* * *
Alf can’t believe her rotten luck.
* * *
But it’s not all bad news. The producers need a fresh contestant and Florence the ghost, Alf's long-dead housekeeper, is in the right place at the right time. Not so much to reap the benefits of instant fame and fortune you understand, because wouldn't that be nice? But more because she’s an insider who quickly becomes party to all the gossip and the rumours.
* * *
Who knew the baking world could be so deadly? But never mind, solving this mystery should be a piece of cake.
Shouldn’t it?
* * *
Chaos, catastrophe, ghosts and giggles in this warm and wonky clean and cozy witch series of mysteries.
* * *
The Great Witchy Cake Off is a standalone but complements the series as a whole.
Best served with a huge Devonshire Cream Tea!
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
* * *
Alfhild Daemonne has inherited an inn.
* * *
And a dead body.
* * *
Estranged from her witch mother, and having committed to little in her thirty years, Alf surprises herself when she decides to start a new life.
* * *
She heads deep into the English countryside intent on making a success of the once popular inn. However, discovering the murder throws her a curve ball. Especially when she suspects dark magick.
* * *
Additionally, a less than warm welcome from several locals, persuades her that a variety of folk – of both the mortal and magickal persuasions – have it in for her.
* * *
The dilapidated inn presents a huge challenge for Alf. Uncertain who to trust, she considers calling time on the venture.
* * *
Should she pack her bags and head back to London?
* * *
Don’t be daft.
* * *
Alf’s magickal powers may be as wonky as the inn, but she’s dead set on finding the murderer.
* * *
Once a witch always a witch, and this one is fighting back.
A clean and cozy witch mystery.
* * *
Take the opportunity to immerse yourself in this fantastic new witch mystery series, from the author of the award-winning novel, Crone.
* * *
Grab Book 1 of the Wonky Inn series, The Wonkiest Witch, on Amazon now.
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3
Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4
The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5
The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7
The Witch Who Killed Christmas: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
Midnight Garden: The Extra Ordinary World Novella Series Book 1
Beyond the Veil
Crone
A Concerto for the Dead and Dying
Deadly Encounters: A collection of short stories
Keepers of the Flame: A love story
* * *
Non-Fiction
Losing my best Friend: Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss
* * *
Follow Jeannie Wycherley
Find out more at on the website www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk
* * *
You can tweet Jeannie
twitter.com/Thecushionlady
* * *
Or visit her on Facebook for her fiction www.facebook.com/jeanniewycherley
* * *
Sign up for Jeannie’s newsletter
eepurl.com/cN3Q6L
More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie Wycherley
* * *
Crone
A twisted tale of murder, magic and salvation.
* * *
Heather Keynes’ teenage son died in a tragic car accident.
Or so she thinks.
* * *
However, deep in the countryside, an ancient evil has awoken … intent on hunting local residents.
* * *
No-one is safe.
* * *
When Heather takes a closer look at a series of coincidental deaths, she is drawn reluctantly into the company of an odd group of elderly Guardians. Who are they, and what is their connection to the Great Oak?
* * *
Why do they believe only Heather can put an end to centuries of horror?
* * *
Most important of all, who is the mysterious old woman in the forest and what is it that feeds her anger?
* * *
When Heather determines the true cause of her son’s death, she is hell-bent on vengeance. Determined to halt the march of the Crone once and for all, hatred becomes Heather’s ultimate weapon and furies collide to devastating effect.
* * *
Crone – winner of a Chill with a Book Readers' Award (February 2018) and an Indie B.R.A.G Medallion (November 2017).
* * *
Praise for Crone
* * *
‘A real page turner, hard to put down.’
‘Stunningly atmospheric! Gothic & timeless set in the beautifully described Devon landscape .... Twists and turns, nothing predictable or disappointing.’
* * *
– Amazon reviewer
* * *
‘Atmospheric, enthralling story-telling, and engaging characters’
* * *
– Amazon Reviewer
* * *
‘Full of creepy, witchy goodness’
* * *
– The Grim Reader
‘Wycherley has a talent for storytelling and a penchant for the macabre’
* * *
– Jaci Miller
Beyond the Veil
* * *
Upset the dead at your peril… Because the keepers of souls are not particularly forgiving.
* * *
Death is not the end. Although Detective Adam Chapple has always assumed it is.
* * *
When his ex-wife is killed, the boundaries between life and death, fantasy and reality, and truth and lies begin to dissolve. Adam’s main suspect for the murder, insists that she’s actually his star witness.
* * *
She claims she met the killer once before.
* * *
When she died.
* * *
As part of his investigation, Adam seeks out the help of self-proclaimed witch, Cassia Veysie who insists she can communicate with the dead. However, the situation rapidly deteriorates when a bungled séance rips open a gateway to a sinister world beyond the veil, and unquiet spirits are unleashed into the world.
The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6 Page 16