Arthur stops eating and stares at me. “Seriously?” His eyes are hard. He doesn’t approve of that behaviour, thank goodness.
“You know what Immi’s like—I thought she would’ve yelled at him, arrested him, cut up his clothes, thrown him out. But she just turned around and left. She came here and stayed with me and mum for a few weeks, until she found herself another place. At first, she wouldn’t talk to me about it. Then one night I came downstairs and found her sitting on the sofa, no lights on, no TV. I asked her if she was all right, and she said no, that she’d found out she was pregnant.”
“Oh no.”
“Apparently they’d been trying for a baby for a few months. She said she’d had no idea he was unhappy. They were planning the wedding. Hoping to get pregnant. It completely floored her.”
“What happened?” Arthur asks softly.
I sigh. “We talked for days about whether she should keep the baby. She was just getting on in her job, and she knew it would be difficult being a single mother. She didn’t want that connection with Kevin, not when he’d hurt her so badly. But she said it wasn’t the baby’s fault that his father was a… well, I won’t say what word she used, but it rhymes with ‘banker’.”
Arthur snorts. “So what did she do?”
“She decided to keep it.” I swallow hard at the memory of the tenderness in her eyes when she told me. “And then, a few days later, she had a miscarriage.”
Arthur’s quiet for a long time. I have another bite of pizza while I wait for him to speak. Then, eventually, I say, “Are you okay?”
He hesitates. “I’m debating whether to tell you something about our previous life together.”
I study his face, and for the first time see a glimpse of sorrow behind his eyes. It’s not difficult to deduce the meaning. “I had a miscarriage before?” I whisper.
He waits a moment, then gives a reluctant nod. “Several, actually. We never knew why.”
I think of how miserable and unhappy Imogen was at the time, and feel a twist inside at the thought that Arthur and Guinevere had gone through the same thing.
“It must be very hard when you love someone and want children with them,” I say carefully.
He nods and pokes at his pizza. The memory still stings for him.
“But that was before,” I tell him. “That doesn’t mean it would happen for you again.”
We both know I’m referring to if he were to have children with me. The thought makes my head spin. Physically, even if Guinevere and I look the same, even if we share the same soul, we’re not the same person. We can’t be. She died. Her body was buried. And mine wouldn’t have the same weaknesses as hers. Would it?
He looks up at me. “Do you want children?”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
He holds my gaze. “Good,” he replies.
My pulse speeds up, and even though we don’t speak of it again, and we finish eating our pizzas, my heart continues to race for a long, long time.
Chapter Twenty-One
After we’ve eaten, we go into the living room and settle down to read for a while with a glass of wine, as Arthur declares he still prefers it to whisky. He sits on the sofa with one of my childhood encyclopaedias and reads slowly through it, occasionally commenting on things he finds interesting.
I curl up in one of the armchairs and pull the chest I found last week of my ancestors’ Books of Shadows toward me. I’ve flicked through most of them, but now I’m taking my time to read them properly, recording any interesting recipes I like in mine, and noting down spells I think I might try.
I pick up one belonging to Harriet—my great-grandmother. It’s beautifully decorated—she obviously had a flair for painting, and the front page bears her name, surrounded by colourful flowers. The journal is dated 1939, right before the outbreak of World War II. Harriet would have been eighteen.
Slowly, I turn the pages, enjoying the experience of reconnecting with her as much as reading the information contained inside. Last week, at the hospital when I did a healing spell for Christian’s baby niece, I had a vision of my grandmother, who stated that she and Harriet and Josephine all continue to watch over me. I have to trust in them to guide me. Although I believe in free will, I’m a big believer in Fate, and at the moment I very much feel as if I’m being guided down a certain path.
Harriet’s journals are a mixture of recipes and spells, and general information about witchcraft interspersed with more local details, like where in Somerset to find particular herbs and crystals. I glance over the intricate paintings of a variety of birds and turn the page.
My heart leaps. Harriet has drawn a triquetra, and beneath it are the letters M and S.
“Arthur!” I get up and run to sit beside him. “Look.”
I read out the notes that Harriet wrote on the page opposite the drawing.
“‘Today I spoke to my friend Jemima Potter, a local seamstress. I’ve thought in the past that it’s possible she’s a witch because of some things she’s let slip, and today she admitted she is part of a local coven called Morgana’s Sisters, and she invited me to go to one of their regular weekly meetings. I’ve only ever practiced alone or with my mother, but on Sunday I’m going to go and see what it’s like. I’m rather excited!’”
“M and S,” I say to Arthur as I turn the page. “Morgana’s Sisters.”
He nods. “Valerie and her friends were obviously all members of the coven.”
I read out the next entry.
“‘Today I went to a meeting of Morgana’s Sisters. The women were perfectly pleasant. They carried out several rituals and prayers, and had a discussion about the best spell for cleansing negative energy from the home. I had a nice time. But I won’t be going back. It’s difficult to explain why. They were very secretive, which is their prerogative, of course, but I’m conscious that they didn’t tell me everything, and the reason for that made me uncomfortable. I’m a solitary soul, and I’m happy on my own. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I have my methods and my spells, and I’m content with exploring new ones on my own.’”
I put the book down. “It’s so strange reading this—I feel as if I’m talking directly to my great-grandmother. We seem to have had a lot in common.”
“The women in your family were different in some ways and similar in others,” Arthur says. “Although you’ve all got on well with other people, equally you’ve all been happy on your own.”
“I forget that you’ve seen us all,” I say softly. “What was Harriet like?”
“Smaller than you. She had red hair too, and wore it up in a bun, like you do. She was matter-of-fact and practical, quite no-nonsense with Lizzie and her brothers when they were young. She used to sing, like you do.” He smiles.
Feeling a little bashful that he watched me for years without me knowing, I look back at the book. “So… Morgana’s Sisters. Valerie and her friends must have been very committed to the group to have a tattoo.”
“Maybe they’d been together a long time,” Arthur suggests.
“Do you think it’s possible that two of them are murderers?”
Arthur frowns. “We know that Mary did The Star Sign Spell. Harriet said they made her feel uncomfortable. Perhaps they dabble in darker magic. It wouldn’t surprise me if she picked up on that.”
I read through Harriet’s entry again, frowning. Then I get up, retrieve my iPad, and return to the sofa.
“She’s got an idea,” Arthur says to Merlin.
“I have.” I pull up a site called MyFamilyTree.com. “I subscribe to it,” I explain to Arthur. “It’s for researching your family history, and it gives access to birth, death, and marriage certificates.”
I check the name in the journal again, then type “Jemima Potter” into the search box. A list of names comes up, so I refine the search by area, and try again.
“You’re looking to see when Jemima was born?” Arthur asks.
“Not quite. I was wondering if Potter was
her married name or her maiden name—her surname before she got married.” I frown at the screen that still lists numerous Jemima Potters. “Harriet married my great-grandfather in 1943, so if we’re assuming Jemima was around the same age as Harriet because they were friends, she might well have married in the forties, too.” I refine the search again by the decade. This time, there’s only the one page of names.
Arthur and I go through them one by one, clicking on the names and seeing what records exist for them. Eventually, we land on the right one. “Jemima Potter,” I say softly, “married Hugh Hopkins in 1941.”
“Hopkins,” Arthur says. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
I massage my brow. “Only one way to tell. We’ll have to follow the breadcrumbs.”
I explain the story of Hansel and Gretel as I find and pull up the birth certificates of Jemima’s children. She had four. The eldest had no children of his own. The next had two, a boy and a girl. I check their children’s birth certificates—neither of them is called Valerie.
I go back and start again with Jemima’s third child. He had four children. Arthur goes to the kitchen and pours us both a glass of wine while I painstakingly search through the certificates. None of them is called Valerie.
Lastly, my heart in my mouth as I wonder whether I’m heading down a dead end, I pull up the details of the fourth child, Ian Hopkins. He had two children. I see their names and inhale sharply.
“There,” I exclaim triumphantly, jabbing the screen. Arthur peers over my shoulder. “Jemima’s grandchildren. Valerie and Matthew.”
“You were right.” He smiles at me. “Jemima was related to Valerie.”
“I wonder if Matthew discovered this?” I sip my wine thoughtfully. “We know that he hadn’t spoken to Valerie for a long time when she died. What if he discovered that Jemima was a witch, and drew the conclusion that Valerie might be too?”
Arthur stretches out his long legs. “If he did, he must have been pretty annoyed that he was descended from one.”
“Yes, of course, he would be.” I put down the iPad and pick up my wine. “That would be ironic.”
“Because he dislikes witches?”
“Yes, but mainly because he’s apparently descended from the Matthew Hopkins.” At Arthur’s blank look, I realize he’s unaware of that period of English history. “In the seventeenth century,” I explain, “there was a civil war in England, and a lot of religious problems between those who wanted the country to stay Catholic, and those who were Puritans and wanted reform. The original Hopkins was a witch-hunter at this time—he gave himself the unofficial title of Witchfinder General. Witches were thought to be heretics to Christianity and were said to have made a covenant with the Devil. It was assumed that the Devil would never confess to his crimes, and therefore a confession had to be forced out of these women. They were tortured and then burned or hanged when they were inevitably found guilty.”
Arthur’s smile has faded, and his eyes have darkened. “And Matthew is proud of his inheritance?”
“Oh yes. He claims to be channelling the original Hopkins’ spirit.”
“I dislike the man even more now,” Arthur says. “What a…” He purses his lips. “I’m not sure what word to use.”
“Idiot?”
“I was thinking of something a little more colourful.”
“Plonker?” I giggle. “It’s a British-ism.”
Arthur grins. “Well back in the sixth century I wouldn’t have been so polite, but I’m not amongst soldiers now. Oh, I’ve just had a thought. You don’t think Matthew could have killed his sister?”
My eyebrows rise. “No. Surely not.”
“If he is serious about witch hunting, and he’s writing books about it, the last thing he’d want would be to have a witch for a sister.”
The thought of anyone being a murderer is unpleasant, but the notion of Matthew Hopkins killing his sister makes me very uneasy. “Maybe. I wonder whether Immi has him down as a suspect?”
“I’m sure she does,” Arthur says. “It’ll be interesting to see if he has an alibi for the morning of the murder. We’ll make it our next task to find out. Now, it’s time for my history lesson.”
I laugh and curl up beside him with my wine. “Fire away.”
“Tell me about the English Civil War,” he says.
“There have been two,” I advise. “One between King Stephen and Matilda in the twelfth century, and one in the seventeenth century.”
“Tell me about the seventeenth-century one. I want to know more about religion.”
“Well, if you want to know about religion in England, you’d be better off starting with the Reformation.”
He nods, so I begin with Henry VIII and the English Reformation, and then move on to the seventeenth-century. The hour grows late, but Arthur is fascinated, and throws question after question at me, making me delve deep to remember the history I’ve learned over the years.
Eventually, though, I declare I’m going to have to go to bed; I can barely keep my eyes open. “Are you going up?” I ask him, pausing in the doorway.
“I’ll stay up a while,” he says. “Read a bit more.”
“Do you sleep at all?”
“A few hours a night,” he says. “I’m hoping that will get better.”
“It’s still only been three days since you woke up,” I reply softly. “It’s so hard to believe that. It feels as if you’ve been here forever.”
“Is that a good thing?”
I smile. “Yes. A very good thing.”
He smiles back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Will you let Merlin out?”
“Yes, of course.”
I hesitate for a moment, so tempted to go over to Arthur and kiss him. The look in his eyes suggests he wouldn’t be averse to me doing that. But I’m not brave enough. Instead, I go up the stairs.
When I’ve been to the bathroom, I leave the curtains open, get into bed, and look out at the moon, in its third quarter. My mind feels like a box of bees, buzzing away. I think about Valerie, and swallow hard as I imagine how it must have felt when she fell from the balcony. I want to find her murderer, but I’m not sure if I’m helping Imogen at all. Have I found out anything useful? Something tells me I’m not quite on the right path. I don’t know why, but it’s a little niggly feeling that something’s not right. Lying awake won’t solve anything, though.
I turn onto my side and close my eyes. I wish Arthur were here, in bed with me. His body pressed up against mine. His skin would be warm, and I know he’d smell amazing.
As I think about him, the buzzing of the bees quietens, and finally I fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day, we go to the café in the morning. I bake and serve until the lunchtime rush is over. Cooper takes Arthur to the local DIY store, and they buy several pots of peach-coloured paint for the break room, and a set of rollers and trays. Arthur then spends a couple of hours painting the walls, humming away to the radio playing folk music.
By about two p.m., it’s quietening down and we’re ready for a break, so I take him on a trip to the supermarket.
He’s astounded at the array of food available for purchase and walks up and down the aisles with an open mouth.
“There’s so much choice.” He picks up two tins of chopped tomatoes, one with garlic, one with Italian herbs, then stares at the other six or seven different options.
“I know; it makes it tough sometimes, having so much to choose from.” I always enjoy shopping for ingredients for my baking, but today I especially enjoy his boundless enthusiasm. He’s already found it amazing how many fruits and vegetables are available, and his incredulity only increases as he discovers the dried, tinned, and frozen food.
But it’s when I take him to the bread aisle that I find myself truly humbled. He walks slowly through the tables of baked goods and the cabinets of fresh breads, occasionally picking up a packet of rolls or a loaf. When he gets to the end, he turns t
o me, and I’m shocked to see him genuinely choked up.
“Hey.” I slip my arm beneath his and walk him to a quiet corner of the aisle. “What’s up?”
“I’m sorry.” He gives a short laugh and runs his hand through his hair. “It’s just… not long before my last battle, there was bad weather, and the crops failed. Everyone went hungry, and there was widespread famine. I look at all this food, all this bread, and it makes me think about my soldiers, and how much they suffered…” He stops speaking, fighting against emotion.
“I’m so sorry.” I rub his arm, keeping my voice light and practical, to give him time to recover. “I’d read that there was a famine in the year 536—that must be the one you’re referring to. Archaeologists think a volcanic eruption threw dust into the atmosphere which affected the weather. They’ve found evidence that supports it in the growth of tree rings in Ireland.”
“Really?” He lets out a long breath, meets my eyes, and smiles. “I might have known you’d understand.”
“I’ve read a lot about the Dark Ages,” I say. “I’ve always found it fascinating. Now I know why.”
He lifts a hand and cups my face, taking my breath away. “I thought you were the woman I married,” he murmurs, “but you’re not.”
I blink at him. “What do you mean? You don’t think I’m Guinevere anymore?”
“No, not that. You are she. Beautiful, intelligent, practical, fierce when you have to be. But you’re much more compassionate. Thoughtful.” He strokes my cheek. “Amazing.”
His gaze drops to my lips. He’s going to kiss me—right here. When Immi asks me Where did he kiss you? I’ll have to say in the bread aisle of the supermarket. The thought makes a nervous giggle form in my chest that wants to rise, but I hold it in as he moves closer, my heart pounding, barely breathing…
Someone standing a few feet away clears their throat, and Arthur drops his hand. I step back and look at the man who’s holding a basket filled with an odd mixture of bread, eggs, peanut butter, and chocolate bars. I recognize him, but I’m so flustered I can’t place him for a moment. He’s in his forties, and his grey hair looks ruffled, as if he hasn’t brushed it. He’s wearing an old tracksuit, and there’s a stain on the front.
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