Magic, Murder & Mistletoe

by Ellen Jane

  Magic, Murder & Mistletoe

  Cupcakes and Sorcery One

  Ellen Jane

  Magic, Murder & Mistletoe

  Copyright © 2017 by Ellen Jane. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by AngstyG

  http://angstyg.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ellen Jane

  Visit my website at http://www.ellenjanephillips.com

  For my family—the ones I chose and the ones I didn’t have to choose. I’d choose you all again anyway.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Heather accepted a glass of punch from the waiter and wondered if it was considered bad form to spend the rest of the night hiding behind the curtains. They were rather large; she was sure there was plenty of room behind them. Certainly, they would do to keep her hidden from the hostess, who Heather had no doubt would murder her on sight.

  Gate-crashing her former school bully’s fancy party definitely wasn’t one of her best ideas.

  With a reluctant grimace, she turned her back on the curtains and sidled her way over to the edge of the room, where she could survey the party without attracting attention. The guests parted seamlessly before her without even a glance in her direction, and slowly, she began to relax. The potion she had washed her dress in had worked. It was the first time she had tried brewing any sort of misdirection potion, and she felt a surge of pride that it had gone so well.

  The engraved sirens above the door began to sing, and all heads turned towards the entrance to identify the newest arrival. Heather had a tiny heart attack just imagining what the sirens would have sung if she hadn’t managed to duck around a larger group to avoid them.

  “The most eligible Earl of Denbigh.” The sirens finished with breathy sighs, their rosewood curls fluttering in a non-existent breeze.

  The man nodded graciously to the carving, the occupants of which had frozen dormant again. When he turned back to the party, several guests had already approached him, all simpering smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Heather decided he reminded her of a rooster. Not in any complimentary sense of the word, but in the sense that the entire purpose of his being seemed to be, at this point in time, to strut. She'd have likened him to a peacock, except the chocolate tones of his three-piece suit were far too boring.

  She turned away from the somewhat disappointing Earl of Denbigh and searched for an appropriate spot to wait for the crowd to disperse. A tinkling from her pocket signalled that her phone had just received a text. Keeping it hidden in her purse so as not to draw attention to herself, she glanced at the message and found it was just her client, Jen, checking that her forged invitation had been accepted without trouble.

  Heather closed her purse without responding; no answer would let Jen know she had gotten in just as accurately as a confirmation, and she didn’t want to be seen on her phone. She had no idea what counted as a faux pas here. Deciding that the sooner she finished her job, the sooner she could be out of here, she made a snap decision to forego the original plan of waiting for the crowd to disperse naturally, and just keep the enchantment to a whisper.

  For a moment, the crowd parted, and a solitary figure caught Heather’s attention. She was tall and striking—powerful by comparison to Heather’s soft appearance. The slim black dress and heeled boots would be intimidating enough, but she was also looking straight at Heather, making it clear that she was the only one in the room who seemed able to see through her magic.

  Briefly, Heather thought she was staring at another witch, until her common sense kicked in and she re-evaluated: sorcerer. She stepped back slightly so that she was hidden behind a man wearing a lime-green waist coat and tried to calm down. Why on earth was a sorcerer paying attention to her? Heather’s level of magic shouldn’t even register on a sorcerer’s radar, let alone be enough that said woman give her a second thought. Particularly a woman who looked like that.

  Her hair was sleek and black, and where most guests had theirs swept up into elegant coifs, she wore hers loose. It came to just above her shoulders and moved like a cartoon character’s—perfectly graceful and never in the way. By contrast, Heather’s messy coif of short blonde curls felt like a young child’s attempt at playing dress-up, and she briefly regretted not washing her hair in the misdirection potion along with her dress.

  The last thing she wanted to do was get in a fight with what was probably an arrogant, high society sorcerer, so all things considered, it was definitely time to do what she’d come here for and get out.

  Searching for an area that was relatively empty of guests, she spied a corner by the balcony and edged over as casually as possible.

  Salves and elixirs had always been her specialty; it came with the territory when one was a culinary witch. She had met some whose talent had fallen more to baking, or even frying on the rare occasion, but they were more often sorcerers than witches. There was something about the nature of a potion that resonated so strongly with her kind of magic. Heather suspected it was the fact that potions enhanced something that already existed, just like her magic. Witchcraft was so much simpler than sorcery: take something that was already there and make it stronger, better, different.

  Sorcerers’ magic altered people, emotion. If anything was going to require transformation through five courses and a cigar rather than a simple strawberry-flavoured tisane, it was sorcery.

  She removed the small jar of salve from her purse—roughly the consistency of peanut butter—and applied a tiny dab to the wall when no one was looking. Immediately, a low whisper began to emanate from the wallpaper.

  Did you see that dreadful display of cheating last Friday? the embossed motif of a rose whispered by her shoulder.

  He had at least four aces tucked into the lining of his waist coat. I counted them. A geranium beside her hip whispered back.

  I know. And he still lost. If you ask me, if you’re going to make the effort to cheat so indiscreetly, you should at least possess the skill to ensure it pays off.

  Too right.

  Heather cleared her throat, and the flowers fell silent. Looking at it for the first time, she was surprised to note that the wallpaper matched the one she had in her landing at home. In fact, it was probably from the exact same roll of paper. She wouldn’t have thought she had anything in common with this stuffy, old manor.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she whispered, tilting her head back so that, to the uninterested observer, she appeared to be admiring the ceiling. “I had a brief question, if I may?”

  With manners like that, darling, you may have two.

  Heather hid a smile; so far, these were certainly one of the more pleasant walls she’d spoken to, even if their manner of speech did make her go cross-eyed. The last case had involved questioning the mahogany panelling in a smokers’ den, and even ignoring the rasping gravel of the wood, she couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough;
it had insisted on being called sir.

  “I just wondered if you might have noticed a skilful theft the other week? The victim was visiting the lady of the house, and upon leaving, she discovered that her grandmother’s ring was gone from her finger. It was too tight to have fallen of its own accord, and the victim was in the midst of a dispute with the lady of the house—one which they have yet to reach an agreement.”

  She paused for a moment, searching for an appropriate way to finish her question. These high-society manors were far too refined for her; she felt a headache throbbing in her temple just at the constant effort to mimic the archaic, aristocratic speech. Why couldn’t they just put things bluntly? It would save so much time.

  “I just wondered if you might have seen anything,” she finished lamely, giving up the pretence.

  Now, there was that young lady here just recently. She and Patricia got into an awful row.

  Most undignified. I can still feel the echo of their shouting if I pay close enough attention.

  I suppose that’s simply what one finds when one socialises with that sort of riffraff.

  Her hair was far too short.

  Thought she was a boy.

  The flowers chattered back and forth, tittering, while Heather fought the urge to roll her eyes and tell them to get their heads out of the eighteenth century. They were only flowers, after all; she shouldn’t take it personally.

  Patricia would never do such a thing, of course, but there was that dreadful servant.

  Horrible, sneaky girl. Never liked her.

  She certainly spent a lot of her time hovering behind Patricia’s guest, taking her coat, refilling her tea.

  It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she had lowered herself to common thievery.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but Jen had mentioned one of the servants had been acting particularly strange, hovering around her constantly.

  Of course, she was dismissed just yesterday, so you won’t find her here.

  Good riddance!

  “What was she let go for?” Heather asked, glancing around quickly to make sure she was still unwatched. The conversation was dragging on longer than she had hoped.

  The rose coughed, before saying airily: Couldn’t say.

  Inwardly, Heather groaned. Of course she would choose to question the wallpaper that didn’t like to air its mistress’ dirty laundry in public.

  “Thank you both very much for your help,” she said as politely as she could. “I’ll remove the spell now. It will only take a moment.”

  Oh, no, no, no! Leave it! Please!

  Please do. It’s been decades since we were able to have a good chat.

  I’m sure the last time was the turn of the century. Remember when that witch freshened up all our spells?

  What a lovely woman. I wonder what happened to her.

  “All right,” Heather said, holding up her hands in defeat. “It should wear off by the end of the night. Just don’t draw attention to yourselves, please, or I’ll have to answer some awkward questions.”

  Lovely to meet you, dearie.

  She was halfway across the ballroom, on her way to the door, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  It was the sorcerer, because of course it was.

  “Sinéad,” the woman said, a slight lilt to the words as she offered her hand.

  Heather blinked, faintly alarmed, as she responded on reflex and shook Sinéad’s hand. It was warm and not the least bit clammy, unlike Heather’s own, which she suddenly and fervently wished she had wiped on her skirt before offering.

  “Heather,” she said, wondering if this was some kind of trick. “Lovely to meet you.”

  To her growing confusion, Sinéad smirked. It was only the barest of movements, a quirk of the lips, but it made Heather more suspicious. She had met a handful of sorcerers in her life. All of them had looked at her as if she were a piece of offensively bright bubblegum stuck to their shoe.

  “You’re doing very well, you know,” Sinéad confided. “I can tell you’re not comfortable with this crowd. I have to admit, I’ve never met a sorcerer who wasn’t from high society. Where are you from? Your deflection charm is delightful.”

  Heather’s jaw grew slack, and she recoiled a little without meaning to. “I’m not a sorcerer!”

  Sinéad’s eyebrows rose, and she immediately took a step back from Heather, like she was diseased. “You mean you purchased the charm?” Her eyes roamed across Heather’s dress. “It shouldn’t work nearly so well if it isn’t your own. Who made it? Is it in the fabric itself? A seamstress, perhaps…”

  Sinéad reached out as if to admire the cloth, and before she could stop herself, Heather reacted on impulse and slapped her hand away. They stared at each other for a moment, Sinéad’s brown eyes wide and shocked. Heather wondered if anyone had ever slapped her before. She couldn’t imagine it ending well for the unfortunate soul. Still, a high-society sorcerer like Sinéad should have more manners. Reaching out uninvited? Really.

  “I’m a witch,” Heather snapped. “It’s not a deflection spell; it’s misdirection.”

  With a rustle of fabric, Sinéad straightened up and frowned at her. “Misdirection?”

  “Yes.” Heather shifted back a little, her irritation rising. “I washed the dress in a potion that makes it fade into the background.”

  Understanding dawned on Sinéad’s features. “That’s why you’re making sure to stand beside other people—so our eyes are drawn to the person beside you. Very clever.” She looked personally offended at the fact. “I was certain you were altering my perception, it was so strong.” She narrowed her eyes at Heather. “Are you sure you’re not a sorcerer?”

  “Very.”

  Bloody sorcerers. She’d never met a single one she liked.

  “If that’s all, I was just leaving.” Heather pointed to the door.

  “Just a moment.” Sinéad stepped closer and lowered her voice.

  What was it with this woman and personal space?

  “I saw you talking to the wallpaper.”

  Heather’s stomach lurched. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself; it wasn’t as if Patricia, the lady of the house, would need an excuse to tear into her.

  “Sometimes it’s nice to talk to something that doesn’t interrupt,” she said dismissively. “You know how it is. It was lovely to meet you, but I really must be going.”

  Sinéad laughed, musical and high pitched. Several heads turned. “I know magic when I see it; the walls were talking back. I thought you were using it to charm the Earl to dance, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “The Earl?” Heather wrinkled her nose. “Christ, I’d hope it’s obvious I have better taste than that.”

  Sinéad gave a surprised laugh, followed by an unreadable, yet assessing, look. Heather frowned. Why was this woman insisting on making her feel even more out of place than she already did? Even though she looked around Heather’s age—twenty-five—she gave every appearance of a glamorous movie star, while Heather looked increasingly like something the cat coughed up.

  “You don’t like them tall, rich, and handsome?”

  “Well,” Heather began, a slight flush rising on her cheeks.

  Thankfully, she was interrupted by an ear-splitting scream and the sound of the ballroom descending into chaos. The two of them turned towards the sound, but it was impossible to see through the mob of fleeing guests. Heather stumbled backwards, jostled by the stampeding crowd, but someone grabbed hold of her elbow and pulled her upright.

  “The garden doors,” Sinéad hissed, dragging Heather across to the edge of the crowd.

  They burst through, into the night air, and spun around to survey the room. The guests were clearing, but Heather still couldn’t see anything that justified the panic.

  “What is it?” Heather asked.

  “I’m not sure yet.” Sinéad stepped forward to peer back through the doors. “Something over by the punch bowl, but I don’t—oh, lord.”
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  “What? What’s happened?” Heather sprang forward, searching the room until her eyes landed on the prone body on the floor.

  She drew in a sharp breath, momentarily lost for words.

  The Earl of Denbigh lay on the floor by the drinks table, limbs twisted unnaturally and a pool of blood seeping from beneath his torso. The crowd had cleared enough by now for her to see the upturned bowl of punch, drops of orange seeping in with the crimson, and the distraught hostess crouched in the midst of it all, desperately trying to revive him.

  “Oh, the poor man,” Heather muttered. “That’s awful.”

  Sinéad’s expression, when Heather turned, was pinched and drawn, her features caught in deep suspicion.

  “Patricia bought a painting off me last week,” she said slowly. “It’s displayed above the punch.”

  “What?” Heather turned to her, frowning. “A man’s dead, and you’re talking about your painting?”

  Sirens screamed outside as several police cars turned into the street, and within minutes, two policemen were in the room, questioning the remaining guests while reinforcements began to filter through the crowd that had run outside.

  “Yes, I know a man’s dead,” Sinéad snapped. “Do you think I can’t see that?”

  “Well what does it matter about your painting?”

  Heather was only distantly aware of the conversation they were having. She felt paralysed, unable to look away from the scene before her. Why was Sinéad going on about her painting? It didn’t make sense.

  Her eyes suddenly snapped to Sinéad. It didn’t make sense, unless her magic was through her art.

  A policeman with a stern frown and several protection talismans hooked to his belt came to a stop in front of them.

  “Sinéad Byrne?” he asked, tapping his pencil against the side of a notebook that already had at least one full page of notes.

  “Yes,” Sinéad said, tilting her chin into the air.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jacob Watley, Earl of Denbigh.”