Page 43 of A Lullaby for Witches

The words hung heavy in the air, the acoustic coffee shop music filling the silence. “Please don’t look at me like that.” She didn’t think she could bear his expression of pity and concern. “And please don’t ask me if I’m okay. I’m physically fine, and anything else is beyond my ability to process right now.”

He nodded, his gray eyes clear and unbearably kind. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said softly. “You know I’m here if you want to talk more, but there’s no pressure. Or I can just sit here and eat cake while you vent at me, whatever you want.” He paused, his ghost of a smile fading. “Or, if you don’t want to be around men right now, I get that, and I can give you some space.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Please don’t go.” What she really wanted was to feel his arms around her again, to block out the world for a little while, but that moment had already passed.

“You got it.” He stretched his legs out, settled deeper into the couch, and they sipped their drinks in silence. The air between them was warm, comfortable. Everything about Leo was comfortable, as if they were old friends picking up where they’d left off after a long absence. The only thorn intruding on their serene bubble was that she wanted to be completely honest with him.

She found the words slipping out before she could stop herself. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think Harlowe House is haunted. Or rather, I’m haunted.”

To her surprise, Leo’s gaze remained steady. “Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she started, not sure how to piece together all the strange things that had been happening to her, “the painting, for starters. There was no way it could have fallen off the wall the way that it did. It literally flew straight off the wall and then hit Chris—my head never even touched it. Then there’s the books...every time I sit down at my desk there’s another book I don’t remember pulling, open to certain pages about Margaret Harlowe.” She took a deep breath; this part was going to be harder to explain. “Since I’ve come to Harlowe, I’ve had some...hallucinations.” Leo didn’t say anything, so she continued. “On my first day I was in the old kitchen and it was just a flash of what the room must have looked like in the 1800s. But since then, they’ve become longer, more vivid, almost like I’m seeing the past of the house through someone else’s eyes.”

Never in a million years would she have confided in Chris about something like this. But Leo wasn’t making faces or interrupting her, so she kept going. “At first, I thought it was just me being light-headed because, well, because sometimes I don’t eat enough and I get dizzy. But I’ve been trying to be better about eating breakfast before I come in and it’s still happening.”

Leo set down his cup and tented his fingers. He looked incredibly serious, and she braced herself for him to finally ask her just what the hell she was talking about. But he surprised her. “I think we should look for her.”

“Look for who?”

“Margaret. That’s who this ghost is, right? You said that you keep finding books open to pages about her. And,” he said, giving her a meaningful look, “she clearly is looking out for you.”

Augusta hadn’t thought about that. When the painting had flown off the wall, she had assumed the timing was coincidental. But what if it really had been Margaret trying to protect her? The thought was at once comforting and unnerving. “So you believe me?”

Leo shrugged. “Of course. If you say it happened, then it did. What other explanation could there be?”

There could be lots of other explanations, though most of them involved Augusta not being in full possession of her mental faculties. But in that moment, it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was she had told Leo, and he had believed her.

“We should hit the archives again, do interviews with locals, anything to try to find out what happened to Margaret. You said something about an urban legend about her disappearing...there’s gotta be something more to that story.”

Augusta sat up straighter. “The letters,” she said in a breath. At Leo’s questioning look, she hurried to explain the letters she’d found in storage, how they hinted at some family tragedy. “And in my interview with Claudia she mentioned that her ancestor may have been involved with Margaret in some way.”

“We should look at cemetery records, see if she’s buried somewhere in the area.” He was animated now, his enthusiasm boyishly charming. “Or police records. Did they have those in the 1870s? Lori would know.”

The barista came by to take their plates, the pretty one who always flirted with Leo. She stopped when she saw Augusta’s untouched slice of cake. “Oh, are you still working on that?”

Augusta shook her head. “No, I’m all done, thanks.”

“Could you stick it in a box for us?” Leo asked her, before turning back to Augusta. “You might change your mind later and need a chocolate hit.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d probably throw it out before it could become a temptation in her refrigerator at home. She watched the barista scoop up the plates and disappear, then changed the subject.

“Are you sure you want to take this on? I mean, it’s kind of outside the scope of your job description.”

“Do I want to go on a historical scavenger hunt for a ghost?” He shot her a devilish grin. “Hell, yeah, I do.”

Taking a long sip of her coffee, she tried not to let herself be distracted by how adorable he was when he was excited. He was usually so laid-back, almost careless in his demeanor. But then he suddenly grew serious, the smile fading, the crinkles around his eyes smoothing out. “What happens if you have another...episode? I don’t want to pursue this if it’s going to put you at risk or under too much stress.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Since the last hallucination, that melancholy ache in her chest hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had grown, leaving her restless and desperately curious. Her interest in Margaret had grown into an obsession, and she couldn’t rest until she had figured out what had happened to her. “I guess that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.”

26

Margaret

If you don’t love me,

Love whom you please,

But throw yore arms round me,

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