Page 8 of A Lullaby for Witches

“I only come to town when there is something that catches my fancy.”

He raised a brow. “Oh? Something here catches your fancy, then?”

I let his question hang, giving an inconsequential shrug. I was not above a little pettiness; he had made me wait in the woods for him, and now it was my turn to make him wait, to wonder. But what if I had misread him? What if he did not want me after all? I would not hold out my heart, raw and bloody, only to have him dash it on the floor.

“My mother wants cream of tartar,” I said.

“So she sent her daughter, and not the maid?”

“You flatter yourself if you think this errand has anything to do with you, and not the sponge cake that must be baked for my father’s dinner tonight.”

He placed a hand on his heart. “My lady knows how to land a blow,” he said with mock hurt.

“Yourlady does not like to be kept waiting,” I said, trying for a light tone that did not betray my hurt.

His eyes registered surprise, then warmed with delight. “Why, little witch, you don’t mean to tell me that you’ve been waiting in the woods for me the past fortnight?”

I scowled, though I was inwardly pleased. So, he had remembered. “Of course not. The cream of tartar, if you please.”

He wordlessly obliged, going to measure out the white powder and sifting it into a little paper packet. When it was paid for and I had slipped it into my bag, I gave him a curt thanks. Throughout our exchange he had been lighthearted and flirtatious. But now, as I turned to leave, he stayed me by the sleeve. I looked down at his large, strong hand on the fawn linen of my dress. When I raised my gaze to meet his, I was startled to see desire smoldering there. “I want to see you again,” he said under his breath. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

My body warmed and my heartbeat quickened. I had no doubt in my mind that he spoke the truth, but I was still sour that I had waited like a fool for him in the woods. If I had thought that the trees and moon gave me power, it was nothing compared to the headiness with which being the object of this man’s desire imbued me.

Jack’s breath smelled of peppermint, and his touch filled me with electricity. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to tilt my face up, to brush my lips against his.

Though every tingling fiber in my body begged me to lean into his touch, even I knew that it was too soon. I carefully took my arm back, and though my heart was pounding and my body aching with desire, walked proud and tall out the door.

6

Augusta

“You’re going to work in Tynemouth?”

Chris was sitting at the breakfast table, absorbed in a book, when Augusta broke the good news. She hadn’t wanted to tell him she’d applied until she knew for sure whether she’d gotten the job or not. It had only been three days since her interview when the call from Jill came, letting her know that the position was hers.

This was big. This was confidence-boosting, life-affirming big. The job at the Old Jail had been a step in the right direction after years of working soul-crushing retail jobs, but it hadn’t been anything like this. At Harlowe House she would be responsible for projects, making decisions and working hands-on with collections. No more giving tours to bored tourists and cleaning gum off the walls. It had all fallen into place so perfectly that she could still hardly believe it. That’s why her heart fell at Chris’s apathetic reaction.

She was leaning against the counter, a mug of rapidly cooling coffee in her hand. “Yeah, why?”

He gave a shrug. “I dunno. It’s just kind of far away, isn’t it? How are you going to get there?”

He did have a point. Augusta had always been able to walk to work. There was no way she could afford a car, but she was unwilling to let her dream job slip through her fingers. “I’m sure we can figure something out. It’s going to be good money, like, really good money.”

This caught Chris’s attention. “Oh, yeah?”

“Like almost double what I’m making now, and I won’t have to work Sundays.”

Leaning back and putting his book down, Chris finally looked at her. “That’s great. Maybe we can go on a vacation next year or something. Put some money toward fixing up the back deck.”

“Maybe.” She took a sip of her coffee. She wasn’t sure why it rubbed her the wrong way, but she didn’t love that Chris was already planning out how they were going to spend her new salary. Most of it would be going to pay off her student loans, and she wanted to start putting some into savings, too. “This is a really big deal. If it works out here, I could actually be a curator of a house museum someday.”

“Look at you, Miss Fancy Curator. Great job.” Chris gave her one of his rare, big smiles, and she remembered why she was with him, how good it felt to make him smile.

A heavy autumn rain had subdued the bustling streets of Tynemouth, turning the wet air gray and heavy. Puddles formed in the uneven stone steps as Augusta texted Jill that she was outside and waited for her to come down and open the door.

Jill greeted Augusta with a big smile. She was just as impeccably put-together as the first time Augusta had met her, with her pin-straight bob, cherry red lipstick and chic linen shift. “Your first day! Come on in and let’s get you set up!”

Carefully shaking out her umbrella and wiping her shoes, Augusta stepped inside. The house was cool and quiet, the gray skies and amplified sound of rain on windows making it cozy.

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