Page 102 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

For a split second, it was like he was there again — close, solid, and real. The way he’d smelled, the way he had wrapped around her, comforting and constant. As quickly as it arrived though, the feeling was gone, and Augustine’s fingers curled tighter around her cup as they began walking again.

The river moved darkly beside them, reflecting broken streaks of amber light from office buildings and passing boats. Around them, the London afternoon carried on with its usual indifference: cyclists rattling past on the path, runners in weighted jackets weaving through commuters, the distant groan of the DLR overhead. Somewhere nearby, someone was walking a dachshund in a tiny bat outfit.

Maddy gave the dog a small smile, before she looked out over the Thames. From here, the city skyline stretched westward — glass towers, cranes, old warehouses turned into flats people like them couldn’t afford. “You came to me,” she said, like she was simply stating a fact. “Six months ago. Spring. Just after I first met him. Not long after you moved in together.”

Augustine blinked. “I— what?”

“You showed up at my flat,” Maddy continued. “Late. Crying. Properly crying, Ags.”

A hollow feeling opened up in Augustine’s chest.

“You told me there was a problem,” Maddy said. “You said you needed help.”

Augustine’s heart started to pound. “What sort of help did I need?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Maddy’s gaze held hers. “Magic,” she said simply. “My magic.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Augustine stared at her sister with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Magic?”

“Yep. A spell.”

Realization washed over her. “A memory spell.”

Maddy nodded immediately, like there was nothing strange about that sentence at all. “That’s the one,” she said, casually taking another sip of her drink.

Augustine inhaled sharply, the air catching halfway down. “That’s—” she shook her head — “that’s a huge spell, Maddy.”

Maddy let out a short, incredulous laugh. “No shit. Do you have any idea how long it took me? The glamours, the deletions, the walls around your memories of each other?” She ticked them off on her fingers, warming to it now. “I had to layer it all so it didn’t immediately collapse in on itself. I was running on nothing by the end of it. I didn’t sleep for four days. I nearly astral projected at one point by accident.”

Augustine blinked. “You . . . you created the whole thing? The whole spell was yours, and yours alone?”

“Yes. And it was a fucking nightmare, too. I’m serious, Ags,” Maddy added. “It was probably the most horrendous spell work I’ve ever done. At one point I was so tired I forgot my own postcode. Do you know how disorientating that is? In London?”

Augustine dragged a hand down her face. “I would never ask for that,” she said, more firmly now. “That’s reckless. That’s . . . that’s dangerous, in fact. A spell that size is practically a beacon. Any witch hunter within a hundred-mile radius would feel something like that. It’s just—” she shook her head again, frustration building — “it’s asking for trouble.”

“Yep,” Maddy cut in so quickly she almost tripped over Augustine’s words. “It was asking for trouble.”

Augustine stopped, because there was something in Maddy’s tone. Something flat and horrifically knowing.

Maddy tilted her head slightly, watching her. “But unfortunately for us, it was a bit late for caution by then.”

A cold feeling slid through Augustine’s chest. “What do you mean?”

“Remember I said Theo was keeping secrets?”

“Yes . . .”

Maddy exhaled softly. “Well,” she said, almost gently, “that was the big one.” She took another sip of her drink. “He’s a witch hunter, Ags. His whole family are.”

Disbelief ran through Augustine, sharp and immediate. Then she laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. Instead, it was an ugly, humourless sound that didn’t belong to anything remotely funny. “No,” she said, already shaking her head. “No, that’s not — that’s not true! That’s a lie.” Her voice rose despite herself. “That’s— You’re lying, Maddy!”

Maddy didn’t flinch or rush to defend herself. She just stood there, hands loosely wrapped around her cup, the wind blowing in her hair, watching Augustine with that same steady, infuriating calm. “I’m not lying. It’s the truth. Theo Manford,” she emphasized his name. “He’s one of the Manford family. They’ve been hunting witches since the sixteenth century. They’re the charming folk who took down Isobel Gowdie back in 1662.”

Augustine’s chest heaved, her pulse roaring in her ears. “That’s not possible,” she insisted. “He’s not . . . I mean, Theo wouldn’t. He’s a statistician. Not a witch hunter.”

Maddy gave her a look. “He was a statistician by day, sure. In the same way that I’m a PA and you own a shop. In the same way that Celeste is an astrophysicist and Clem does . . . well, whatever it is that Clem does. People aren’t always what they say they are, Ags. I mean, we’re witches, right?”