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Copyright, 2017
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.
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“Margaret Elizabeth Mulgrew!”
Maggie cringed as her Great Aunt Irene’s voice boomed across the yard.
“Margaret?” Spencer Knight nudged her with his elbow. They had been best friends since her first visit to Holmestead, England, ten years ago. “What did you do wrong?”
“I couldn’t have done anything yet—I just got here. Coming, Aunt Irene!” She knew better than to ignore what amounted to a command. Even as a college sophomore, she could still be intimidated by the tall, often intimidating Irene Mulgrew. She wiped off her dusty hands and walked out of the carriage house. “What did I do?”
She earned one of Aunt Irene’s rare smiles. “Nothing, dear girl. I knew that you would appear quickly if I used your full name.”
“That’s foul play.”
Aunt Irene lifted her chin. “I consider it effective tactics.”
Maggie burst out laughing, and hugged her aunt. It was one of the many things she loved about her time here; being able to touch, to hug, without the threat of a cold response. Or worse, no response. Her parents never could understand her need for physical affection. Didn’t they provide her a home, good food, and a top notch education?
With a sigh, Maggie pushed them out of her mind. Any thoughts of them didn’t belong here. If they discovered that she had taken a week off school to spend Halloween with Aunt Irene and Spencer, she would never hear the end of it.
No excuse, or argument that she had cleared it with all her professors, would make any difference. They would see it as shirking her duty—to them, to her education, to the life they already had planned for her—
“—listening to me, Maggie?”
“Sorry. I was woolgathering.”
Aunt Irene tucked a strand of Maggie’s wild red hair behind her ear. “An activity I highly recommend, dear girl, when I am not speaking to you.”
“Right.” She smiled. “What were you saying?”
“I need some salable items for the consignment shop. Halloween is a busy time in Holmestead, and I would like some extra merchandise. If you and Spencer could take a look through the carriage house, and find about a dozen items for me, I will pay you both an hourly wage for your effort.”
“And a percentage of the sale.”
Aunt Irene shook her head, smiling again. “A young entrepreneur after my own heart. Very well, twenty percent, split between you.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “Forty percent.”
“Twenty-five, and not a pence more. Now get, before I change my mind and charge you for the privilege of rummaging through my inventory.”
Maggie held out her hand. “Done.”
With another smile, Aunt Irene shook it, sealing their bargain. “Leave what you find in the solarium. I want both you and Spencer as clean as you can possibly make yourselves with the garden hose before you step foot in this house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie waved at her and sprinted back to the carriage house. She let out a shriek when she almost ran into Spencer. “Spence—you scared the breath out of me.”
“That was quite the shriek, Maggie. Can I hire you for my haunted house?”
“Hilarious. Why are you lurking in the shadows?”
“Ready for a quick getaway.” He winked at her. “Just in case.”
“A grown man, running from an old woman.”
“Mags!” He clapped one hand over her mouth. “Never let her hear you say that. I witnessed the verbal takedown of the last fool who said those words in front of her, and it wasn’t pretty.”
After prying his hand off her mouth, she shook her head. “I have, and I will again. Aunt Irene knows I’m playing with her—unlike the villager—ˮ
“Tourist,” he corrected.
“That explains it. No one who lives here would call her an old woman, unless they were planning a quick move, far, far away.”
He relaxed. “Just promise me one thing. Never, ever speak those words when I’m around.”
Her shout of laughter echoed around them.
Flashing his heartbreaking grin, Spencer grabbed her hand and pulled her into the cool carriage house.
***
They spent hours digging through Aunt Irene’s collection. Her aunt loved haunting estate sales, boot sales, church sales—any type of sale that had the possibility of a good antique, at a cheap price. Aunt Irene would lovingly restore the pieces and sell them in her antique and consignment shop, The Ash Leaf.
Maggie had been tagging after her aunt since she had begged to go to an estate sale, during her second visit here. She had only been eleven, but Aunt Irene didn’t once call her a child, or too young to understand what she was looking at.
Instead, her aunt had patiently answered every one of the hundred question Maggie had thrown at her—and they both discovered that Maggie had an eye for antiques. After that first trip, Maggie had joined her on at least one antique hunt every summer.
To her surprise, Spencer had also expressed an interest in antiques—one Aunt Irene indulged, teaching them both everything she knew. Now, Spencer was in his third year at uni, with an eye to working at one of the museums in London.
“Mags?” Spencer’s muffled voice pulled her out of her memories. “Can you—ouch—ˮ
“Spence.” She moved toward where she heard his voice—and burst out laughing.
“Not—funny.”
“Oh, I think that your legs sticking straight up and flailing is hilarious.” She moved to him, and wiggled through the space between the stacked chairs and the desk he had balanced himself on. “What did you find?”
“This.” His hand appeared, inches from her face. She jerked back—then leaned forward again when she saw what he had in his hand. “Take it, Mags—I’m about—to lose my grip.”
She eased the tarnished silver cup out of his hand and worked her way backward, careful not to jar her hand or the cup. By the time she freed herself, her fingers ached from clenching the thick stem. She sank to the dirt floor, staring at the decoration on the rim of the cup.
Spencer joined her, dirt streaking his face, and cobwebs tangling in his sun streaked blonde hair.
“Is it what I think?” he whispered. “I couldn’t see it very well.”
“Yeah.” She spoke in the same, awed whisper. “It’s a ritual cup.” Carefully, she turned it over, and looked for any maker’s mark on the bottom. What she found had her blinking, sure she was seeing it wrong. “Look at this, Spence.”
She handed over the cup, watched him handle it like it was the most fragile bone china. Not many twenty-year-old men would have understood—or cared enough—to treat the cup like a precious object. Spencer was different, always had been—and she loved him for all those differences.
“John Wilkes.” He stared at her, the same awe in his blue eyes. “He made custom items for witches—ˮ
“In the 15th century.” She brushed her finger over the decoration, just under the rim of the cup. “This wasn’t only to make the cup look pretty. Certain symbols represented the witch he had made it for, the coven, if she belonged to one, and the ritual. Don’t quote me, but I think the witch who owned this lived in Dell.”
His face paled. “The deserted village? The deserted, haunted village?”
“No such thing as ghosts, Spence.” She said it almost absently. Spencer had tried to get her on his side since they first met. But Maggie was far too practical to think that something so otherworldly walked around, invisible to everyone but crazy people—and rabid believers, like Spencer. She ignored the memory of her aunt warning her away from Dell. “We can check the history collection in the Holmestead library. I remember seeing at least one book on Dell.”
She stood, tucked wild strands of red hair that had worked themselves loose from her ponytail, and dusted herself off as she headed for the hose that was always coiled on the side of the solarium, near the vegetable garden.
“Wait—Maggie—ˮ Spencer caught up with her, holding the silver cup in both hands. “Shouldn’t we tell your aunt about this?”
“Not yet.” She turned on the hose and held it up. “Set the cup down and wash your hands. We need to get over to the library before it closes.”
“But—ˮ He cradled the cup. “What are we going to do with this?”
“I’ll hide it in my room. Aunt Irene doesn’t dust in there anymore. When I turned sixteen, she figured I was old enough to dust, or as she put it, live in the environment of my own making.” He stared at her like she was proposing to hide state secrets. “We’ll tell her about it once we have more information.”
“You can tell her—after I’m home, and safely locked in my bedroom.”
Maggie laughed, and waved the hose at him. “Come on, Mr. Timid. Let’s get cleaned up.”
***
Holmestead Library, located at the bottom of the high street, had been one of Maggie’s favorite places, ever since she discovered its existence during her first summer. It resided in a former 16th century manor house, next to the village’s small museum.
The high ceiling, age darkened oak beams, scarred wood tables, and quaint, oddly shaped rooms were a haven to a young girl who had spent her life surrounded by ultra-sleek, ultra-modern, impeccable furnishings.
They made it with an hour to look around. Maggie waved at the librarian, admired the Halloween decorations in the main room, then made her way through the rooms to the history collection in the back of the building. Spencer followed her, hovering over her shoulder as she scanned the titles.
“There,” he said reaching past her. “Dell’s Wicked and Haunted Past. I told you—I’m not the only one thinking the place is haunted.”
“You take that one.” Maggie found the book she’d been looking for. “I’ll tackle this one.”
She held up her much bigger, thicker book. A Concise History of The Witches of Dell.
“Fine,” he said. She waited, biting back a smile, for his dramatic response. He didn’t disappoint. “You read all about the history.” He waved his book, then leaned in to whisper. “I’ll read about the truth.”
“You do that.”
They sat at the opposite ends of the single table, and started reading. It didn’t take Maggie long to find what she was looking for; a list of the witches, along with the symbols they used to represent themselves.
She pulled the piece of paper out of the pocket of her jeans and unfolded it. Before she left, she had copied down the symbols, so she wouldn’t have to memorize them. Using them as reference, she scanned down the list, and her finger halted when she found a match.
“Spencer,” she whispered. He leapt up and joined her, leaning over the book. “This is her; the witch who owned this cup.”
He took over, and read the short description. “Anya Trimble, a powerful witch of Romany descent. She was accused of plotting the death of Lord Trimble, her husband, who knew naught of her wicked, secret life. On 31 October, in the year of our Lord, 1496, she was sentenced to burn, in the place she had carried out her forbidden rituals: the standing stones outside Dell. Before her rightful sentence could be carried out, she was found in the center of the standing stones, deathly still, but still breathing. She never opened her eyes again. Despite the evidence that she had plotted his death, Lord Trimble spoke for her and was allowed to take the hollow shell of her body to his home. He cared for her, until her body disappeared from her bed, one year later, on All Hallows’ Eve.”
They stared at each other. “Halloween,” Maggie whispered. “Whatever happened to her, it was on Halloween.”
“That’s tomorrow. We need to go, Mags.”
Part of her shuddered at the thought of walking through the deserted village on Halloween, or anytime close to it. All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil between the living and the dead was thinnest. She may not believe in ghosts, but the stories surrounding Dell, and how every villager had simply disappeared one night, would make going there a chilling experience anytime. On Halloween—
“Maggie?” Spencer’s voice jerked her back. “Not afraid of ghosts, are we?”
“Just the reason for the entire village going walkabout, at the same time.”
“Right.” He sat on the edge of the table, and ran one hand through his hair. “You do know the Trimble House is still standing, fully intact.”
Her hesitation disappeared. “Is it? Maybe we could find some clue—ˮ
“Some say it hasn’t fallen to ruin, like the rest of the village, because of a spell laid on it.”
“That I believe.” Going to school in L.A. had exposed her to a whole new world, including a roommate who also happened to be a practicing witch. “But,” she stood, ready to dive into the mystery of a woman who had disappeared centuries ago. “If we take her cup, it might be our way in. That is, if you’re up to facing your ghosts.”
“It won’t be bad. In daylight. Even if a ghost or two does show up.” He took a deep breath. “We can head over there first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She smiled up at him, and hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Fingers crossed for a clear day.”
***
Dark clouds filled the sky when Maggie peered out her bedroom window. It didn’t smell like rain, but the gloom would lend an atmosphere she wasn’t all that sure she wanted, heading for a deserted village that hid so many secrets.
But her need to find out more about Anya Trimble overrode any sense of creepy.
She had loved mysteries since she read her first one, and drove her parents crazy with her lists, and theories about the latest news story, or a who did this article in one of the magazines she hoarded. Just like she did then, she sat at her small desk under the window, and started making a list.
Aunt Irene called her down for breakfast before she was done. She folded up the list and tucked it in her jeans, already plotting the story she’d tell when Aunt Irene asked why she was wearing a heavy sweater.
To Maggie’s relief, her aunt was too busy with her plans for the day to do more than glance at Maggie. She ate quickly, grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, and kissed Aunt Irene’s cheek.
“I’m meeting Spencer.”
“Have a good day, dear.”
“You, too.” She gave her aunt an impulsive hug. “I love you, Aunt Irene.”
“I love you, child. Now, get out of my hair. I’ve too much to do before I leave, and not enough time to do it.”
“Happy Halloween.”
Aunt Irene smiled at her. Halloween was her favorite holiday, after Christmas. “Be back in time to dress yourself up, before the little goblins arrive.”
“I will.”
She headed out of the house, fast walking down the street that led to the village. Spencer lived in a flat behind the Bonnie Prince Charlie Pub, when he wasn’t at school. The pub was an ugly, ostentatious place, run by Walter, a man who snarled at her if she darkened the doorway. To say he wasn’t fond of Yanks would be an understatement.
Spencer waited for her outside the building, bundled up, and carrying a knit hat for each of them. “You’ll be wanting it once we get there,” he said, when she frowned. “Don’t worry—we can de-electrify your hair when we get back.”
She laughed, and tucked the hat in the pocket of her bright blue wool coat. “Are your parents here?”
“Off on another long cruise. Early retirement agrees with them. I do miss them, but I love that they finally get to travel.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Say hello for me, next time you talk to them.”
“You bet. Ready?”
She nodded, and they headed up the high street, to the car park where Spencer kept his ocean blue van. He had just acquired a beat up two-seater, but she knew by next summer it would be a thing of beauty. Spencer was good with his hands, and so much more mechanically inclined than she would ever be.
There was no question about him driving; he refused to get in a car with her, ever since she had driven them the wrong way down a one way street. In her defense, there had been no obvious sign, and only one other car on the street.
But it traumatized him enough—along with her occasional drift into what she considered the right side of the road—that she would forever be known as a bad driver.
Dell stood about ten miles from Holmestead, in a small valley, surrounded by rolling green hills. It must have been a lovely setting, when the village had been alive, and filled with people. As they crested the hill, it looked—haunted was the only word Maggie could think of. Lost, trapped in time.
Many of the thatched roofs had collapsed long ago, so whatever furnishings had been left behind would be badly damaged. They drove slowly along the high street, so narrow she could have reached out the window and touched the front of the buildings they passed.
Maggie gasped when they drove around the curve. At the end of the street stood a three story manor house. It looked as neat and well-kept as it must have the day everyone disappeared. The multi paned windows were clean, reflecting the come and go sun. Two hawthorn trees stood on either side of the path leading to the double doors.
“It looks—ˮ
“Perfect,” Spencer said, his voice quiet. “Too perfect.”
Maggie couldn’t agree more.
He parked along the edge of the property, and they held hands as they walked up the stone path. As they got closer, she saw some of the ravages of time and weather; splits in the wooden window frames, boards missing from the empty window boxes, the arched doors faded and slightly warped.
But when she turned her head, out of the corner of her eye she saw a different view; of gleaming wood, bright flowers in the window boxes, the richly stained door open, welcoming.
“Spence,” she whispered.
“I see it. I think—it might be a glamour.”
Maggie let out a shaky breath. Nothing she’d read last night had prepared her for this. Even spending time with her roommate, watching her arrange her altar and cast love spells, felt like child’s play next to what she saw here. Her roommate never could have cast a spell that would camouflage an entire house—never mind one that would last for centuries.
“I didn’t—wow, Spencer. Do you think we can pass through it?”
He tightened his grip. “Let’s go find out. You have the cup?”
She nodded, and pulled it out of her coat pocket. They moved to the doors, Maggie holding the cup out. The air started to shimmer—and she halted when a hole opened, right in front of the cup.
“Spence—”
He took the cup and stepped between her and the hole. “Stay behind me, no matter what happens.”
“Be careful.” She grabbed the back of his coat, moving with him as he walked forward.
The hole widened, and like a curtain pulling back, it revealed the manor house.
The pristine manor house.
“Are you seeing this, Mags?” She could barely hear Spencer’s raw voice over her pounding heart.
“That’s not possible. No one’s lived here for centuries.” She tugged at Spencer’s coat. “We should go. Now, Spencer.”
“Don’t you want to know?” He looked over his shoulder, and Maggie recognized that gleam in his eyes. “I bet this kept you up half the night, reading. Can you walk away without your answers?”
She wanted to shout yes, but Spencer knew her all too well. Until the mystery was solved, one way or another, she didn’t give up.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But if anything moves—and I mean anything—we run.”
“Agreed.” He held out his free hand. Maggie gripped it, her fingers shaking. “We’ll be fine, Mags. Ghosts can tell when someone means to do harm.”
“Means to do harm?” She raised her eyebrows. “How old was Dell’s Wicked and Haunted Past?”
“Old enough to have more thees and thous than I ever want to see again.”
She smiled, some of her fear easing. Spencer was good at that; he’d talked her down more than once after a phone call from her parents left her agitated, or in tears.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Spencer held the cup out in front of them as they slowly moved forward, both of them braced for any movement. By the time they reached the gleaming arched doors, Maggie was ready to turn around. Something felt wrong about this place—her skin crawled at the thought of touching the silver door latch.
Before she could stop him, Spencer turned the latch and pushed the door open.
“Bloody hell.” He stepped over the high threshold and walked in, taking her with him. “This is incredible.”
Unreal was the word she’d use. Everywhere she looked as he pulled her farther inside revealed smooth dirt floors, dust-free furniture, and the most unbelievable—fresh flowers.
“Spence.” She tugged at his hand. “We need to go. This is wrong—” She whirled, seeing a shadow move out in her peripheral vision. That was enough for her. “Now, Spencer.”
“There’s nothing here, Maggie.”
“You call all of this nothing?” She waved at the furnished main living area. “None of this should be here. The furniture should be aged, not look like it was just put here. We need to—”
Spencer’s triumphant shout cut her off.
He let go of her hand and strode forward. “Come and see this.”
She gave up and joined him, in time to see his fingers slide along a crack between the wall and the fireplace. “What is it?”
“The book mentioned a secret room, where Anya Trimble performed her dark rituals. I think—” He ran his fingers along the fireplace mantle. “Ah, there it is.” He pushed what looked like a decorative vine on the side of the mantle, and they both heard a loud click. The wall moved, creating a narrow opening. “All those mysteries you forced on me are finally paying off.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” She pulled a small torch out of her coat pocket and handed it to him. “I’ll trade.”
“Right.” He took the torch, giving her the cup. “Stay behind me—there’s no telling what might be in here.”
“Like a six-hundred-year old witch?”
He glanced at her. “It would make sense, with her disappearing.”
“She was comatose when she disappeared, Spence.”
“Maybe she was faking, then went to hide, and trapped herself in her secret room, unable to get out.”
Maggie seriously doubted that. No one would have a secret room without a way to open the door from the other side. Unless—it wasn’t meant to open from the other side. Like a prison.
“Spencer, I don’t think—ˮ
“Don’t think.” He flashed her a grin and turned back to the opening. “Let’s find the truth.”
She swallowed, watching him slowly force the door open. She wasn’t all that sure she wanted to see what—or who—might be on the other side. Solving mysteries on paper was so much less dangerous.
When there was enough room to squeeze through, Spencer turned on the torch and pointed it into the darkness.
“Maggie—come and see this.” He sounded awed.
She braced herself and joined him.
***
Instead of the corpse she expected, his torchlight played over what looked like an elaborate altar, in the middle of a large room. Spencer stopped when the light caught a small pile of scrolls.
“What do you think?” he whispered.
“Let’s go in. I’ll keep the cup close.” She slipped it in her coat pocket, wanting both hands free. She had a feeling the cup was protecting them from the spells that had kept this house untouched for centuries. “Move slowly, Spence. You don’t know what kind of animals might be making a home in there.”
“I seriously doubt any animal with sense would come near this place.”
He had a point. Which meant the local animals were smarter than they were.
She followed him inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior. To her surprise, it wasn’t completely dark; a huge quartz crystal sat in the middle of the altar, glowing like a low wattage bulb.
“Spence,” she whispered, tugging at his coat. “That crystal wasn’t glowing before. It was pitch dark when you opened the door.”
“Take out the cup.”
She did, not surprised to see the symbols around the rim glowing. The closer they inched to the crystal, the brighter both the crystal and the symbols got. Spencer took the cup, and before she could stop him, he stepped up to the altar and set it next to the crystal.
“Spencer.” She grabbed the back of his coat and jerked, catching his arm when he stumbled.
They both froze at the voice that filled the room.
“Stand and explain yourself, foul intruder.”
Spencer shoved Maggie behind him, keeping himself between her and the altar.
“We came—ˮ He cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders. It was for show; she could feel him shaking against her. “We came to find out what happened to you.”
The glow brightened, and Maggie stared as a shimmering image appeared in front of the altar. She looked like the photos in the book, photos of the painting that hung in the room behind them, over the fireplace. Anya Trimble.
“If you are here, then you are in possession of my cup. It was taken from me before I could hide it. Those who have tried to enter my home have run in terror, or gone mad from the touch of my glamour.”
Spencer moved forward, pulling out of Maggie’s grip. “We did bring your cup.” His voice sounded different—closer to his confident, cocky self. “Would you like to see it?”
Anya started speaking before he finished. “I was accused, falsely so, of the attempted murder of my beloved Richard. Instead of the torture and death the self-righteous had planned for me, I transferred my power, my soul, to the crystal, trapping myself here.” She gestured to the altar. “As for my frail, mortal body—ˮ
“We want to help.”
She talked over Spencer, and Maggie knew that the image had to be some kind of spell, activated when they set the cup on the altar.
“I gathered enough power in a year’s time to bring it here, and have consigned it to the earth. I would rather live for eternity trapped in this room, than face the grief of watching my Richard suffer as I burn.”
“It’s like Princess Leia, in Star Wars.” He waved his arm, and she gasped when it swept through the image. “That is beyond cool.”
“Spencer Knight. Get away from the witch, before you trigger something nasty.”
He seemed to realize just who they were dealing with. “Oh. Right.”
Anya had been speaking the whole time, but what she was saying now caught Maggie’s attention. “If you are of noble heart, I ask only one thing from you.” She gestured to the crystal on the altar. “Please bury my heart among the standing stones, where my power was born. There may I find release, and send my soul to where the good Lord intends.”
“Star Wars,” he whispered, poking her arm.
Maggie regretted ever introducing him to the franchise.
“As your reward,” Anya said. “The cup is yours. Tell my story, allow the truth to be revealed. I know the lies spread by those who hate and fear will live on, long after we are all dust. In the scrolls you will find the real story, written down by my Richard, before his death. I beg you to do this for me.” She held out her hands, and the grief in her dark blue eyes tore at Maggie. “Please, give me the peace I never had in life.”
Her image shimmered again, then faded, leaving them alone.
“Wow.” Spencer moved to the spot where she’d stood, and crouched down to touch the dirt floor. “It’s warm, like someone was actually standing here. We have to do it, Mags.” He stood and moved to her, taking her hand. “We have to set her free.”
“You’re right.” She looked at the crystal, which pulsed now, like a beating heart. “It’s past time for her to be at peace.”
***
They took the scrolls, the crystal, and the cup, stashing the scrolls in Spencer’s van. He grabbed the small folding shovel he kept in the back, and stuck it in his coat pocket before they headed to the field behind the manor house. In the distance, Maggie could see the standing stones, on a small rise.
Spencer handed her the cup, holding the crystal in his left hand. Light pulsed between his fingers, reminding her that a woman’s soul was inside, had been trapped for centuries. She swallowed, took Spencer’s free hand, and let him lead the way. As they approached the standing stones, the clouds overhead darkened, creating an artificial twilight.
With every step, the crystal brightened, until it shed a circle of clear white light, like it was showing them the way. Maggie could barely look at it by the time they stepped in the circle created by the stones.
Spencer set the crystal on the waving grass, and let out a relieved sigh.
“It kept getting heavier,” he said, shaking out his hand. “And warmer.”
“Spencer.” Maggie stared at the standing stones in front of her. “Look.”
A rich blue glow outlined each stone, lighting the circle.
“That will make things easier.”
Maggie laughed at his comment. “When did this become less—ˮ
“Weird? For me, it was the moment I started talking to a Star Wars hologram.” He smiled at her snort, pulled out the shovel and snapped it open. “Let’s do some digging.”
They took turns, not sure how deep the hole needed to be. Six feet sounded like a nice, round number. Even with the cold fall wind sweeping across the rise, Maggie took her coat off halfway through, regretting the fact that she wore a sweater.
Spencer was in shirtsleeves, his sleeves rolled past his elbow. Sweat still rolled down his face, darkening the hair stuck to his forehead.
“I think we’re there.” He smiled up at her from the hole. Since he had just reached six feet this past summer, they were using him as a measure. The edge of the hole topped him by a couple of inches. “Hand me the crystal.”
She did, using her scarf to pick it up. The crystal was white-hot now, and Maggie could feel the heat through the layers of wool. Spencer carefully took the bundle and lowered it to the bottom of the hole, handing Maggie the scarf and the shovel before he climbed out.
“Should we say something?” She looked down at the crystal. It pulsed faster, like the soul trapped inside knew that it was close to freedom.
“I will, if you’d like.”
She nodded, taking his hand.
He cleared his throat, and pushed damp hair off his forehead. “Be at peace, Anya. We will tell your story. I promise you, the truth will be heard.”
The crystal pulsed, faster and faster. Maggie screamed when it burst apart, light streaming out of the hole.
Spencer grabbed her and hit the ground, covering her with his body.
She smacked his arm. “Spence—can’t breathe.”
“Sorry,” He pulled her up until they sat, his arms around her, like a human shield. “Trying to play hero.”
Her sarcastic reply lodged in her throat.
The light swirled above the hole, forming the shape of a woman. Her waist length black hair flew around her, dark blue eyes kind as she studied Maggie and Spencer. Beyond the shock, Maggie felt kindness and gratitude radiate from the witch. Both helped calm her.
“Your courage and compassion has freed me. In return, as my image promised, the cup is yours.”
“What happened to the rest of the villagers?” Spencer’s question startled Maggie. She clapped her hand over his mouth before he could keep talking.
Instead of retaliating, Anya smiled. “In their fear and superstitious ignorance, they fled after my disappearance, taking only what they could carry. Richard stayed, knowing the truth, and that I would feel his presence.” She bowed her head to each of them, and Maggie noticed the birthmark on the left side of her throat. A small, pale red heart. “For what you have done, I am forever in your debt...” Her voice faded, tears filling her eyes as she stared past them. “Richard?”
Maggie looked behind her, half afraid she might actually see this Richard. Only the gloomy, windswept field greeted her, framed by the glowing standing stones. She glanced up at Spencer—and gripped his arm. He looked white, his blue eyes wide.
“Spence—ˮ
“I see him, Mags.”
She would have given her usual smart remark, but he looked so—spooked, she just turned until she could wrap her arms around him, let him know he wasn’t alone.
Anya glided past them, holding her arms out. “I am here, my beloved. I have missed you so.”
She embraced the air and disappeared. A warm wind brushed Maggie’s cheek, followed by the cold slap of rain drops.
“Spence.”
He shook himself, the color coming back to his cheeks. “We have to fill in the hole—bloody hell...”
Maggie turned her head, and understood his surprised curse.
The long grass waved in the rising wind; any sign that they had dug a hole at all was gone.
“How—ˮ
“Never mind,” He hauled Maggie to her feet. “We have to run.”
He picked up his shovel, which was dirt-free, and grabbed her hand. They sprinted across the field, Maggie tripping to keep up with his longer stride. The sky opened up as they reached his van. He yanked open the driver’s door, pushed Maggie inside, and climbed in after her.
She crawled over the clutch and collapsed in the passenger seat, fighting to catch her breath. Wet hair stuck to her cheeks; she tucked the dripping strands behind her ears, aware that she had lost her ponytail holder sometime during their mad dash across the field.
“All right, sweetheart?”
She looked over at Spencer. His hair was plastered to his head, his coat soaked on the right side. “You need to get out of your coat—Aunt Irene,” she whispered. “How am I ever going to get past her?”
“You aren’t. Tell her the truth, Mags.” He reached over and brushed a stray curl off her cheek. “You might be surprised.” He struggled out of his coat and threw it in the back. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
He started the van, and drove slowly up the high street. The storm had blotted out any light, leaving the abandoned village dark and forbidding. Maggie would be happy never to see it again.
Once Spencer was on the road back to Holmestead, the clouds started to break up. “Odd,” he muttered. “The sky is clear ahead.”
After what they had just witnessed, Maggie wouldn’t be surprised by much at the moment.
“You can just drop me off,” she said. “No need for both of us to face Aunt Irene’s wrath.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He pulled into the long driveway and parked. “Where’s the cup?”
She pulled it out of her coat pocket. Now that they were away from the village, it looked ordinary—and different.
“The tarnish is gone.” She ran her fingers over the silver. It looked freshly polished, catching the sunlight as she turned it in her hand. “Spence—Aunt Irene is going to ground me for life. She’s never going to believe us.”
He winked at her. “Give her a try, Mags. You might be surprised.”
***
Aunt Irene tsked over Spencer before pulling out some dry secondhand clothes for him to change into, and ordered Maggie upstairs to change. Maggie tore her damp sweater off before she reached her bedroom, and changed as fast as she could.
The cup waited for her on the dresser, as bright as the day it was made. She finished wrangling her hair into a bun, then picked it up, touching the symbols under the rim.
“Time to face the consequences,” she whispered.
With a sigh, she headed downstairs.
Spencer sat in the front parlour, sipping tea and devouring the scones Aunt Irene made almost every morning.
“Come and sit, dear, have some tea.”
Maggie obeyed, setting the cup on the side table before she picked up the mug. The hot tea soothed her, and gave her a reason to stall.
That tactic didn’t last long.
“Now,” Aunt Irene said, crossing her arms. “I will have the story Spencer has been teasing me with since you arrived.” She looked at the cup, then at Maggie.
Taking a deep breath, Maggie told her.
Spencer cut in with his observations, and between them, they managed to spill every detail. The silence after they finished had Maggie itching to hide in her bedroom.
“Well.” Aunt Irene sat back, and sipped her tea. “That is some story. May I see the cup, dear?” Maggie handed it over, watched her aunt study the cup, the maker’s mark, then the symbols. Endless minutes later, Aunt Irene looked up. “You seem to have solved a mystery that has been unsolvable—even by local historians.”
“None of them woke the witch,” Spencer said.
Maggie smacked his arm, and he grinned at her.
“True, young man.” Aunt Irene rubbed her thumb over the symbols. “I found this cup, tarnished and covered in dirt, at an estate sale near Dell. The owner seemed eager to rid himself of it, because when I offered three pounds for it, he snatched my coins and practically threw the cup at me. You know him, Spencer; he is a curator at the museum. Dr. Elgin Givens.”
“Givens?” Maggie leaned forward. “That name was mentioned in the book I read. Simon Givens was one of Anya’s accusers. I wonder how he ended up with it.”
“A trophy, most likely, handed down through the family.” Aunt Irene curled her lip. “I never did like the man, and had I known the estate sale was for one of his relatives, I wouldn’t have attended. The man is too pompous to live in a village this size.”
Spencer burst out laughing—and choked on his scone. Maggie pounded on his back, looking at her aunt.
“You believe us?”
“My dear girl.” Aunt Irene leaned over and took Maggie’s hand. “I may never have seen her, and I would deny it to anyone who dared ask, but I have lived my life sharing this house with a ghost. Of course I believe you.”
Maggie stood and hugged her aunt, so grateful that she had someone like Aunt Irene in her life. Her parents would have stared her down if she even dared to tell them such a story. Her next stop would have been a psychiatrist—at the very least.
“Told you,” Spencer said. He winked at her, and devoured another scone.
“All right, young man. You have depleted my scones, and your story is done. Time for you to be off home.”
He stood, used to Aunt Irene’s usually abrupt and less than polite goodbyes. “Thank you for the food, and the dry clothes. I’ll return them.”
She waved her hand as she stood. “Keep them.” She surprised Spencer and Maggie by kissing Spencer’s forehead. “Thank you for keeping my Maggie safe.”
“Always, ma’am.” He saluted Maggie and strode out of the room.
“Well.” Aunt Irene sat, looking tired. “You had quite the adventure.”
“Do you really believe in ghosts?”
“My dear Maggie. I know your disbelief is absolute, but I promise you, someday you will have to make a choice—ˮ She started coughing.
Maggie moved to her side, rubbing her back. “Are you all right?” The thought of losing her aunt terrified her. This place and this woman were the only bright parts of her life. “Can I get you anything?”
“Some water, dear. I am fine.” She patted Maggie’s hand. “The cold and the damp affect me more than they used to. After you fetch my water, you need to go up and change. The trick or treaters will be knocking on our door soon.”
“Okay.”
Maggie glanced out the nearest window as she headed back to the kitchen. It was almost sunset—and if this Halloween was like any others she’d managed to spend here, they would be bombarded with local princesses, goblins, and whatever ingenious costume showed up.
***
To honor Anya, Maggie chose the witch costume, brushing out her wild red hair until it frizzed around her shoulders. Her costume was a hit; many of the kids wanted to touch her hair, not convinced when she told them it was real.
She handed out enough candy to stock the local shop, oohed and aahed over all the costumes, and was exhausted by the time she finally turned off the porch light. Aunt Irene helped her clean up, dressed as a regal Victorian woman.
With her red hair coiled in an elaborate updo, her period gown, and the ruby earrings Maggie remembered from her first visit, Aunt Irene looked like she had just stepped out of a painting. She had certainly awed the kids who saw her, each one staring, wordless, as she slipped candy into their treat bag.
“Another successful All Hallows’ Eve.” Aunt Irene cradled Maggie’s cheek, the crystal blue eyes Maggie had inherited studying her. “You have become a beautiful, kind young woman, Maggie. I could not be more proud of you.”
Tears stung her eyes, and she kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“When are you scheduled to leave?”
“Not until the end of the week.”
Aunt Irene smiled. “How would you like to attend an estate sale with me?”
Anticipation hummed through her. “Do you even need to ask?
***
Maggie didn’t see Spencer again until the day before she had to leave.
She showed up at his flat, the silver cup with her. There was no way for her to take it back to the States; it was too old, and she didn’t have any papers, or provenance. She knew Spencer would keep it safe.
He opened the door, leaning down to kiss her cheek before he took her coat and let her in.
“Sorry about abandoning you, Mags. I’ve been busy.”
“I went to two estate sales with Aunt Irene, and on a day trip to London, so I managed to keep myself occupied.”
He flashed her a grin and headed over to the coffee table. “This is what I’ve been busy with.”
She sat next to him, recognizing the scrolls from Anya’s secret room. “You’ve been translating them?”
“Kind of. They’re readable, to anyone familiar with 15th century English. I’ve just made them accessible to the average modern day reader. This is going to be my thesis, Mags.”
She smiled. “Which means a copy will go into the university library.”
“And every other place I can manage. I’d like to publish it, once I am in a position with a museum, and have some leverage.”
“It will take time, but we’ll get Anya’s story out there.” She stood, and pulled the cup out of her coat pocket. “This is for you.”
“Mags.” His eyes widened as he took it. “I can’t—this belongs to—ˮ
“Aunt Irene paid three pounds for it. She said she would take five. I already paid her,” Maggie said, when he reached for his wallet. “Consider it an early Christmas gift.”
“Thank you.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.
She returned the embrace, already missing him. Spencer had been her best friend since they were ten; leaving him was harder every time she did it. Her dream was to move here permanently, join Aunt Irene in her consignment and antique business, and put an ocean between herself and her parents.
All she had to do was work up the courage to tell them. And raise the money to leave. They wouldn’t give her a penny, once they knew what she meant to do with the money.
“I can’t stay long,” she said. “But I can stay long enough to see what you’ve done.”
“Excellent.” He flashed his heartbreaking grin. “I’ll order lunch. The pub all right with you?”
“As long as I don’t have to go in.”
“Right. The usual?”
“Sounds good.” She picked up the closest stack of papers and started reading. “This is the transcript from Anya’s trial.”
“I was surprised to find it.” Spencer tapped the screen of his mobile, and ordered their lunch. “The author was also a Givens, so I’m guessing they wanted a record, for posterity.”
“Is the modern Givens as distasteful as his ancestors?”
“Nearly.” Spencer sat next to her on the sofa. “Your aunt described him perfectly—too pompous for such a small village.”
“I’ll be happy if I never meet him.”
“As long as you never apply for a job at the local museum, you won’t have the dubious honor. Thank heaven I’ll be working in London after school. I would wring the man’s neck if I had to deal with him on a daily basis.”
She looked at him. “Did you start applying already?”
“Not yet. But I will be looking next summer. You will be back then?” He looked so hopeful, she wanted to smile.
“You bet. A summer without Spencer is not a summer I want to experience.”
“Of course not.”
She laughed at his smug tone. When he jumped to his feet and headed down to get their lunch, she took the time to read more of his modernization. She could read the originals, but she always stumbled over the S and f, going back more than once to reread when she guessed wrong.
Anya’s powerful response to the accusation against her had tears stinging Maggie’s eyes.
“I am not what you claim, Simon Givens. I have always used my power to help the people here. You have benefited from my assistance, along with your family. I will never regret giving that assistance, even as you accuse me for the heinous crime of attempting to murder my Richard.” Maggie guessed that Simon Givens had squirmed at that part. “My beloved husband has stood for me, and if you refuse to believe him, then may God have mercy on your soul, for condemning an innocent woman.”
She set the scroll on the coffee table, picturing the beautiful, regal woman.
“I promise you,” she whispered. “We will tell your story.”
It might take some time, but Maggie knew, without a doubt, that the truth of what had happened in that doomed village would be told.
Spencer returned, holding up two bags. “Lunch is served... are you all right, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, wiping at her eyes. “I just read Anya’s statement.”
“Powerful, isn’t it?” Spencer set the bags on the corner of the coffee table and sat next to her, draping his arm over her shoulders. “She deserves to be heard.”
“And she will be.” Maggie laid her head against his shoulder. “You’re too stubborn to let it go.”
His chuckle rumbled in her ear. “You got that right. Ready for lunch?”
She nodded, and took the bag he held out.
They would eat lunch, talk, laugh, and fill their time together with memories she could take home.
Memories that would sustain her until her next visit.
“Pence for your thoughts.”
“They’ll cost you a pound.”
Spencer laughed, shaking his head.
She smiled at him, and took a bite of her roast beef sandwich.
Life could be happy, crowded with moments like this. Maggie knew, one day, that all of her moments would be spent here, surrounded by the people who loved her.
Whatever it took, she would make that dream a reality.
~ ~ * ~ ~
Thank you for joining Maggie and Spencer for their first adventures! It was such fun, and I love being able to introduce Aunt Irene to all of you.
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