Chapter Six

The next morning, Libby woke in Maggie's old bedroom with sunshine filtering through the curtains and a loud purring in her ear. Reluctantly, she'd switched rooms with Zoe and huddled under the duvet in the dead woman's bed more than a little freaked out. She'd expected to lie awake, fighting off nightmares, but the large ginger tabby cat had padded into the room and jumped up onto the bed, curling up by her feet. Libby, appreciating the company, had quickly fallen into a curiously dreamless sleep.

Yawning, she rolled over to see the cat sat by her pillow, staring at her. Libby checked her watch. Six o'clock. After the interrupted night's sleep and wine she'd knocked back with Zoe whilst unpacking, she'd expected to wake late.

'You, mister, are one hell of an alarm clock. I've got time for a run.' She turned the silver disc on his collar. 'Hyssop? Nice to meet you, Hyssop. But aren't witches' cats supposed to be black?'

He pushed his head against her hand.

'I'm afraid Zoe isn't going to be your biggest fan. She's allergic to cats.' She kissed his head, smiling when his purr grew louder. 'I wonder if I can keep you.'

He meowed, rubbing his head against her chin.

'Today is going to be a good day, Hyssop. Today, I'm starting my idyllic rural life.'

'Today's a bloody disaster and it's not even half-seven.' Libby leaned against the bathroom door, pulling her socks off. 'Are you going to be long? I'm going to be late for work'

Zoe vacated the shower with conditioner-soaked hair. 'Heaven forbid I'd be the one to get you sacked. What happened?'

'I got lost.' How, still mystified her.

At the end of the back garden, the little wooden gate opened onto a bridleway meaning Libby only had to run for fifteen minutes, following the track wherever it took her, turn around, and head back - the sensible plan for her first day in the area and her first day at work.

Instead, the luxury of running on grass not concrete seduced her into running for a little longer, a little further. After twenty minutes, she stopped to size up the valley around her, the wine-blurred memory of the OS map she'd studied the night before giving her false confidence. Surely, she'd thought, if she carried on the same track, it'd take her back to the village.

After twenty-five minutes, she'd realised the track was heading up to Lum Crag, not to the Gosthwaite. Her only option was to double back. But that was okay. Until the track started to bear little resemblance to the lane she'd headed out on. Where had she gone wrong? There were no turns, no alternatives, no options. Eventually, she'd clambered a few gates and scampered home across the fields, anything just to get home.

After a hasty shower, Libby pulled on the cream jodhpurs and black polo shirt she'd worn the previous afternoon, before pulling her still wet hair into a scruffy bun and applying three layers of mascara. Okay, she'd like to have had some eyeliner, and dragged a brush through her hair, but she couldn't be late. Not on Day One.

She checked her watch. Quarter to. If she left now, she'd even be a few minutes early. A cigarette on the way and all would be fine with her world. Hyssop sat by the door, watching her like a mother sending her child off to school as she grabbed her jacket, pulled on her boots and threw her cigarettes in her bag.

She stopped to kiss his head. 'This is still going to be a good day.'

He meowed as the doorbell rang.

'Zoe? I'll be late.'

'Naked. Deal with them.'

Libby swore but opened the door, smiling until she saw who was on the other side.

Grace.

Tapping her foot, she stood in an over-sized t-shirt, jersey shorts and Ugg boots, pulling off just-climbed-out-of-bed sexy-chic with aplomb. Libby forced a pleasant smile. At the pub, she and Zoe had eaten their goat cheese salads outside, avoiding the drunken men, but twice Jack had come out, blatantly flirting with her. She'd done nothing to encourage him, but from Grace's wasp-chewing scowl, Libby might as well have hopped on his knee and snogged him.

'I see Hyssop came home,' Grace said, glancing behind Libby.

'Oh, is he your cat?' Libby stroked him, disappointment coursing through her. 'He came in about midnight. Scared the life out us.'

Unsmiling, Grace thrust the box forwards. 'His stuff. He's only been with me for a few days because Patrick's gone away.' She nodded to the house on the corner next to them. 'But Jack's allergic.'

'So is Zoe.' But Libby took the box.

'But really, he's her cat. I'm sure Patrick will take him when he gets home. It's just a couple of months.'

Libby nodded, trying not to grin. 'That's fine. I think he's fabulous.'

'Everyone does.' Grace crouched down to stroke a purring Hyssop as he rubbed his head against her knee. 'See you round, Hyssy. He'll be back soon.' She glanced up at Libby. 'Seriously, please look after him and if you need anything, I work at the vets.' Again, Libby nodded. 'And stay away from my boyfriend.'

'Grace, I'd never-'

'But he would.'

As Grace marched across the square, Libby picked up Hyssop, turning him to face her.

'So, Grace thinks I'm a home-wrecking tramp, but hey, I get to keep you. Is that okay?' Why was she asking a cat? She checked her watch. Ten to. Bugger. She kissed Hyssop.

'I'm late and Grace hates me. But Hyssop, it's still going to be a great day.'

'I've had the worst day,' Libby called as she slammed the front door. 'I hate, absolutely hate, Sandra.'

She kicked off her boots, pausing to take in the empty hallway. The boxes had gone, as had the curtains and wallpaper in the living room, and vast decorator sheets covered the sofas. Maggie was being erased. Following the aroma of roast lamb, garlic and rosemary drifting from the kitchen, Libby wandered through to find Zoe preparing green beans. There was a lot to be said for living with a Nigella Lawson wannabe.

'You've eradicated chintz hell and made dinner?'

'I even went to work this morning.'

'How's Hyssop?'

'Asleep on your bed. I don't think he's moved all afternoon.'

Libby frowned at the open bottle of Merlot. 'Wine o'clock already?'

Zoe wiped her hands on her tatty, dust covered jeans and held up a mug. 'You're not the only one who's had a crappy day. So, what's wrong with Sandra?'

'Well, I got there at two minutes past eight, but from the look on her face, you'd think I'd arrived at twenty-past.' Libby poured an inch of the red wine into a second mug and slouched against the breakfast bar. 'She's actually lovely to the nags, as she calls them, but fifty percent of the horses in the yard are exercised by their owners and the rest are retirement cases. I don't get to ride. I just get to listen to Sandra bitch about the clients, her husband, me and the god who invented all of the above. Horrible, horrible woman. And she's definitely having an affair with Michael, the feed merchant.'

'So? It's none of your business. Don't let your bloody morals get you sacked again.'

'It's wrong.'

'It's life.' Zoe sighed. 'They could be in miserable, abusive marriages for all you know.'

'Sandra said her husband, Pete, was a useless waste of space. He's not. He's lovely. He works his arse off and from what I've seen-'

'You've been there for one day. You don't know anything.'

'She married him for his landowner status. She married Langton Hall, not him.' Libby sipped her wine. 'I hate it. What's worse is that Michael is married too. His wife had their second child less than a year ago. Why can't people keep promises and not shag around?'

'Because the human race is inherently hedonistic. And you need to accept that.'

'God, sorry, Zo. I'm twittering on about me, me, me. How was work?'

'Depressing.' Zoe wandered outside with her mug and the bottle.

Libby followed her and sat on the steps of the crazy paved patio, wriggling her toes in the overgrown lawn as she lit a cigarette. 'Is your boss an arse too?'

'Martin's the manager, he's a stone age misogynist and utterly pointless, but then so are the two other girls who work the basic house sales and do the admin. I'm doing high-end with a guy called Greg. He's the office eye-candy and very pissed off because Gosthwaite and Haverton used to be in his patch.'

'Eye candy?'

'Blonde, outdoorsy, parents own a vast pile in Yorkshire. Posh.'

'Not my cup of tea.'

'No, but he's mine. Shame he hates me.'

'So aside from him, why's it crappy?'

'There are no high end houses to sell.'

'Recession?'

'Usually people can't sell houses in a recession. Here, they're not looking to move.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I have no idea. I could be screwed. I signed up for minimum wage and a higher commission.' Zoe let out a long frustrated breath. 'In other depressing news, I met the workforce this afternoon. Sparky, who's still green from yesterday, is the electrician. He condemned the electrics and doubled his estimate. Jack's the joiner, but he can't do anything until late-July. And remember Stan?'

'Maggie's stalker?'

'He's the bloody plumber. All three of them rocked up still hung-over. They're a shambles. I'd thought I could project manage them, but now I'm not so sure. The builder didn't even bother to show up.'

'Sorry, Zo. I'm whinging but you've probably had it worse.' Libby fished into her back pocket, taking out the flyer Tallulah had given her. Would it be giving in, to look for a new job so soon?

'The only thing keeping me going is the thought of spending a whole day in the office tomorrow.' Zoe sighed at the sky. 'Oh for the civilisation of a building that doesn't give you a dose of ECT every time you put the kettle on. I've spent most of this afternoon in a pair of rubber gloves.'

'Sexy.'

'Sparky certainly thought so.'

'Bit young isn't he?'

'Didn't stop him trying it on.'

Libby laughed. 'Did you let him ravish you over the fuse box?'

'As if. He's way out of his division. Actually, he's a good laugh and kept me sane today.'

Libby took out her phone, still staring at the flyer. It'd be quitting and she'd never given up on anything in her life - anything other than ballet. But she'd get to ride show-jumpers like Tallulah's horse, Shakespeare. She dialled.

'Hello. Low Wood Farm,' said a woman with vowels capable of etching crystal.

'I'm ringing about the groom's job you-'

'The advert clearly stated the closing date for applications was Saturday.'

'Oh, Tallulah gave me the number. ' Libby cringed. 'I hadn't seen an ad.'

'I can't...' The snooty woman paused. 'The interviews are arranged for Wednesday morning. Perhaps I could take your details. If none of the other applicants are suitable-'

'That would be great.'

'Name?'

'Um... Olivia Wilde.' She'd rather Tallulah didn't know she'd failed to get an interview.

'And number?'

Libby recited her mobile number, desperate to get off the phone, and stared at the dandelion clocks, the flowers already past their best. In one call her hopes were dashed. There'd be no show-jumpers and no escaping Sandra Langton-Browne.

Where was the idyllic rural dream?

After a drizzle of a shower, lamb so rare it could still Baa and a second glass of wine, Libby began stripping the wallpaper in the dining room. With Radio One for company, she chipped away at yellow rose with blue petal borders, absurdly delighted when almost a whole sheet of paper peeled off in one go. That had been the high point in her otherwise dismal day.

But how odd she should miss the chintz. Devoid of curtains, wallpaper and furnishings, the downstairs rooms were left grey and echoing, utterly soulless.

I'm sorry, Maggie.

Why did she feel guilty? Maggie was dead. She wouldn't care. But Libby switched off the radio and headed off to bed. At ten o'clock. How rock'n'roll? It was the bloody countryside, what had she expected? Bands in the local pub on a Tuesday night? Plays in the village hall? This wasn't the Northern Quarter. A myriad of arts weren't going to be on her doorstep.

'At least I have you,' she said to Hyssop as she climbed under the duvet. He purred a little louder but didn't budge from his usual position on the corner of her bed. He was so content, his purr almost soporific. Why did a silly old tabby cat stop her feeling... edgy?

I have a cat. That's all I have. A cat. I am Maggie. I'm going to end up old, alone and dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Had she made a massive mistake coming here? She picked up her phone, glancing at Hyssop as she dialled Paolo's number.

Please, don't tell Zoe.

'It's me,' she said when he answered.

'Ach, I've missed you,' Paolo replied. 'How's the countryside?'

His familiar voice elicited emotions she'd been unaware she'd bottled up, and fat tears tumbled down her cheeks. She didn't speak for a moment.

'Sorry,' she said, sniffing, 'it's late, but-'

He shushed her. 'No apologies. Where are you?'

'The cottage. In bed.'

A soft creaking sound suggested he'd shifted. Lying down to get more comfortable.

'I'm lying on my battered second-hand leather sofa, in my new loft-style apartment in Shoreditch listening to folk music.'

'Why? You hate folk music.'

'I'm trying to incite a cultural riot inside my heart.'

'You're crazy. What on earth does that mean?'

'I miss you.'

'I miss you too. I have no friends and living in the country isn't proving very idyllic.'

'Then come to London. You can share my sofa.'

'Is that all you have?'

'There's a bed too.'

Despite the misery swamping her, she laughed. 'Shame it's in London. You could've picked any other British city and I might've jumped in my car tonight. How can you afford a loft-style apartment in Shoreditch anyway?'

'Remember the Love Triangle?'

'The arty threesome series? How could I forget?'

'Sold the lot for five grand.'

'I'm so proud of you. You'll be rich and famous in no time.'

He laughed, softly. He used to run his fingers through his hair when he laughed like that. She closed her eyes, remembering, imagining.

'Come here, Lib.'

'I can't. It's London.'

'I still love you.'

She didn't respond. Instead, she closed her eyes, listening to him breathing, adoring him being there, but regretting ringing him. She needed to move on. He needed to move on.

'Lib?'

'Let it go,' she whispered. 'Let someone new in.'

Her tears tumbled again. She knew Paolo loved her; he'd always loved her, but she didn't love him back. He was perfect, almost as good as ballet. But almost wasn't enough.

The next evening, no enticing aromas greeted Libby at the door and the dark grey clouds left little sunlight to creep its way into the house. She sat on the stairs and pulled off her boots, sighing at the clumps of dried mud she'd scattered across the tiles. She ought to sweep up but instead she brushed it to the skirting board with her foot. On one of the tiles, the dirt settled into a crack, previously invisible. Oh god, had Maggie's head caused that?

Goosebumps covered her arms as she rubbed the tile clean with her jacket. Something moved behind her. She glanced up the stairs, her heart racing.

Hyssop.

Libby laughed as he padded down the stairs, meowing. 'Hey, mister. You scared me. But then it doesn't take much in this place.'

He rubbed his head against her chin, purring.

'I suppose you want your dinner? Looks like I'll be cooking for everyone.'

After serving Hyssop one of the high end pouches of sardines Grace had given her and spending twenty minutes under the pitiful shower, Libby rifled through the cupboards, searching for gastronomic inspiration. Leftover lamb and... Dried apricots and cous cous? A Moroccan-spiced salad? She set to work roasting red peppers under the grill, slicing the lamb, chopping the mint and parsley from Maggie's herb garden, but it wasn't until she'd finally tossed it all together with a healthy sprinkling of coriander and chunks of apricot that Zoe's text arrived.

Not home for dinner. Greg on peacekeeping mission. Later gator. Zx

She'd created a Middle-Eastern taste sensation and had no one to share it with. Libby switched on the kettle to make a cup of tea, but plunged the house into semi-darkness.

This house sucked.

Bugger this. She grabbed a bottle of red from the wine rack. Shiraz? Perfect. It'd stand its ground against the cumin and coriander in the salad. Did she care it cost only four pounds seventy-nine? Not that night.

Still reading the label in the dim light, she groped for the corkscrew but sent it skidding off the counter just as Hyssop came in through the cat flap. The corkscrew narrowly missed his head and he yowled, darting between Libby's legs, almost knocking her over. But years of dance training kicked in and she balanced on one foot, arms outstretched, as Hyssop clawed his way onto the worktop.

Jesus, was that how he killed Maggie? Something scared him, he ran to her for security and she fell? Libby bent down to retrieve the corkscrew, but half of it remained on the floor. She closed her eyes, swearing. She could go to the pub and ask them to open the wine. But what if Grace was there?

Seconds later, she rang her neighbour's doorbell. She'd not seen much of Sheila since they'd moved in, but the woman had made them promise to pop round if they needed anything. Libby smiled as the door opened but almost giggled when she saw Sheila's I ? Gary Barlow t-shirt. That explained why Back For Good and Rule the World were played on repeat most nights.

'I'm sorry to bother you, Sheila, but do you have a corkscrew I could borrow?'

'Come in, come in,' Sheila said, 'but excuse the mess. I still have two boys at home.'

Libby followed her through to the back of the house, picking her way over the shoes and jackets strewn along the hallway. In the kitchen, Sheila handed her a corkscrew and muted the TV, cutting off the barmaid ranting in the Rovers.

'How are you settling in?'

'Okay.' Libby paused before pulling the cork out. A little company would be lovely. 'Fancy a glass?'

'Just a small one.' Sheila winked and took two wine glasses from the cupboard. 'Just okay? I'd have thought a pretty young thing like you would be having a whale of a time.'

Blushing, Libby joined Sheila at the kitchen table and poured the wine. I hate my job, I have no friends and I'm living in a death-trap.

'It's just different.' She forced a smile. 'Were you and Maggie close?'

'When my husband had an affair with a woman from the butchers, they live in Haverton now, Maggie got me through it. A true friend.' She stared at her glass for a moment, as she tucked a wayward strand of dark grey hair behind her ear.

'You must miss her.'

Sheila nodded. 'I saw Hyssop came back. I thought he would.'

'He's made himself right at home.' Libby sipped her wine. 'What was she like?'

'Hasn't Zoe told you anything?'

'I don't think Zoe and her got along too well.'

'It's funny because Zoe's like Maggie. Doesn't fit in around here, too glamorous by half.'

'Maggie was glamorous too?' Libby's mental image of the little old lady disintegrated.

'Oh aye. I mean she was in her sixties when she died, and a bit stooped, but when she moved here, oh, she'd have been about thirty-five. A real looker. Mind, even in her sixties she still turned heads. Long beautiful wavy hair, steel grey it was.'

'Stan, from the pub, said she was a siren.'

Sheila laughed. 'Well, I don't know about that, but she had one or two men chasing her.'

'Stan?'

'He was just a passing fancy when she had a leaky tap. Her heart belonged elsewhere.'

Libby leant forwards, smiling, eager for details. 'Really? Who?'

Sheila gently laughed. 'She never told me. Just said she'd loved him since the day she met him and she'd love him 'til the day she died. I expect she did.'

'What happened to him? Did he die?'

'No. He's married. Lives in Windermere. Some rich bloke. He's the one that gave her the pendant.'

'What pendant?'

'The emerald pendant. Worth a bob or two. Twenty grand, Maggie reckoned.'

'Crikey, I hope Zoe didn't throw it away with the rest of her stuff.'

'Yes, I saw the skip.' Sheila's accusatory tone had Libby's cheeks flushing.

'So, I heard Maggie was a witch? Grace said you and Maggie put a spell on the cottage.'

'What nonsense.' Sheila laughed, but as she glanced up to her right and scratched her wrist, Libby's mouth gaped. Sheila was lying.

'Oh my god. It's true?'

Sheila paused, looking Libby in the eye before chuckling. 'Now I don't really go for all that mumbo jumbo and it might be real or it might be one of them placebo effects, but I saw some odd things with my own eyes.'

'Did you hear anything?'

'That night?' Sheila shook her head. 'Not a peep. She wasn't home when I went to bed. That was at eleven.'

'Why was she out so late?'

'Well, it was Ostara.'

Libby raised her eyebrows.

'It's where they celebrate the Goddess of Spring. Poor Maggie. There she was, celebrating new life when hers was about to end.'

Libby sipped her wine. Dare she ask? 'I heard a rumour she was murdered.'

'That'll be Becky.' Sheila waved a dismissive hand. 'I have Maggie's things. Her Wicca things. The day after she died, after Patrick found her-'

'Patrick?'

'The vet. He lives in the corner house next to yours. I went in, after they'd you know, taken her away. The police said it was okay. I just had a tidy up. Hyssop had made a bit of a mess, knocking things off the dresser and I didn't want just anybody to come across her book and whatnot. Maggie wouldn't have liked that.'

'Her book? What, like a spell book?' Libby couldn't help grinning, imagining some ornate leather-bound tome.

Sheila nodded and delved into the cupboard under the stairs, pulling out a large plastic storage box. 'It's her book and a few herbs. They're... well, I didn't think just anyone should come across them. No matter what you believe in, they can be dangerous.'

Libby lifted the lid, frowning with disappointment at the royal blue lever arch file. That was Maggie's spell book? A little bottle marked Belladonna peeked from under the folder.

'Do you want to take it? I meant to throw it away but I just couldn't. And it gives me the creeps having it in the house.'

After two small glasses of wine, Libby left Sheila's armed with a box of witchcraft and a half-empty bottle of Shiraz. She devoured the Moroccan salad as she studied the multitude of jars, vials and bottles lining the bottom of the box. Each had a neat label: Coltsfoot, Hibiscus flower, White Willow bark. Several of the names she recognised as deadly, the rest she'd never heard of. All she needed now was a cauldron.

Utterly absorbed, she flicked through the pages of the folder. Some of the A4 sheets were handwritten in an elaborate cursive style, others digitally printed, but many were photocopies of photocopies of ancient books. They detailed tinctures for headaches and prayers to goddesses but most enticing were the spells: love, prosperity, luck.

A Good Luck Spell?

She poured the last of the red wine and picked four candles from the box - white to represent her, plus grey, black and orange candles. The spell ought to be performed when the moon was waxing. Well it was crescent-shaped, but waxing or waning, who knew?

She lit the white candle.

'This is me.'

She lit the black candle.

'This is the bad luck that has haunted my footsteps. Trouble, disappointment and tears are here. This bad luck now leaves me forever.'

She lit the grey candle.

'All that was bad is neutralized. All my bad luck is dissolved.'

She lit the orange candle.

'This is the energy coming my way, to invigorate my life and speed up change.'

Closing her eyes, she sat, as instructed and visualised the negative energies being whisked into the grey candle and dissolving into nothingness. She tried to imagine the orange candle drawing good energy towards her and the air around her stir with opportunity.

As the stubs of candles finally fluttered out, Libby smiled at Hyssop. 'You believe in this?' She rubbed under his chin. 'Me neither. But the way things are going, I need all the luck I can get.'