“Lydia said that?” I blinked at her. Were we discussing the same person?
The woman rolled her eyes. “Clearly it was one of her exaggerations, like when she’d claimed Ambrose Denny flirted with her last week, because you don’t even recognize me and you have no idea what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This isn’t very promising for solving a murder.”
“Murder?” I repeated. There was something off about the woman. She had an odd transparent quality about her. Was she real? Either way, I didn’t know where this was going. I staggered to my feet, straightening my torn skirt. Reaching up, I rubbed the knot on my scalp, hoping to make the apparition disappear.
“Oh, I get it. You want me to beg. Fine. Here is me begging.” She pressed her hands together, her voice a bit too flat to be sincere. “Please Mary, I need your help. Only you can see me.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
She dropped her hands, balling them into fists and resting them on her hips. “Hasn’t your witchy mother taught you anything? You’re a medium. Most likely the only one in town. You have the power to split the veil between living and dead and converse with the deceased. My name is Isabella Ravenswood.”
“That’s impossible.” I shook my aching head. “That’s the name of the girl who died.”
“Exactly.” Her serious green eyes took me in with a mixture of determination and desperation. “And I need your help to find out who killed me.”
Chapter 3
I,Mary,wasnomedium.
I watched from the rear seat of our old station wagon as Lydia fiddled with her earrings, her arms covered in green painted vines and her dress made of fabric leaves that somehow cut across her shoulders in a stylish way.
Outside the window, the trees blurred by. I scratched at my own arms where I’d applied the berry juice ointment and chanted a dubious spell. There wasn’t much literature on repelling ghosts. Apparently my mother didn’t keep such books in her library, so I had to use the unreliable internet to seek guidance.
Despite the slight rash on my skin, it seemed to be working. It had been six days since a spectre from the grave begged me for help to solve her murder. I’d hightailed it out of the cemetery like a scared little rabbit. It was either genuine and I’d used death magic, a condemned act, or it was a complete illusion.
I reassured myself it was the latter. I hadn’t revisited the graveyard since. Part of me just hoped I was crazy.
Kitty sat next to me in the car, using a black pencil to draw on the last of her whiskers while holding a small compact as her mirror. She snapped it shut when finished.
“Lydia, what is this green you have all over your arms?” Mom reached a hand toward her, even while driving.
“Don’t touch, you’ll smear them! They’re vines.” Lydia recoiled, looking indignant.
“Vines?”
“Yes.” She tossed her styled curls over her shoulder. “I’m Persephone, Goddess of the Underworld.”
“I can’t believe a high fae invited us to a party,” Kitty said with delight as she adjusted her cat ear headband.
“This is because of our dear Jane. We owe her quite a lot,” Mom said, the hood of her hen costume obscuringeverything but her face. The white feathers brushed against the car’s ceiling.
I clutched my book to my chest and looked out the window as we drove up the long front drive. I wore a knit top and tweed pants, all that one needed to dress as a librarian. Kitty had insisted that I at least put on a layer of lip gloss and some light blush, so I had.
Cars packed the sizable roundabout outside the mansion. The Netherfield manor sat at the head of the procession, immense and imposing, like a lord overlooking his estate. Magically floating lanterns were beginning to cast soft shadows along the stone path. A rustic wreath of autumn leaves and pinecones hung on the door. Creeping vines adorned with tiny white lights climbed the walls, and delicate, hand-painted midnight cats peeked out from the flower beds.
“I always found it so strange how people name their houses here,” Lydia said.
I leaned forward. “The older homes of Austen Heights were given names by the early settlers.” Honestly, for a town that loved gossip so much, it was silly how little people knew about Austen Heights itself. “It was theirway of making it appear like they were from old money to name their homes in the manner of English aristocracy. Very large estates like this one sometimes had certain magical enhancements bestowed upon it, while our home at Longbourne was made to appear bigger on the inside than on the outside. This is fundamental information if you read any local history book.”
“And if you read a little less, you wouldn't be so awkward around people.” Lydia rolled her eyes.
I sat back, unconcerned. I’d become accustomed to Lydia’s pointless jabs. They wouldn’t stop me from imparting knowledge.
After finding a parking spot, we walked inside. The grand entryway spanned above us, an enormous crystal chandelier gracing this simple space for mere visitors. Long strands of glittering cobwebs and magically animated plastic bats hung from each bent metal arm above.
