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I looked over the neatly arranged knives and candles. I’d only seen sketches of the athame in question—silver, with a black enamel handle, inlaid in perfect silver spirals, a large cloudy blue gemstone set in the center of the handle. The candle was thick, white, and round, standing nearly a foot tall, inscribed over and over with a distinctive double version of the Celtic knot.
My buoyant little bubble of hope popped and deflated as I scanned the items in the cabinet. The shop had a fine collection, but none of them matched the descriptions I’d been given.
Sighing, I wandered a bit around the neatly arranged bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books. Jane Jameson had scattered large black-and-white framed photos on the walls, smiling people, happy to be together. Was this her family? There was a wedding picture of the tall brunette and a handsome dark-haired man, though they looked to be dressed like something out of a BBC Jane Austen production. A holiday picture involving some hideous sweaters. I recognized Mr. Wainwright in a few of the shots—much older than he was in Nana’s photos, wizened to the point of being rather adorable, with a fringe of frazzled white hair and bifocals perched on top of his head. His face nearly crackled with laugh lines. He looked so happy, grinning broadly at the camera, particularly in the photos with the others. In one shot, near the register, the brunette had her arm slung around Mr. Wainwright’s shoulders, both laughing at something behind the camera.
I didn’t know how to feel about this. I’d pictured Mr. Wainwright as this lonely little hermit, living above his shop. And somehow, that’s what I wanted. He’d left my Nana Fee alone all those years. Some part of me was unsure that I wanted him to be this happy. I’d never understood why Nana Fee never married Jimmy O’Shea, a charming bachelor who lived down the lane. He had been courting Nana Fee since they were in school. But she’d refused him, so many times. His failed proposals were the stuff of legend in Kilcairy.
The single most depressing thought I had was that Nana Fee had truly loved Mr. Wainwright. And all the while, he’d moved on. Had he ever thought of her after he returned to America? My Nana Fee was a good woman. She’d deserved second thoughts.
Not to mention that Mr. Wainwright seemed to have replaced me with taller, prettier granddaughter models, which was causing no small amount of latent jealousy.
Abandonment issues aside, I was comfortable here. There was a good energy in this building, as much as I hated to admit it. The rental may have been Mr. Wainwright’s house, but this was his home.
Stepping closer to one of the shelves, I noticed a title. Miss Manners’ Guide to Undead Etiquette? Chuckling, I continued down the shelf.
From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America.
Have You Ever Seen a Dream Walking: A Beginner’s Guide to Otherworldly Travel.
When, What, Witch, Were, and Why? The Five W’s of Safe Interactions with the Paranormal.
I picked up a trade paperback, arching an eyebrow. “Tuesdays with Morrie?”
From the back of the store, I could feel a little mental tickle, a nudge at the back of my brain. Holy shit! A mind-reader? I wasn’t prepared to deal with a mind-reader now! I stopped in my tracks, closing my eyes and sliding down what Nana would have called my “mental shield,” picturing a rather large Jell-O mold forming around my head, protecting my brain from intruders.
Yes, it sounded silly. It’s my brain, and I’ll protect it however I want.
The tickle turned into an all-out poke. The slim brunette from the photos stepped out of some nook in the back, followed by an irritated-looking redhead. The brunette gave me a warm, if perplexed, smile. She was wearing jeans and a beautiful red silk blouse. The redhead, cool and elegant and far more wrinkle-free than anyone had a right to be at this time of night, was also featured heavily in the photo display. She was more subtly attired in a candy-floss-pink blouse and gray silk slacks.
“Can I help you find anything?” the brunette asked, her eyes narrowing at me slightly. She blinked a few times and shook her head, as if she had water in her ear.
“Just looking around,” I said, holding up the paperback.
“This one again?” The brunette groaned, taking Tuesdays with Morrie back to the section marked “Fiction” and reshelving it. “I swear to you, Andrea, this book is possessed. It’s like the stories about those porcelain dolls that move around while you sleep.”
Andrea, the gorgeous redhead, rolled her eyes. “I’m ninety percent sure Dick moves that book every time he comes into the store, just to mess with you.” She turned to me. “Jane has issues with dolls . . . and puppets . . . and clowns. We keep a list in the back, if you’re interested.”
Despite myself, I found myself snickering. I cleared my throat. “You have an interesting selection here. You stock ritual items?” I nodded toward the display cupboard.
The redhead frowned a bit. “Some. We’re primarily a bookshop, but the previous owner had quite a collection, and we keep the athames and candles around as sort of a tip of the hat.”
Jane stared at me, blinking as if she was having trouble concentrating.
“That’s very sweet,” I said, ignoring her blatant perusal and pointing to the little ownership plaque by the register. “So I take it you’re Jane Jameson, proprietor?”
Andrea sighed. In a lifeless, resigned tone, she said, “I will never be as smart as Jane Jameson-Nightengale.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She lost a bet,” Jane said, grinning evilly at her companion. “Every time she hears my full name, she has to say that. Do not try to out-trivia me, Andrea. You have no one to blame but yourself. Which reminds me, I need to have that plaque updated.”
“I could have sworn Nicholas Nickleby’s sister was named Sarah,” Andrea muttered.
“Her name was Kate,” I said, just as Jane did.
“Oh, hell, there’s two of you,” Andrea groaned, marching behind the counter. “I’m making myself a bloodychino.”
“Bloodychino?” I asked, turning toward Jane, who was giving me a speculative look.
