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Chapter One
The silver bell above the door chimed, a soft sound that complemented the singing coming from the café’s small kitchen.
I looked down from my perch on a ladder across the other side of the dining room, where I was hanging fairy lights. The woman who entered was tall, brown-haired, and wrapped in a vivid red coat so bulky it hid the shape of her body. Her complexion was pale, her face angular and, aside from the color of her coat, she looked no different to the half dozen other women who’d entered the café since we’d opened yesterday.
But the psychic bit of me—the bit that had caused so much damn heartache in the past—began to stir.
This woman was trouble. The sort of trouble I’d been running from for the past twelve years.
Her gaze swept the room, no doubt taking in the mismatched furniture, the bright prints and old plates that covered the walls, and the small teapots of flowers that decorated each table.
What she thought of it all, I couldn’t say, because when her gaze finally met mine, all I could see was her fear and anguish. The force of it was so strong, it wrapped a fist around my heart and squeezed tight.
I don’t need this, I thought. Not now, not again.
I hardly think this woman’s problems are going to be that bad, Lizzie. The comment ran through my mind so clearly it might well have been said out loud. It surely can’t hurt to at least hear what she has to say.
Isabelle—the singer in the kitchen and my closest friend—was not only a spirit talker gifted with telepathy, but also my familiar, and that meant we had constant access to each other’s thoughts. Not all witches had familiars, of course—only those of us born to blueblood families. I had no idea why that was, but I suspected it had something to do with the greater power most bluebloods could call on. Familiars were usually of the animal or spirit kind, but I was at best a less than average blueblood witch, so of course my familiar was always destined to be something so far south of the norm it was yet another disappointment to my family.
I had a very long history of letting my family down—one that had started with my birth.
You say that with such surety, I replied, mental tone dry. Anyone would think precognition was one of your gifts.
Her sharp snort echoed through my brain. It doesn’t take precognition to make a statement like that. I was with you twelve years ago, remember? Nothing could ever be as bad as that. Nothing.
The woman took several tentative steps forward and then stopped. “I’m looking for Elizabeth Grace.”
Her voice was as uncertain as her steps. I hooked the unstrung portion of fairy lights onto the ladder and then climbed down. “Please, just call me Lizzie. What can I do for you, Mrs.—?”
“Banks. Marjorie Banks. And I’m sorry to come here so late, but I saw your light on and I just thought—” She paused, and then continued in a desperate sort of rush, “I just thought you might be able to help me find my daughter.”
A runaway, Belle said. That’s hardly dangerous.
Maybe.
Well, if you wanted to avoid any chance of the past repeating itself, we should be running an ordinary café rather than playing about with psychometry, dabbling in readings, and selling charms.
Psychometry isn’t magic. And it wasn’t as if the charms we were selling did anything more than grant the wearer a greater chance of collecting good fortune rather than bad.
But those charms still contain real magic, even if we don’t advertise it, Belle said. And it’s a sad fact that those without psi skills often align them to magic. Besides, it’s not like psychometry or charm making are your only skills.
No, but it wasn’t like I was much more than the sum of those two, either. Hell, my lack of magical strength was one of the reasons behind my estrangement from my family.
That, and my sister’s death.
Cat’s death, Belle stated, mental tone tart, was hardly your fault.
But it was, if only because I’d tried to save her myself rather than informing my parents.
Your parents would not have listened.
But I could have at least tried. If we’d both insisted, Mom might have investigated—
My input wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m your familiar, and one of the lowly Sarr witches besides.
Unfortunately, there was a bitter edge of truth in that statement. There were six lines of witches—three of whom were considered “royalty,” and three who were rather disparagingly described as “commoners.”
