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“They’re not my boyfriends,” I say through gritted teeth as I drop the roller I was using to paint the third-storey guest room. I reach the stairs as Mum lets Pax and Ambrose into the house. Ambrose smiles sweetly at her, as if he didn’t sneak me out of the house last night so we could fuck in the cemetery.
My thighs have the most delicious ache, and every time I move I remember the way his hands roamed over my body. But then I remember what he said to me, and I get all cold and jittery. I don’t want Mum to give Ambrose or Pax any false ideas.
“You three spend an awful lot of time together to not be dating,” Mum frowns at me. “Your father and I aren’t prudes, you know. We had an open relationship in college. Mike was particularly fond of this sweet philosophy major—”
“Ew, didn’t need to know that.”
“All I’m saying is, if you need to tell us something, we will understand.” Mum pats my shoulder. Pax looks at me expectantly, but when I don’t say anything, his shoulders slump and Mum fills in the silence. “What are you three doing today?”
The three witches are giving me another magic lesson before my shift at the cemetery, and Ambrose and Pax are going to hunt for more of Edward’s old friends and check the wards around Grimwood and Nevermore Bookshop. But I can’t exactly say that to my mother. “We’re just going to hang out, go for a walk in the woods.” I remember that I left my moldavite stone in my room. “I’ll be back in a second, I’ve just got to grab something from my room.”
As I head down the hall, I hear Pax say to my mother, “So if I want to be Bree’s boyfriend, what do I need to do? Is there a secret ritual to perform, or must I slay her last boyfriend in battle? Because I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
I hurry to my room before I have to hear my mother’s answer. Pax will not let up with this commitment thing, and it’s so damn hard because I don’t want to hurt him, and Idocare about them. They are more to me than just scorchingly good sex. But…we have Jack the Ripper, and Edward being Edward, and I just…I don’t have time to think about feelings, or why it is that even the idea of those three little words makes my mouth feel like it’s full of sand.
I just need things to stay as they are, for now. But how can I get him to understand that?
I grab the moldavite off the bed, plus the bag of herbs from Vera’s box, on the off-chance the witches can tell me what it’s supposed to do. I also grab an extra jumper, because an English summer is no promise of decent weather. As I head back into the foyer, my eyes dart over the wall of family portraits we have hanging over the stairs. There’s several of me with my parents, one of five-year-old me grinning next to my brand new red bicycle, and several of Mum and Dad’s parents and our relatives – including an old portrait of a stern-looking lady wearing a pink blazer.
“Hey, Bree-bug,” Dad calls from the door at the end of the hall that leads out into the garden. He kicks off his Wellingtons and joins me in front of the portrait wall. “I was just checking on my prize-winning cucumber. The festival is only a few days away and she has never looked better! It’s like magic. What are you looking at?”
“Oh, just our life.” I lean against his shoulder as my eyes dart from frame to frame. My favourite is the big family Christmas we host every year. All Dad’s brothers and their wives and my cousins invade Grimwood for a week, and Mum and Dad cook up a huge Christmas feast and we each buy a silly Secret Santa present that costs less than five quid. My stomach twists when I think that I haven’t been back for Christmas in five years…and now I’d never get another Christmas like that. “We’ve had some fun times.”
Even though they don’t show up in the pictures, Edward, Ambrose, and Pax are part of every memory of this house. I was looking forward to making memories with them that could hang on this wall, but I guess not…
“We certainly have,” Dad’s voice catches.
My eyes fall back on the painting of the woman in the pink blazer. Something about her face stirs a memory, but I can’t grasp it. It’s not so much a vision of her, as afeeling. I’ve met her before. Except I haven’t, because she’s a great-something-or-other and I’m pretty sure she died before I was born.
It’s strange, because I’ve passed this portrait a thousand times and never got this sense before, but now…
She’s the lady in my dream.
The dream I had the other night, when Ambrose woke me up. She wasinmy dream. And she said…
I gaze at the portrait, my heart hammering against my chest. The rational part of my brain tells me that I’ve passed this wall of photographs and portraits thousands of times, so of course my subconscious mind would incorporate her into my dream. She probably represents Grimwood in my mind, a symbol for all the secrets of this house that are being painted over…
…but I’m too attuned to magic now to assume anything is a coincidence.
“Who is she?” I point to the portrait. “I remember you telling me once, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Oh, that’s your great-grandmother, Elsie. Your mother’s grandmother. She owned the house before we did. I think you would have liked her. She always sang to her own tune, as your mother would say.”
“Did I…” I frown at the image. “Did I ever meet her?”
Dad gives me an odd look. “She died about five years before you were born. Even your mother didn’t have much to do with her, which is why it was such a shock when we inherited the house. Elise never married, which was a bit of a scandal in her day, and she raised your grandfather Bert all alone. He got out of Grimdale as soon as he came of age, a bit like you; he had itchy feet, I think. Or perhaps he just wanted to escape all the gossip about his mother. Anyway, Bert moved up north, met your grandmother, and raised his family. He never came back to Grimdale, not even for a visit. I don’t think Elise was in the house much, either. She was a bit of a vagabond, liked to travel all over. Your mother had only been to Grimwood once, for Elsie’s funeral, before we got the news that we inherited it.”
“Wow. I didn’t know any of this.”
“I’ve probably told you a hundred times, but when you were a kid you only wanted stories about dashing princes, fierce warriors, or gentleman adventurers. Nothing else would hold your attention.”
Or perhaps some rowdy ghosts were distracting me. “I’m not sure I’ve changed much.”
“And that’s why I love you.” Dad leans over and kisses the top of my head. “Listen, Bree-bug, your mother asked me to tell you. We’re having the first open home on Sunday. Gwen says the ad campaign has been going well and she has some interested buyers. She wants to get them in to look at the house.”
A hard lump forms in my throat. “An open home? But the paint will barely be dry!”
“We’ve got time to air the place out a little, and they’ll hardly be rolling around on the walls. I know it’s hard for you to think about selling Grimwood.” Dad kicks the baseboard affectionately. “Believe me, it’s breaking our hearts, too. But sometimes we have to make hard decisions. Your Mum’s right, I’ve been kidding myself for a long time that I could still look after this place. It’s too much for your old man and his shaky hands. Grimwood deserves someone who will give it the love it deserves.”
