Page 60 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Carefully, she reached forward and turned the card over.

The artwork bloomed into view: a young figure stepping out into an open landscape, the world stretching wide before them. There was movement in this card, as well as possibility. There was an untethering from what had been before, and a quiet, almost reckless invitation towards what might yet come to pass.

“The Fool,” Augustine said softly. “A new beginning. A step into the unknown. Growth, change, and new experiences waiting just beyond the edge of certainty.”

Her fingers lingered on the card a moment too long, and then the air shifted in a way she remembered all too well. The edges of the room seemed to soften, like the world itself were holding its breath.

Augustine’s gaze dropped back to the card, but the figure within it was no longer still.

It was subtle at first. A trick of the light, she thought. The suggestion of movement in the painted lines. But then the fool tilted — just slightly, appearing to adjust their footing at the cliff’s edge. The little bundle slung over their shoulder swayed. The dog at their heels lifted its head.

And then—

The fool looked straight at her, and Augustine’s breath caught, because for the briefest of moments, and almost impossibly, the figure seemed to smile at her. Not the fixed, painted curve of ink and colour, but something knowing. Something alive.

A flicker of mischief. A dare. Augustine watched as the fool tipped their head, and winked at her.

“Theo,” she began, but the room began to spin, and then—

Chapter Twenty-One

It’s our first date tonight, and I’m standing in front of my cupboard, chewing on my lip and wondering what to wear. Of course, I’m aiming for the holy trinity of potential new relationship clothing: sexy, sweet, and smart casual.

It is, I’m discovering, a deeply unreasonable goal.

Three piles of rejected shirts and two pairs of jeans later, I’m no closer to enlightenment. If anything, I’ve gone backwards. One of the shirts is inside out. I’ve found a hole in a fairly newish skirt. My mascara has been so infrequently used it's turned to nothing more than black clumps.

So, like any sensible woman who knows when to call in for reinforcements, I give up and call my sister.

“I need help,” I tell her, yanking out yet another skirt and immediately throwing it onto the ever-growing pile of failures.

“Okay,” she says easily. “With what?”

“I have this date tonight,” I explain. “With a guy,” I add, somewhat unnecessarily.

There is a beat.

Then — an ear-splitting squeal so loud it actually hurts my ear.

“You have a date? You?” I hear a loud clatter, like she’s just dropped something in shock. “Hold on, I need to sit down. No, wait — I need a pen. This is historic. I should document this. Alert the village elders.”

“Can you not,” I mutter.

“No, absolutely not. This is groundbreaking. This is a cultural reset.” More rustling. “Tell me everything. How did this happen? Did he lose a bet? Are you blackmailing him?”

“I met him at that Halloween party you dragged me to.”

“Halloween party . . . oh! You mean my office one?” She goes quiet for a second, and I can practically hear her rifling through memories. “Wait. That was ages ago. You actually spoke to someone there?”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “Briefly. After you abandoned me.”

“I did not abandon you.”

“You left me alone in a room full of strangers to go hook up with a man dressed as a devil.”

“Oh, right.” There’s a pause. “Him.”

“Yes, him,” I say, pulling out another pair of jeans. “Hope he was worth it.”