Page 7 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Some witches kept rabbits. Some kept rats. A few particularly forward-thinking souls had embraced the digital age and gone in for virtual pets. Augustine was old school though; a black cat was the only familiar she needed, and Bird was the quiet joy of her otherwise lonely life. He was living proof that some magic — a swishing tail, a vibrating purr, the occasional judgemental stare — was simple and pure.

“Finally.” The lock to her door gave out with a familiar click, and Augustine nudged it open with her shoulder, adjusting the cat food once more.

She was home. Thank God.

She shut the door behind her, leaned her forehead against it for a heartbeat, then dumped her shopping and shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on the hook by the radiator. She slipped off her shoes and headed through to the living room; Bird mewed at her from his usual windowsill. She ran a hand over his head gratefully before collapsing onto the nearest sofa and closing her eyes briefly.

“Good day?”

When she opened her eyes again, Roy was exactly where he always was, curled into the battered wingback chair by the fire, legs crossed, book propped open in one hand. The flames threw soft light over his face, catching the silver at his temples. He didn’t look up right away — just turned a page, entirely unbothered by the world at large.

Then he glanced at her, taking her in with his beautiful emerald green eyes. He lowered his glasses at her thoughtfully, running his gaze over her face.

“Or should I rephrase that?” he drawled. “Bad day?”

Augustine curled her feet up under herself. “Yep.”

Roy hummed thoughtfully. “Care to elaborate, or are we doing that brooding-in-companionable-silence thing we often indulge in?”

She chewed on her lip, staring into the fire. The logs popped softly while a minute passed, then another. Finally, she said, very carefully, “Have you ever told anyone about me?”

That got his full attention, and Roy closed his book with deliberate calm, setting it aside. “And what about you would I tell?” he asked. Augustine gave him a look.

“You know. About who I am. Who my family are. The whole, uh, witch thing.”

“Witch thing?” he repeated bluntly. “You don’t even pick up a broom to sweep this place, let alone go flying on one at night.”

“Roy.”

He shrugged. “Look, so far as I’m concerned, you’re simply my roommate who makes questionable choices regarding both fashion and career.” He paused. “Besides, when do I ever go out?”

She blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t know. I just—” Augustine shook her head, already annoyed with herself. “Ignore me. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Yeah. You are.” Roy cleared his throat. “What happened today?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t believe you.”

Augustine huffed, sinking further into the sofa and glaring into the fire. Roy had that effect on people, being as persistently present and annoyingly perceptive as he was.

Royston Laurent Harold (the third, but only when he was feeling fancy) had been born into old money, and proper old money at that. He was the kind of rich that came with portraits of unsmiling ancestors and the confidence of someone who had never, ever had to worry about rent payments. It was a constant mystery to Augustine why he was here, wedged into the attic of a slowly collapsing townhouse in Greenwich, instead of some draughty manor with a library, AGA, inherited gun collection and velvet curtains so heavy they probably needed a butler who could bench press 220 to open them.

Roy spent his days working on what he referred to — without a single hint of irony — as the great British novel, while his evenings were spent firmly putting his nose in her life and business. Roy was always reading or typing, always watching, and always noticing far more than he let on. His eyes missed nothing, least of all her.

She wasn’t sure whether he was a perk or a drawback of the flat. Maybe both.

On the plus side, he and Bird tolerated each other without too much complaint, and Roy never brought home any of his toffee-nosed, old-money friends to clutter up her space with their over-emphasized vowels and opinions. On the minus side, he was impossible to lie to and far too comfortable asking questions he had no right to ask.

“Nothing has happened,” she repeated stubbornly. “I’m just out of sorts.”

Roy snorted softly. “Augustine, please. I know you now. When you say nothing like that, it means something has gone catastrophically sideways.”

She grimaced. Damn him.

Bird chose that moment to hop onto the arm of her chair, tail flicking imperiously, and Augustine reached out to scratch behind his ears, more for her own grounding than his enjoyment. Roy watched the small gesture with a knowing look.

“So?”