Guide The Willow Valley Witches Book 4: Fabulous Four

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She was pretty enough but clearly lacked confidence. And something else. There was an absence of worldliness about her, despite her sham bravado, which, while strangely appealing to an adult, must have been a handicap for her among her peers. I saw now how solitary the girl must be. She did not fit in.


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She was an outsider. At that moment, with her guard down, loneliness emanated from her in painful ripples. The sound of the shop doorbell saved me from having to advise her further. Tegan, how are you, my dear? How is your mother? Ah, our newest new neighbor, forgive me for not having called in to welcome you to Matravers before now. His eyes shone with the love of life, and his smile was broad and sincere, but the very sight of him made my temples pound. It was not his fault. How could he know how the presence of a priest would affect me?

How could he ever imagine the fury that his Church ignited within me? The same Church that had condemned my mother and taken her from me. I took a breath to steady myself, but the smell of communion wine lingered on his vestments. Still his hand remained extended toward me. He waited. The girl waited. Mrs Price behind the counter waited. Such a small moment, and yet it would define my position in the village for as long as I live here. I straightened my shoulders and mustered a smile, clutching my purchases to me. Feel free to drop in; Mary would love to meet you.

All are welcome. Even after all this time I found it near impossible to conceal my feelings for an official of the Church. I had good reason to feel the way I did, but even so I was angry with myself.

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It was foolish not to be more in control and ridiculous to experience such fierce emotions toward every harmless reverend who crossed my path. Before I had reached the other side of the village green, I was assailed by a strong sense of foreboding. Unsettled as I was by the meeting with the priest, I recognized this to be a separate threat. I stopped. I lifted my chin and slowly looked about me. There was nothing to be seen. Not a movement. Not a shadowy figure. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Silent thatched cottages. A quiet terrace. An empty bus stop.


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    8. Ducks quacking with reassuring vulgarity on the pond. Nothing to be frightened of. Nevertheless, it was with no small amount of relief that I reached the sanctuary of Willow Cottage and closed the door swiftly behind me. I was up before dawn to load the car with my produce.

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    The vehicle is, by any standard one cares to judge, a mixed blessing. It is an elderly Morris Traveller—small and cheap to run but with a roomy boot and helpful rear doors to allow me to transport my herb teas, oils, lotions, soaps, preserves, and wine hither and thither. It necessitates, however, the most tiresome paperwork. Every few dozen years I am compelled to reinvent myself, largely to be able to comply with the requirements of traffic laws.

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    Nevertheless, I admit to a certain fondness for the vehicle itself. I rarely travel far, but without the car my market trading would be difficult, and the stall is an essential way of generating income. And of allowing those who need me to find me, of course. I must adjust and adapt and present myself with a more. The car was reluctant to start but responded to a spell. I left the engine running while I finished loading and secured the doors with string. I was locking up the house when I heard the motor stall.

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    Without thinking, I focused, made myself still, and repeated my spell. It was only when I returned to the vehicle that I noticed Tegan standing at my gate, her expression all too clearly revealing that she had witnessed my remote motor mechanics. She grinned, her eyes bright. I pushed past her and secured the gate. Can I come?

    With you. I could help. As always, she was wearing too few clothes for the chill weather and had about her a lostness that I could not ignore. Mum was out like a light. I would really rather not have had the company of a garrulous adolescent, but she was hard to refuse. It keeps coming.

    What did I say? The last thing I need is the attention of some nosey policeman. The market itself is, in truth, a lackluster affair. A mixture of worthy food, antiques of dubious provenance, pet supplies, heavily glazed china, and clothes that have had their labels excised. I had secured for myself a modest pitch, but in a good position at the bottom of the high street, where most shoppers would pass on their way to and from the car park and bus stop.

    Tegan put herself to good use helping me set up, apparently in no hurry to leave me. She showed an interest in my stock.

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    So much so that I was quickly weary from explaining things to her. I gave her a handful of coins. No sooner had she gone than a young woman parked her stroller at the stall and leaned over to scowl at the oils. There emanated from her such agitation, such anger, that I took a step backward. I noticed purple discoloration where her cheekbone met her hairline. She saw the direction of my gaze and turned to let her hair swing forward, but she knew that I had seen the bruise.

    Her babe was red-eyed but slept on in his stroller. And to ease period pains. The leaves make a tea. It smells disgusting. How do you use this? A balm for burns, stings, that sort of thing. I pitied the poor creature, so young yet clearly so unhappy. I pointed to a bottle of bergamot oil.

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    Give me a rum and Coke any day. I fetched a small blue glass bottle from the box I kept on my side of the table. The label bore only the picture of a half moon. She laughed, then caught my eye. I have found it often takes time for people new to my wares to pluck up the courage to buy them. No matter. Time is something I have in abundance.

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    Tegan stayed with me the whole morning, only reluctantly agreeing to catch the bus home after I insisted she do so. I paid for a pie for her lunch and gave her the busfare back to Matravers. She claims to be keen to accompany me every Saturday. We shall see.