of my Granny’s funeral and she’d been here ever since.
‘Does Eva know you’re asking me?’ I said now.
Mum nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She thinks it would be better to have someone we know, rather than get in an agency witch.’
I gaped at her. Agency? Who knew witchcraft was so 21st century.
‘What about Harry?’ I managed to say.
‘Harry’s got some problems at work,’ Mum said. ‘I think it’s worse than she’s letting on, but she’s not telling of course. I also think things may not be completely fine at home. But she’s keeping quiet about that too. You know she’d be here if she could.’
I wasn’t convinced. I knew Harry adored her mum, but she could be very selfish when she wanted to be. She uses magic all the time. Seriously. All. The. Time. Which is why she’d be so useful to mum and Eva now. But if she wasn’t helping then she wasn’t helping – no one could make Harry do anything she didn’t want to do, least of all, me.
‘We need you, Esme.’ Mum held my hand tightly. ‘Suky needs you.’
I sank down in a tatty armchair. They did need me, that much was true. They needed me to help in our family business – running the Claddach Café.
Mum, Suky and Eva run the café together. Mum – who’s always been an amazing cook – does most of the baking but they all pitch in. Mum’s also the business brain so she does all the books. Eva, who’s a talented potter and ceramicist, provides the crockery and in one corner, Suky has her ‘pharmacy’. She has a comfy sofa, screened off from the café, and a shelf unit filled with an apothecary’s dream of glass bottles. She offers a comforting ear and herbal remedies for the villagers’ medical complaints. And for more, erm, complicated problems, and, of course, for those problems that haven’t quite been voiced, Mum and Eva are on hand to help.
It’s an open secret that the McLeods can help with exam stress, fertility problems, annoying neighbours – anything really. Ask anyone outright and they’d laugh at you or dismiss Suky’s remedies as a placebo. But in reality, just about everyone in Claddach has had a helping hand at one time or another whether knowingly via Suky’s potions, or unknowingly, thanks to Mum, Eva and Suky stirring secret spells into their cakes and lacing their biscuits with sorcery.
And like I said, that’s why they needed me. The good stuff wouldn’t really get going unless there were three of them casting the spell. With Suky ill they needed me to make up the numbers and help them stir up the spells for their special cakes and bakes. They needed me to be the third member of their coven and it was absolutely, positively the last thing I wanted to do.
I looked at Suky who was sleeping peacefully, her thin face showing no sign of pain. Then I looked at Mum who was standing watching me, waiting for my answer. Somehow I knew I’d regret what I was about to say.
‘OK. I’ll help out,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. I knew when I was beaten. ‘But only a bit. I’m not getting mixed up in anything I shouldn’t. I’ll only help when we’re asked to.’
Mum beamed at me but I waved away her gushing thanks.
‘It’s late and I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘I’m off to my bed. We can talk about this tomorrow.’
I kissed Mum briefly and touched Suky’s hand, then I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and pushed open the door. Turning on the light, I looked around. Mum hadn’t redecorated since I’d left home and my walls were still sponged peach and cream. I’d thought it was the height of sophistication when I was fifteen. Now it just looked twee. My bed was made up with the Take That duvet cover I’d discarded as childish when I was fourteen. I was half annoyed and half touched that Mum had looked it out for me.
Knowing I’d regret it if I left it until the morning, I tugged my clothes out of my case and hung them up. My city clothes – I didn’t really do casual – looked out of place in the old-fashioned wardrobe. Then I pulled on my pyjamas and sat on the edge of my bed. It was strange to be home after so long, but somehow it already felt like I’d never been away.
I picked up my phone and texted Dom, letting him know I’d arrived safely. I didn’t expect a reply and I didn’t get one so I switched off the phone and put it on my bedside table. And then I noticed the book. It sat squarely next to my bed and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. Mind you, I thought to myself rolling my eyes, I couldn’t be sure it had been there before. The book was about the size of a school exercise book but much thicker. It was bound in aged brown leather and had no markings on the outside.
Picking it up I noticed someone – Mum no doubt – had stuck a piece of paper inside, with a smiley face drawn on it.
‘Nice try, Mother,’ I said out loud. I plumped my pillows up, then wriggled under my duvet and sat back with the unopened book in my lap. I had butterflies in my stomach and my hands were trembling. I didn’t need to open it – I knew exactly what it was.
It was a spell book. All witches have them. They’re heirlooms, passed down through families (mine had been left to me by my granny when she died. She left Harry an identical one; I suspect there’s a stockpile somewhere) and they’re supposed to be well cared for. It’s implied, ridiculous as it sounds, that they’re almost living things; a gateway to all sorts of magic, as well as a kind of logbook for successive witches to record their spells.
‘Books are wonderful, Esme,’ I remembered Mum telling me when I was small. ‘But they can be dangerous. Why do you think the Nazis burned them? Spell books are even trickier to handle. Treat it like a wild animal.’
I’d gazed at her, wide-eyed.
‘Will it bite me?’ I’d asked.
Mum had laughed.
‘Almost definitely not,’ she said. But she hadn’t looked very sure.
‘Generations of McLeod witches have added to this book,’ she said. ‘The magic in here is very strong. Use it wisely and treat it with respect.’
With a flash of guilt I thought about how I’d actually treated it. I’d read it with Mum when I was a child, but when I hit my teens I’d cast it aside and abandoned it without a second thought when I’d left. Mum had clearly rescued it and kept it safe in case I ever needed it.
With shaking fingers I picked up the book. It was cold and hard. I turned it over in my hands and smoothed the cover, and as I did so, something strange happened. I felt – and I know this sounds crazy – that the book recognised me. There was a sigh and suddenly the leather softened and warmed under my fingers.
Reassured and freaked out in equal measures, I opened the first page. Whatever I thought about my dubious inherited talents, I knew I had to brush up on my spells – even if I wasn’t keen on being the Third. Apart from my magic being at best rusty and at worst unpredictable or even downright dangerous, I’d never agreed with my family’s bad habit of interfering in people’s lives without being asked – especially since I’d been on the receiving end of their meddling. But I knew the café couldn’t survive without my help and I owed it to Suky to do whatever I could. Even if all I could do was make a few sparks and probably a bit of a mess.
So, even though I was apprehensive about facing my past, I decided to read my spell book and see how much I remembered. I blew the dust off the pages and settled down to read. Some of the pages were handwritten, some typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Some had notes scribbled on them. There were even photos stuck in between some of the pages. It was fascinating, but it was late and my eyes were soon heavy with sleep so I put the book aside. I knew I had a lot of brushing up to do, but it could wait until morning. Realising I needed to get up again to switch off the light, I started to get out of bed, then, thoughtfully, I stopped.
‘May as well start as I mean to go on,’ I said to no one. And I waggled my fingers at the light instead. With a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, the bulb exploded and the room was plunged into