LITMIR.BIZ

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was staring into her eyes, as if waiting for something.

      ‘You sure you’re okay? I mean, finding Mr Cole like that—’

      ‘Course,’ Katie said, hating how stiff and formal she sounded.

      Anna hesitated as if she was going to say something else, then she touched Katie’s arm briefly and turned back inside.

      The shift went quickly enough. Chatter from the staff was that Mr Cole had definitely died of a heart attack, although Katie wasn’t sure if that was just gossip or whether it had been officially confirmed.

      She marched through the downstairs rooms of the hotel, collecting stray glasses, straightening rugs and making sure all the flower arrangements had water. She loved how working at The Grange made her feel purposeful and efficient. She didn’t want to do it for ever, but she liked being good at something.

      At a momentary loss, Katie decided to check the library. MOPs were forever leaving the complimentary newspapers in an untidy pile or taking them away. She pushed the door to the small library open and found her boss sitting on the gold brocade sofa with his head in his hands.

      He had a laptop open on the coffee table and was obviously busy but Katie was too far into the room to back out again. He looked up, embarrassed, and straightened his spine. ‘Hello there. What can I do you for?’

      ‘Nothing, I was just—’

      He stood up, running his hand over his head. ‘Just checking the accounts. Beth is due on Thursday but... You know.’

      Katie did know. Her father ran his own business and accounting was the bane of his life. That or invoicing for work. Or getting paid. The money side, anyway. And her aunt Gwen was self-employed, too. She’d run a market stall, Curious Notions, for years, but was successful enough now that she sold her work through galleries and took the occasional commission. It had taught Katie one thing: she wanted to be employed. Or be instantly so successful that she had a team of accounts and admin people to deal with all of that stuff. She gave Patrick a sympathetic smile and backed out of the room.

      ‘Is the restaurant busy?’ Patrick asked suddenly. ‘I know occupancy rates are down but are we still getting drop-ins?’

      ‘Not bad. Fairly full.’ Katie didn’t want to say that she and other waiting staff had noticed that it was nowhere near as busy at lunchtimes as this time last year.

      ‘Good. Good.’ Patrick looked distracted so Katie continued for the door. She was almost at safety when he said, ‘Go and see Jo for me, will you? Check that the special offer menu is finalised for after the Greg Barton show.’

      ‘Okay,’ Katie said, not wanting to think about Greg Barton and his ridiculous stage act. She still couldn’t believe Patrick Allen had booked something so tacky for his beloved hotel.

      ‘I should’ve booked your aunt in.’ Patrick was still talking. ‘Would’ve been a damn sight cheaper, I bet.’

      Katie didn’t answer. The idea of Gwen doing a psychic stage show was too ridiculous to contemplate and didn’t deserve a response.

      Patrick closed the laptop and gathered the pile of papers next to it. ‘Actually, I think I’ll go and speak to Jo.’ He gave Katie another look. ‘Are you due a break?’

      ‘Not sure,’ Katie said. She was distracted by the feeling that an insect had just landed on her arm. She brushed it away.

      Patrick was looking at her critically. ‘You should take five minutes. I don’t want people thinking I overwork my staff.’

      Katie looked down. The hairs were standing up along her forearm but there wasn’t anything there.

      Patrick left the room, still muttering something about the lunch menu. The light slanting through the small panes of glass in the bottom of the window was cold and hard, which was peculiar when Katie thought of the searing heat outside. Her head was still sore from her fainting fit the day before and she felt stupid, too.

      She wanted to be a wise and capable woman, like Gwen. A healer. A maker of spells. A fixer. Not a victim. And definitely not a delicate Victorian flower, requiring smelling salts and the loosening of her corsets at the sight of a dead body.

      Katie gazed at the oak panelling and wondered how many fainting fits, corsets and the like they had seen. Maybe none, Katie thought, looking at the tall bookcases. Perhaps women hadn’t been welcome in the library in those days. They used to think too much learning was bad for women, after all, and that novels rotted the mushy female brain. Katie wondered what the oak panelling would say about her shelves of giant books on herbalism and local history and then she caught herself wondering it and, instead, began to think that she had hit her head when she collapsed after all.

      Maybe Patrick was right and she needed to take a small break. She leaned her head on the back of the armchair; the generous wings gave her something to rest her head against. It was gloriously comfortable and within seconds her eyes shut. She was having a hazy day dream, halfway between sleeping and waking, when a sudden rush of cool air woke her up. It was as if an external door had been opened and then closed on a cold day. The cold air dissipated quickly in the warmth of the room. Katie looked at the door and the window but they were both still shut. Besides, it was so muggy outside that you couldn’t get a cold draught without an air-conditioning unit. The smell of pipe smoke made her sit up and look around again. There was nobody there, but she would’ve sworn that someone had just lit a pipe. Her grandpa had smoked a pipe and she remembered the rich, almost-sweet tobacco smell, utterly distinct from cigarettes. No matter, Zofia would still go mad. She had a hatred, not for smoking especially, but for guests that didn’t obey the rules of the hotel. Was really funny about it, actually. Katie thought about going to find the perpetrator, but then sank back into the cushions. She was too tired.

      Another blast of cold air forced her up and out of the chair. She was shivering, now, and every hair on her bare arms was standing up. The smell of smoke was stronger, the sweetness no longer comforting, but sickly. Katie felt as if someone were actually blowing pipe smoke directly into her face. She held her breath and looked wildly from side to side, narrowing her eyes as if that would help her to see.

      Nothing. There was nothing in the room. Nothing and nobody. She was just tired. The door opened suddenly and a teenage boy and his father walked in, arguing loudly. The father stopped speaking abruptly when he saw Katie.

      She plastered on her work smile and swept past them into the warmth of the reception hall. Katie stamped on the feeling that she’d just been rescued and went outside into the sunshine. She took several deep breaths, banishing the pipe smoke with the scent of freshly cut grass.

      *

      Katie had been visiting her aunt Gwen at End House on a Tuesday night since she was fourteen. They’d missed sessions, of course, for birthdays and holidays and when one of them was sick, but for seven years it had been a constant in her life. Pushing open the gate and hearing its familiar squeak and the thick scent of lavender as she walked up the path soothed her nerves. Things might not be perfect, but they weren’t terrible, either. She’d decided that she wouldn’t tell Gwen about passing out. It was probably because of the heat and the shock of finding Mr Cole and she was fine now. It would only worry Gwen and that was something she never wanted to do. Not again.

      She could tell Gwen about her bad dream, though, and the weird feelings would go away; a problem shared and all that. And if not, Gwen might be able to give her a spell to make sure she didn’t dream about Mr Cole again.

      Cat jumped down from the garden wall and began winding around her feet. Katie bent to pet him and heard raised voices from inside the house. Gwen and Cam were in the kitchen and the back door was open, probably to let air through.

      ‘It’s not my fault,’ Cam was saying.

      ‘Are you saying it’s me?’

      Katie straightened up quickly. She shouldn’t be listening; this was private. She wanted to announce her presence but couldn’t make herself call out. She felt weirdly guilty even though she hadn’t done

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