Page 69 of For Dear Life

I stalk into the hallway where a tall dark wood grandfather clock faces us, bronze pendulum swinging to count the seconds in loud tick-tocks, and Rowan follows closely.

“Everybody’s very interested in my house all of a sudden.”

“Oh?” I almost bump into her as we enter a tall-ceilinged lounge room filled with light from the bay windows that look over the rear of the property.

The strength of lavender in the room hits me. Not only the scent, but the woman must love the flower and color because there’s a definite theme that extends beyond her hair and clothing. When I’m old, will I obsess about violets?

No, because age isn’t anything to worry about. I glance at a photo of an elderly couple on the stone mantel above a spotlessly unused iron fireplace—the woman and her husband in their wedding attire. How odd to think Rowan will age and I won’t.

Something odd tugs at my chest as if Rowan pulled me with him as he steps forward. He’s my witch bond. How does that work for me with a non-immortal?

“Is your name Lavender?” I ask.

“Elizabeth, my sweet,” she replies. “Do sit. I’m making tea. Would you like a cup while we talk?” Elizabeth doesn’t wait for an answer as she walks through her lavender painted door into a kitchen.

No exchange of names? Suits me.

“Lavender?” asks Rowan quietly.

“I agree, overkill on the color.”

“No, you asked—” He shakes his head. “I suppose you confirmed she’s one of the Brightgrove couple.”

“Right. Check the dresser drawers,” I say and point at the massive piece of furniture dominating the room, covered in a plethora of fine China animals and a vase of lavender sprigs. “I’ll take a look out the back of the house.”

“We can’t start ransacking the place, Violet,” says Rowan sternly and perches on the edge of an overused, brown-cushioned sofa.

“And we don’t have time for cozy chats. This is a fact-finding mission, Rowan.” I blow air into my cheeks. Where do I start? “Good grief. What’s that doing here?” I take a sudden step behind the sofa Rowan settled on, as a fat, not-China calico cat eyeballs me from where it balances precariously on top of the dresser.

“Are you scared of cats?” asks Rowan.

“There was once an unfortunate incident regarding a cat and—” I cup my mouth to hide my reply from the cat. Who knows? This could be a familiar. “Necromancy.”

Rowan’s mouth curls as if he’s about to laugh at me. Well then, he’s the first person I’ve ever met who finds necromancy amusing.

I startle as the cat springs from the shelf, continuing to eyeball me, then wanders away, tail upright as if giving me the middle finger. The woman reappears with a rectangular silver tray containing a ceramic teapot decorated with flowers, and matching cups and saucers. A plate of cookies rests beside a small silver milk jug, and she places her bountiful offerings on the low table in the center of the room.

“Tea?” The woman sits and picks up the teapot.

“I’d rather not poison myself,” I say. “Do you have any photos?”

“Violet.” Rowan’s teeth are clenched. “I’m glad she can hardly hear what you’re saying. Let me speak.”

I watch as the woman pours tea into a cup she sets in front of Rowan. “Don’t drink mysterious brews at a witch’s house,” I mutter. “Please consider that this could be someone linked to murder.”

“‘Mysterious brews’. That’s clearly ordinary tea, and I’d detect if it wasn’t.” Rowan chuckles. “But yeah, okay.”

A loud shout followed by laughter carries through the partially open bay window. I shall take a look out there while Rowan works on the witch, since he insists on performing the interrogation.

“I feel unwell. I require some fresh air,” I announce and turn to leave, before lowering my voice. “Please try to stay alive until I return, Rowan.”

Before anybody comments, I leave the house via the door we entered through and pause. Yes, there’s magic around this house, but nothing stronger than I’d expect for two elderly witches.

Where’s the woman’s husband?

I skirt around the side of the home, avoiding walking past the window near Rowan and the woman. The building undergoing renovation isn’t far from the house, brick built and at least a century newer than the main residence. The roof’s intact, but one side of the house demolished. My boots crunch over discarded wood and drywall as I wander to where a dumpster is filled with broken orange brick and splintered wood. From my hidden vantage point, I peer through a frameless window.

Workers gutted the majority of the building’s interior, including removing carpets. So far, there’s no attempt to rebuild or remodel with no scaffolding or sign of fresh building material nearby. Although plastic sheeting replaced the carpets and, to be frank, looks better than the stained and highly floral ones in the dumpster.

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