But even the best of her memories didn’t seem to be working tonight.
It was this kind of night that made her think twice about taking medication, that made her fears seem ridiculous compared to what she was putting herself through. She was so utterly sick of feeling this way. Of having nothing to fight this with. The counting game could only help until it couldn’t.
One, the bars of light on her ceiling.
Two, her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.
This was bullshit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SAMUEL
Sage Widow had changed.
As he entered the dimly lit interior of the shop he tried to remember the last time he’d been in. Vaguely he remembered shelves crammed with tins and boxes of tea, an aisle of coffee beans in glass jars, but now…
The aisles were narrow and crooked, and signs hung on chains from the ceiling, full of scribbled cursive that said things like Potions A-Z and Spellcraft Ingredients.
Sam gaped around for a moment before snapping his mouth shut. Apparently Margery had redecorated slightly since her expulsion from the church.
Honestly, it didn’t bother him. He could appreciate the irony.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shuffled past the first few aisles. He wondered briefly—and blasphemously—if there was a potion he could make, some kind of magic spell, to ease the horrible guilt.
He hadn’t slept much last night. Every time he closed his eyes Dayna’s pale, freckled face appeared, her accusing look eating at his insides.
He took a breath and tried to shake the thoughts off, moving deeper into the store.
For the most part it was empty, though in the second-to-last aisle he nearly ran into a tall, skinny woman. Sam staggered to a halt, and then recovered himself quickly. “Oh, Mrs. O’Neal, hi.”
The older woman paled and then abruptly shoved the bundle of herbs she’d been holding back onto the shelf. She gave him a strained smile and backed away. “I…I thought I’d come in for some tea—” She darted a look over her shoulder, still moving backward. “They don’t have what I want. Uh, I’ll see you later, Sam.” She disappeared around the corner before Sam could say anything.
Sam stayed where he was for a moment, startled. What had that been about?
“Not many churchgoers caught dead here,” a voice said behind him, “and now I get two in one day?”
He whirled around and then relaxed. Margery was leaning against the shelf at the end of the aisle, grinning at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Samuel?”
“I had a question I was hoping you could answer.”
“Always happy to help out a friend.” She gave him a wide smile, which made him feel a little guilty. He wouldn’t have described her as a friend, exactly, not after his mother and everyone at church had basically abandoned her.
She seemed to interpret his hesitation as some kind of need for privacy, because she beckoned him into the back room. “Come on, I’ve got a nice little armchair set up back here for breaks and such.”
They passed through the shop and by the front desk, and Sam tried to ignore the fact that the stand on the desk had a large selection of silver pentacles displayed on chains.
The back was stacked with boxes and crates, and there was a table in one corner piled high with jars of herbs. This was where Margery directed him, and Sam settled into one of the overstuffed green armchairs beside it.
“Tea?”
“Uh, no thank you. I shouldn’t actually be too long. I just had a question about something…um.” He winced. There was really no good way of asking this.
He wasn’t proud of this line of questioning, but so far it was his only potential lead, as far-fetched as it was. Besides, he kept telling himself that even though he knew magic wasn’t real, the Butcher might think it was. The symbol on the barn wall, if that’s what it was, still might be a clue.
Margery raised her brows. “And what are we getting into, Samuel? Research for something, maybe? A new project?”
Margery knew about his true-crime fascination. She’d happened upon him reading one of his books in the coffee shop once and asked him about it. Sam had found she listened without judging, and he’d ended up telling her more than he’d meant to about his strange hobby.
He sighed. “You probably already guessed, but yeah, I’m looking into the Butcher. This is a long shot, but I thought you might be able to tell me what this was.” He took his phone out and pulled the picture up.
Margery squinted down at it, frowning. He was watching her face as she stared at the picture, and so he was able to see a spark of recognition, followed by careful blankness as she turned back to him.
“What’s this a picture of? What does it have to do with the Butcher?”
Sam gave her a long look. She’d definitely had some kind of reaction to the mark. “It’s a shot of the side of a barn from ten years ago on the Isle of Man…” He trailed off, and then when Margery continued to stare at him, decided to take the plunge. “…where they think the Butcher tried and failed to kill a sixth victim.”
Margery blew out a breath and glanced down at the phone again. Sam’s gut began to churn. She knew something.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s a mark that means banishing,” she finally said. “It’s magic.”
There was silence for a moment as Sam tried to digest this. Again, he told himself that he didn’t believe in magic, but other people did. And those people might be involved in this case. “You’re sure?” he said. “It just looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” His stomach was churning again, only this time it was excitement. He might have made a break in a decade-old case. It seemed impossible. “That means the Butcher thinks he’s doing magic.”
Margery shook her head. “Not him,” she said. “Whoever he is, this isn’t his work. Not unless he’s a very good forger. This is the work of a witch.”
Sam frowned. “How can you tell?”
“Because I recognize it.” Again, her expression was guarded.
“Does the witch…” He cleared his throat, feeling strange about calling someone that. “Does she have a scar on her face, or maybe her neck or shoulder? It would be a big scar, something that almost killed her.”
Margery thrust the phone back into his hands and, to his dismay, began to walk back toward the front of her store, toward the door.
“I think you should leave, Samuel. You’re asking after things you don’t understand.”
“No, please.” Sam hurried after her. “Margery, come on. I’ve been studying the Butcher for years now. All of this fascinates me.”
“I don’t mean the murders”—Margery paused by the door—“I mean magic. There are more things in heaven and earth, Samuel, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” She looked at him a second time, more closely, and then sighed. “You’re not going to let this alone, are you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. Honestly, I don’t think I can.”
“Her name is Harriet King,” Margery said reluctantly. “It’s her magic, I can tell just as well as if she’d signed her name. The way she draws the pentacle…And yes, she has a scar.” She tapped the side of her neck. “A thick one, this side of her throat.”