The Walker cottage wasn’t much to look at from the outside. Unlike the charming exterior of The Lucky Teapot, which had clearly seen years of care and improvement, this cottage had the air of one that had fallen into disfavour. The windows were dark and unwelcoming. The front garden, which Cam remembered from his childhood as bursting with colour, was now an overgrown tangle of sad green leaves hanging off twiggy branches. The window frames were flaking white paint, and the thick oak front door looked more in need of repair rather than quaintly weathered. An iron horseshoe hung just above the rusted metal knocker.
Cam unlocked the door and sheepishly held it open. ‘It’s not much to look at on the inside either, I’m afraid.’
‘I like it. It’s rustic,’ Lachlan said lightly, stepping over the threshold.
Cam flicked on the lights. He watched Lachlan’s expression twitch with almost-concealed dismay.
‘It’s, um, cosy,’ Lachlan managed.
‘It’s not always this messy,’ Cam mumbled, hurriedly shifting a stack of cardboard out of their way. He led the way through what had once been a comfortable sitting room, but was now merely a dumping ground for spell ingredients and boxes of motorcycle parts. ‘I still take repair jobs, alongside the witching. Not many people specialise in bikes around here, you know?’
Jars of miscellaneous herbs covered most surfaces. One of Cam’s first acts upon moving into the house had been to transfer everything non-culinary out of the kitchen. He’d had visions of accidentally seasoning his pasta with deadly nightshade or sprinkling powdered hemlock into his coffee.
‘You, um, really like salt?’ Lachlan pointed at three huge sacks of rock salt taking up most of the space on a three-seater sofa.
‘Most important weapon in a witch’s arsenal,’ Meredith said brightly, like she was reciting it from a book—or a long-remembered conversation. ‘Along with iron. Cam, you should really take more out with you.’
‘I can only fit so much on the bike.’ Cam dug into a pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled with salt to show Lachlan. ‘I always have a little on me. Most preternatural creatures don’t like it.’
‘I remember being taught to throw salt to scare away evil,’ Lachlan said thoughtfully. He picked up a jar filled with faded pink blossoms and made a small sound of surprise. ‘I recognise this. Betony, for healing wounds. And over there is bog myrtle, for curing fevers.’
Meredith raised a curious eyebrow. ‘You into folk-healing, kiddo?’
There was thebriefestflash of affront across Lachlan’s calm features. He may have looked fresh-faced for a three hundred and thirty-five year old, but Cam had never heard one of the Teapot’s patrons refer to him that way before.
‘My mother taught me a lot,’ Lachlan replied hesitantly.
Meredith nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s useful. She must be very knowledgeable.’
‘Yes,’ Lachlan said with a smile. ‘She was.’
Silence ballooned into the space where Meredith had clearly been about to speak. She shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her jacket. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realise.’
Lachlan gave her shoulder a cheerful pat as he walked past. ‘Don’t be. I’ve had a long time to come to terms with it.’
Cam swore he saw Meredith’s heart break for him in that second. By the way her face softened, and her eyes taking on a watery sheen, he knew she’d basically adopted Lachlan from this point on. It prompted a confusing flurry of happiness in his stomach, to think that she’d warmed up to Lachlan so readily.
Cam beckoned Lachlan to follow him through a low doorway with a dark oak lintel. ‘All the notes are in here.’
The back room was the real hub of the Walker cottage. One wall was lined with an aged wooden cabinet sectioned into many small square drawers. Each contained carefully filed notecards, organised alphabetically and by subject. A chart above the cabinet gave instructions as to which topics were where—like their very own Dewey Decimal system for an incredibly specialised library. Cam’s parents had fondly referred to it as the internet before the internet and had relied solely on the handwritten scrawls of their ancestors to guide their research.
The next wall along contained the family ledgers: the original sources from which all the notecards were compiled. A line of salt on every shelf created a barrier in front of the books, while a plethora of occult symbols carved into the bookcase formed another layer of formidable protection. Looking at it now made Cam’s Scorched eye twinge. Pink and purple stripes danced over the ledgers like a living net.
On the third wall, opposite the note cabinet, was the Walker family tree.
Lachlan gasped beside him, eyes wide as he took in the intricate, complex map of generations. It spanned from both corners and the ceiling nearly down to the floor, detailing on stylised tree branches the names of every Walker witch from the past five hundred years along with their immediate kin, dates of birth and death, all splitting and sprawling across the generations until the whole tree began to narrow to a single point twisting downwards, with Cam’s name dangling at the very bottom of it.
Cam was used to seeing it by now, despite the awful sense it gave him of bearing the weight of all those names on his back. Meredith’s name sat a little above his, connected to his dad. Meredith Young, sister of Evan Young. Evan Young, husband of Amelie Walker. Amelie Walker, Witch Incumbent.
Cameron Walker, Witch Incumbent.
Lachlan turned in a slow circle to examine the room. It was just as packed as the sitting room, but with piles of books and papers filling both floor and table space. A large desk took up most of the centre of the room, though you could barely tell by the mountain of pages obscuring it.
Despite the mess—normal, expected—Cam’s brow furrowed as his gaze snagged on things out of place. Several drawers in the cabinet had been left open. A sheaf of local newspapers he remembered leaving on the desk had been knocked to the floor. And most worryingly…
‘Meredith,’ he shot her a sharp look, ‘did you move anything in here while I was away?’
‘No?’ She sounded puzzled. ‘Only to find a notecard on werewolves. I put it back, obviously.’
