and run as if the devil was chasing me. If I got a good feeling from her, well, I hadn’t worked that out just yet.
“Please stop giving yourself pep talks, Nola,” I grumbled to myself. “Or your next stop will be a narrow window ledge.”
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door, the tinkling of a little bell overhead announcing my arrival. This was my grandfather’s shop? It looked so modern and . . . well, girlie.
The view from outside hadn’t done the place justice. Specialty Books’ decor was playful and whimsical, not at all what you would expect from a vampire-owned shop. The walls were painted a cheerful blue, with a sprinkle of twinkling silver stars. There were comfy purple chairs and café tables arranged around the room in little conversation groups. Little pewter fairies danced on the shelves around rings of marble eggs and geodes.
A large cabinet to the left of the register displayed a huge collection of ritual candles. Although they weren’t the sort of candle I needed, I picked up a pink pillar marked “Romantic Love” and sniffed the wax. Rosemary and marjoram, not your usual rose-scented mix. I could appreciate that. Candle magic was one of the more approachable arenas of magic for a “dabbler.” While most people were uncomfortable with rituals and poppets, they didn’t see any harm in lighting a candle. You just chose a color based on your needs—red for passion, green for monetary gain or fertility—inscribed the candles according to what you wanted, and lit them up. But you had to be careful what you asked for. Spell-based love was notoriously fickle. Casting for financial gain often resulted in quick money fixes but long-term crises. As with most areas of the Craft, I didn’t bother with it. But I liked the smell of Nana’s homemade candles, made with herbs and oils from her garden, and sometimes burned them just for the pleasure of the scent.
Most witches consecrated their own candles with special oils, herbal mixes designed for their particular purpose. But if you were dealing with novices, which this shop likely would, it made sense to sell candles made of prescented wax. And the candles seemed to be of high quality, good strong scents without being overpowering. Even if Jane Jameson wasn’t a practitioner, she seemed to appreciate what her customers would want and tried to give them a little more than was expected. That made me smile.
Beyond the candles, the leaded glass and maple cupboard that held the cash register displayed a collection of ritual knives. My heart seemed to stutter a bit. Ritual knives? Athames, right up front? My hands shook slightly as I looked over the display. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? I couldn’t just walk into my grandfather’s shop and find the first two items on my little shopping list.
I looked over the neatly arranged knives and candles. I’d only seen sketches of the athame in question—silver, with a black enamel handle, inlaid in perfect silver spirals, a large cloudy blue gemstone set in the center of the handle. The candle was thick, white, and round, standing nearly a foot tall, inscribed over and over with a distinctive double version of the Celtic knot.
My buoyant little bubble of hope popped and deflated as I scanned the items in the cabinet. The shop had a fine collection, but none of them matched the descriptions I’d been given.
Sighing, I wandered a bit around the neatly arranged bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books. Jane Jameson had scattered large black-and-white framed photos on the walls, smiling people, happy to be together. Was this her family? There was a wedding picture of the tall brunette and a handsome dark-haired man, though they looked to be dressed like something out of a BBC Jane Austen production. A holiday picture involving some hideous sweaters. I recognized Mr. Wainwright in a few of the shots—much older than he was in Nana’s photos, wizened to the point of being rather adorable, with a fringe of frazzled white hair and bifocals perched on top of his head. His face nearly crackled with laugh lines. He looked so happy, grinning broadly at the camera, particularly in the photos with the others. In one shot, near the register, the brunette had her arm slung around Mr. Wainwright’s shoulders, both laughing at something behind the camera.
I didn’t know how to feel about this. I’d pictured Mr. Wainwright as this lonely little hermit, living above