Page 122 of Hexed Up

“Sorry,” I tell McGruff, changing direction and walking towards the Crooked Antlerinstead. It’s still early and the landlord is lifting the stools from the tables and placing them on the floor. I don’t care. I march straight to the bar and order a pint of his frothiest beer. I stand there and glug the lot, trying not to think of Horatio glugging that antidote, and ignoring the curious look from the landlord. When I’m done, I slam the empty glass back on the bar and wipe my hand across my mouth.

Surprisingly, the drink hasn’t made me feel any better. If anything the bubbles in my stomach and the slightly judgemental look in the landlord’s eyes make me feel worse. My stomach is churning and I’m close to vomiting.

There’s only one thing for it.

I set off towards the tube station.

Several hours later, and after several sticky tube and train journeys, I’m standing on the doorstep of my parents’ house and rapping on the door. After a few minutes, it swings open and my mum’s standing there, looking immaculate and beautiful as always and gaping right at me.

“You’re early!” she says. Then peers down at her wristwatch. “You’re… six hours early.”

“I know,” I say. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course I don’t mind. It’s just unusual. Come on in.”

I hesitate.

“Actually, I think McGruff might prefer to go off chasing squirrels. Do you mind if I let him go?”

My mum scowls down at the dog who’s jumping around her feet, attempting to lick her.

“Fine,” she says. “You can go off chasing squirrels. But don’t go anywhere near the shifter’s house. You know that always ends in trouble.” She wags her finger fiercely at him to emphasise her point and I unclip him. He jumps up at my mum first, licking her hands, then spins on his back legs, and dashes off into the forest, yapping with joy as he does.

“That dog is a menace,” my mum mutters.

“I know,” I say. “But you love him, really.”

My mum gives me a pat expression, beckons me inside, and shuts the door.

“We’re in the kitchen,” she explains, and I follow her along the hallway and into the bright, cosy kitchen, sparkling and immaculate as always.

My grandma sits at the end of the table. Spread out in front of her are two piles of silver cutlery. Behind her several sharp knives are already chopping and preparing vegetables for tonight’s roast. I walk over to her, bending down to kiss her cheek, and then taking the chair beside her as my mum strolls towards the stove and commands it to put the kettle on for tea.

My grandma lifts a fork from one pile, buffs it with a yellow cloth before laying it back down in the polished pile.

My mum joins us at the table, placing a cup of tea in front of me and then taking the seat on the other side of Grandma. She examines the most recent additions to the pile of polished cutlery, picks one out that’s a little smudged, and places it back in the first pile.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask her as she places her hands flat on the table in front of her.

“Gone fishing. He’ll be back for dinner later.”

I nod, lifting my mug to my lips and blowing across the hot liquid.

“So what brings you here so early?” my mum asks me. “It’s very unlike you, Molly. Is something the matter?”

I sigh and lower my cup to the table, keeping my hands wrapped around the warm ceramic.

Everything is such a hexed-up mess and I’m terribly confused and, yes, a little hurt.

Where do I even begin?

I sigh dramatically. Then lift my gaze.

“Mum,” I say. “I don’t really run a cupcake business.”

I’m guessing that wasn’t the confession my mum was expecting from me. It takes her a moment to respond, to my surprise she looks neither shocked nor scandalised.

“Of course you don’t, darling,” she says.