Page 19 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“We aren’t just browsing, are we?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smiled, and I tried not to roll my eyes. Best not to bite the hand that feeds and all that.

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to work my—” He cut himself off, bringing his knuckles to his teeth.

“Magic?” I asked, unleashing my best red carpet smile.

“It’s an idiom,” he grumbled. I let the small victory of getting under his skin propel me forward.

“Let’s see it, then,” I urged, and this time it was his turn to roll his eyes. I followed him in the direction of the market, secretly thrilled he had a plan. And even more thrilled I didn’t have to spearhead said plan.

The market had only been open for fifteen minutes, but it was already teeming with families, older couples, young people with trendy tote bags and tortoiseshell glasses, and tourists with actual cameras around their necks. Thousands of books were piled on folding tables, crammed into milk crates, overflowing from vintage trunks and wicker baskets. It would have been so easy to get lost in the piles, spending all day digging through treasures under the bridge like some kind of literate magpie.

Except I didn’t have all day, because Oliver was chatting to someone and waving me over like an impatient parent.

“Willow, this is Fergus, one of the most renowned purveyors of occult media in the city.”

“Aye, in the world.” He winked, shaking my hand. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya? Look like you could be in a film, there.”

Thank god Oliver’s snort demanded our attention, because I was frozen where I stood.

“Been telling her that,” Oliver said, deadpan. “Maybe one of these days she’ll listen and give it a go.” I stepped on his foot and made no effort to be discreet about it.

“Ach, they never do, do they?” Fergus said.

“They, uh—” Oliver started, fumbling when he caught my eye.Don’t you dare agree with him.“No matter,” he said, recovering. “D’you have a minute? We’ve a few questions aboutan old book we’re trying to find and I’m hoping you might have the foggiest where to begin.”

“If you ask me, I’d say you’ve already begun,” he said. “So you’re well on your way. Good on you! What is it I can do for ya?”

I nodded along as Oliver explained our dilemma, and Fergus was shuffling through an old journal the size of my upper body before Oliver had finished the story.

“Haven’t heard of anyone lookin’ for aRewindin yonks,” he mused, licking his fingers as he turned the wrinkled pages. “Quite an unusual collection, that one.” He hummed as he searched his diary, and we looked on, anxious and hopeful.

“But you’ve heard of it?” Oliver asked.

“’Course I’ve heard of it, boy. We just established I’m the top purveyor in the world of occult materials, did we not? Now if you’ll just hush for long enough to let me find it...”

Oliver pressed his lips together, and I tried not to smile. Though watching someone else put him in his place was oddly satisfying.

“Ah, there it is,” Fergus said, slamming his finger into the page.

“You have it?” I asked.

“’Course I don’t have it! Old Bromley over there on the other side of the river has it, last I checked.”

“’Course he does,” Oliver muttered, casting his gaze toward the sky and blowing out a breath.

“Do you know who that is? Or where we have to go?” I asked.

“Indeed I do,” he said. “Thanks, Fergus. I owe ya one.”

“Don’t get ahead of yerself now. I’ve no idea if he’s still got it. He’s just the last who had the collection, he is.”

“Worth a try.” Oliver smiled. “Take care.”

As he guided me out of the book market and back in the direction of the Tube, I stumbled over my questions. “How doyou all know so much? Does every occult bookshop owner know one another? You really know what he’s talking about?”