Page 26 of A Witch in Notting Hill

What was I supposed to say? He’d know I was lying if I said yes, but I couldn’t go telling him my grandmother—the very woman for whom we were supposedly finding this book—was dead, could I?

“Just, um, a bit overwhelmed,” I said. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

I waited to see if he would say anything else, but all he did was slide down the wall beside me into the same position on the floor. Wordless, but even more of a presence as a result.

“I just want to find the book, you know? To do the right thing, reverse the spell.”

“You say that like you have something to prove.”

“Are all Englishmen this perceptive? Or just the bookish kind?”

“Just the bookish kind.” He smiled. “We’re a rare breed. Speaking of which...” He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and waved it in front of me, smiling when I grabbed it from him.

“What’s this?”

“Our next stop.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“That should be my line.”

“Oliver, I can’t let you do this. I’ll take it from here,” I said. I wasn’t totally lying when I said I was overwhelmed. This was becoming a lot, grandmother or no grandmother.

“It’s not only me you have to contend with now,” he said. “You think Minho and Lola aren’t going to jump at the chance to make another stop? Those two are bored to death. They’re dying for something interesting to do.”

“We can hear you,” Lola called from the bottom of the stairs, making me laugh long enough for the tears to subside.

“Last stop,” he said. “She’s certain it’s there.” He got to his feet and held out his hand, warm and rough and twice the size of mine, helping me off the floor without a trace of judgment.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Chapter 12

Oliver

Our final stop was the British Library. Though I’d never admit it, this probably should have been our first stop. In the occult bookselling community, we sometimes got so caught up in our own network we forgot about the public network. The network that had seemingly innumerable resources available at all times.

And that the British Library was home to more than 170 million items. A hell of a lot more than the occult bookselling community.

A short Tube ride let us out at King’s Cross, where we were swept into commuter traffic.

“God, I forgot how bad commuting sucks,” Lola complained as we joined the throngs funneling onto the escalators.

“You go to happy hour every other day,” Minho said. “You’re literally in these crowds the second your workday ends.”

“You also go to happy hour every day,” she argued.

“Which is why I’m not complaining.”

I glanced over my shoulder to roll my eyes at their bickering, only to realize I’d been so hellbent on getting out of the crowdthat I’d stopped keeping Willow out of the public eye. While it might not have been technically as important as my other job, it was a job I’d assumed nonetheless, and I was failing at it. And I hated failing at a job.

The second we stepped off the escalator, I hooked a finger through her belt loop and pulled her to my side. “Stay close,” I said. “The crowds are a good place to hide. Keep your eyes low. I’ve got you.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, I could have sworn I felt her exhale.

I guided her through the crush of people with a hand on her hip and Min and Lola close behind, taking my own deep breath when we finally spilled out of the station and onto the street.