“What happens if I take it early?” Abby queried.
“You get sick. Very sick. Stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, fever, delirium, cold sweats – you name it, you’ll get it. It only lasts a few days, a week at most, but you’ll look like death and not only will you want to die, those around you who don’t know you took the potion, like your boyfriend and, say, doctors, will think you are. Dying that is,” Cassandra said.
“Well, that’s out,” Abby muttered.
Cassandra leaned toward Abby, her eyes going soft, and said gently, “I’ve sent out feelers to see if any other witches have a usable potion, Abby. I know it doesn’t sound good but maybe we’ll catch some luck.”
Abby gave her a small smile before asking, “What’s option four?”
“Option four is your cat,” Cassandra told her.
Abby blinked. “Zee?”
Cassandra nodded. “Not all felines have the ability, but your cat does.”
“What ability?” Fenella asked.
Cassandra looked at Fenella. “Ghosts don’t like cats on the whole. But cats like Abby’s they’ll avoid like the plague. Cats like Abby’s can do what Abby could do if we had a usable potion. See the ghost, even when hidden, sense it before it comes and fight it.”
“Fight it?” Abby prompted.
Cassandra leaned forward and nabbed a scone and a knife. “Fight it, yes, but not destroy it. Fend it off. Say, if Vivianna was stalking you or even attacking you, your cat could do her damage. Weaken her. Make Vivianna disappear until her strength returns.”
“Let’s do that!” Fenella screeched.
Cassandra’s eyes went back to Fenella as she cut open her scone and started to slather it with cream. “Two problems with that.”
“Bloody hell,” Abby muttered and thought, Great, two more problems.
“One,” Cassandra continued, “when Vivianna came back, she’d be angry. Very angry. Abby would be gone but your family would be in targeting range.”
“That’s not good,” Mrs. Truman commented under her breath.
“Two, I said Abby’s cat could fight it, I didn’t say her cat would win,” Cassandra noted. “And Vivianna can’t die. But Zee can.”
“That’s out,” Abby stated instantly.
Everyone went silent.
Then Fenella cried, “So what are we going to do?”
“I need a scone,” Abby muttered, leaning forward and seizing her own scone.
“I’ve got some amulets, some powders, some potions. All for protection. Some of it pretty potent stuff. I’ll give Abby everything I’ve got and show her how to use it,” Cassandra answered Fenella.
“And then what?” Mrs. Truman asked.
Cassandra sat back with her fully-loaded scone and responded, “Then we hope,” she took a big bite and chewed.
Suddenly Mrs. Truman’s back went ramrod straight and she looked from right to left.
Then she said, “That better be Jennifer.”
“What better be Jennifer?” Fenella asked.
The doorbell rang and Cassandra, Fenella and Abby stared at each other in astonishment. They hadn’t heard a thing that would herald a visitor.
Then again, nosy Mrs. Truman undoubtedly had super-powered ears.
“Is Jenny coming over? I thought she was out with her pensioners on a field trip,” Abby asked, going for a double dip of clotted cream. Since she’d likely be dead in a week’s time, she might as well go to her grave with clogged arteries and cellulite.
“Yes,” Mrs. Truman answered while getting up and bustling toward the door, “she’s got a lead. She was checking it out. She must have news.”
Then Mrs. Truman was gone.
Abby spooned jam on her scone and glanced from Cassandra to Fenella. “It’s nice of you both to do this.”
Fenella just smiled and waved her hand in front of her face.
“I’m not nice,” Cassandra said, “I’m getting paid thirty quid an hour for this gig.”
Abby’s hand froze and the jam slipped from her spoon back into the pot. “What?”
Cassandra’s eyes went from the jam to Abby. “Thirty quid an hour.”
“But,” Abby began then looked back to her scone and jam, clearing her throat, “I didn’t… that is to say, I’m happy to pay you, I just didn’t –”
“I work for Mrs. Truman. She’s paying me,” Cassandra informed Abby and Abby’s mouth dropped open.
“Really?” she breathed.
“Sure,” Cassandra replied.
“I’ll have to pay her back,” Abby muttered while squishing the top of the scone on her jammy, creamy bottom.
“I wouldn’t try that,” Fenella warned.
Abby looked at her. “You wouldn’t?”
Fenella shook her head. “I mentioned I wanted to contribute, seeing as Vivianna is a family problem really. Mrs. Truman was a tad…” Fenella hesitated then leaned forward and whispered dramatically, “upset.”
Abby could very well imagine Mrs. Truman’s “tad upset” being described, more aptly by an American as “having a conniption”.
She decided not to mention it to the older woman. She also decided to bake her some cookies. And, maybe, buy her a knick knack.
Or two.
“This will not do,” Mrs. Truman declared, walking back into the room, followed by Jenny.
And Jenny was followed by a man the like of which Abby had never seen.
Well, she had. In a movie. And blowing on a bagpipe.
But not in someone’s living room during afternoon tea.
He was wearing full Scottish gear, kilt, hose, ghillie brogues, garter flashes, knife in the hose, belt, sporran, the whole enchilada.
He came directly to Abby, arm out, his shock of white hair wild, his face red either from cold or it was that way normally, his crooked, slightly demented smile wide and his huge body lumbering ungainly across the room.
“Wee lass, am I happy to meet ye,” he declared, Abby put her hand in his and he pumped her arm so hard, her whole body shook. Jam splodged out of the scone in her other hand and splatted on her knee. “Uh. Sorry,” he mumbled, letting go of her hand, his eyes on the jam.
“That’s okay,” Abby murmured, dropping her scone on a plate and grabbing a napkin to wipe up the spill.
“Praise be!” he cried, Abby jumped, looked up at him and he shouted, “A fine beauty and a sweet lass. Nothing better for our native son.”
“Oh my,” Fenella whispered, eyes wide and staring at the Scot.
“Were none too happy, we Scots, when Cash Fraser found himself an American. But one as fine as you, lassie, we couldn’t be unhappy for long,” he told her and then gave her an exaggerated wink.
“This is preposterous,” Mrs. Truman announced, arms crossed on her chest, narrowed eyes on the Scotsman.
“Mrs. Truman, give him a chance,” Jenny mumbled. “We need all the help we can get.”
“I’ll give him a chance,” Mrs. Truman returned, “a chance to turn around and walk out my front door.”
“What’s this I’m hearing?” the Scotsman bellowed.
“Maybe you should tell us who you are,” Cassandra suggested, peering at him closely.
“Excellent idea,” the Scotsman declared and put his hands to his hips, planting his legs wide. “I’m Angus McPherson,” he told them as if that said it all, which it did not.
“You are not,” Mrs. Truman informed him irritably and he blinked.
“I’m not?” he asked.
“No one is really named ‘Angus McPherson’,” she stated.
He shook his head and then recovered.