Rogue Gadda: Dream of Asarlai Book Three

By Nicole Murphy

The Gadda must find the rogue before human and gadda are both destroyed ... third book in an irresistible new urban fantasy
'a rollicking romp' tHE COURIER MAILAsarlai has set loose one of the most dangerous gadda who has ever lived. As she regains control of her plans, she finds a powerful ally and the pressure builds to stop her and retrieve the Forbidden texts before she can change the world forever.Hampton Rourke is convinced he's not the right man to be leading the search for Asarlai. He's come so close and failed so many times - what guarantee is there he can ultimately succeed? When the clues lead to Boston and he stumbles upon one of the fabled lost families, Hampton faces challenges that will test his faith not just in himself, but in his power.to make the situation even more complicated, Hampton finds himself unwillingly drawn to Charlotte Haraldson, a woman who hates gadda and power. But she might hold the secret to finally stopping Asarlai for good. Does he dare risk his heart for the sake of all gadda?Praise for Nicole Murphy:'engaging' DAILY tELEGRAPH'compelling' KIWI REVIEWS

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730497837

Nicole Murphy

Nicole Murphy is the author of the Dream of Asarlai trilogy, and a couple of dozen speculative fiction shorts. As Elizabeth Dunk she's published contemporary romance with Escape Publishing and in June will be releasing a collection of paranormal erotic novellas, also with Escape.

Book preview

ASARLAI

Tension hummed through her body, but the woman who called herself Asarlai didn’t dare let Rogan Connor see it. The only relief she, the sorcerer, could find was to clench her toes inside her shoes. Otherwise, she kept her hands resting on her knees and her expression blank.

Connor held the amulet up to the light, looking at the crystal suspended in the middle of the polished knot of wood and silver. He turned the piece around, pulled it close to his eye, held it away.

‘The gem is flawless, Anna. It should work well for your needs.’

‘Thank you, Patrick.’ They had agreed at all times to use the names they’d adopted for their human personas — Connor thought there was less risk of their real identities being revealed if they refused to use their own names at all.

Asarlai saw the sense in it, although it was no concern of hers. Rogan Connor thought her real name was Lisa Booker, so letting that name slip would affect her little.

However, if the guardians found out that Rogan Connor, banished murderer, was still alive, and that he had regained some use of his power …

She looked down at her hands to check they still looked relaxed. Every day, she cursed how her genius had backfired.

She’d experimented on Ione Hammond Gorton to finally give the young woman the power she deserved. Somehow, the incantation had gone wrong and, while Ione had received power, Asarlai had been robbed of her own.

More than that, she’d become some sort of sink, a place where power disappeared. When she’d come to Boston to meet Connor and he’d taken her hand, she’d sucked some of his power away before either of them could react.

Luckily for Connor, what he’d lost was most of the veil of banishment placed on him. He didn’t have full access to his own power yet, but he was a smart man and soon would.

In the meantime, her lack of power made her vulnerable. She hoped this mix of incantations she’d pulled from the Forbidden Texts would solve her dilemma.

‘A remarkable idea,’ Connor said. ‘I am again awed by your knowledge.’

Asarlai allowed a small smile to curve her lips. Connor had made no secret of his frustration that she had information he had never known existed. He couldn’t fathom how she knew it, or from where it came. She was never going to tell him of the enthralling and intriguing notions carried within the texts. He was dangerous enough.

In the case of the amulet Connor held, she’d combined a common hardening incantation with her own personal potion, created for her at birth. Using a diamond as a seed, she had taught him to create a storas — a gem that should enable her to not only store power but wield it.

Star above, she hoped it worked.

‘You have the power?’

‘I do.’ Connor put the amulet down and picked up a steel container. Over the past few weeks, the two of them had been milking various plants around Boston of their power. Not enough to raise the suspicions of the gadda who lived in the city, certainly not enough to bring their actions to the attention of the guardians.

‘Speak the incantation to turn the gem into a storas, and then put the power into it.’

Asarlai closed her eyes and listened to Connor’s deep voice. Anticipation bubbled within her, like water boiling on a stove. The steam of desire and dread spread through her body.

‘Done.’

She opened her eyes and held out her hand. ‘Give it to me.’

Connor handed it over carefully, making sure he didn’t touch her. The slightest contact of skin on skin would be enough to have his power draining into her and disappearing forever.

She waited for the thrill of feeling the power nestled in her hand, and almost cried when she felt nothing. It didn’t mean failure, but she was desperate to bathe in the warmth and strength of her power.

‘Leave me,’ she said.

‘I would like to watch this, Anna.’

She looked into his dark eyes and her heart shivered. He’d treated her with respect, and kindness, but she never let herself forget what he was.

A murderer. A man capable of taking a woman’s throat in his hands and crushing the life from her. And if that wasn’t enough, she knew what was in the secret room behind his bed …

‘I need to be alone.’

A pause, then he nodded and walked out of the room. The thick wooden door closed behind him, but Asarlai was sure he was listening on the other side.

She closed her eyes, focussed her attention, put Connor from her mind. This, then, was the moment.

She undid her blouse, unhooked her bra with shaking fingers and put the chain over her head so the amulet rested on the middle of her chest. There, on that spot, had once burned the invisible mark of the gadda — the six-pointed star of gulagh, a heart in its centre.

She hoped to be branded again and to be a first-order gadma once more.

She picked up a beaker that was sitting on the floor by the leg of her chair. She looked at the pale blue potion within and shuddered. This was going to hurt.

She took a deep breath and then poured the potion over the amulet, onto her chest. It was like jumping into a fire — instantaneous agony that drew a scream of horror from her throat.

She closed her eyes but couldn’t avoid the stench of burning flesh. She’d erred. Despite all her consideration and planning, she’d made the wrong choice. This wasn’t going to save her.

It was going to kill her.

She barely heard Connor’s voice. ‘Star above.’

She gripped the arms of the chair, struggling to hold her body still so the potion wouldn’t spread and burn the rest of her. She thought she asked for help, but she couldn’t be sure her lips moved.

Then she was drenched in coolness, and the fire on her chest flickered and went out. Gasping, shivering, panting, she opened her eyes and looked at Connor, standing before her with a bucket in his hands.

‘Are you hurt?’

Tears welled — tears of frustration, tears of fear. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

She could feel the skin on her chest shrinking, pulling tight, and she wanted to hunch over and cover it. She opened her eyes and looked down, needing to see the damage and yet scared to do so.

There wasn’t any. The amulet lay on her chest, as clear as it had been before she threw the potion on it. She frowned, and poked at the pink skin around it. It hurt, but it wasn’t burnt.

She pushed her hand under the amulet, pressed her palm to her skin, and felt warmth, and a faint tingle. Her fingertips shifted and her eyes widened.

She closed her eyes and started the process of meditation that would take her to the place where her power was stored. She was stopped by a veil of white mist that hid her destination, yet within that mist was power.

Power she could use?

She wasn’t going to celebrate. Not yet. Not until she knew it was true.

She opened her eyes, and held out her hand. ‘Touch me.’

‘Anna —’

‘Touch me, Patrick. Just quickly. You won’t lose too much power.’

He frowned. ‘Will I lose any at all?’

‘I don’t know. Touch me.’

He sucked in a breath and then quickly whipped his fingers across the palm of her hand. Nothing. His eyes widened and he repeated the movement a little slower. Then he grasped her hand, squeezing it so tightly that the delicate bones ground together.

Nothing. His power stayed put. So did hers.

‘Bloody hell.’ He released her. ‘You did it. You’re saved. You have power.’

Finally, Asarlai allowed herself to smile. ‘Yes, I do.’

He took a step backward and she could almost see the thoughts moving through his mind. He hadn’t dared attack her before — she would drain him before he did any damage. But now that wasn’t a concern he was wondering if he could get the information he wanted from her.

‘Yes, I have power. I also have the ability to drain. Remember that.’

He smiled. ‘You are a woman after my own heart, Anna Leman.’

Asarlai stood, fixing up her clothing. ‘We make a good team, Patrick Dublin. If we keep that in mind, we’ll both have what we want.’

He nodded. ‘How about some champagne to celebrate?’

‘A good idea.’ She turned and led the way from the laboratory. ‘And we must discuss what will happen next.’

Asarlai had to fight not to dance through the kitchen and up the stairs. After all her fear and concern, there was a next. Her plans were back on track.

As they reached the street-level lobby, the doorbell rang. Patrick nodded toward the stairs to the library on the next floor. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’

Asarlai went up to the richly furnished room and sat down on a soft leather armchair with a contented sigh. Working toward her goals, striving to master the texts and their often inconsistent performance, had been a journey of incandescent beauty and bone-shaking pain. But at this moment, she felt a wonderful sense of calm. The end was in sight. Soon, very soon.

She heard two people coming upstairs, a woman’s voice, and realised the celebration was going to be put on hold. One of Connor’s ‘friends’ had arrived.

The door opened and her partner looked at her. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our discussion.’

Asarlai hated many things about living with and relying on Rogan Connor, but seeing this wild heat in his eyes was the worst. Here in the human world, Connor had found the perfect way to satisfy his urges without getting into trouble.

She hoped that the women who came to see him knew what they were letting themselves in for.

A small face was glimpsed just past his shoulder. Asarlai knew this girl. She’d been coming here regularly for several weeks now. This one seemed to relish what Connor did to her.

‘Of course. I’ll see you at dinner.’

He nodded, closed the door and she heard a giggle as their footsteps continued to the floor above.

Asarlai waited until she was sure they were in Patrick’s bedroom before she went back down into the laboratory, closing the door behind her with a click.

Down here, she couldn’t hear the high-pitched screams and low moans of sweet pain. She could forget what was going on.

Besides, what Connor did to the humans was no concern of hers. She had a more important mission: raising the gadda to the status they deserved.

Rulers of the Earth.

ONE

The door shut with a clap and Hampton Rourke heaved a sigh of relief. He’d finally done it — he was going to have a few precious moments at home, alone, doing what he loved most.

He looked around his study and smiled. He hadn’t managed to make it here — his inner sanctum — for weeks. Oh, he’d tried. He’d opened the door, and even stepped into the room several times. But a bellow for the Sabhamir would ring through his head before he could close the door and at least pretend he had shut the world out.

Even though there’d been no sign of Blair Callaghan or the Forbidden Texts for two months, the imbalance in the world’s power they were causing was slowly but surely spreading. Incantations that usually caused no problem had started to go awry. People were finding themselves able to do things they’d never trained for and were getting them wrong.

Hampton shook his head, wondering why he was just standing there. Star alone knew how long this precious respite would last — he’d best get on with things while he could.

He walked past the mahogany shelves with their rows of books, past the winged armchair and the half-read book that sat on the table next to it, and stopped in front of his most prized possession.

He lifted a hand, drifted his fingertips across the strings of the harp and sighed as the sweet notes hovered in the air around him. Once, he’d made his living as a professional musician, spending all his days enchanting people with the beauty of the harp.

Then his father had died and somehow he’d been the one chosen to replace him. The Sabhamir. The protector of the gadda. Supposedly the most powerful being alive.

Hampton shook his head as he sat down at the instrument. It still amazed him that the moment he’d donned the black, all the ‘shame he’s not as good as his father’ comments had stopped. He was the Sabhamir — his ability could no longer be questioned. He wondered if his elevation to most powerful gadda meant everyone else had lost some of their ability.

Pushing the disturbing thoughts from his mind, he called on his power and fed it into his fingernails, lengthening and strengthening them to handle the pressure of the wire strings. He pulled the harp back to lean on his shoulder, took a deep breath and another to calm his heart rate, and then he started to play ‘Brian Boru’.

There was that wonderful moment, when the vibration of the instrument echoed through his body as the sound reverberated through the air, and he became not just the player, but part of the music. How any musician could play any instrument but the Irish harp, he didn’t know.

Then he started to pay attention to the music that was flowing. Too fast, he thought as his fingers moved over the strings. Calm down, Rourke. Gently. Slowly.

He closed his eyes and allowed the ebb and flow of the melody to seep into him and settle his body and mind, his nerves tingling as the echo of the harp reached deep into him. This was where life made the most sense and where he found happiness.

‘Hampton.’ He recognised the voice of the Ceamir, Maggie Shaunessy, in his mind. ‘I need to see you.’

Hampton looked at the strings, ran his fingers over them one more time then sighed as he set the instrument upright again. ‘In my office.’

He walked through his apartment to the office of the Sabhamir, the place the general population could access. Maggie was waiting for him. She was an attractive woman — warm curves, wide smile, blonde waves — but it was her sense of humour and intelligence that Hampton most valued. In the five months since she’d become Ceamir, the guardian responsible for liaising between humans and gadda, she’d also become a good friend.

‘Something weird’s happening in the States.’ She waved a piece of paper in her hand. ‘It’s not the usual gadda-having-fun-at-humans’-expense, so I thought you’d want to check it out.’ She held the paper out.

Hampton took it and began to read. It was a newspaper report of a couple having seen some sort of monster in their yard. They said the monster seemed to be feeding off a grove of black alders. When the man went out to investigate, the monster had disappeared.

‘Sounds like the monster transferred,’ Hampton said. ‘Black alders are a known source of power. Before we learnt to control our power, they were a staple part of gadda diets.’

‘A monster, feeding off a source of power: sounds a bit more than joking around to me,’ Maggie said.

Hampton realised he was smiling. He shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be glad to hear this,’ he murmured. ‘Where is this place —’ He picked up the paper again. ‘Storm Lake, Iowa?’

‘Here.’ Maggie handed him a second piece of paper. It was a map of the US, with a dot placed near the centre of the country. ‘On the other side, you’ve got more detail.’

Hampton turned the paper over. ‘I can’t think of any gadda who live near here.’

Maggie looked at her watch. ‘It’s still early morning there. It’s possible for you to pop in and out without being noticed.’

‘And if I am?’

‘I guess you wipe the humans’ memories.’

‘I hate doing that,’ Hampton muttered. He looked at the picture of two people in front of a tree that accompanied the article and created the image in his mind, then overlaid that with an approximation of where it was. Prepared, he transferred.

Maggie had been right — the sun was barely above the horizon and the house was still in shadows, with no sign of movement. He turned around and walked over to the grove of black alders.

As he got closer he felt a chill move around his feet and his heart began to thud. It was a terrible, yet familiar, sensation. Two more steps and he bent down and touched the ground. Darkness.

He stood with a grin. Finally, Blair had started using the texts again. He summoned Kenyon and Maggie, and they were there within moments.

‘Well, now, this is different,’ Kenyon said, looking around. ‘To what do I owe this honour, Sabha-boy?’

Hampton grinned. Kenyon had long been his closest friend of the guardians, despite being more than twenty years his senior. As the Garramir, responsible for maintaining the balance of power worldwide, he was generally expected to have a dour sort of personality. However, Kenyon had a knack for mixing humour with dedication to his work and did a great deal to help keep Hampton sane.

‘Maggie, keep an eye out. Ken, we’ve got the texts back in action. Can you tell me if any power was taken from the trees and, if so, how much?’

Kenyon stepped forward, put a hand on the first tree and a small whistle escaped through his teeth. ‘Oh boy.’ He went around and touched all the trees, then turned to Hampton.

‘They’ve been almost drained,’ he said.

‘The monster has quite a stockpile of power, and it’s taken it somewhere.’ Hampton walked around, touching the ground from time to time, until he found the spot where the monster had transferred. He sought for a thin wisp of power in the air, grabbed hold of it, then transferred along the line.

He found himself in an empty room. He looked around, amazed it was unfurnished. He’d expected to transfer into a gadda laboratory. He looked at his feet — no star of gulagh on the floor.

Curious.

He searched for the power of the monster, or that of its creator, but there was nothing but darkness. It seemed Blair had used the texts to hide her departure from the spot.

Clever, he thought as he sent a message to Maggie and Kenyon and transferred back to the yard.

He arrived to find Stephen, the Coiremir, and his partner, Ione, there. Kenyon was using Ione’s abilities as a lodestone — an unending source of power — to re-power the trees so the humans wouldn’t have to deal with dead plants.

‘Well?’ Stephen said.

‘They’ve hidden themselves, and the monster. But I don’t doubt it’s the texts at work.’

‘Damn,’ Stephen muttered. Hampton knew the teacher of the gadda blamed himself for not catching Blair earlier. She had been one of his employees and he’d actually been in her house and interviewed her the day before she disappeared.

‘But at least Blair is acting again,’ Maggie said. ‘While she’s acting, there are clues for us to follow, things for us to do. Makes it easier to find her.’

‘I don’t like the thought that Blair is gathering power,’ Hampton said. ‘She was formidable enough, thanks to the texts.’ Not for the first time, he wished he’d studied the damned things while they were under his care. At least then he’d know what they were up against.

‘We’ll outsmart her, don’t worry.’ Maggie patted his arm.

Hampton hoped she was right.

TWO

Sunlight streamed in through the rows of glass bottles that sat on shelves in the window and cast patterns of blue, green, red and gold on the floor.

Charlotte Haraldson stood at the door of her shop, Charlotte’s Chamber, and took a deep breath, capturing all the wonderful scents before releasing the air and, with it, any concerns she might have. She couldn’t have a happy day in the shop if she didn’t enter with a positive outlook.

She turned the sign in the shop window to say open and then stepped inside. She walked around slowly, first checking the rows of bottles in the window. Each bottle needed to be in the right place: the same distance apart and the same distance from the front and back of the shelf. Order made life go more smoothly.

Then Charlotte moved to the shelves on the right of the door that held all the accoutrements a follower of Wicca would ever need: wands, anthames, crystals, cauldrons of varying sizes, powders and potions. There were books, charts and pieces of art to entertain and inform.

The shelves on the opposite wall held a large variety of occult pieces, including things for voodoo. The last wall, directly opposite the window, was covered by a vast mural depicting a Druid ceremony.

Around the shop floor were tables with displays of objects and books. Charlotte wandered around, straightening everything. The table where she sat and served was large and round and looked more like it belonged in a chemist’s laboratory than a shop. It was here she mixed various potions to suit the needs of her customers.

She put her bag under her table and went over to the altar. It stood at the front of the store — a small square table made of willow and covered in a white cloth.

She didn’t use it often; on the first day of each month she’d perform a rite of blessing, and she observed the eight days of power, but her main place of rite and ritual was at home.

However, the altar here acted at all times as a shrine to the Goddess and God, and a reminder to Charlotte of the need to keep in touch with nature and follow the creed of doing no harm.

On the table’s left side was a seashell to represent the Goddess, on its right a pine cone rested, as a sign of the God. In the middle was a vase, in which Charlotte put a new bunch of flowers.

At the front was a small censer containing a cone of incense. She set the incense alight and then closed her eyes and focussed on the sensation of the sun’s warmth on her face, picturing the patterns of colour thrown over her skin by the bottles.

She opened her heart and mind to the Goddess and God, asking them to guide her in her efforts. She stood until she felt replete with their power.

Concealed within the mural were three doors. The one to the right led to the reading room. Charlotte went in, made sure the large soft pillows were plumped up and lit the incense sticks. She turned on the tiny fountain and then smoothed a hand over one of the brightly coloured silks that hung in place of wallpaper. Here, customers could read a book to decide whether it was right or not.

The middle door led to the most important room — the essential oils. At first, customers believed the coloured display at the front was where she kept her oils. Charlotte used it as an excuse to educate them on proper storage: a cool, dry place, out of direct sunlight. Keep the bottle closed.

She turned on the small lamp, which provided enough light to see without too much heat, and quickly checked that all the bottles were still in place. It was a practice that reassured her.

Finally she went into the kitchenette through the third door, putting on the kettle to fix herself a strong cup of coffee. Coffee was a terrible vice but she figured that since her life was healthy and wholesome in so many ways, a little vice would keep her human.

A bell rang and she stepped out of the kitchenette to greet her first customer of the day. A young man stood by the doorway, indecision on his face. Charlotte smiled widely. A newbie. Well, she’d convert him.

‘Good morning.’ She walked around her table and toward him with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m Charlotte Haraldson. How do you do?’

She knew such a normal greeting surprised people, since they were expecting tambourines or blessings, and this young man was no different. Without thinking, he held out his hand and took hers. Charlotte nodded. Contact was made. The first step was over.

‘I’ve not seen you in here before, and I remember all my customers. At least, I flatter myself that I do.’ She laughed and was glad when he smiled. Good, he was relaxing. ‘I’m guessing you’ve never been in a shop like this before. Are you here just for curiosity’s sake, or were you hoping to find something in particular?’

‘Mind if I just look around?’ His eyes travelled over the shop and his body tensed, as though he expected one of the knives to actually fly at him.

‘Not at all. We have a reading room at the back so if there is anything in particular you want to look at, feel free to take it in there.’ She pointed to the right-hand door. ‘And nothing here is out of bounds, so touch, taste, smell, anything you want. Here.’ She reached out and took a blue bottle off the shelf. She unstoppered it and held it out to him. He looked at it suspiciously, then at her.

‘Just hold it out in front of you and use your hand to pull the smell toward you, like this.’ She demonstrated, then held the bottle out to him again. He hesitated, then leant forward and took a sniff. His eyes widened and he took a deeper sniff.

‘What’s that?’

‘Myrrh, as in the three wise men. Mainly used for healing. It’s a very strong smell. Here.’ She picked up a little wad of paper, pressed it against the top of the bottle and quickly tipped it to wet the paper. Then she stoppered the bottle, put it back and gave the paper to the young man. ‘For you. The scent should last until tonight and you should have a happy day because of it.’ Even if it wasn’t the pure oil she had out the back.

The young man lifted it to his nose, took a deep breath in and smiled. Then he began to walk around the shop.

The kettle whistled. Charlotte went into the kitchenette, made herself a cup of coffee and then sat down at her table to sort through her mail.

The young man walked over to her and she looked up with a smile. He shuffled his weight from foot to foot, then smiled sheepishly. ‘I was wondering if you know anything about love potions or the like.’

Bingo. ‘I know a fair bit. What did you want the potion to do?’

‘There’s this guy …’ He blushed and looked down. ‘He means a great deal to me, but I don’t think he’s really serious about us.’

‘So you want him to be serious about you? A potion can’t really do that, but what you can do is use a potion to make him open to discussion, open to listening to you. But really, if he’s not interested, you don’t want to keep him by force, do you?’

The young man frowned. ‘You’re talking me out of the potion? Interesting sales technique.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘I want you to understand the limitations of a potion and to be sure of what you want.’

He shuffled his weight again. ‘I want him to pay attention to me. I want to talk to him, make him understand how I really feel, but he’s always so busy with work or working out.’

‘Now that, I can do.’ Charlotte stood and led him over to the oil room. ‘What you need to do is focus on your boyfriend, get a clear mental picture of him and fill your heart and soul with all the love you feel for him.’

The young man nodded and closed his eyes. At first, his face was dark and she was sure he was focussing on the current negative situation.

‘Think of the reasons you love him,’ she said softly. ‘Think of all the wonderful qualities that make him your perfect partner.’

His face softened, and his lips began to curve into a smile.

‘Wonderful. Now, hold out your hand.’ She took hold, and closed her eyes.

She’d always had a knack for picking up on people’s emotions, and she’d worked hard to finesse it for use with her oils. Soon, she had a clear idea of the person, the need, the desire.

She turned to the oils and started to pull bottles off the shelves. ‘I want you to smell these oils. Some will smell more right than others. Put those oils aside.’ She put twelve bottles on the table in the centre of the room.

The customer’s face twisted into a scowl. ‘How will I know if it’s right?’

‘Because you’ll have a physical reaction. Your heart will skip a beat or you’ll suddenly want to smile or you’ll feel giddy.’

He didn’t look convinced, but he walked over to the bottles. One by one, he began to unstopper them and take a sniff. Charlotte watched him carefully. The second bottle he opened brought an instant reaction. His head snapped up and he looked over his shoulder at Charlotte, a smile on his face. She nodded and smiled in return.

The bell over the door jingled. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go see to this new customer. I’ll be back in a moment.’

She stepped into the store proper and smiled at the sight of her stepfather. ‘Morning, Papa.’

‘Morning, darlin’ girl.’ Despite more than thirty years in America, Patrick Dublin’s Irish brogue was still strong. He took her hands and kissed her cheek.

She noted the dark circles around his eyes and frowned. ‘You didn’t sleep well last night, did you?’

Patrick sighed and lifted a hand to brush his black hair from his forehead. ‘I can’t hide anything from you, can I, Charlotte?’

‘Have you been putting lavender on your pillow?’

He smiled down at her. ‘It might surprise you to learn that lavender cannot solve all problems.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You mean you block its ability. But never mind. I’ve got some coffee in the kitchenette — make yourself a cup and, after I’ve served this customer, I’ll whip something up for you.’

Patrick nodded and walked into the kitchenette. Charlotte noted the slouching of his shoulders and sighed. Her stepfather was too brilliant to be suffering so.

‘Excuse me, I’m ready now.’ The young man stood in the doorway of the oil room. Charlotte went back in and saw he’d chosen five of the oils.

‘Excellent. We’ll take these to my table.’ She picked up three and the customer grabbed the other two and followed her.

She looked at the oils he’d gathered and had to refrain from shaking her head. It didn’t point to a good outcome for him.

‘Now, I’m going to mix all five oils together. Smell it and tell me which smell is too strong.’ She used a dropper to put one drop of each into a glass bowl, then held it out to him. He pulled the aroma toward him and winced.

‘The ginger is much too strong.’

She added one drop of each oil except the ginger and gave him another smell. ‘That smells pretty good.’

‘Does it smell right?’

He took another sniff. ‘No, not yet.’ She put four more drops in, then let him smell again. ‘Now the German chamomile is a little strong.’

She stoppered the chamomile and put in a drop from each of the remaining three oils.

‘Now the cedarwood is too much.’

She put in a drop each of tuberose and bergamot. He smelt it and sighed. ‘Perfect.’

She lifted the potion to her nose and gained the impression of a strong, confident and stubborn person. She couldn’t see how the person this scent was meant for would be right for the man in front of her, but that wasn’t her concern. She doubled the amounts, creating a teaspoon of the potion, and then mixed it with a non-scented oil base. She took a small bottle from a basket below her desk and poured the potion into it, then put a sticker on the bottle.

She smiled up at her customer. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Grant.’ The young man pressed his hands together, hope smoothing his face.

Charlotte wrote ‘Grant’ in a flowery script on the label, breathed on it, then put the cap on and handed the bottle to the young man. ‘Tonight, dab a little on your pulse points and on the place you want to talk. He will sit and listen to you with an open heart.’

‘Thank you.’ The young man clenched the bottle to his heart and smiled at her. Then he paid for the potion and hustled out of the shop.

‘Will it work?’ Her father’s voice came from the doorway behind her.

‘Of course it will work.’ She turned and smiled. ‘Whether he will achieve his dream is another matter. Now, I need to make up something for you.’ She started to stand but Patrick walked forward and gently pushed her back down into her seat.

‘I appreciate the thought, Charlotte, but I’ll be fine. This coffee has already revived me, and I’ve got a busy day today. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight and be my normal self tomorrow.’

Charlotte frowned. ‘Fine, but you have to promise that if you don’t sleep tonight, you’ll come and see me tomorrow. Promise?’

He shook his head with a smile. ‘I promise.’

‘Good.’ She turned to face her table again, shifting her weight in the chair. Her father’s hand landed on her shoulder with a thud.

‘What’s wrong? Is your leg bothering you?’

‘It’s fine, Papa. I’m just making myself comfortable, that’s all.’ As she spoke, her hand reached under the table to rest on her right thigh. Beneath the soft cotton of her long floral skirt she could feel the raised edge of the scar.

‘You don’t have to lie to me, Charlotte.’

‘I’m not, Papa, honestly.’ She smiled up at him. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’