After the obligatory words of concern about my safety, Gerry’s face lit up at the prospect of being useful. At least, I think his face lit up. Maybe it was more of a vibrating of his shadowy outline. “Yes, Pops! I’m your guy for the job! Anything but more haunting. I’ve been learning how to move things just with thought, so that could really be handy for this assignment. So far I’ve been having a lot of fun terrorizing the sous chef in the kitchen by moving his grater around the room, but this is way better.”

  He floated through the door. “Catch ya later, Pops.”

  I made a promise to myself that this week, as well as searching for Valerie, getting through to the next round and learning more about being a witch, I’d find a way to help Gerry move on from this world. Phew. I felt exhausted already.

  Downstairs, the pub was buzzing with lunchtime business. The oak tables were crammed with guests drinking the local ales, and the smell of fish-and-chips tickled my nose. I went straight to Eve, who hadn’t been there when I checked in earlier, and sat on a stool, waiting for her to finish serving a smart-looking businessman type.

  “Poppy, love,” Eve said. “It’s so nice to see you.”

  The feeling was mutual. I liked Eve so much, and each time I saw her, she felt more and more of an older sister figure to me. Especially since I now knew she was one of my new sisters.

  We caught up on each other’s weeks, Eve filling me in on how busy the pub had been and all the village gossip, of course. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person who’d noticed how much time Susan and Reginald had been spending with each other. “They came in for dinner together the other night. Tongues were wagging. And I did overhear Susan say that the earl has decreased her rent so that she can stay on at the farm. I like Susan a lot, but she’s not going to make herself very popular around here if she’s not more discreet.”

  Oh, dear. I hated hearing that Susan was the subject of gossip. I wanted to defend her against the rumors, but how could I when I’d been thinking the same thing myself? But it was also a relief to hear that things in the pub were carrying on as normal. I couldn’t shake the feeling that things had started to go wrong in the village since I got there. What if I’d messed with Broomewode Hall’s energy vortex by trying to trace my family? But I had to snap out of that thinking STAT. I admonished myself and told Eve that this week was scone week and I still hadn’t decided on my final bake.

  “Ooh, well, you’re in luck. I happen to be in the possession of one of the most delicious scone recipes in all of Somerset.”

  I stifled a groan and listened as Eve imparted her scone wisdom, waiting for the moment I could butt in and order some fish-and-chips.

  As she was talking, gesticulating wildly as if stirring a scone mixture in the air, I saw a familiar silhouette in the doorway. It was Benedict, Lord Winford, the handsome but snooty heir to Broomewode Hall and the earldom. As he came into the pub, he wasn’t alone. A beautiful woman followed behind. She was wearing a silk wrap dress in burgundy and high heels in the same shade. She had a sheet of glossy blond hair, with impeccable honey highlights. Her brown doe-like eyes were thickly lashed, and she had the glow of the kind of year-round tan that suggested winters spent lying on the white sands in Barbados. She looked familiar, but I was having trouble placing her. Was she a model? Someone whose face I saw on magazines, pushing cosmetic miracles?

  Benedict greeted Eve and to me, said, “Hello, Poppy. I hear you’ll be baking scones tomorrow.”

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me. You have a secret family recipe for baking the perfect scone.”

  He frowned momentarily and looked taken aback. “I can’t bake. Katie Donegal makes brilliant scones, but she’s still in Ireland, I’m afraid. Anyway, you should really use your own recipes, not rely on other people’s.”

  Argh, that man drove me mad. Before I could explain that I was being sarcastic, Benedict turned back to the beautiful woman. “Eve, Poppy, this is Ophelia.”

  I felt my eyes widen. Now I knew why she looked so familiar. This woman didn’t sell cosmetics; she saved lives. It was Lady Ophelia Wren. She was a debutante and a doctor, famous for giving humanitarian medical aid all over the world. The press loved her, and she was often interviewed during medical crises in famines and war-torn regions. She was every woman’s worst nightmare—drop-dead gorgeous and a selfless doctor, risking life and limb to travel to those who needed medical aid the most. I looked from her to Benedict and back to her again. Benedict was definitely punching above his weight there. I mean, what did he even do all day? Pose for portraits and mend the fences?

  Lady Ophelia slipped her phone into an expensive-looking brown leather handbag. She politely ignored my gawping and extended her hand. Her nails were painted a gorgeous shade of pearlescent pink, and they caught the light as I took her delicate palm in mine. A gold charm bracelet jangled on her slender wrist.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, in a butterscotch-rich voice that made me tremble a bit. Any good feelings I had about my own wardrobe for the weekend flew right out the window. How did a person manage to be that elegant and that intelligent? Surely it was unfair to be both. More surprising, she seemed nice.

  “Shall we eat?” Benedict said, casually draping his arm around Lady Ophelia’s shoulders. “I’m famished.”

  She looked up at Benedict, beaming with the adoration of a woman truly smitten. I supposed the two of them did make a handsome couple. Benedict was broad-shouldered and classically handsome if you like that kind of thing. Her blond hair was a lovely contrast to his dark locks, and each of them oozed that special brand of effortless elegance reserved for the very elite.

  They excused themselves and left to sit at a corner table near the window. Very cozy.

  Eve turned to me. “That’s interesting. I thought those two broke up.”

  Chapter 4

  I kept Eve company at the bar while I scarfed down a plate of perfect fish-and-chips. I’d been about to tell her about my chat with Eileen when I caught myself. Maybe it was silly, but after all the times I’d tried and failed to meet with Katie Donegal, I thought telling somebody about a possible link with the mysterious Valerie would jinx it. So instead I kissed Eve’s cheeks as a goodbye, told her I was off for a walk (which was true) and that I’d be back later for dinner. It felt pretty glorious to be able to divide my day into when I was eating my next meal. I was trying to get as many calories in as I could so that I’d have the energy and stamina for a major bake tomorrow. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  Outside, the afternoon sun was bright, with only a few cotton-wool clouds in the sky. The continued warm weather felt like a good omen. I set out for Eileen’s, the inn’s gravel path crunching underfoot. She’d written careful instructions on how to walk from the inn to her cottage and even drawn a simple map of the village.

  According to Eileen’s map, which had Broomewode Hall as a landmark, it would take me a good twenty minutes to walk from the inn to her cottage. I could drive in about five minutes but the walk would do me good.

  With such gorgeous weather and the thought that I might be about to see a real photograph of my mother, my heart was already full and buzzing with anticipation. I was trying not to get overexcited, though. After so many false starts, I was wary that maybe Eileen wouldn’t have the information that I needed either. I had to find a happy medium between being hopeful and being cautious. It was not going to be easy.

  Following Eileen’s map, I passed the residential streets that led to the shops around the village green. The lush grass was neatly trimmed and surrounded by flowerbeds full of purple hyacinths. I touched the amethyst necklace from Elspeth, grateful for the protection it gave me but also how I saw the beautiful purple color reflected in so many of nature’s gifts. It still had that instant calming effect.

  There was a small park by the green, and moms and dads with babies strapped to their chests pushed toddlers on swings. I watched one little girl chase a pigeon and then burst into tears as it flew away. The whole scene was so innocent, almost from another era.

  When I arrived at Eileen’s cottage, my jaw almost dropped, it was so pretty. It was set back from the road, with only two other cottages and a bungalow on either side. Looking at the cottage was like being transported to the eighteenth century. The roof was thatched, and the traditional brick, local to Somerset, had been painted white. Ivy crept across the left side until it tickled a lattice window. All the window frames had been painted bottle-green, and rambling pink roses framed the doorway, which was painted the same lovely hue as the windows.

  The front garden was filled with traditional cottage flowers, beautiful plots of violets and primroses and some calendula and other herbs that I recognized from Susan’s haul. The flowerbeds were divided by a pebbled path that led to the front door. Lilac and honeysuckle perfumed the air. Suspended at either side were hanging baskets with cascading multicolor spring flowers. The place looked like something out of an English home and garden magazine. Maybe it had even been featured. I made a mental note to train roses around the door to my own more humble cottage, the Olde Bakery.

  The knocker was made of the same cast iron as I’d seen in the gift shop, but weathered, not polished. I lifted it, rapped on the door twice, and then stood back. I had to stop my feet from tapping in anticipation. To my right was a hand-painted sign with Plum Cottage written in a cursive script. What a lovely name.

  Eileen opened the door wearing a floury blue apron over her lace shirt. Her white hair had strayed from its low bun, and her glasses were around her neck. “Ah Poppy,” she said, almost as if she were surprised to see me. “Come in, come in.”

  Eileen ushered me into the narrow hallway, and we walked through a raised arch into one of the most lovely sitting rooms I’d ever seen. It was large, with plenty of sunlight flooding in through the windows, an old flagstone floor, open inglenook fireplace, and gorgeous wooden beams. The couches were upholstered in a floral brocade with plump cream cushions, and a dusky pink throw was draped along its back. She gestured for me to sit and said she’d be back in a moment with her famous scones. The room smelled of fresh-cut flowers, and I noticed she’d arranged fresh-cut roses into a silver bowl.

  I couldn’t sit. I was too excited. I paced by the fireplace. Among the array of porcelain ornaments arranged on the mantelpiece were the wrought iron candlesticks identical to the ones sold in the shop. Reginald’s work really was incredible. Beside the candlesticks was a row of three silver-framed photographs. One was black and white and must have been Eileen in her youth. She was wearing a fifties two-piece skirt suit, and she sure was a looker.

  Another of a small boy and a woman holding him had obviously been taken in a studio, eighties-style, with a marble-like blue backdrop. The third one was more recent. A man in his fifties, darkish hair with graying sides, had his arm around a woman about his own age on one side, and Eileen on his other. They were sitting at a garden table at the end of a long patio. Next to the photos was a vase of wildflowers, obviously picked from Eileen’s garden.

  And then I heard a tweet. And another. Was there a bird trapped in the chimney? I bent down and stuck my head into the fireplace to see.

  “Goodness me, dear. What on earth are you doing down there?”

  I shot up and hit my head. Ouch. I stood and rubbed the side of my head. Great, now I was a weirdo with a potential concussion––and I’d only been here two minutes.

  I faced Eileen and rubbed the back of my head. “I think you have a bird trapped in the chimney.”

  She burst out laughing. “Turn around, my dear.”

  She pointed toward a nook by the front window, and my eyes followed. And then I burst out laughing as well. In a huge gilded cage were two sweet budgerigars.

  “That’s Jimmy and Jenny. The cage is just for somewhere to put their feed. I keep the door open so that they can fly about wherever they like, but they mostly like to sit in the garden.”

  Eileen walked to the cage and made little kissy noises at the birds. Their green bodies seemingly puffed up with pleasure, and they bobbed their yellow heads back at Eileen.

  “How do you tell them apart?” I asked.

  “It’s all in the nostrils. Jimmy here has bright blue markings, and Jenny’s are white. But even without that, they sound completely different.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Do they have a different tweet?”

  Eileen gestured for me to sit, and this time I obeyed.

  “Not so much tweet, as their voices. After a while, you can tell the difference. Sounds a little eccentric, I know. But it’s true.” She laughed softly and walked over to the cage and laid something on its floor. The budgerigars made a happy chirp. “I buy them cuttlefish bone from the fishmonger,” Eileen explained. “They like to gnaw on it. Birds have wonderful personalities, and they’re very chatty. Good company when you live alone.”

  I nodded politely. I did know what it was like to bond with animals. I just preferred the fluffy kind. Besides, my mind was racing with the hundred or so questions I had for Eileen about Valerie and how things worked at Broomewode Hall. But before I could let any tumble out of my mouth, Eileen jumped in.

  “I’m sure you have questions for me, dear. Should we get started?” She checked her dainty wristwatch and took a seat on a lovely upholstered armchair across from me. “And please do help yourself to a scone. There’s homemade strawberry jam and cream from Susan Bentley’s farm.”

  Eileen had brought in a two-tiered serving set with four scones on the bottom and pots of clotted cream and strawberry jam on the top plate. It rested on a coffee table next to a china tea set, decorated with primroses. I accepted a little china plate from Eileen and happily took a scone and a dollop of cream and another of jam. Eileen poured the tea and then added a dash of milk to my cup. “It’s whole milk,” she said, “from a dairy farm nearby. Delicious.”

  I thanked her and took a sip of the sweet tea. She was right. Whole milk always made things taste wonderful.

  Eileen sliced into her scone. “You see the secret to baking good scones…”

  Oh, man, here we go. Buckle up for some more scone advice.

  “…is to start with cold ingredients. Cold butter, cold eggs, cold cream. Believe me.”

  I nodded along politely, sipping my tea. Eileen meant well.

  “And then you need to make the mix as cold as you possibly can before putting them into the oven. A quick blast in the freezer should do it. This way, they’ll rise much better, and you’ll get a lovely golden top.”

  I stole a quick glance at my scone. It looked pretty far away from golden. Positively anemic, in fact. But hey, I wasn’t judging. Maybe my own bakes wouldn’t turn out so grand either.

  Eileen shifted on her chair and checked her watch again. She seemed distracted. If I wasn’t going to have much time with Eileen, I’d have to milk her now for all the information I could get. Politely, of course. My heart began to pound. I spread some jam on my scone. “I was wondering if you managed to find any photographs of Valerie? I’m so curious to know as much as possible about her. No detail is too small.”

  Eileen looked out of the window. “Yes, Valerie. I’ve been trying to conjure her image to my mind.”

  She paused, and I took a bite of the scone. It tasted like chalk in my mouth. I tried to keep a pleasant expression on my face, but eating this scone was like chomping on the white cliffs of Dover. Had she forgotten an ingredient? Or added the wrong one? Like maybe some of that cuttlefish meant for the birds? It definitely hadn’t bound properly. But the jam was sweet and delicious. I washed the dry mouthful down with my tea. Eileen continued to stare out of the window. She seemed to be miles away from the kindly, bubbly woman I’d spoken to in the shop. It was like she’d forgotten I was there. I cleared my throat.

  Eileen looked at me and then started. “Yes, Valerie. She was a pretty young woman. A capable worker, if I remember correctly, if a little dreamy. Perhaps I’d even go so far as to say she was a bit of a romantic, her head in the clouds. She had a lovely manner about her. Kind and soft and you got well-wishing energy from her. She was happy enough serving all those la-di-da aristocracy during their galas.”

  If Valerie was my mom, then she sounded lovely. Except for the part where she put her own child in an apple box and dumped her in front of a bakery.

  I pulled myself together. “So did Valerie work at Broomewode Hall for a long time?”

  “I can’t quite remember how long for exactly. Katie Donegal would remember. But she had a fall, poor love. She’s in Ireland, I believe, visiting family.”

  “What do you remember?” I nudged her along. She seemed different from the woman in the shop. I wondered if she was overtired. Maybe working and then coming home to bake scones was too much for her.

  “Broomewode Hall was home to lots of events in those days, so there was plenty of work. Not like now. Twenty years ago was a golden era for Broomewode Hall. The Champneys loved to throw the most elaborate parties, mostly for the young viscount and his friends. He loved life.” She paused and shook her head sadly. “He died tragically young, you know. He had a terrible accident.” She sighed and took a sip of tea. “Anyway, I would help in the kitchen for big events, and then lots of the villagers would get roped in for the bigger parties, as even then the Hall couldn’t afford a full staff.”

  The birds flew out of their cage, over Eileen’s head, and disappeared through the doorway. The movement seemed to shake Eileen from her reverie. “Let me get you that photograph,” she said. “I found a box, and there’s one of the staff outside on the lawns after a tea party. It’s in the other room.”

  I nodded eagerly. Finally, this was it. I was going to see a photograph of the woman who might be my mom. My stomach fizzed, and I didn’t think it was the chalky scone. I looked down at our plates (Eileen’s clean, mine still full) and decided to ditch the evidence and be helpful by clearing away our tea things to the kitchen.