The Language of Spells by Sarah Painter Read Free Book Online Page A

sauce faster. She couldn’t help this woman. She didn’t make potions or cast spells or even give good advice.
And she wasn’t about to start.
    Gwen turned to face Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how I could help you. I’m not Iris.’
    By the door, Marilyn gave her a long sweeping look, up and down. ‘No.’ And then she left.

Chapter 3
    Gwen ate her pasta and drank a glass of red wine, but she didn’t feel any better. Marilyn Dixon. The name seemed oddly familiar. Against her better judgement, Gwen fetched Iris’s notebook and opened it at random. It was disturbing how easily she found an entry about Marilyn. Almost as if the book was being deliberately helpful.
    Marilyn Dixon was here again about dry patches on her cheeks. That woman sees problems where there are none. I gave her tincture of rose for her nerves and told her it would give her the skin of a fourteen-year-old.
    Gwen flipped the book shut and put it in the bread bin so that she couldn’t see it any more. If she couldn’t see it, she wouldn’t be tempted to read it. She needed to stay strong.
Don’t get sucked in.
    She also needed to repay Lily for the casserole and the soup, and something told her that a packet of HobNobs wouldn’t cut it in Pendleford. She baked a couple of fruit cakes, steadfastly ignoring the siren song of the notebook. She vacuumed the living room and plumped the thin cushions on the sofa. It just looked sadder and quieter, and the cat wouldn’t settle. He kept crying to be let out and, sixty seconds later, crying to be let back in. By the tenth round, Gwen was losing her patience.
    ‘For the love of—’ Gwen flung open the back door, ready to sit the cat down for a serious heart-to-heart vis-à-vis the wisdom of pissing off his source of food and shelter. ‘Oh.’
    ‘Don’t leave me out in this cold; I’ll catch my death. And you’re letting all your heating out.’ The man was at least a hundred years old, his face scrunched-up like a used Kleenex.
    Gwen stepped back and he made his way up the step and into the warmth of the kitchen.
    ‘I need Iris,’ he said, taking the comfy chair.
    ‘Course you do,’ Gwen said. She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea?’
    ‘This isn’t a social visit.’
    ‘Fine.’ Gwen sat opposite him. ‘You are aware that I’m not Iris?’
    ‘I’m not senile.’ The man glowered at her. ‘I went to her funeral. You don’t get up after one of those.’
    ‘Not usually, no. What can I do for you?’
    The man looked down, his face abruptly red. He didn’t answer.
    ‘The thing is, as we’ve already established, I’m not Iris, so I probably can’t help you anyway. You’re better off going to the chemist. Or the doctor. Or A&E.’
Not my bloody kitchen
.
    He looked up. ‘You’re turning me away?’
    ‘No. It’s not like that. But I can see it’s something you’re embarrassed about and if you do tell me, I’m not sure it’ll be worth it as I don’t know how I could help. I run a crafts and antiques stall and I barely knew my great-aunt and I’ve just moved in and people keep turning up and won’t leave me alone.’
    The man chewed his lip. ‘Iris mixed me a cream. It soothed my chilblains.’
    ‘Chilblains?’ What was embarrassing about poor circulation?
    He nodded defiantly.
    ‘The problem is, I don’t know how to make the cream. And there wasn’t anything left in her work room. It was cleaned out as far as I could tell. I don’t even know what’s in it. I don’t know where to start.’
    The man got creakily to his feet saying, ‘I won’t bother you again.’
    Gwen felt like hell. ‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, at least?’
    ‘I won’t bother you,’ he said again, his mouth set into a stubborn line.
    ‘I really am sorry.’ Then Gwen spotted the fruit cakes she’d just taken out of the oven. She got one of the tins down from the cupboard.
    ‘Take this.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Fruit cake. Drop the tin back to me when you’ve