Page 11 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’m just getting her the resources. But she’s impatient, so.”

“Say no more.” He stretched out his arm in the direction of the book market, but his face told me he had a plan.

“We aren’t just browsing, are we?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smiled, and I tried not to roll my eyes. Best not to bite the hand that feeds and all that.

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to work my—” He cut himself off, bringing his knuckles to his teeth.

“Magic?” I asked, unleashing my best red carpet smile.

“It’s an idiom,” he grumbled. I let the small victory of getting under his skin propel me forward.

“Let’s see it, then,” I urged, and this time it was his turn to roll his eyes. I followed him in the direction of the market, secretly thrilled he had a plan. And even more thrilled I didn’t have to spearhead said plan.

The market had only been open for fifteen minutes, but it was already teeming with families, older couples, young people with trendy tote bags and tortoiseshell glasses, and tourists with actual cameras around their necks.

Thousands of books were piled on folding tables, crammed into milk crates, overflowing from vintage trunks and wicker baskets.

It would have been so easy to get lost in the piles, spending all day digging through treasures under the bridge like some kind of literate magpie.

Except I didn’t have all day, because Oliver was chatting to someone and waving me over like an impatient parent.

“Willow, this is Fergus, one of the most renowned purveyors of occult media in the city.”

“Aye, in the world.” He winked, shaking my hand. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya? Look like you could be in a film, there.”

Thank god Oliver’s snort demanded our attention, because I was frozen where I stood.

“Been telling her that,” Oliver said, deadpan. “Maybe one of these days she’ll listen and give it a go.” I stepped on his foot and made no effort to be discreet about it.

“Ach, they never do, do they?” Fergus said.

“They, uh—” Oliver started, fumbling when he caught my eye. Don’t you dare agree with him. “No matter,” he said, recovering. “D’you have a minute? We’ve a few questions about an old book we’re trying to find and I’m hoping you might have the foggiest where to begin.”

“If you ask me, I’d say you’ve already begun,” he said. “So you’re well on your way. Good on you! What is it I can do for ya?”

I nodded along as Oliver explained our dilemma, and Fergus was shuffling through an old journal the size of my upper body before Oliver had finished the story.

“Haven’t heard of anyone lookin’ for a Rewind in yonks,” he mused, licking his fingers as he turned the wrinkled pages. “Quite an unusual collection, that one.” He hummed as he searched his diary, and we looked on, anxious and hopeful.

“But you’ve heard of it?” Oliver asked.

“’Course I’ve heard of it, boy. We just established I’m the top purveyor in the world of occult materials, did we not? Now if you’ll just hush for long enough to let me find it...”

Oliver pressed his lips together, and I tried not to smile. Though watching someone else put him in his place was oddly satisfying.

“Ah, there it is,” Fergus said, slamming his finger into the page.

“You have it?” I asked.

“’Course I don’t have it! Old Bromley over there on the other side of the river has it, last I checked.”

“’Course he does,” Oliver muttered, casting his gaze toward the sky and blowing out a breath.

“Do you know who that is? Or where we have to go?” I asked.

“Indeed I do,” he said. “Thanks, Fergus. I owe ya one.”

“Don’t get ahead of yerself now. I’ve no idea if he’s still got it. He’s just the last who had the collection, he is.”

“Worth a try.” Oliver smiled. “Take care.”

As he guided me out of the book market and back in the direction of the Tube, I stumbled over my questions. “How do you all know so much? Does every occult bookshop owner know one another? You really know what he’s talking about?”

“Slow down,” he said. “It’s a small industry, and we do get together for a convention once a year, so yes, most of us know one another.

And in case you hadn’t noticed, Fergus is about three hundred years old and has been in the industry for the same length of time, so he’s a resource for the whole community. Somehow he never forgets a thing.”

“And you still don’t believe in magic?” I asked, earning myself a scathing side-eye in place of a verbal response. “Right.”

“You have plans for the rest of the day, or you reckon we’ll go back over the river to find this bloke and see how we get on?”

“My only plans from now until I help my grandmother are helping my grandmother, so I’m all yours. For the search, I mean.”

“What else would you mean?” He raised an eyebrow, and I tried to conjure every spell in the book to stop myself from blushing. In vain. Hell, if there was a spell that could have stopped me from blushing, I’d have had a very different few years of middle school.

“You know what I mean,” I mumbled, petulant. Why did he have to say everything out loud? And why did my only two remaining brain cells decide to take the day off every time he was around? “Where’s his shop?”

“It’s not so much of a shop,” he said. “It’s more of, er, a museum? Lots of odd volumes, antiques, that kind of stuff. And he gets cross if you touch anything you aren’t going to buy, so keep your hands to yourself.”

“Got it.”

We slipped wordlessly into the Tube station, standing silent on the platform as we listened for the rumbling down the tracks. I pulled my hat a little lower on my head the longer we stood there, hoping no one looked in my direction, especially since I had nowhere to hide.

But, since the universe was a cruel mistress, right as I adjusted my sunglasses and ducked my head a little lower, someone caught me.

“Willow James? Bloody hell, is that you?”

People started looking, shuffling in my direction, craning their necks to see if the bystander was telling the truth.

I should have been used to fans and paparazzi by now, but it never got any less unsettling for the crowd to close in and all sense of privacy to disappear in an instant.

And in this case, hundreds of feet underground in the dim lighting, with the loud screech of the trains, it was almost unbearable.

I contemplated excusing myself and darting back up the stairs, but a warm hand on my back stopped me where I stood. Not a threatening hand. A comforting hand. Oliver’s hand.