Page 44 of A Witch in Notting Hill

It was understanding my resistance to magic—challenging it, even—that kept me up at night. And in a fog during the day. And in a state of quiet chaos and painful existentialism every minute in between. The cliche of grumpy bookshop owner opened its arms even wider, and I walked right into them.

So, I did exactly what I would have been expected to do, given the persona and that, and I poured a few fingers of whiskey, then a few more, then settled in an armchair in front of my fireplace, where I planned to sit for the rest of the night until I figured out a plan.

It wasn’t fair to Willow for me to go chasing after her while still being so cynical about such a huge part of her identity, so I needed to sort that out before I did anything else.

And I needed to figure out what the hell was going on with that Kip Whatever, but I needed to focus on one thing at a time.

The fire roared in front of me, the only light and sound in my tiny flat.

I never felt like it was particularly safe to have an active wood-burning fireplace in a flat, but Uncle Arthur seemed to use it for his whole life and he didn’t burn the place down, so I figured I could indulge.

With my heels on the bridge edge, I let the flames warm my feet and the whiskey warm the rest of me, savoring the bitterness of it on my tongue.

Trying not to remember the sweetness of Willow by comparison.

I’d gotten so lost in her that night, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to find my way back out.

Lost in her scent, in the feel of her skin, in the sound of my name in her mouth.

Lost in the feeling of finally connecting with someone, wanting someone, feeling wanted in return.

The thoughts alone were so intoxicating I felt my stomach clench at the memory.

I was fucked.

So fucked, in fact, I found myself wanting to believe in magic. Wishing that disconnect didn’t stand between us like a bloody monolith.

How did Uncle Arthur do it? And how did he do it while he was brothers with Grandad?

As whimsical as Uncle Arthur was, Grandad was the opposite.

And my dad took after him. Stern, cold, formal.

Everything someone who believed in magic was not.

And I was told their dad was even worse.

So for Uncle Arthur to believe even despite that, so much so that he opened the shop, was an act of immense bravery.

More bravery than I had, that was for sure.

If only I’d asked him more questions when he was alive.

If only I had the courage to continue believing the way he had, instead of letting Grandad and Dad get under my skin.

Letting them convince me I was “too old” or “too clever” to believe in magic.

Then maybe I would have known what Uncle Arthur would have done.

Maybe I was the one who needed to commune with the dead.

Holy shit. I need to commune with the dead.

I shot back the rest of my whiskey in one burning gulp, then ran downstairs and into the shop to find Uncle Arthur’s ledger.

The ledger I’d completely forgotten about after I took over, stashed under the desk with his other personal effects that had been left behind, things I figured I’d pass along to another family member at some point.

The ledger that was more like a diary than any kind of business operation.

No matter how many nights I spent closing the shop alone, no matter how many times I left something down here and had to run back long after the city had gone to sleep, I’d never gotten used to how unsettling this place was in the dark. It wasn’t that I minded, necessarily. Just that I’d noticed.

It was then the building really acted its age.

The pipes whined, the lights flickered, the floorboards creaked as the place settled, dust drifted from books and shelves onto the floor even when I wasn’t walking past. Uncle Arthur always said there was so much life within these walls, and times like these I knew exactly what he meant.

And for him, his entire life was within these walls. Coven & Codex was everything to him, and if I let myself dwell on how it wasn’t everything to me , the guilt would eat me alive.

As a gay man during his time, he relied heavily on this community for acceptance and understanding, especially because he got neither from his family.

So he made a family of his own. Back then, the customers weren’t tourists or secondary school kids looking to get out of the house and cause trouble.

They were real, proper believers. People who didn’t judge or ask questions or exclude anyone because of their beliefs.

They were people who wanted a world that was better than the one they were living in, so they took matters into their own hands.

Uncle Arthur would have been ashamed of me had he seen how far I’d drifted from those values. How much I’d fallen into my father’s trap and left any shred of magic—sorcery or otherwise—behind.

I loved the shop. It was a part of me, and I couldn’t imagine a life without it. But I didn’t believe in the shop the way he had—didn’t believe in anything the way he had, to be fair—and this might have been exactly the wake-up call I needed to change that.

The ledger was dusty from years of sitting beneath the till, and I brushed the cover clean to discover Uncle Arthur’s initials engraved in the corner. Classy.

I cracked it open, smoothing my hands over the worn pages covered in his chicken scratch. It always was the creative types who had the worst penmanship, wasn’t it?

My eyes skimmed the contents of the first few pages, which appeared to be the only part of the ledger in which he actually attempted to log anything remotely related to the business.

By the looks of it, this was where he kept track of the unique volumes he was searching for and where he found them.

There were contacts for people I assumed to be other sellers in the industry, illegible titles with strikethroughs and stamps that read “out of print.”

The more pages I turned, the more it dissolved into mayhem.

Phone numbers scribbled in corners with notes like La Douce, Friday 11p .

A smudge of lipstick, cigarette ashes, pressed flowers, and gin labels.

Like the ledger somehow became at once a business log and a living scrapbook.

It made me wonder about the people who’d been inside these walls.

Whether they all believed in magic or just simply believed in the community.

Though for Uncle Arthur, it wouldn’t have mattered. Believing in anything would have been enough.

I poured another whiskey from my secret stash beneath the counter and slowed down, taking the time to try to decipher his scribbling. To find something that might make sense to me. Might make sense of my circumstances. Of what I wanted. Of what I didn’t want to want.

The notes that weren’t in his handwriting were even harder to read, but they felt important. Notes from the others who came and went through the shop. Honestly, I hadn’t seen the shop mean that much to anyone in a long time. Until Willow, anyway.

Most of his notes were plans, and the subsequent notes about the plans. Like: Soho tonite. Meeting S for late dinner.

And then three days later: S still here. No signs of leaving. Not asking, either. Chuffed for the company.

Or: Reading at National Gallery with P.

Update: Reading was mediocre. P was delightful.

Or: Tarot at Jo’s.

Don’t remember the cards, but her partner makes a lovely spritz. Must ask for recipe. Or invite myself back for another one of hers.

The more I skimmed, the more I found his entries were more about people than magic or the city, every time. And no one loved magic or London more than Uncle Arthur. But still, he seemed to love the people more.

Somewhere in the summer of 1960, an inky scribble caught my eye. I hadn’t known what I was looking for, but that changed the moment I found it.

Met quite a fine American today. Anise. Lovely thing. Single mum. Hope she will return.

I scanned the next few pages, suddenly desperate for more information. That couldn’t have been Willow’s gran, could it? Surely there were plenty of single American mums visiting the shop. With plant names.

It seemed weeks went by without another mention, and just when I started to get discouraged, I found her again.

Anise is back. I’ve invited her for tea.

I turned page after page, following their story like a gripping thriller.

Reminder: find the collector’s edition of Healing and Hygge . Surprise her with it when she comes back.

A curious woman. Wee bit odd. Asks many questions. Cupboards open and close of their own volition when she’s near.

Curtains caught fire above the radiator today when she was in the back room chatting to a bloke. I suspect she was the culprit.

Wants Volume II. Call Fergus.

Back for tea. This time with her daughter. Another lovely thing.

Wants to introduce me to a friend in America. I’ve no desire to go to America.

Came with me to Jo’s for a dinner party. Seemed to have turned the punch to gelatin at the exact moment I heard her turning down a date with a handsome fella because she was meant to go back to America. Like I said: a bit odd.

Plans to return home. I do suspect she’ll take the magic with her. Good for the linens, bad for the soul.

Maybe her daughter will return on her own once she’s grown. If I’m here, I’ll welcome her for tea. Perhaps she, too, will be magic.

I closed the ledger, afraid what might happen to the pounding in my chest if I continued. It had to have been Willow’s gran. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind.

And while I didn’t think Uncle Arthur ever did meet Willow’s mum again, I had the sense I’d finally have the chance to make him proud. To do something we both wanted. He might not have been here, but the least I could do was invite the granddaughter for tea on his behalf.

Because the granddaughter was more magic than the whole lot put together.

And if Anise’s magic had misfired because she rejected a man’s advances, I had a feeling I knew exactly what had happened with me and Willow the night of the full moon festival.